While Jinny stirred the morning hubub, emboldened bubbles struggled against the sides of the pot and bowed their backs, ready to explode, yearning to be free. Beads of perspiration tickled a comely Llewellyn nose, meandered down its graceful slope, and dried before they could free-fall three stories to where Asad and Asif splashed in puddled sand. The boys were confident that their life-line stood watch high overhead, but they had no idea that Ajani coiled, leaking venom, in alley shadows fifty yards away. To him, “the noisy brats” were barely visible–ever indivisible–amid the maze of washed linens drip-dried on sagging lines.
Jinny’s wire rimmed spectacles sagged, too. They kept slipping down her nose, only to be pushed up again and again, being poorly held in place with a string tied behind her shiny brunette hair. Jinny didn’t need Caleb’s glasses, she needed comfort. “OUCH.” An agitated bubble burst and branded her tanned forearm. She bawled like a calf, which startled Asad and Asif. They looked up, jumped up, and headed up the stairs.
Ajani doubled his fists and cursed out loud.
Using sandals as hot pads, Jinny hurriedly hoisted the blackened pot onto the largest, upended barrel. The make-shift round was sufficient to accommodate bowls, spoons, cups, and a swirled loaf of brown bread, baked by Gharam the day before. Jinny hid the throbbing burn and unveiled a radiant smile just as Asad and Asif topped the stairs and rushed—or hobbled—through the doorway into her arms. She hugged her life treasures as if they’d been away for months. The boys had already forgotten her outcry. Full of giggles, they were soon as relaxed as poultry being honored at a beef barbecue.
Jinny wetted a rag in soapy water and washed faces, arms, hands, and feet. Once satisfied, she pronounced them “as clean as my conscience.” She sparkled. “It’s time to eat. I’ve boiled a treat. We’ve washed our hands and face and feet. Let’s kneel right here, give thanks, and then . . . STOP!” The stairs creaked. “Listen. Someone’s coming.”
“Is it Safeed?”
“Whoever it is, he’s skipping stairs and coming fast . . . AND THE DOOR”S WIDE OPEN! Quick, behind me.” Jinny shielded the boys, eased her Ruger from its holster, and released the safety. She approximated center mass, tensed, and steadied the gun with both hands.
“SURPRISE! Woe, woe! I’m here . . . it’s me . . . don’t shoot,” Safeed trilled as he landed in the doorway, stared into the muzzle of the gun, lifted his palms, and spread his fingers defensively. The weapon was holstered, and four hungry refugees sighed relief. Safeed tousled Asad’s hair, took a seat across from Jinny, and quipped, “Now you really have me over a barrel. I take it you’re not the hospitality hostess.”
She nodded. “Better get used to it; I am on duty, you know.” The corners of Jinny’s upturned mouth betrayed a smile–but down to business. She toweled her sweating brow with the back of her hand and remembered they hadn’t asked a blessing on the food.
“POP-POP.”
“Mama!”
“Yes Asif, what a morning. Someone just fired a gun.” Jinny pressed a lower lip with her teeth and looked sternly at her Iranian benefactor, who deflected her gaze by staring out the window. “Safeed, will you please tell us what’s going on?” By then the superintendent had a mouthful of bread and wished he could keep it that way. He patted his jowls and kept chewing; but imagining the worst, Safeed had already swallowed his appetite.
Unbeknownst even to him, Karim’s stockpile had just doubled in size. Foodstuffs, a ration of gasoline, and other supplies for sale or barter had arrived by truck from Islamabad. The Pakistani merchant—a woman— had been corralled, humiliated, terrorized, and summarily shot to obviate disclosure of the Mississippi mugger’s hostile takeover. He could claim title to a truck, but morally Karim was still bankrupt; the body-count had accrued little interest. Little did he know that what goes around, comes around–blinking satellite cameras audited transactions from the ionosphere, while three blocks away a determined Safeed scraped the last spoonful from his shallow bowl. Still hungry, but with a head full of competing priorities, he excused himself from the table.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Jinny protested, pointing out the window. “You haven’t answered my question. And why were people gathered on that roof before dawn?”
Asad joined the protest. “And we’re scared.”
Safeed put up both hands like a conductor stopping the orchestra because a violin string broke. He shuddered and turned to leave. “Much to do. Much to tell. I’ve got to find out what just happened, then I’ll be back. But before I return, I must visit and feed your friend in the hospital.” The boys straightened at the shoulders.
