Llewellyn’s Child

One hour later.

 “Knock.  Knock.  Knock-Knock.  Knock.”

“I hear.  I come.” Safeed’s deep wound bound tightly, he held fast to the iron rail and tottered to the bottom of the stairs.  He tried to quiet his own labored breathing,  put his ear to the door, listened to a familiar voice, and  answered, “Agreed.” Gharam rushed down, ready to lash him with her tethered tongue.

“Why?  Why must you hike down here like a wounded, stubborn, mountain goat?  I am sorely tempted to box your ears. Just look at you–as pale as a Caspian winter.  You shouldn’t be on your feet. ”

Jinny watched from the landing as Gharam, all the while shaking her head,  helped her brother climb slowly toward the kitchen. Gharam grumbled,   “Yes, look down on my brother, Safeed—the stubborn goat with shriveled teats.  What am I to do with him?”

Safeed abruptly stopped long enough to land a firm spat on her rear.  “Be more respectful. I went down to find out what’s up. The message was for me and me alone. The fire is out, but I have much to do. You must be patient.”

Safeed  rejoined Jinny and Dalal at the kitchen table. He tensed and groaned as Gharam lifted his injured leg to a chair and knelt beside him to unwind the gauze, treat the oozing wound with ointment, and apply a fresh bandage.  Jinny tried to lighten the mood in the room.  She quipped, “Looks like you got a leg up on us this time, Safeed.” No one, not even the boys, chuckled.  Question-marked faces told her no one could abide the American idiom.   Jinny mentally dropped back five yards and punted: “Can anyone tell me what the two-humped camel said to a gas station attendant?”  Gharam and Dalal winked at one another.  Safeed monotonously thumped the table with his fingers, unaware that now he, too, was getting on everyone’s nerves.

Jinny traced the splintered table edge with a finger and imagined sitting comfortably and safely at home, surrounded by family.  Instead of Asad and Asif, she pictured Conor and Isabelle sitting cross-legged on the floor playing pick-up-sticks.  Safeed rested his elbows on the table, supported his aching head, and massaged his neck.  He made funny popping noises with his lips to amuse the children, and then mumbled, “Your boys are nodding off.”

Jinny fixed her eyes on Asad and Asif.  “Is it nap time? Soft bed?  Hint, hint. What do you say, little soldiers, shall we bivouac in the bedroom?”

Without asking for a definition of bivouac, Asad stood, helped Asif to his feet and said, “Thank you for the bed, Gharam, but I am a dirt sleeper.”

Asif bleated, “Me, too.”

Jinny stood and tenderly patted Safeed’s naked shoulder. “Please wake us when . . . well, you know.”

Asif crawled into the bedroom, reached up, and pushed his hands onto the mattress. “Mama, this bed is soft like . . . oh, I don’t know what it’s like.”

“Like a mattress,” Asad announced.  He and Asif lay down on the floor and left room between them for Jinny.  She pushed Gharam’s bedroom door halfway closed and gracefully fluttered down to nest on her back between them—used her hands as pillows—and closed her eyes.  After a few minutes of fidgeting and grunting, Asif raised up on one elbow and stared down at Jinny’s comely face.  Feeling his breath on her nose, her lashes fluttered apart.  She couldn’t help but smile into eyes mirroring her affection.

“I can’t sleep.  Will you sing.” Asad looked to be asleep already.

Jinny raised up on her elbows, shook her mane, and nuzzled her youngest colt.   “Hush now; I will sing. Lie back and close your eyes.” The tender timbre of Jinny’s voice, tinted with a touch of Irish brogue, resonated in the hearts of all who listened:

Llewellyn’s child

1 ‘Twas high upon the lea that day
Mó Da he bade goodbye.
A Dunnock flock passed overhead,
Filled up a clouding sky.

The heather hummed farewell to him.
Da climbed down through the glen.
Llewellyn’s child, I slipped the crag
And skirted round the fen.

2 Mó mum she waved her naipcin high
But dared not follow me.
And ne’er a gol fell from her eye​​​
Back there upon the lea.

Da climbed aboard not looking back
His ditty-bag got stowed.
From bollards, mates cast off the ropes
And out to sea they rode.

3 The waves they made the walty worse
The jib sheet snapped and hung
Da tried to douse the mainsail once
He climbed each ladder rung.

The spanker flapped, came crashing down,
A donnybrook blew wild.
“Oh bear away, Da bear away
Come back to your dear child.”

4 Waves crashed across the bow aloft
Mó  Da he turned around.
Off came his cap, he waved at me.
His ship sank in the sound.

Come pinch and luff the laundry now
Cry tears, yes not a few.
Each morn I spy Da by the gate
And blow a kiss or two.   And blow a kiss or two.  And blow a kiss or two.

Mesmerized by the melody—but mystified by the lyrics—Dalal urged a lower lip forward and blew disheveled hair from her forehead.  “This apartment is as hot as the Bastak Bazaar in July.” She was tired of sitting, tired of being cooped up, and tired of hiding from the troubles in the village square. She pushed from the table, stood, and stretched most of her well-conditioned sinews. “What a day, cousins.”

“It’s not over yet.”

Dalal whispered, “Safeed, what is to become of them . . . and us?”

The bald superintendent stared straight ahead as if nothing blocked his view of the future.  “Our enemies will not prevail.  Allahu Akbar.  Their ranks are fractured and now poke through the thick skin of self-aggrandizement.  As for us?  We will pass through this present storm, but not unscathed.”  Barely audible, he added, “As for Jinny, she is a fierce protector of her sons; and someday . . . someday they and we will return home, I hope.”

Initially, Dalal had been skeptical of the attractive intruder who lay between two orphans in the adjoining room.  Her prejudices and judgments had been batted back and forth like twin shuttlecocks in a game of Badminton.   But now, her generational hatred of Americans—more especially of American soldiers—found itself assuaged by the good she saw in Jinny, and most especially in Jinny’s devotion to the Persian children.

Dalal’s life had been hard. At age three, Nouri, her youngest, had died of influenza.  Her twins, Hadi and Sanjar, had been drafted into Khomeini’s army and whisked away in the bed of a pick-up truck at midnight without even a hug.  Scheil—their father—had only weeks later perished while at work in a classified nuclear facility beneath the Gilan Mountains—or so Dalal had been told.  All this and more spawned feelings shared by wives and mothers in many lands, over countless generations.

Sensing she had been roused from the shortest nap in recorded history, Jinny mused aloud, “Yes, return to Kansas—to Kansas with honor.” After a few minutes, she returned from the bedroom and took a seat at the table.  Dalal asked, “Is that how they sing in Kansas?”

“Only if your ancestors came from the Emerald Isle.”

“And do you have brothers and sisters in Kansas?”

“Yes, and a mother, too. My older brother, Conor, died in Herat not long ago.  Lance and Isabelle are younger.  They help Uncle Albert on the farm.  For several generations the O’Dwyers have grown Kansas wheat and corn . . . and, I hope, good citizens.” Tears spilled, soothing parched skin, and Jinny fell silent.

An alarm clock rattled everyone by bouncing and beat time on the kitchen counter. “1500 hours.” Safeed lifted his throbbing leg, tried to stretch, and broke his silence with a groan. “Jinny, I know you want to know about the fire.  It’s out, but I must leave.”

Pulling her hand from his arm, Gharam stiffened.  “Leave? And go where?”

“Yes, leave.  Abdul and Fasad are expecting me.  This was part of the message whispered by Elias at the door.”

“Why did you not tell me so.”  Indignant, Gharam stepped between Safeed and the downstairs exit. “You are scaring away my hopes for peace.  You will walk to Abdul-Akim’s apartment with your injuries?  No, no, no. I say again, have you lost your mind?  I will not permit it.”  She pointed at the injured limb. “Look at your leg.  You are in no condition . . .”

“Gharam, take courage. You know I must go,” he replied sternly. “Are we better than our Lord who was persecuted, beaten, and scourged with a whip that tore His flesh?  Should we not willingly sacrifice for our friends?”

Jinny registered surprise. “Safeed?  Gharam?  Dalal?  You are Christians?”

“You could not tell?”

“Well, yes and no.  I thought you were followers of Mohammed.”

“No, Gharam and I are second generation Christians, but that is story for another time.  Goodbye.”  Safeed paused long enough to light a white colored candle and hand it to his sister. “Gharam, I give you  a sign. Keep the flame alive in your heart until I return.”  She continued blocking the door.  Safeed turned away and sighed, As you wish.  I will leave through the back.”  Before disappearing into his windowless bedroom, he turned to reassure Jinny.  “You are safe here, isn’t she Dalal?  Please don’t leave before I return.”

Before Jinny could interrupt and ask why he had lit a candle in the middle of the day, Safeed added: “About the fire—it was started by a few of Karim’s men.  The municipal building has been gutted by the blaze and two are dead.  Barakah—one of our village fathers—got too close and, well, you can imagine the rest if you want.  Barakah’s passing is a great loss to our people.”

Dalal added, “As you witnessed, when he arrived home, Safeed was blackened by soot, by which he avoided detection. To hear him tell the tale, his escape was—how shall I say—a miracle.” Her feet slapping her sandals, Dalal walked toward the bedroom window and pointed, “This is my shortcut home, but I’m not going home.  Safeed asked me to make my way to the minaret, observe below, and bring you word.”  Dalal retrieved the shotgun, nimbly exited through the window to the fire escape, and climbed from sight.

