Jinny’s spirits ebbed and flowed. A cool breeze stiffened her resolve and cooled her back as would a breeze a spinnaker sail. She alternately pushed and braked the makeshift ambulance, laden with human treasure, downhill into the Pakistani desert. The Schwinn wheels wobbled on, despite tires that threatened to blow every time they fell victim to a rut in the poorly maintained gravel road. Twisted, cannibalized relics of war—woven with weeds, decoupaged with dung, and reddened with rust—littered the roadside: An engine block; a Russian tank; treadless tires; Volvo hub caps; a red gas can; a yellow taxi-cab; a double-axle; plastic water bottles; white trash bags–and occasionally, a bleached animal skull ogled the comely soldier from Abilene. The children and the old man slept through it all.
Jinny’s blistered feet throbbed and her head ached. She released her grip on the cart handles and dropped to all-fours, pleasantly surprising the impatient vultures who occasionally landed alongside the road and stared in disbelief. Jinny vomited, wiped her chin, wagged a finger at the scavenger, and said, “No. No. I’m not sick . . . just bowing to my fans. Some performance, eh? I’ve put all three of them to sleep.” To keep her mind engaged, she let her imagination run alongside. “Put your shoulder to the wheel, soldier, do you hear me? Remember, the fourth of July is your day, too.” It wasn’t the fourth of July–not even in Pakistan.
Stand Up
Today’s July Fourth—stars and stripes glide the pole,
Lauding patriots now proven–yes, each precious soul.
They stood up for freedom–so stand up, YES, YOU!
Salute, pledge allegiance to the Red, White and Blue;
To what colors attest up there on the mast.
Let all who love freedom join in our repast:
The Red, patriot blood, shed far off or near;
The White, pledge to purity; the Blue, God’s help, dear.
Composed by Master Sergeant Virginia O’Dwyer
On a lonely road in Pakistan.
At first take Peshawar seemed evocative of an abandoned Lawrence of Arabia movie set. The cart left the road, pin-wheeled into the deserted village square, and wobbled toward a curiously round building, illuminated from the inside by a large bay window. “Twenty yards-fifteen-ten . . .” Army quarterback O’Dwyer, only seconds from the end of the final quarter, dug deep and prayed for strength to stay the course. Too weary to move, she released the handles from service. Darkness had fallen. A beige abaya and black hijab, salvaged by Asad, concealed Jinny’s soiled uniform. Her rifle and ruck sack lay hidden under the bedding. Unseen behind the parapet of a nearby building, someone blew taps.
Doors opened, light escaped into the courtyard, and women in white apparel appeared at the threshold. In Pashto, one timidly called out, “Friend or foe?”
Jinny looked up and gasped. “I sure hope this is Kansas, friend.”
Four apprehensive women toddled forth, lifted, and carried Alim’s stretcher into a large room with a high ceiling. A single fan buzzed noisily—the only air conditioner in the village. Asad, and Asif, assisted by Jinny, stumbled onto the stoop and shielded their eyes from the light. They didn’t see the backside of the license plate nailed above the door. Scrawled with a broad Sharpie, it read, Hospital. A thin matron, her hair in a braided bun, grimaced as she stepped in front of Jinny. One foot shorter than the soldier, she raised both palms. “NO.” Initially her deeply line face and narrow eyes reminded Jinny of a drill sergeant, whom everyone called Betty Bunyan, back at Fort Sill. The resemblance matured. “No Americans! Go . . . Go.”
Good grief! what did I fail to hide?
Staring at the matron, Asif and Asad nestled against the folds of Jinny’s abaya. Their arms and bodies steadied her legs; their dark eyes converged with those of the matron. Not pleading. Not combative. In their native tongue the children mouthed but a word. “Mama.”
In perfect Pashto came the salubrious rejoinder. “I am Nakia. Don’t confuse me with the cell-phone company. It’s Nakia, not Nokia.” The old matron squatted and gave the orphans a once over. After examining Asif’s wrapped ankle and anxious face, she arose. Her brow relaxed. Her features softened. Pointing to Alim, Nakia whispered to Jinny, “You his nurse?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned and led the way to a screened corner of the large room where, in the King’s English, she muttered, “If you are to wash your hair, the helmet must come off.” She winked.
Otherwise Nakia was all business. She pointed to a large round pail of heating water. “Americans call it a bed bath. Soap’s in the dish. I’ll bring fresh linens and towels. They, like me, have been worn down by war, but they’ll do. We will burn your clothing.” She turned toward Alim and sighed compassionately; “But now, I go to help the old man. His name?”
“Alim,” replied Asad, shielding his brother.
Further softening, Nakia called, “Alia, come.” Revealing the hint of a smile, she added, “Alia is my daughter.” Before turning to attend to the old man, the old nurse looked up, tugged at Jinny sleeve, and added, “You have done well. We will take good care of the old man until he recovers–or dies. You and your children cannot stay in the hospital, but Safeed will be along. Safeed, he is good.” Jinny pushed five twenty-dollar bills—American–into Nakia’s hand. “No, no. You would insult me?”