“I come, too?” chirped Asad?
Asif shook his head, stood, hurried around the table, and wrapped his small arms around his brother. Asad felt his sibling’s trembling torso snugged pleadingly against him and changed his mind about wanting to go. “But Safeed, I have Alim’s knife. See? His name is here. If he is in danger, he must have his knife.”
“ I will return the knife for you, Asad. And don’t worry, you and the old man will meet again. Later today, I hope to bring you word of Alim’s condition and . . . oh yes, I will bring more food and water, but remember to bandage Jinny’s arm. I must go.” Safeed sheathed the knife, bent down, hefted a wedge of wood, and proffered it to Jinny. “Here is your door jamb, but it’s not good on biscuits.” His wry smile was barely perceptible. Her refusal was obvious.
As Safeed departed, Jinny called out, ““Thank you, Safeed, for everything, but staying up here with zero reliable intel is not an option.”
Please, Jinny. Give me two hours.” Safeed skipped down the stairs as quickly has he had climbed.
Re-energized by breakfast but colored by varying shades of emotional fatigue, the boys dragged a single mat to the wall, where they sat, leaned back, and took turns yawning while Jinny washed the dishes. Then she fluttered down between them and allowed Asad to wrap her blistered arm with layered strips of cotton cloth, torn from a fraying towel. A label drew Jinny’s attention. After removing the sentimental spectacles, she held it close to her eyes and deciphered three words, stitched in red and blue on a white background. “Do you see this? Made in America. Home, home, home.”
Asif pushed a finger against his chin three times. “Home, home, home. Do they fly magic carpets in America?”
Jinny replied, “I believe they do–I think. Could we be sitting on one right now, Asif?”
Acting surprised, Asif nodded enthusiastically.
“Shall we hang on tight and fly to Kansas for a visit.”
Asad perked up. “Mama, where is Kansas?”
“It’s where the grain grows tall and children run free.”
Asif tucked his head against Jinny, and they all linked arms–instead of seatbelts. “Up. Go up.” The magic carpet didn’t move.
“Okay Captain, we’re ready for lift-off.” Jinny leaned forward, grabbed the edge of the mat, and pretended an engine noise with her lips.
“Wait,” cried Asad. “Magic carpet engine?”
Jinny smiled, doubled her fist into a gnarled microphone, and announced, “You’re right, Captain. First Mate, buckle up. Captain, fly us through that window and let’s soar like an eagle. Up! Up! Here we go.” Jinny swayed back and forth–first against Asad and then Asif–and pretended they leveled off at one thousand feet. “Asad, what do you see down there?” They peered down, down, down, over the edge of the mat.
“I see mouse scat.”
“Asad, you are so funny. Now try to imagine us high above the earth and tell us what you see.”
“I see we need parachutes,” he teased. “No, wait, I see the big trees where we walked yesterday, and snow on top. Want some?” he chortled.
“I do, I do,” gurgled Asif, like a brook dancing over pebbles. Asad cupped a hand and, stretching as far as he could reach, pantomimed the skimming of snow from the deodars.
“Is that snow or ice cream?” Jinny asked cheerfully.
Asad pretended to lick his palm. “Yum. Real ice cream. All flavors.”
“Asif, look. We are crossing over the big sea. What do YOU see?” asked Asad–for after all, he was captain.
Fully engaged in the adventure, Asif looked back and forth at the floor in front of them. “I see a big, big boat and a . . .” He dimpled a cheek with his index finger and supported his chin with the rest. “Name the big fishes, please, Asad?”
“ Do you mean whales?”
“Yes, wales.”
“Whale’s aren’t fissss . . .”
“Beep, beep, beep. Hang on.” Jinny interrupted. “We need to land, Captain.” Sticking to the flight plan, they glided skillfully through the broken window and into a soft landing–just like in the story book. “ I’m air-sick. Let’s refuel and try again later.”
The three imagineers leaned against the wall, sat cross-legged, and played pick-up sticks until–like students in a Kansas State University study hall–each began to nod, tended by the same breeze that had comforted them in the Pass. Asad and Asif laid their heads in Jinny’s lap.
“Nap time already?” Jinny leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
Asif sat up. “Could you please make my foot good?”