Her departure startled the children, who hippity-hopped from the floor into the kitchen.  Gharam had not abandoned her post at the door.  Asad asked, “Is someone knocking? Where is Safeed?”  He had vanished.

“My stubborn brother has another mission to perform, and I am as done as goose cooked on the Kara-Kum!”  Gharam snatched a broom by the throat and angrily smacked the floor.  As if in slow motion, the handle fractured and—like a broken bat at a ballgame—twirled end over end and struck Asif in the eye.  “Nooooo!  What have I done to you?”

Dalal backed through the window into the bedroom and, turning around, declared, “I raced a few meters toward the minaret, but the tiles are too hot and, oh Mother Mary, what happened?”

Jinny hovered over Asif—in shock, sobbing, and breathing rapidly—and staunched the flow of blood with a towel.  Asad knelt, saucer-eyed, lips pasted together, and silent.  Dalal stood and stared.  Gharam covered her face with her hands, wedged her back against the door, and slumped to the floor.

Safeed had descended by a secret passage to the street and immersed himself in creeping shadows, as yet unaware that the bodies of Ajani and Coco had been found around the corner and carted away.  Safeed felt numb; he didn’t feel like singing; he didn’t feel like humming; he didn’t feel like walking; but he felt like doing his duty, and so, he hobbled the seventy-five yards to Abdul’s apartment singing, Faith of our Fathers.  It rejuvenated his spirits.

Abdul’s welcome, like the weather, was very warm.  “Come in, come in dear nephew.  Fasad should arrive momentarily.  We can simmer through summer together. Please, be seated.”  The modestly decorated domicile consisted of four small rooms and smelled of incense.   Safeed dropped into an overstuffed chair and stared at four drawing room walls, one at a time.  Above the divan hung two framed, color photos—one of Abdul’s deceased wife, the other of Dalal. Worn woven rugs hugged the floors. Like warp and woof, Safeed and Abdul had together been scuffed and scuffed and scuffed.

“Please eat and drink. “The almonds and water are for you.  I haven’t much appetite today . . . Safeed, your leg!  How did you injure your leg?  Had I known I would not have asked you to . . .”

Bang.  Bang.  Bang. “That will be Fasad, but he never knocks like that.  Poor fellow, he must have forgotten the code.  Our old friend moves with difficulty now, but once upon a time he bounced like a rabbit; the swiftest of the litter.  Why, I remember one time . . .”

 “Excuse me, Uncle, shouldn’t I invite him in?”

“Oh, yes, of course, please, if you can.  My arthritis and I will be much obliged.”

Struggling to his feet, Safeed felt a trickle of blood run down his leg as he hobbled to the door.  He reached and backed off the latch.  Abdul gasped. “Wait.” Too late.  A sudden burst of energy knocked Safeed on his back.

“YOU!”  Rendering sit-ups impractical—if not impossible—a big boot landed on his chest.

“I ought to squash you like a sour grape, you blipping carpet-bagger.”   Four bearded thugs plugged the doorway, jockeying for position behind Karim.  To their rear, a bearded head bobbed as if its owner were jumping on a trampoline, trying to watch a parade.  Unable to see, he wrangled for attention.  “Let the old man in.”

He pushed his way forward, straightened up, and with one hand nervously twisted his scraggily beard, while with the other he fondled a small purse suspended from a leather lace around his neck.

“FASAD!”

“Good afternoon Safeed.  You look a little down,” he said, a thick slice of sarcasm in his voice.  “We’ve come to visit Abdul, but what a nice surprise to find you here.”  Warily stepping around Karim, he helped his lame countryman to his feet, ceremoniously kissed him on each cheek, and whispered loud enough for Abdul to hear: “Cooperation seems advisable.”  Trying to act nonchalant, Fasad’s squinty grey eyes did a quick survey and fixed on Safeed’s waistline.  “Ah, what a beautifully engraved knife.  May I see it?”

Uninvited, he perfunctorily lifted and handed the blade to Karim, who, bubbling like a boiler about to blow, ran his thumb across the serrated edge and then slashed back and forth within inches of Safeed’s nose. “So, this is what you skewered my best friend with. I found my dead lieutenants right where you murdered them!  It was—shall we say—troubling that you didn’t have the decency to bag them both.  But then, to be fair, Ajani did need a little more help dying. Yep, yep,” he sneered sarcastically. Karim pressed the tip of the blade against Safeed’s dimpled chin and hissed, “Get my point?  I can get closer if you like.  Now where’s the old man?”  No answer. “Your slippery Sunni tongue won’t be able to answer after I cut it out.”

Safeed bit his tongue. It squirmed loose. “I acted in self-defense.”  Looking askance at Fasad, he continued, “And I suppose I needn’t wonder who led you here to betray Abdul-Akim.”  Fasad deflected Safeed’s glare by looking up as if to count stars in the late afternoon sky but could only imagine a solitary pigeon opening and emptying its bombay upon his padded pate.

Karim barked orders. One of his men pushed Safeed aside and went in search of Abdul.  Returning empty-handed, the searcher shrugged and tensed, expecting to be slapped.  “The old man’s not here, boss.”

“Wrong.  I heard two voices.”

Though nauseated and weak, Safeed stood his ground.  “I should have mentioned, I am a ventriloquist, and you—are mistaken.  I am here alone.  Didn’t I tell you I am minding the place while Abdul is, shall we say,on vacation?”

Karim grabbed Safeed by the scruff of his neck and jerked him off the floor.  “Say, Bald Baxter, what do you take me for, an idiot?”

“Well, you’re close.”

Karim blew a gasket; his face flushed red with rancor; he pushed Safeed back onto the overstuffed chair and struck the bandaged leg with the butt of his gun, demanding, “Tell me where the old fool is or you die.  And where’s the American?”

Fasad pulled on Karim’s sleeve, trying to get his attention while Safeed groaned and writhed in pain. Karim snarled, “I ask you for the last time, dog-face, where are they?”

 “They?  All of a sudden you are looking for two people?  I tell you the truth.  Abdul asked me to watch the place.  Said he’d be back in a few days.  I know nothing of any American.  We here are all Sunni, as you have surmised.”

“Untrue, quite untrue. Safeed, I am surprised at your lack of integrity,” chided Fasad.

Karim put his foot to Safeed’s chest and commanded, “This time, two of you search this shack and be quick about it.  Look in the closets and under the beds.”  The men searched every room and tapped every wall—still, no Abdul.

 “Don’t you move.  I’ll search this dump for myself.”

“And I hope you find yourself, Brutus,”whispered Safeed, bleeding and dizzy.  He put his head in his hands and listened as Karim stomped through the apartment, upended furniture, knocked pots and dishes to the floor, and punched a hole in the wall.

Exasperated, the intransigent hoodlum returned and scowled at Fasad.  “How am I supposed to crack this pothead?  You know him.  Speak up. Time’s running out.”

“Remember?  We already discussed this.”  Fasad cupped his hands in an attempt to veil his reply.  “Think women.”

“Oh yeah, now I remember.” Bunching his brow, Karim spun around and bared his teeth.  “So—little man—surprise, surprise,” he tittered.  “I actually found your digs and your harem.  Harem—scare ‘em—snare ‘em.”

Safeed steeled himself and heaved up a gutsy retort.  “I swear by my ancestors, if you hurt . . .”

Karim reached down, threatening to back-hand him across the mouth. “Button it, bozo.   We already got them.  As I was about to say, your feisty females acted like a fox broke into their hen-house.  You shoulda seen them cackle—hee-haw—circling the room, a kicking and a scratching and a screaming.  But they’re not screaming now—oh no—are they boys?  Now where’s the old man?”

Thinking his men too stupid or too tired to play along, he turned to Fasad and demanded, “You—Traitor Joe—what were their names again?”

Fasad betrayed his indignation by grumbling, “Gharam and Dalal.”

“Grubs yes, how could I forget?  Gharam Crackers and Dalicious—a purty pair, tabled up, staked down, and waiting for happy hour—that is, unless you decide to corporate.”  BJ missed Ajani and could see his prospects of becoming wealthy withdrawing like a tray of uneaten grits through the doggie-door back when he was shut up in solitary confinement.  Sweat had soaked through his uniform; he looked but didn’t smell like he’d just showered; even his icy persona was in melt-down, and so, he stepped back and re-thought his approach to interrogation.  “Now, now, bald A-rab, I don’t think you get my problem.  I need to patch a hole I made in the U.S. Army, and I heard on the sly that you or your pilgrims know where the woman shooter’s holed up.”

Safeed mumbled, his speech slurring, and his eyelids drooping. “I told you, she’s . . . I don’t know where she is.  Maybe the ungrateful wretch fled to the mountains; or maybe she’s gone south toward Karachi and took the brats with her.  And good riddance, I say.”

“Aha!  You just admitted you’re a blinking liar.  You know she’s holed up somewhere in the project. Now looky . . . say, you’re not falling asleep on me, are you?”