“No, no, but yes, yes. Please.” The nurse relented and pocketed the money. Privacy screens were moved into place. Workers’ hummed and countenances radiated goodness as they attended to Alim. He was gently washed, bandaged and bedded between clean sheets.
An hour later—bathed, clothed, and fed with bread dipped in a bowl of fotra—Jinny and her boys received a visitor who also spoke English. He had more teeth than his mouth was designed to accommodate, but he was clean-shaven, and the lighted room reflected off his balding head. His temperament was contagious, even in the sanitary hospital.
“I am Safeed. You have come a great distance. Tonight, I have come but four blocks.” He grinned. “Do all of you speak English?”
Asad replied, “Pretty much.” Jinny was not too tired to smile. At Asad.
“I have prepared a place for you to sleep. Come, follow me.” Seeing the soldier stiffen and rock back, he added, “You are safe here. I am as harmless as a locust.” Jinny spied the tattoo inked in Arabic on Safeed’s right shoulder. “Oh that? It says, Superintendent.” Burned in three colors, it couldn’t be missed. Safeed wore a sleeveless, ribbed tea-shirt and jeans—frayed at the knees—no socks, and Nike cross-trainers.
Distracted, Jinny forgot his name. She wasn’t sure she wanted to remember it anyway. “May I carry the injured child to the cart?” he asked.
“I am Asif. I am a soldier.”
Jinny steadied her wounded warrior and answered, “No. Thanks. Got it; I mean, him.” Jinny carried Asif from the hospital and settled him in for the ride to somewhere, then rummaged beneath the bedding and became agitated. Too tired to endure much more, she cried, “My rifle’s gone. Who the hell took it?”
Safeed bristled but calmly replied, “Your rifle is in your quarters, soldier. You should never leave a loaded gun unattended. You’re a sniper aren’t you?” Trying in vain to grapple with Safeed’s retort and question at the same time, Jinny fell silent. Asif shrugged his shoulders and watched Safeed grasp the sweat-salted wooden handles, turn the cart around, and pull it into the darkness.
Jinny swung her night-vision goggles and helmet by its strap with one hand, and Asad squoze the other as together they shuffled down a cobbled alley behind the clackity-clack-clack of naked rims, feeling very exposed. The tires had outlived their warranty. Jinny prayed she hadn’t outlived hers. They trudged through the darkness behind the gangly alien toward an uncertain future. Three blocks later Safeed pointed up. “Do you see the candle-lit window on the third floor?” Heads tilted. Weary jaws dropped. All nodded. “For you, may it be a haven of peace. Sorry, but the widow is broken.”
“And your fee for service?” Jinny inquired?
Annoyed, Safeed bit his tongue. “I take advantage of no one. My father owns three apartment buildings. If not comfortable with a broken window, at least you will be safe here. What would you like me to carry up the . . . “? Bang! One wheel gave way and the axle became a stationary harpoon. Safeed grabbed Asif by the collar just in time to prevent his fall from grace, face-down on the cobbled courtyard.
Unruffled and smiling at the lopsided cart, Asif tittered, “Mama, the cart’s got a flat, just like you sing.” It was too dark to see Jinny’s expression.
“So, the humming bird sings.” Safeed released his grip on Asif’s shirt and patted his head. “I think, as you Americans put it, this is the end of the road for your lopsided ramshackle bus. Come, I will help you up the stairs.” Jinny had fallen asleep on her feet. “Stay with us soldier. Again, may I carry your rucksack and the little one?” Her identity now over-exposed, Jinny nodded, once for each story of the building, and handed the ruck sac to Safeed. “Your secret is safe with me. I knew you were an American when the trumpet sounded. Come, little man, we will take our first steps toward heaven.”
“I am a big man,” replied Asif. “And where is heaven?”
Safeed smiled and picked up the lame lamb. Jinny put on her helmet. Her washed uniform was rolled up and tucked under one arm. It had soaked through the abaya. No worry, at night and at five hundred feet above sea-level, things—not people—dried quickly. Safeed set the pace as he climbed, jabbering all the way. Jinny followed, a handled kettle in one hand, and Asad tightly gripping the other. The spiral passageway was very dark. The steps creaked. As she huffed and puffed up the last four steps Jinny saw candlelight reflecting on the scarred open door. The dreary third floor apartment included but two rooms, one of which had been boarded up. “As you see, that room is, shall we say, decommissioned for life. Your bathroom is down the hall; and your entry door, shall we also say, has seen better days.”
Jinny briefly examined the door and yawned. “And I think this building has more than three stories to share.” Safeed nodded in agreement and left to grab the last loads from the disabled cart. Upon huffing to the top of the stairs for the third time—and before bidding the weary warriors goodnight—Safeed gifted each a hand-woven sleeping mat and an unlit white candle. Then he placed his open palms and prayer fingers together beneath his chin. “A merciful God grants us light by day; his moon and stars, by night. The Milky Way and eighty-eight constellations give testimony of our Creator, our Source of all light, our God. Let us ever be grateful.”