Jinny’s eyes popped open; she unwrapped the bandaged ankle, kissed her finger, and gently touched it to the sprain, like one would expect a fairy-godmother to do. “Is it better now?”
“Naw, kisses don’t help,” he simpered.
“Are you sure about that, little soldier? Here, let me try again.” Asif squealed as Jinny pulled him close, tickled, and kissed him on the neck, again and again. Everyone giggled. “Healing takes time, doesn’t it Asif. . . . Maybe we should just rest here for a little while.” Jinny sighed a big sigh–the kind of sigh that had always followed hugs from her papa; the kind of sigh that often followed climbing beneath the warm blankets next to Isabelle.
“But I do have another idea. Tell me if it’s good or not. What do you say we go down to the courtyard and sniff some fresh air?” That way we won’t be boxed in, she thought to herself. The vote was unanimous in the affirmative. So, Jinny re-wrapped Asif’s sprain, saddled up, and carried him piggy-back down the stairs behind Asad. Once in the courtyard, they labored to turn a stone bench upright. Too hot, too heavy–change of plans. They sat Indian style in the shade but didn’t notice the sun as it sneaked up on resident shadows and frightened them down another wall. Asad dumped his bag of pick-up-sticks on a diamond-shaped paving stone and each player took a turn trying to remove a stick without disturbing the tangled stack.
Tangled stack. Watch your back.
But for the frequent breaks in the children’s concentration, the neighborhood was eerily quiet–like the Eisenhower Park and Rose Garden; like Moses, bereft of of the Ten Commandments; like Jinny, seated on a stone bench writing a poem during her senior year in high school. The poem had never been typed, never been read aloud in school, and never published–just pasted in Gemma’s book of remembrance and photo-shopped into Jinny’s memory.
BEHOLD
I knelt and cradled Mary in my arms beneath where He was kept; We sat alone together; a troubled mother wept.
The hours passed so slowly; we both heard Jesus pray His Father would forgive them for what they did that day.
And then He tendered calmly, “Son, behold thy mother.
Help dry her tears and calm her fears; she is yours, now, my brother.”
I knelt and cradled Mary in my arms, my heart within me leapt.
I’d tendered food and comfort; she lingered then she slept—
In truth, I careful scribe these words, her last, and not some other:
“John, I’m going home,” she beamed. “My Son, behold Thy mother.”
She passed that day and trials came; I’m banished and I’m free,
Yet, I will e’er remember this: Our dear Lord trusteth me.
–J. O’Dwyer
Ajani had fallen asleep in a dumpster, but Karim was wide awake, pacing back and forth across the village square. He brooded, cringed, and shook his head every time he did an about face and had to stare at HQ. The peeling adobes hadn’t been color-coated for a long time, and they reminded him of his pap’s old shanty–a Rebel barracks in days gone by–back home in Mississippi. If he’d had more imagination, HQ’s shape might have reminded Karim of a bulging can of spoiled tuna fish, or perhaps a week-old birthday cake–take your pick.
Most of his motley crew sat in the shade, nested like rotten eggs near the incessant cluck-cluck of the gas-driven Honda generator. It was plugged into a bright yellow extension cord and fed alternating current through a hole in the wall to eight suspended fluorescent fixtures, anchored to a high ceiling inside. The lights–apparently contemptuous of the new management–flickered and buzzed. A large, pole-mounted fan faced away from bed-ridden Alim and, sounding like the prop of a B-25 all throttled up and ready for takeoff, danced the Rumba in the middle of the round room.
Alim’s bed, one of several, had been rudely shoved against the rear wall. It’s metal frame felt cool to the touch; but then, Alim had a high fever. He lay on his back exerting pressure with fingers laced over the top of his throbbing head, hoping to blunt a migraine. The attempt failed. It distressed his arms and aggravated his bullet wounds. He moaned, “Blessed Lord, take me home when you wish and comfort my people . . . no, no, never mind; they are all gone. Murdered!”
Alim fought off both insanity and sleep, but continued playing possum with his eyes open—a doable dichotomy. He chose to fight despair by gazing at his surroundings and describing aloud everything he recognized. Everything.
GASP. The front door opened, interrupted, slammed, and shook the whole building.
I am not afraid. I am not afraid; I am not afraid; I am lying. Yes, I am lying. I fear whoever just came in. Oh Lord, let it not be that devil who shoved my bed against this wall. Let it not be that same man who slaughtered my family.