In an insipid attempt at self-redemption, Fasad stepped up and savagely slapped his countryman on the cheek.  Safeed’s scathing stare propelled Fasad backward, causing him to step on Karim’s foot and shrivel like a plastic milk jug set afire.  A wormy harvest of foul expletives and a balled fist wrinkled his face.  “OUCH, YOU FAILED ME, you bleeping camel-jockey.”  Karim shoved Fasad out the door and then, crossing his eyes, he pushed his own forehead against Safeed’s and declared, “We’re done here. Time’s up, slum-lord.  Now you get to suffer like Hitler’s little Geppetto freaks—I’m gonna carve you up and make jerky.” Karim played the disgruntled soccer player and kicked Safeed’s bandaged leg with the side of his boot.  The Sunni Samaritan lost consciousness and toppled to the floor like an unconscious goalie.

“Where I come from that spells p-a-n-e,” announced the Mississippi mongrel.  Just looking at Karim was painful. Muddle-minded, he sniffed something fowl in the air.  “It’s just like Ajani used to say, ‘Yep, yep, whatever you do is fine with me, boss, if you get my drift.  Time to corporate. Ha, ha.”

Disgusting.

“Drag this scumbag to the gallows, but don’t kill him . . . yet.” With their prisoner in tow, the motley crew left the apartment door wide open and didn’t see it slowly close and latch behind them.   They headed down Faisia Street toward the round, towering, stately minaret on the northwest edge of the village square.  Abdul-Akim breathed deeply for the first time in ten minutes. “Fasad, how could you?”

As the procession rounded the base of the glistening Muslim minaret, Fasad— trying keep astride of Karim—leaned up, and whispered, “Do you see how my hands tremble with age?”

“All ten of your scrawny paws oughta be trembling—with fear.”

“Be that as it may, it’s time to settle up and bid you goodbye.  Pay me the balance of the promised silver, and I will leave.”

Karim ignored him once, twice, and then after the third demand— “Reward, you say?   You failed me, you ticking termite.  Let’s stop so’s Seaman’s Cap can bind and gag this old fool. We’ll string him up first and call it a purview of coming attractions.”

Fasad’s feet tried to play catch-up with the cobblestones as he was dragged off balance across the square. Disgraced and crazed at the prospect of imminent death, he lifted his bound hands sufficient to pull the gag from his teeth and choke out the words: “Safeed, Karim lies!  He does not have the women.  He . . .” In one swift motion, Karim drew and fired point-blank.

“Leave him.”

The surviving remnants of Karim’s mob heard the shot and reluctantly legged from the shadows like earwigs from beneath the bark of a sycamore tree.  Saturated by sweat, they fell in behind their leader and silently plodded out of step like an Okefenokee Band between photo-ops at the Tournament of Roses parade.  Safeed—surrogate grand master—was dragged by the armpits and dropped, semi-conscious and delirious, on his face in front of the hospital.

Oh, thank you for ending  our ride, Jinny. I’m glad you stopped before we ran out of desert, but it felt good to wrap my arms around your waist. I’ve been holding on for dear life. For some reason this galloping dromedary made me nauseous. I think I’m going to—as you say in America—puke; and . . .  Safeed, regained consciousness, twisted his head on the gravel, puked, and looked up through bleary eyes.  His last cognition:  How odd–our hospital, disparaged by a gallows.

No large sycamore tree’s branch shaded the executioner’s primary prop. The double strand of clothesline—twisted, looped and left dangling—had been previously posited.  A gopher-wood chair, damaged by the fire and designated as a disposable drop, fumed indignantly.  The stage was set.  It reminded Karim of the menacing hanging tree just off Pigeon Roost Road outside of Tupelo.

Pa would be proud.

The pitch and yaw of a surveilling drone high overhead made it difficult to record activity on the ground. The semi-circle, filled with Karim’s men in the courtyard far below, resembled a rudimentary triple-violin quintet, poised to play.  But up close, discordant, disenchanted, and disheveled derelicts fingered instruments of destruction, while a few villagers—silent surrogates, faces smudged and too tired to flee–squatted in the dirt awaiting the  performance.

An oval table, tipped on its edge, fortified the upstairs apartment door.  Jinny and Dalal, also on edge, braced against the table.  Jinny might have smiled when she spied the chewing gum stuck to its underside, but Asif’s traumatic eye injury kept any sort of joy at bay—no, not ‘at bay’, far out to sea.  A bedroom door blocked the pretty partisan’s view of her boys, who sat cross-legged on the floor beneath Gharam, who sat on her bed and quelled her own anxiety by reading aloud from the dog-eared pages of a battered book.  She roll-played each character’s tone of voice. This only added to the present gloom, for the tale was as cheerless as collective hopes that a refreshing breeze would climb through the window unannounced:

. . . From time to time, Mateen nodded off like a congregant during a boring sermon on a warm Sunday afternoon—down, up, down, then up again. He  listened for an “amen.” 

‘Hela, enough talk!’, he exclaimed.

 Hela stood, kicked an ember from the fire, and watched it roll into the salty surf, where it hissed, sputtered, and died.  Startled by the splash and sizzle, a lonely gull took flight and, without hesitation, sliced its way into the foggy future.

Hela whispered, ‘I told you we should have fled south with my friends, not back to the Caspian. Tell me again, why did you insist that we stop the night on this desolate shore?  Mateen?  Mateen, have you fallen asleep?’

He had.  ‘Come again?’

‘I would never backtrack to Rasht again.’ A Caspian breeze cycled in and out of the shallow cave, unsettling then re-settling Hila’s long, black hair over her ears and shoulders.   Mateen, mesmerized by flickers of light dancing on his sister’s Saint Christopher medal, drifted off yet again while she watched the tide race ashore, change its mind, and then hasten a cowardly retreat— over and over.

 Hila winced when a slanting raindrop stung her cheek.  ‘Last night was perhaps the longest of my life. While you slept I listened to the cursing, stomping, upending of our furniture, and babbling until dawn.  Such language.’ Taking a chill, she returned, sat near the crackling driftwood, and rubbed her hands together. ‘I am so hungry.’

 Asad piped up, “Me too.”

Gharam laid the open book face-down on the bed, reached for her bag, and trimmed her hollow rejoinder to fourteen words: “I have two snacks on the menu today.  Take your pick–almonds, or ‘ammans’, as they say in California.”  Both boys cupped their hands for the handout, and then munched noisily.

 “Shall I continue reading, or have you had your fill of the story?”

Asad yawned. “Skip to the good part, for my head nods like a sleepy congregant. What’s a congregant?”   Gharam retrieved the book and resumed reading from where she had left off.

‘We have but a half bag of almonds, and I’d say we’ve eaten our ration for today.’

 Asif piped up. “Really?  Is that what Mateen said to Hila?”

“No child, I was just trying to make the story more digestible.”

“It’s digestible enough.” Gharam continued reading.

 Hila’s disheveled hair cushioned her head when she leaned back and rested  against Mateen’s burly arm.  The fire crackled and spit, and within minutes Hila was asleep.  When she awoke–darkness. Her stomach churned, and her head now rested against folded burlap.  It smelled of onions. 

 ‘Mateen?  Mateen, where are you?’ Hila sprang to her feet when she heard a spasmodic cough, accompanied by approaching, hurried footfalls.’Mateen, is it you?’  The wailing wind muted her cry and buffeted her hopes.  She stumbled to the cave entrance and shrieked, ‘MATEEN?!’

‘No girl, I am not Mateen,’ laughed an out of breath, churly voice.  The pockmarked apparition grabbed Hila by the hair and snarled, “Gotcha.’ Asad and Asif scrambled under the bed; Gharam got the message–her  listening audience had taken a chill.

“Shh, did you hear that? Dalal, who just came in?  Is it Safeed?” Voices buzzed, the knob turned, and the bedroom door swung slowly open—very slowly.

“ABDUL!”  Gharam relaxed—but not Asad and Asif.  The stranger wasn’t smiling, and he sweat so profusely that to them he looked like one of the  story book’s villains, bent on blocking their escape from the room.

Dalal stepped forward from behind, wrapped hers around the old man, and broke the tension with a hug.  “Papa, I am so glad you are safe. I had imagined the worst.”

Abdul shook the hem of his thwab and fanned his perspiring chest. “What happened to the boy’s eye?”   Gharam brought a fist to her mouth, climbed from the bed, pushed her way past Jinny, and left the bedroom.

“These days it doesn’t take much to tip her scales,” whispered Dalal.  “But this is bad. The boy’s name is Asif.  His eye has been poked by a broken broom handle—an accident.”

Abdul knelt and without smiling said, “Come, come, boy, let me have a look.  Life’s long journey causes us to be poked and prodded many times along the way, eh, Asif?  May I examine your eye?”  After an encouraging nod from Jinny, Asif slid warily forward.  Asad considered his options and exited from under the side of the bed closest  the window. The bandage was pulled away and Abdul reacted as if someone had touched him unexpectedly on the nose.  He gently pressed the bandage back in place and then, while still kneeling laid hands on Asif’s head, closed his eyes—for what seemed to all but wisp of time—and concluded with, “ammim.” To all who looked on, Abdul’s countenance bespoke pure compassion.

Like an inflating dirigible he rose to his feet as Gharam returned to the room blowing her nose.  “What are you doing, Abdul?  Do you know know that Safeed, too, is badly wounded? He insisted on walking to your quarters, stubborn man that he is.  Do you bring us word of his condition?  Do tell, where is my brother?  Have you no care?”