Jinny wondered, Mr. Safeed, are you being square with us? If not, or what’s your angle? Safeed bowed, backed across the threshold, dragged the door closed, and retraced his steps to the street. “You may stay as long as you like. See you tomorrow.”
Jinny was quick on the uptake. “Stay as long as we like? How about five minutes?” Safeed heard only her first question. He stopped and stooped long enough to close a hatch adjacent to the foot of the stairs. I thought I latched you closed hours ago, secret door. Too much to do Safeed, too much to do. Don’t forget your appointment. He decided to leave the handcart where it had collapsed and break it into firewood at the next opportunity. Firewood was scarce in Peshawar. Even in the summer.
Safeed walked briskly down the alley counting his steps aloud in the dark; he stopped abruptly, turned left and stooped over, this time to remove his shoes. He looked east, west, and then glanced up at Jinny’s broken window. “Fee for service indeed! How impertinent. But so beautiful. So benevolent.” Worried about his aging parents, he slipped across the threshold into a hallway at the bottom of steep, stacked stairs and quietly closed the reinforced metal door to the alley behind him.
Across the way, an agitated, self-appointed busy-body pushed her calloused nose through a wooden shutter and made mental notes while lip-less laundry, strung on lines across the alley, rudely danced before her eyes. It couldn’t speak but flapped on and on about petulant poverty. The candle-lit village laid claim to but one gas-powered generator as a source of electricity. Installed outside the hospital’s western wall, the Honda ran and ran; but occasionally it just walked, sputtered, or quit for lack of fuel. Peshawar was too far from somewhere and too close to nowhere to warrant restringing war-ravaged power lines to a communal power grid. Islamabad lay 300 kilometers—186 miles—to the southeast of the village square.
As Jinny knelt in prayer with the boys she wondered, are supplies trucked in? That’s a long haul, and who could pay? How many went to bed hungry tonight? And where did these people come from? The matron is bi-lingual, but she looks . . . Too tired to speculate, Jinny let her questions pass through a fast-swishing revolving door.
Asad and Asif—his ankle still wrapped—remained on bended knees after Jinny said, “amen.” She tipped each gently onto his side and kissed each sleeping, tousled head; the mat reserved between them nudged a smile to her face. A painful smile. She blew out the candle. The freshly bandaged wound throbbed. Weary but wary, the Kansas native crawled to the broken window, peaked over the sill, and stared down. The half-moon had not yet earned the right to broker light for the courtyard. Bankrupt of beauty, it mirrored how Jinny felt—worn out, and, like her life and service to her country–turned upside down. Unbeknownst to both Jinny and Safeed, the broken handcart had been dragged around a corner and into a cold dwelling.
A knurled olive tree, laden with bitter fruit, cowered against an apartment building wall like a prisoner of war stilled before a firing squad and bore silent testament to both decades of peace and centuries of neglect. Shiny, green, leafy vines and crimson berries had once suctioned to the weathered masonry beneath Jinny’s window. The leaves and berries were gone, but their thorny vestiges still clung to the past—lifeless, withered stems and branches—awaiting resurrection. Remnants of a fountain and a few overturned stone benches remained in what once had been a courtyard garden. To Jinny, the weathered walls resembled whited sepulchers, and the overturned benches, gravestones–striking variants to the life-treasures snoring peacefully behind her on the floor.
She slowly bowed–unconscious; she lifted her head, then bowed again to no applause and dreamed.
Translucent ghosts scurried into the courtyard from a long, lighted, cobbled corridor to excitedly inform invited patrons, dressed in Sunday best, that the wedding party was not far behind. Sconced candles decked the walls; a circular, miracle fountain gleefully gurgled; and an old console in the corner of the garden square harmonized measured, mesmerizing, melodies while happy children strewed “forget-me-nots’ on wedged, diamond shaped pavers.
The wedding party, in high spirits and dressed in all their finery, paraded from the east. A tatted veil lifted; a radiant bride laughed and danced with her bow. “Curly, is that you? No, of course not.” Children removed their shoes, stepped into the fountain, and ran round and round coaxing it over the shore while flirting friends disregarded rock-hard chiseled benches and cuddled closely.
Jinny spotted herself in a tattered uniform, sitting near the rippling waters. Her Sergeant and Lieutenant— having fashioned a portable chair with their arms—shuttled Alim from the wings and placed him next to Jinny, where together they shared reflections and waited for healing waters lap up their pain. One by one the children retired to the punch bowl and a tasty spread of layered A-Rations.
This must be Eden’s Garden, heaven sanctioned.
Then, as suddenly as the dream had begun, the candles flickered and doused. The music faded. Voices paled into the distance. No applause, no children’s laughter, no splashing, no fragrance—just deep, unencumbered, heavy breathing.