Alim raised his head, enabling him to see only matted, curly, blackish hair piled like kitty hairballs atop the striped, high-back chair.
Now he’s snoring like an overweight Shih Tzu . . . put a cork in it . . . O, water . . . just a sip, please, Asad . . . .The matron and her staff fled after the first gunshots . . .
“GUNSHOTS?”
Alim forced himself up on his elbows so he could see the larger front window admitting light from the north.
What’s going on out there? . . . VOICES . . . a mob . . . Lord protect me . . . it’s a mob.”
He closed his eyes and played dead.
“KARIM OF KANDAHAR! KARIM OF KANDAHAR!”
Karim awoke. His horror of being captured, strung up with clothesline, and gutted by the Pine Bluff Animal Control people was only a dream after all. He staggered to his feet, cursed, and stomped to the door, anxious to quash the unauthorized assembly outside. He flung open the door. “Oh-o-o. Surprise. A parade? For me? The Grand Marshall?”
His anger assuaged by what he saw, Karim’s frown tipped into a goofy grin as he watched his menagerie of miscreants querulously march out of step around the town square, repeating, “Karim of Kandahar. Karim of Kandahar.” The staggering, bleary-eyed drunks–their ungodly curses filling the air– randomly fired into the sky or at the nearest apartments, shattering windows and nerves. Coco had ordered the late-morning madness for a double-barreled reason: Terrify cloistered citizens and patronize Karim, with whom he hoped to Band-Aid his relationship. But not much was working out the way Coco had hoped. He would soon speak with a lisp.
“Three cheers for me, no, make that three beers for me,” Karim bellowed. He plopped down on the front steps of the cantilevered hospital stoop, unstuck his finger from a bottle, took a swig, then drew and fired his 9 mm Glock. His beer supply was low. His aim was high. The boiling lead ricocheted and stabbed a marcher, who screamed, grabbed his thigh, and fell to the ground.
Karim swore and stood up, unwilling to shoulder the blame. His eyes and brows vainly darted up and down, then side to side, as if looking for the shootist. “Okay, whoever done this, step up. NOW.” No one stepped forward. Karim eyed Coco. “Now you’ve done it, Coco-puff. Now you’ve done it.” Coco vigorously wagged his head back and forth then froze. The ambient temperature was 48 degrees Celsius—118 degrees Fahrenheit.
“No siree, Meester Karim.” Karim leveled his gun at Coco, but only the marcher nearest the wounded man stooped to quell the arterial bleeding, wondering all the while why he and his comrades had to suffer and die at the hand of a mongrel dog. Death came without a whimper, quickly and quietly; another victim. The malefactor’s blood oozed into the dirt.
Karim pronounced a benediction: “Dust thou wast, and to dust thou wilt return. One thing sure enough is true, ya won’t get what ya earned.”
Another man lost? Coco dropped the stupid act. “What in the the name of all that makes sense are we doing here?” he screamed. “What are we waiting on, M-e-e-s-t-e-r Karim?” he yelled sarcastically. “Promises, promises . . . get rich and live good? It’s time we broke down some doors, grabbed some women, got some cash, and got the heck out of here. Meantime, you four fall out and pick up Diesel.” Four men, identified by the same foul expletive, hoisted the limp limbs of their dead comrade. The funeral procession completed a circle and headed for the open grave across the road. On Coco’s signal, both the viewing and the funeral march slowed to the loose-hipped gate of weary roaches and stopped by the pit. All were aware that Karim’s black eyes were taking it all in.
After giving the corpse a heave-ho, the carriers—who knows of how many diseases—lingered but for a moment. The temperature would soon peak at 50 degrees Celsius–122 degrees Fahrenheit. The smell was horrific. “Some honorarium,” growled Coco to himself, feeling ignored and totally unappreciated. Discomfited by the heat, the parade had ended as abruptly as it had begun. The hard-shelled loyalists crept into shaded cracks near the hospital building, sat, and slept.
Undecided about whether or not he should execute Coco, Karim executed an about face. The sweating Mississippian–grumbling to himself about Coco’s unauthorized, failed honorarium–holstered his 9 mil, walked back inside, shut the door, and slumped in his high-backed chair, where he drank and dozed. His head and chest rose and drooped, rose and drooped, like an oil rig pumping crude.
Safeed had heard the gunshots, but as yet only famished vultures had decided it was time for lunch–buffet-style.