Outwardly, Abdul appeared as calm as an autumn leaf floating to the grass in an Abilene park on a Sunday afternoon.  He stalled, trying to orchestrate a lullaby-like reply, and sat on the bed pretending to evaluate the softness of the mattress.  May I answer on my back.  May I lie down for a few minutes, Gharam?

“As you wish, Uncle.” Gharam wrung her hands against her chest.

“Lift my legs if you will, please, Dalal.  Oh yes, thank you.”

Asad and Asif spotted the table barricading the exit.  Wide eyed, they stared at one another, arose, and scooted out of the room to explore Safeed’s bedroom while Abdul Akim’s lungs expanded and contracted, expanded and contracted.  Exhaled harmonic vibrations melodized his sad tidings.  “Gharam, I’m sorry, but I can’t think of a gentler way break the news.  Fasad—yes, the Fasad whom I  loved as a brother—stood at my open door and betrayed Safeed into the hands of the inebriated American expatriate.  And then, two of Karim’s henchmen dragged Safeed to the village square to be hanged.”

Gharam shrieked. Tears tumbled.  Abdul’s  lips trembled. He self-consciously veiled his mouth with the hem of the tattered thwab and spoke as if from the grave.  “Fasad, Fasad, my life-long friend and victim of Karim’s treachery—bagged pieces of silver hang from your stiffened  neck and you lie in state near the minaret.   Such a waste, such a terrible waste of life, dignity, and honor.”

Subdued colors—organized colors hanging lopsided in a gilded frame on a straight wall—caught Abdul’s eye. He longed to float upward into the painting and sit alongside Jesus, who, from the palm of his hand, was feeding a lamb.  When such a teacher looks to the stars, the whole class looks heavenward. And so it was that when Abdul paused to admire the painting, everyone looked up; but serendipitous serenity was short-lived.

Abdul sat up and threw his legs over the side of the bed just as Asad and Asif returned, clamoring for a chance to ask the big question.  They knelt eagerly at his feet, leaned forward, and stared into his reddened eyes. “There’s a table blocking how WE got in, so, how did YOU get into Safeed’s bedroom?  It has no fire escape.”

“And no window,” added Asif, obviously in pain. “Did you sneak in where Safeed sneaked out?”

“Yes.” Abdul again fanned his chest with the hem of the uncomfortably warm thwab.

“When you are rested will you show us how you came?”

“I don’t know if I will ever be that rested.”  The corners of Abdul’s thin lips turned up.   “Can you keep a secret?”

Asad nodded, and Asif replied, “Pretty much.”

“Then be patient and, yes, I will show you.  But it must remain our secret.  But first, Dalal, Safeed is in grave danger, as Gharam rightly perceives.”

Jinny swept up her rifle up by the sling, looped it over her arm and shoulder and declared, “Sir, Karim wants to kill me—a member of the United States Armed Forces—and Safeed is the bait! I am the one who must don my uniform and face the brute. Am I right?”  Asad and Asif darted from the bedroom into the kitchen and buried their heads beneath Jinny’s bandied wings.

“Hold on, Mother Goose!” entreated Abdul as he arose from the bed. “Change clothes if you must, but please here me out.” He shuffled into the kitchen, led Jinny into Safeed’s bedroom, and closed the door. “To your earnest question, soldier, I answer with a yes, you are right, but do temper your resolve with a cool head.  Think of the children.” The tone and tenor of Abdul’s voice had changed. “Karim intends to capture you, humiliate you, hang you, and through this dark design incite panic and drive our people into the streets.”

“I am not afraid of the madman or his followers, Sir.”

“Yes, but know this, he is as unpredictable as the stock market. He must not be underestimated.  If he does not make good on his promises, he’ll be left standing alone in front of the exchange with a gun i his hand, and then who knows what he might do.” Abdul reached down and quickly yanked open the door.  “Surprise, surprise.” Dalal and Gharam stood leaning forward, a sheepish look on their faces. “Gotcha, this time.”  No one smiled, but Abdul didn’t skip a beat. “Ah, Sergeant O’Dwyer, see how these two good, inquisitive women stand at ready?”

“Yes, I see: At ready, at aim, and at fire, Sir.” Jinny looked for a complementary response. Sober faced, neither Dalal nor Gharam even pasted a smile.  Jinny seized the moment. “You both realize, don’t you, that we are all being watched by the Pakistanis. Right?  And I’m sure their rules of engagement include armed drone recon far more sophisticated than your sorry eyes and ears.  Don’t you get it?  If provoked or threatened, all they have to do is push a button and we turn to dust. Ding louie, they could target us  just for having walked into their country uninvited.  If we had a Sat-Phone, which we don’t, I could radio for assistance.  My cell-phone died a thousand deaths, without assistance.”  Stirred like a beehive, Jinny turned to face Abdul and added, “What we really need is a plan B, Sir.”

Dalal intervened, “Father, excuse her impertinence.  What shall we do?”

Abdul Akim replied, “Will you excuse us for just a moment?  It will give you time to change into your uniform.”  He ushered Dalal into Safeed’s bedroom and again closed the door.  At length, a whispered conversation concluded with a terse and audible, “As my husband before me, I trust you, dear father.  I will do as you request.”

“Then be off.” The door swung open on the windowless bedroom.  Abdul stood alone, his arms folded; he smiled at the children and Gharam. “For now, will you excuse my lack of transparency, as the American government would put it?” Taken aback by the  phrase, transparency, neither child nodded.  Abdul placed a veined hand on each of Gharam’s shoulders.  “As for you, maiden of mercy, given what you’ve been through I’d say you have borne your losses well.”

“I will be well, Uncle, when Safeed is home, sitting by my side, and sipping cocoa.”  She pushed his hands away, sat down, and stared at the barricade.

“Home! Yes, one day we shall all return home. In the meantime, have faith Gharam, have faith.”

Gharam shuddered. “And this is your way of telling me Safeed is dead?”

“I do not know. Have faith that he lives.  Do not lose hope.  Now where did the soldier go?”  Gharam’s bedroom door swung open and their stood Jinny, as beautiful as ever—if one ignored the inflamed gash on her cheek.

Clad in her helmet, BDU, boots, and carrying her rifle, she mumbled, “I’m ready. Sir.” 

Abdul nodded. “This may seem a tad melodramatic—to borrow from an American idiom—but you look both as brave and as war-worn as George Washington crossing the Hudson.”

“That would be the  Delaware River, Sir, and he was freezing to death.”

“Ah, yes, of course.  Be that as it may, Safeed reported last night that you and ‘your sons’ –as you are wont call them—have endured much in your short time together.  And, unlike many of your military, it is plain to me that you have been sustained by the hand of God.”

“Yes, without a doubt, Sir.”

“So hear this, Sergeant.  Although your military took up residence here years ago, it was without an invitation.  That goes for the Brits and your other allies, too. Most  Arabs and Persians chafe at your presence in this part of the world. We wish you would all go home. I have been puzzled that your government seeks to impose their will upon our conflicted countries without taking into account our needs and wants. In Afghanistan alone, there are twenty-thousand isolated villages, each independently ruled.  Your republic tramples our traditions and restricts our freedoms by tariff, occupation, and intimidation.  Yes, we are afraid of you. But then, I am from Iran.  Perhaps I have said too much.”

Seeing that his plain-speaking elicited no visible reaction from Jinny, he continued. “I have visited your country.  Your leaders are so polarized.  What is it that drives the choices of those who govern in the United States?  Fear?  Vanity? Pride? Promotion? Profit? First came the British, then the Russians, and now you Americans. The tragic outcomes you have witnessed for yourself.  The mujaheddin only grow stronger.  And our Khomeini?  Well, I won’t go there just now.”

Jinny replied, “I too, am plain spoken, and so I will tell you I have remained behind this barricade for the sake of my sons. I am neither afraid of Karim nor his men.  And if he  is an American, I am ashamed and sorry for the way he misrepresents the vast majority of American citizens; but I am in this far off place on orders from my Commander and Chief and need to get back to my unit.  Like you, I am a patriot.”

“I understand and agree. But first, it is within your power to help rescue our Sunni flock from those below who have abandoned their humanity.  If you will follow me, we will see this present dilemma to its conclusion—together.  Call it Plan B, if you like.”

“Very well, I will follow you, Abdul Akim.”

“Gharam, will you guard the children?

“We will guard Gharam.” Asif folded his arms and stood tall, as he had seen Abdul do.

After handing Gharam her sidearm, Jinny knelt and promised the boys she would soon return–but chose not to say,  goodbye–as she followed Abdul to his secret exit.  Again, wearing the wrinkled uniform of the United States infantry, Jinny paused and looked back at her sons.

Abdul beckoned, “Come, we must go.  Place your hands on my shoulders and walk slowly.”  Abdul and Jinny vanished from the room.  “You will not die today. The children will be well attended.”

Jinny treated the old patriarch with wary respect but had questions. “Sir, I could sure use some fresh intel about now. Our primary mission objective is to rescue and exfil Safeed, right?”

“Yes, Sergeant O’Dwyer.” Jinny flipped down her mounted night vision device. It was no longer operational.

“And where is this dark deployment taking us?”

“This ancient tunnel leads to the minaret, a symbol of the Muslim faith; but to us, it is simply a convenient lookout tower.”

And here in the dark ‘I’ve finally found someplace drearier than Corker’s barn.

“Rest assured, I can make the upward climb with my eyes closed.”

Jinny smiled at the remark but kept hers eyes wide open—open to her childhood rides atop Caleb’s shoulders; open to Thrush Hollow hunts with Conor; open to life-lessons learned, both bitter and sweet; open to miracles and more.  For a while Jinny lost track of both time and steps, but she had never lost touch with God; and now, she clung to the shoulders of a good old man whom she thought had little in common with her father.

After traversing a dimly lit passage up and down and up again, the unlikely duo popped a camouflaged hatch and climbed into dwindling daylight. Together, they had traversed three blocks and now sat breathing fresh air 18 meters [sixty feet] above the desert. They rested,  let their eyes adjust, and pinched cobwebs from their faces, hair, and Jinny’s rifle. Mission critical, the minaret’s enclosed, circular deck commanded a birds-eye view of village rooftops to the west, south, and the village square below.  The roost—dubbed by Jinny, the crow’s nest—was all but enclosed to the height of a man by decorative latticework and bore a riveted, silver label: Manufactured in Marrakesh, Morocco.  A pitted, brass pole spanned the distance between the nest and the blackened roof and parapet twenty feet below.  The pitted pole, not visible from the courtyard, had been cleverly attached to an awning hanging over the small exterior exit, also not visible from the ground.

“Sergeant, do you see a body slumped at the base of the pole?”

“No, no body, Sir, and glad of it.  I see laundry flagging surrender. It looks scorched.” Jinny recognized the municipal building below, its northeast corner mated with the minaret.  Abdul rubbed his eyes but still could not see very well.

“There is more to tell, but later.  For now, content yourself with being my eyes.”

“I am all eyes, Sir.”

“Call me Abdul.” He followed Jinny’s clockwise rotation two clicks. She stopped and looked down at Faisia Street. “Yes, yes, that’s my street.  Please, tell me what you see.”

Without cocking her head around to  reply, Jinny reported, “I see one casualty.”  She held back from sharing details.

“That will be Fasad, my lifelong friend.  I imagine vultures will soon work up the courage to pay him a visit.  They always have an appetite.”

‘It looks like lunchtime, Sir, I mean. Abdul.”  Fasad’s remains were being fussed over by a squadron of flies and two vultures.  Jinny watched as one satiated glutton lifted off with some difficulty–a purse dangling from its beak–and flew west toward the setting sun.

Sergeant O’Dwyer continued to rotate clockwise.  Click.  She spared Abdul a description of the body dump across the road to the east, but advised, “Abdul, the road to the Pass is clear of bodies and traffic.”  Click. Cautiously completing the sixty-second rotation, Jinny’s eyes locked on the courtyard to the south.  Horrified, she gasped, “No, no, Safeed, what have they done to you?”

Yes, it was Safeed, bound hand and foot, nearly naked, and noosed tightly around the neck by two strands of clothesline.  His feet teetered precariously on a three-legged chair in front of the hospital stoop while he watched his life’s blood drip, drip, drip, and pool on the porch.

Karim sat next to him menacing a semi-automatic pistol and looking the worse for wear.  His uniform was unbuttoned, his empty boot hosted three comatose scorpions, and his very big toe was cocked against Safeed’s precariously balanced perch.  Soured, exhausted, idle witnesses sat on the ground or knelt, heads bowed, with weapons locked and loaded.  Zero hour had arrived.

Now or never.

Jinny knelt, pushed her rifle’s barrel through one of twenty-four decorative quadrangles making up the facade, and whispered, “I have the primary the target in focus, Abdul.  From here I can eliminate him and perhaps two or three more bogies, but our primary mission objective would be sacrificed and our location compromised.”

A bull-horn bellowed.   Karim had flipped it on and raised it to his slobbering lips.  Exhibiting the manners of an ornery Brahma stud, he snorted and rubbed his nose against his sleeve. “SUNNI OF PESHAWAR-WAR-WAR-WAR, HEAR ME-ME-ME-ME. THE FIRE IS OUT-OUT-OUT-OUT . . . FOR NOW-NOW-NOW-NOW.  COME TO THE PARTY-PARTY-PARTY-PARTY, OR BARBECUE-CUE-CUE-CUE, WE WILL-WILL-WILL-WILL . . .” He shook and glared at the bull horn ,and yelled, “You’re mocking me.”  The horn flew and flopped.  Karim skillfully executed a psychopathic tonal modulation and continued—sappy sweet—as if someone had stuck a giant, lemon lolly-pop in his mouth.

“Send out the American and I will give up your Sunni pig.  I know you hate Americans as much as I does, and your leader’s oil pan is about drained.  If you do what I just told you  before I kick over this chair, your man lives.  If not, you will miss his gag and dance, and no duck will drop down and pay you a dollar; his neck will snap like a twig, and that’s all folks.  I’ll be-a, I’ll be-a, I’ll be-a seeing you, just like Elmer Fudd use to say; or was it Groucho Marx?”

No one responded, not even  his beleaguered followers.

Filled with two quarts of vitriol, the fast-aging Mississippi orphan had worked up quite a sweat, and he was beside himself—meaning, he was clinically schizophrenic.  “She MUST die; I tell you she must die!  She must pay! I am the great Karim of Kandahar, and I HAVE SPOKE.   Give her up to be skinned and gutted like an Arkansas catfish.”  Karim again paused, manipulated his tone of voice one last time and added, “You may come out and watch if you like; free admission; and no danger to yourselfs.”

 Checking his timing with a companion and getting a nod, Seaman’s Cap blurted out for the first time, “Hey boss, don’t you forget your promise:  Loot and women.”  Then lowering his voice, he added, “and I don’t nominate me for your new lieutenant. Their life expectancy don’t look too good.”  His half-circle of dimwitted compatriots nodded compliantly. One of them even chuckled, then feigned a sneeze.  Quick thinking.  Poker faces were the order of the day since Karim held all the cards, stared daggers, and held a gun in his hand.

“Hush your mouth” he replied to Seaman’s Cap.   “One thing at a time.”  Karim yelled, “We’ll count down from fifty.  Naw, that’s too hard; we’ll count up from nothin’.  If we get to fifty and the woman isn’t kissing my feet, then Safeed dies, and we burn this govermint relocation project to the ground—all of it and all of you!”

Stirred up by their boss’s resolve, collective enthusiasm foamed like froth on a mad dog’s mouth.  Karim led the count:

“Altogether now—FIFTY, I mean, ONE!” His followers took up the count. “Two, three, four.”  The chanting spawned a diatribe. “LOUDER.”  Jinny chambered a round in her M-24, aimed at Karim’s lethal big toe, and readied to squeeze the trigger.  “Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-six . . .” Karim accelerated the count.  His toe twitched against the chair leg. From seventy yards, Safeed reminded Jinny of a pheasant about to be looped on Conor’s belt.

 Remember, Jinny, first shot’s at the cord, second at Karim’s big toe.

 “Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five . . . “

Jinny stood—feet spread apart, the rifle tight against her shoulder, her arm braced by the sling, the barrel resting on the facade; she placed the scope’s cross-hairs on the twisted cord above Safeed’s head.  To slow her heart rate, the trained sniper breathed slowly in, out, paused, and squeezed the trigger.

Click. NOTHING.  Not losing her cool, Jinny attempted to eject the dud from the chamber.  No can do! The rifle had been damaged by the fall.  It was worthless.

 Abdul Akim had slid down the pole and ducked behind the parapet.  Hearing the click, he froze.

 “Forty-seven, forty-eight-forty-nine . . .”

” BLAM!”

A blast from seven feet behind Safeed stopped the count, severed the cord, and Safeed fell from the chair, landing unconscious on his right shoulder. Dalal stood in the hospital doorway, shotgun smoking, and shifted her finger to the second trigger. “I am an educated woman.  I will finish the count for your men.  Fifty.  Now your’re finished.”  Nobody moved.

The last of two shotgun shells had Karim’s name on it.  Swiveling only his head, he peered into the double-barrel and pondered how he’d look without a head.  Dalal could not see his gun slowly crawling across his torso. To his great surprise, Jinny and Abdul, exposed above the knees, popped from behind the parapet. Jinny held her useless rifle rigid, Karim’s head in her cross-hairs.  She called out.  “Mr. K., it’s me; just me; combat ready, sniper qualified, and, well, you do know I can shoot, right?  Through my scope your head looks bigger than a watermelon.  Oh no, let’s be truthful, it looks bigger than a garbage can.  Do your men know that I can also take out five of them before they get me?”

Karim swallowed his chaw; his breathing was labored; the semi-automatic fell from his hand and discharged into the dirt.  Dalal hadn’t budged; she held the barrel of her shotgun two feet from his knotted, greasy hair, and ordered, “Put on your shoes.” Aghast, his men watched him cram his toes into the boots and crush the critters  inside.

Abdul-Akim gleefully cupped his hands to his mouth.  “Your strategic advantage is at an end.  Look to the windows and alleys.”  Dozens of rifle barrels protruded through open shutters, glistening in the late afternoon light.  Doors opened. Men and a few women stepped into the streets and alleys, armed with anything that could be thrown or hammered. Dropping their instruments of destruction, Karim’s men waited for him to say something, to say anything—hopefully, let’s get the blank  outta here.

Karim pulled a few nose hairs; his eyes watered.  “Naw! You wouldn’t shoot down an unarmed civilian now, would you?”

“You are already down, or hadn’t you noticed?” replied Dalal.

“Awe, why don’t we forget the whole thing and just throw in with each other.”

“You do make me want me to throw . . . up,” concluded Dalal.

Abdul offered the benediction: “You and your men get into the jeeps and drive swiftly toward Islamabad.  Do you hear me?  You will leave as you arrived.  Quickly! Stop to collect nothing.” That aroused a murmur from Karim’s crew.  “Leave the Humvee; set a proper example for your chief, and lead him to his jeep.  Drive east. Now.”

“Or never,” screamed Jinny, not lowering her rifle.  Abdul held up both hands and dropped one finger at a time.

“Ten. Nine.  Eight.  Seven. Six.”  By the count of five Abdul had been joined by a mixed chorus of villagers–sopranos, altos, tenors, and basses.  Choice and accountability:  Blast off or get blasted.  Karim abandoned hopes of picking up the sharp, broken pieces of his dream.  He leaked gas like a punctured blimp all the way to the lead jeep.  Disarmed and disillusioned, he flashed the international sign for vulgarity and within minutes, dust and an obnoxious smell were the only remaining sign of the convoy.

Dalal emerged from the hospital, her arms full of medical supplies, and knelt by her cousin.  Too late. Looking up, she shook her head. Jinny hadn’t relaxed her grip on the rifle but her eyes blurred, unable to see through the scope. The sun would soon settle behind the Hindu Kush, leaving behind a brief blaze of glory, but no one felt like celebrating.

Uplifted  fists and nasty epithets had been hurled like shards of glass at the pensive pilgrims standing in the village square, but Karim’s caravan drove east, leaving those left behind to assume he had  conceded the contest.  Jinny’s disabled M-24 sniper rifle pointed straight up, and the hands of time stood still, or so it seemed.  She and Abdul watched from the rooftop as other hands, willing hands, reverently lifted Safeed’s limp limbs onto a litter.  Like courtiers of a caliph, the solemn assembly escorted his body into the hospital to be washed, anointed, and wrapped for burial.

A venous canal, brimming with consternation, pumped through Jinny as she watched the procession disappear.  She stretched for a life-preserver but linked arms with Abdul-Akim; then she thought better of it. Abdul forced a weary smile. Soaked in salty sorrow, the two veterans of a foreign war sat down side by side and leaned against the parapet.  Both were emotionally and physically dehydrated. Abdul had no way of knowing  that Jinny suffered from P.T.S.D, but she did.

“Sergeant, I need to rest for a few minutes, but will you lift and look beneath the unriveted section of flashing to your left?  It covers a hollow.”  Jinny’s countenance betrayed surprise as she discovered and retrieved a stowed grapnel and coil of  rope long enough to expedite their exfil to the courtyard.  “Scout Motto:  Be prepared, ” chuckled Abdul, “but this not my favorite way down.”   He gently linked arms with his companion and spoke again–not loudly, but as a shepherd would console his sheep, secured for the night in the fold.

Abdul called her by name.  “Jinny,” he paused, “there is something Safeed would have you know.”

“Safeed? He spoke of me?”

“Yes, but only a few well-chosen words,”  Abdul chuckled. “Safeed always spoke in large caps so I could easily read his meaning.  But excuse me, I do not mean to embarrass you or intrude on your private thoughts.” Their weary eyes and sentiments converged.  Then, realizing his own thoughts were also under the microscope, Abdul pulled away, drew his linen thwab close against his chest, folded his hands between his knees, and swayed back and forth like a listless reed.  For a time, all he could hear was the pumping of his own broken heart. “It is too soon for me to speak further of Safeed.”

“Yes, and for me—too soon.”

“Whom else do you miss?  Tell me of your family.”

Jinny laid her rifle on the coiled rope, leaned her head back against the parapet, and spoke as if from a trance.  “ Papa . . .. my hero . . .  he raised children . . .  and wheat, encouraging all to sprout and achieve their full potential.  Papa was a patriot and a Christian . . . he died on his knees by his bed . . . so suddenly.  The next day the President and Congress convened and declared war on your people.  For me it was a sad day, but a day of decision.  Papa had taught me that America  is a land of promise and that maintaining freedom requires sacrifice. He expected me to govern myself accordingly.  And so . . .  you see . . . I am here.  And my Mama?  . . . but excuse me for babbling on.”

Abdul replied, “Child, you babble like a brook. Babel on.”

Jinny suddenly wanted to tell all. “To be sure,  I’ve bumped  my way downstream; but Abdul . . . the nightmares.”

Abdul shifted so he could face Jinny head-on. “You will understand that I am in no hurry to knot a rope around my body and abseil forty feet like a bag of sand.  I want to know what you are willing to share.  I am listening.”

“Jinny!  Father!  Are you alright?”  It was Dalal.  She had climbed to the roof to gather in her laundry.”

“Yes, we are commiserating.  Is all well, Dalal?”

“All is as well as can be expected, but Gharam is a mess.”

“Then perhaps it is it’s time to go.  Sorry Jinny, I hope I may call you Jinny from now on. We must see to my niece and the boys. I didn’t realize how late it is. And I forgot–the fire escape wouldn’t burn; its made of steel.  May we follow you down, Dalal?”

***

Karim had  requisitioned a new driver from the motor pool—one who had never been behind the wheel; and  Seaman’s Cap dared not refuse.   He’d not spoken aloud since joining the gang, but inwardly he he had become hoarse with chatter. I’ve driven many an ass into a corral but never one toward the capital of Pakistan,  He struggled to ignore Karim’s braying as  the boss picked Dalal’s stray buckshot from his own left arm.

  “STOP,” he yelled over the roar of the engine. “I’m sick.”

“Stop?” Seaman’s Cap delicately tap-tap-tapped to pinpoint which pedal operated the brake.  “Donkey-dung, donkey-dung; not that one, S.C. . . . YES, that one. Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang.”  Each jeep rear-ended the one ahead like a derailing freight train, and the Humvee wasn’t spared.  Karim’s cranium dented the dashboard and popped open the glove box—no airbags—Karim being the possible exception.  Head and tail-lights shattered; radiators leaked; tempers flared, and Billie Joe Quagmeyer swooned, unable to piece together what had just happened.  His men buzzed around him like bees around their dead queen.  They all wanted  honey. No luck.

After decommissioning Seaman’s Cap, Karim wiped the blood off his knuckles and appointed a new driver—a kid called Crackers.  And then, miraculously, a goose-egg appeared on Karim’s forehead at the precise moment he announced, “I’ve hatched a plan.”  But his plan, like his scrambled brain, had neither fully developed nor hatched. “We’ll drive east for a few miles, hang out until it gets dark, and then sneak back to the village.  This time boys, no horns, no lights.”

That would be easy.

“Snag the gas, douse the village, and light it up–underwear and all.  Born to burn, boys–just like that—born to burn.  And I want that woman.”

“Uh, boss.” Crackers raised his grimy hand and snapped his fingers.  “We’re not armed, don’t you know it?  You want that we should sneak up, start fires, and not expect to be blasted to hell just because it’s nighttime?  And are you going to lead the charge?”

“Charge? Are you questioning who’s in charge, Cracker Jack?  Everybody moves. Now.  Follow me.”  The men returned to their car-seats; starter motors whirred, but not one engine responded to the command.  Only Karim’s vehicle spun around, slowly passed each idle jeep, and then it stopped, too.

Billie Joe Quagmire  climbed out  and craned his neck so he could  look overhead at a matched pair of American-made Pakistani Bell AH-1Z Viper helicopters whoop-whooping at an altitude of ten football fields laid end to end.  Like eagles, the birds’ talons extended and  eyes their zeroed on the target. Down they swooped to harvest a bunch of what looked like a family of field mice and one rat.  Jeeps exploded, flipped over, and bodies trampolined into the air. Wounded men scattered like cockroaches do when the lights are turned on.  A single PAF 26J swung in low and strafed the road, taking down a solitary soldier, ugly as sin, waving a white flag.  Karim was dead.

From sixty-five thousand feet, a Lockheed U-TR-1 photographed, recorded, and simultaneously transmitted live-action photos to DOD, US Command, Kandahar, and also to a technician bunkered near Kansas City, where he massaged a joystick with his fingertips. His orders: “Continue the vigil over Peshawar.”

1900h.

The  Kandahar combat hospital, deep in Taliban territory, was well fortified,  but convalescing in bed wasn’t on Major General Jack Robertson’s bucket-list.  An I.V. tube and pump, secured to his left wrist with tape, hobbled his movements. He shifted his weight and tried not to unseat the photo array spread on his lap. He had work to do; decisions to make; coffee to drink.  A framed photo of his ex-wife sat atop a two-drawer nightstand to his left and provided the room’s only adornment.  Sofia had remarried.  The general’s weary adjutant, Tom Flint, also divorced, sat on an orange plastic chair to his right watching the I.V. drip, wondering if he needed to be concerned about accidentally being hypnotized.

Robertson  studied each photo and read each voice transcription. “Thankfully, Tommy, these show but one offensive action.”

“Don’t you mean, defensive action, General?   The Pakistanis were just protecting their turf. They had no clue as to why our jeeps powered down to Peshawar unannounced. In their shoes, I’d have issue the kill order at the border.

“At least you are in  your shoes. Halloween in Havana, I’ve got to get out of this bed.”

An orderly knocked on the glass, opened the slider, and stepped into the room.  “Sir, your breakfast.”

“Put that on hold.  I need a few more minutes to digest what’s on my lap.”

“But?  Yes sir.”  The slider slid, the orderly turned around, and a third serving of the general’s overcooked toast vanished from the tray.   Overhead, a four-lamp fluorescent fixture flickered, buzzed, and scolded.  The orderly looked up.  “Mind your own business.” He shifted gears and  pushed the four-wheel stainless-steel cart down the polished cement corridor.

“Close that door again, will you Tommy?”

“It’s shut, Sir. Clean glass.”

“So, whose still alive over there?”

“Sir, you will remember that neither Captain Durant’s body nor his dog tags were recovered at the blown bridge between Kandahar and Kabul. On point, he wasn’t among the dead left behind by Billie Joe and his thugs.  And if they had left Durant with the Taliban, he’d be on the evening news by now, don’t you think?”

“Agreed, maybe.”

“Perhaps Quagmeyer kept him alive as a hostage.”

“Or bait, Tommy. Or bait.”

“But why leave the Humvee behind in Peshawar last evening, General?”

“Goggle-gump, I forgot about the Humvee.  These confounded drugs in my system have me spinning. Step out and tell the nurse to come check my morphine pump.  I need a fix.”

Twenty minutes later, Major General Robertson picked up where he’d left off.  “Tommy, show me the photo location of the Humvee?  And why did Quagmeyer leave it behind in Palermo?”

“That would be Peshawar, Sir. Palermo is in Sicily.  Different war.”

Robertson sighed, shifted his wounded leg, and several photographs fell to the floor. Forgetting his question, he reached over and thumbed the morphine pump while Tommy retrieved the fallen photos, found the requested image, and pointed.  “It’s right there, Sir, parked on the edge of what looks to be a town square. Having studied these photos while you were in the head, I’d say the good citizens of Peshawar deserve credit for running  Billie Joe’s gang out of town, Sir.”

“Send word to Colonel – – – Who is the acting C.O. in Kabul?”

“Major Killpack, Sir.”

“What happened to Howard?  Oh no, no, never mind,  I remember. Sad, sad. Send word to Major Killpack that Billie Joe Quagmeyer, alias Karim of Kandahar, and his henchmen were terminated by the Pakistani air force. On second thought, forward all this stuff, stamped confidential, through SATCOM to our Three-Star.” Trying to clear his mind of cobwebs, the General hesitated.  “No other Pakistani aggression?”

“No, sir. What they did was purely a defensive response, and given the chatter, the Pakistanis had to believe they were attacking a convoy of American soldiers.  I believe we have only hours before they drop in on Peshawar looking for more soldiers; maybe minutes, Sir.

“Logical conclusion, my friend.   Could be Durant is in Palermo.  Before we forward this to D.O.D., anything else I should have picked up on?”

“Take a close look at this photo . . . lots of people bunched together not long after the fire.  Note the two standing on a roof.”  Tommy pulled a pen from his pocket, clicked, and pointed it at the two small figures.

“Well, I’ll be a dogleg’s paw; one of them is in uniform!  And he’s a woman!  I mean, she’s a woman.”

“Yes, sir. No doubt about it–high def from sixty-five thousand feet, and she’s carrying an M-24.  Cute, too. The rifle of course, not the woman. But I’ve seen no evidence of Captain Durant.”

The General’s blood pressure ramped up. “Sniper’s rifle!  Holy Toledo.  Sergeant O’Dwyer.  Jinny.  She’s alive!  Ring up Colonel Killpack.”

***

Dawn danced through the perforated, transparent veil stretched across the eastern horizon—a vista ever changing, ever enchanting. No dust stirred in the Pass; no one sounded reveille; no villagers rushed to the rooftops; no one died, but a large, lonely figure had trudged off the Islamabad road during the night. He slept sequestered against the wall behind the hospital generator.  It, too, was out of gas.

Jinny awoke and found herself wedged between two small boys; a young woman lay but a dream away– tossing and turning, her pillow wet.  Jinny pitched sideways, rolled onto her hands and knees, and straddled Asif. She stared down at slumbering innocence. Expressionless, she pushed up to her feet, shuffled to the window, took in a shallow breathe, and shuddered.  It wasn’t cold outside.  Safeed’s hand-stitched crimson bedspread—intricately leaved and veined with blues, greens, and purples—had fallen from Gharam’s bed.  Jinny picked it up, folded it in half, and laid it at the feet of the slumbering saint.  And then with a finger, Jinny lingered long enough to trace one purple vein all the way to the bound, frayed edge of the quilt.  She caressed the broken cloth, then absentmindedly wrapped the quilt around her shoulders and stepped away.

Gharam leaned down and gently tugged on Asad’s sleeve.  He awoke.  “Asad, where is Jinny?”

“Is she in the bathroom?” Gharam crawled off the foot of her bed, left the room, and then returned  shaking her head.

“No, I awoke to street noise, and the downstairs entry door is ajar. Come, we must find her.”  Asif awoke wondering why his dream had no ending.  His eye still bandaged, he and Asad followed Gharam down the stairs and into the alley.   Pulling a small red wagon laden with a few candled eggs toward the square, a passer-by,cheerfully greeted Gharam.

“You and the boys are up and out early this morning.”

“Jinny has disappeared.  I am worried. We must find her.  Rami, will you knock Dalal’s door and ask her to check the roof and shimmy up the pole to the lookout?”

“For you, anything,” Rami replied.  She left her wagon unattended and hurried toward Dalal’s apartment a block away.

Asad tugged on Gharam’s sleeve. “Gharam, wait, where did Safeed die?”

“In front of the hospital, I think.”

“Follow me.” Asad abandoned Gharam and Asif and raced toward the village square. He found four villagers stoically huddled around Jinny.  She had fallen to her knees, head bowed, with the bedspread still draped around her stooped shoulders, and was staring vacantly at the ground.  Dalal looked on from the crow’s nest where she had stood breathlessly for three  minutes.

Gharam waved and Dalal, tucked an arm around Jinny, and whispered, “Come love, we must get you home.”

Jinny mouthed the word: “Home.” Inwardly she was adrift at sea; outwardly she was as dry-docked as a tall sailing ship in need of a patch.  Only when the boys tied on, hand in hand, did she yield to their tugs and follow them  into the small sea of sympathetic faces.

“Abdul Akim!  But how did you know to come?”  Abdul made no reply to Gharam but appeared relieved when the man and woman clutching his arms let go and rushed, full of smiles, to the boys.  They knelt and extended their arms, anxious to embrace Asad and Asif.

Asif blurted, “Do not touch me. My eye is bandaged.”

Asad raised a palm defensively, leaned back against Jinny, and demanded, “Should we know you?”

In practiced Pashto, the woman responded, “Why, I am your mother’s sister.  I am Wahida, dear Asad—little Sweet Pea.  Little geechee-goo. Your uncle and I feared  you lost, kidnapped, or dead.”  She glanced up at Jinny, who hypnotically stiffened at the knees. Asad studied Wahida’s red, blunted nose while she absentmindedly twisted a few unkempt hairs with a finger and thumb. Other hairs looked like strangled drinking straws.  The hijab abruptly terminated at a granny knot tied across her bifurcated chin—so tight that her bifurcation looked like a suntanned hourglass.

Asad stuck out his chin, placed a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder, and grinned.  “Geechee-goo?  Sweat pea? Really?”

Latif edged forward and dropped to his knees.  His most distinguishing feature was a large black mole centered curiously above his nose. It made him look cross-eyed. Wahida smacked him on the back as one would cue a toy that had stopped working.  “Yes, yes, Asif,” he chortled. “My wife, Wahida, is indeed your aunt, and we thought—I mean, we presumed you taken or dead. Where have you been . . . little Sweet Pea?”   His duplicitous remark drew another swat, this time to the back of his head.

Asif gathered courage.  He lifted Jinny’s hand as a referee would a winning boxer’s glove at the end of fifteen rounds. “This is our Mama now; she is from God’s country.”  All present were taken aback by his quiet resolve, and at that moment it was as if someone repeatedly rang the bell to get everyone’s attention.  Jinny dropped to her knees, drew Asad and Asif close, and uttered five words: “Yes, they are my sons.”

Gharam stepped forward.  “We must help Jinny to her bed.  She is still in shock and needs rest.”

“But what about us?” huffed Wahida contemptuously, stirred by a mixture of distress and disdain.

Latif arose and placed his hand firmly on Wahida’s shoulder—a manly token that his wife should also regain both her feet, a measure of decorum, dust herself off, and admit defeat; but she still had some fight left in her.  “Perhaps we may call upon you later today, Miss Gharam?”  The couple turned and looked back at Abdul-Akim for support.

He nodded. “Yes, Wahida and Latif, come.  Perhaps we will visit the boys later in the day.  Will that be alright, Gharam?”

“As you wish, Uncle.”  Pointing and wagging a finger she added, “But please do lunch before you come, and do climb the stairs quietly.  Jinny may be resting.”

Wahida’s lips moved out of sync with her heart as she bid Abdul-Akim farewell at his door. “Dear and wise old man, with your help our family will soon be reunited—the four of us.  God is good. Good is God.”  Bowing and chaining arms with Latif, Wahida slithered off across the cobblestone street.  “Those children will be worth a small fortune in Islamabad, but don’t you ever grab my shoulder like that again, brother.”

Abdul-Akim collapsed into his overstuffed chair. Usually comfortable, this morning it was uncomfortable.  He muttered as senior citizens are wont to do: “Have you been duped again, old man?  How could the children not recognize such close relations?  They claimed to have seen Asad and Asif yesterday evening at the graveside service. Were they even at the funeral?  Not until they knocked your door this morning did you ever suppose that Latif and Wahida are husband and wife.”  Abdul drew two conclusions:  1. “Although they claim to have followed us from Rasht, Wahida and Latif are imposters with scurrilous intentions.  2. “Stop talking to yourself. The two of you have but one point of view.  You must broaden the field of your inquiry,” he chuckled.  After three painful heave-hoes, Abdul escaped from the couch and dropped to his knees to pray, his early morning attempt having been interrupted by Latif and Wahida.

He awoke, still kneeling, several hours later, and chided himself. “Old man, do not expect answers to prayers that end with a snort.”  Abdul retained but four words from his dream: Your mission is complete.  Interested in making further, he paused and heard a tentative twist of the front door knob. The deadbolt did not release, of course.  It was locked.  “Time for some new intel, as Jinny would say.”  Abdul crawled on all fours, pressed his ear to the keyhole, and listened.

“Wahida, you headstrong baboon, I told you the old fool keeps the door locked when he sleeps. Come, we must not draw further attention to ourselves. We will return later.”

“NO!” Wahida sniped.  “Number one, Abdul is asleep; number two, Abdul is rich; number three, you are a mouse.  If our plan for selling the little males in Islamabad unravels, we must at least leave here with something.  Keep watch while I pick this cheap lock.”  Reluctantly, Latif stepped forward to shield his sister’s duplicity from observation.  Click. The door crept open, the pair crept in, and Wahida’s words crept off her tongue, “Good, the old fool has gone to his bedroom to nap; move quickly and quietly.”

They tiptoed from room to room, rummaging through drawers, snooping, and sniffing as if they were DEA dogs who had been dismissed for insubordination.  Finding nothing of value, they crept to Abdul’s closed bedroom door, held their breath, and listened.  Silence.  Wahida cautiously turned the knob, pushed, and peaked through the crack.  The bed was empty.  Pushing further she felt resistance. Together they forced the door open and looked down at who had resisted their intrusion—Abdul Akim.

“Be sure he’s dead.  Most old men look and smell dead.  Slap him to be sure.”

Latif complied. “Yes, he is dead, but if someone sees us leaving this place he will think we  knocked the old man on the head.”  Wahida was preoccupied with a letter pulled from between Abdul’s fingers. Unable to read English, she wadded and threw it on the worn, woven rug by the bed.  Suddenly as irritated as a newborn F-5 tornado, Wahida spun toward the front door, her brother right behind, wishing he’d never left home.  Latif scoffed, “I’m glad he’s dead, stone-cold dead, but by whose hand?  Weren’t we the last to see him alive?”

Wahida seethed, “The old man is not dead.  He’s on to us and has gone to warn Gharam and the others. DALAL!  She’s trouble. She saw me kill the soldier hidden on her roof.”

“Wait, wait, wait, back up.  The old man is dead.  And you did what?  Are you mad? Have you lost your mind?” Taking his sister again by the shoulders, Latif screamed, “Two dead, you deranged donkey?  We’ve got to get out of here.”

Wahida strong-armed Latif, pushed him off balance against the door, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and slapped his face.“I looked back through the doorway, and Abdul’s body is gone—gone I tell you.  So it matters little what or where he is.  Follow me to the hospital.  We’ll load Karim’s collection into the Humvee and, if I can start it, we’ll drive to Islamabad and sell all as salvage.  If we remain here, I will be stoned and you will be castrated.”

“Only you would choose that as my fate.”   Latif peeked through the window drape and, seeing no passersby, the pair of deuces slipped out the door hoping to be dealt a new hand.  Neither had ever played with a full deck of unmarked cards.  As the door latched, Wahida’s lock-pick fell, undetected, from a shallow pocket.

“Come, be quick, we must hurry.”

As they hightailed it toward the minaret, turned south, and disappeared from Hafiz Street, Abdul stood in his doorway, a wry smile on his face, and waved. “You didn’t check my pulse, you scoundrels.”

Neither scoundrel detected the slumbering vagrant as they slunk by the compressor toward the rear hospital door.   “Latif, hand me your lock-picker.”

“What do you mean, my lock-pick; it’s yours.”  He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Nothing. Nada. The practiced pick-pockets concluded their search in vain.  Like converging bogs, brother and sister wallowed in one another’s misery—they squabbled, rolled over and over, scratched, bit, pinched, and punched.   The ruckus solved nothing.  Still no pick. No loot.

“You must have dropped it at the old man’s apartment.  We’re done here.  Somebody’s bound to put one and one together—one and one equals two—me and my stupid brother.”

“You mean, they’ll think we murdered Abdul?”

Clenching her fists, Wahida’s sallow complexion reddened.  “For the last time Neanderthal, he isn’t dead.”  She readjusted her back-pack straps and decided to go straight–straight toward Islamabad.  After mulling over his options—the least desirable of which was the companionship of his sister—Latif tried the rear hospital door. “Locked out.  Story of my life.”  He swore loud enough to awaken and embarrass even Sailor’s Cap, and then trotted down the road after Wahida.  The shmucks shifted into third gear, forgot to keep an eye out for booby-traps, and with abandon continued the marathon run toward Islamabad.  Three hours later, two remnants of rotten fruit fertilized the local vegetation.  IED.

“Colonel Killpack?”

“Yes, Sir. Good morning, General Robertson; I hope it’s a good morning.  PLEASE HOLD.” A low rumble followed by an explosion rocked the Kabul bunker and showered bagged sand fifty yards in all directions. “Sir, are you still there?”

“I’m here, Colonel; what’s your status?”

“If I hang up on you, it’s because I’m dead.”

“Gotta keep a sense of humor, or we’re all dead, Colonel. How are you weathering the storm,  Bobby?”

“We’ve had a rough forty-eight hours, Sir.  What can I do for you, General?”

“I’ve been studying aerials from our Lockheed UTR-1,  looking for your two MIAs.  Won’t go into all the details now, but I think we’ve located at least the one from Bravo Company, over the border in Peshawar, sector 9, on your map.”

“Add one more MIA, General.  Before the attack on Kabul, a Shambling Martino went AWOL.  Just dropped off the map.  We think he traveled toward Jalalabad with refugees but can’t be sure.  That makes three we’re missing to date.

“I have no intel on that one, Bobby, but the good news is we have a positive ID on Sergeant Virginia O’Dwyer.  At 1600 hours she was alive in Peshawar.”

Killpack responded, “Good news, Sir.  Did you know her squad, including Lieutenant Randall Staley, was ambushed, General?”

The General went silent.

“You still there General?”

“Yes, Bobby, I’m still here.  Barely. I’ve seen Staley’s file.  It came through before you took Howard’s place, God rest his soul; but as I said, O’Dwyer is still alive, I hope.”

“Roger that.”

“Got time for an update, soldier, or do you want me to handle this from my end?”

“Spill it out, Sir.  I don’t know how long before all hell breaks loose here again.  I don’t even know who we’re fighting this morning, but I’m snug as a bug in a bunker; tactical HQ is rubble, destroyed along with Howard and his staff; but you know all that.”

“Roger that.  American treasure.  If the people who run this war from Washington only knew what’s going on out here.” Robertson paused long enough to shift in his bed and overcome the temptation to have Tommy rehearse the update. He continued, “My cognitive dominion decreases at the same rate as the morphine hits my bloodstream–but here goes.

About the time of the assault on your base, we dispatched a company north to transfer prisoners– six jeeps, 2 Humvees, and a truck load of, well, let’s just call them enemy combatants.  About midway, they came under attack, and we lost radio contact.  All available birds had been redirected as air support to either Kandahar or Kabul. But knowing something had gone to snot, I finally dispatched an Apache to recon.  The site of the ambush had been scrubbed of equipment, but the ground was strewn with our boys—our brave boys.  Based on current intel, I’m confident the local clan was behind the ambush.  We bagged and retrieved the entire platoon for exfil to Dover, save one–Captain Ed Durant.”

“Yes, sir, I know Durant.  Served with him on my last tour. He had a pregnant wife and two kids.”

After another sober pause, the General continued. “We think most of the jeeps and one Humvee were driven northeast by escapees.  Somebody must have tipped them to avoid Kabul. How the hellena they got away from the Taliban scot free is a mystery to me.  Their ring-leader, Billie Joe Quagmeyer, alias Karim of Kandahar . . .

“Did you say Creamy Candle Jar?”

“No, K-a-r-i-m of Kandahar.  Sorry, I’ll slow down.  Back in Mississippi, the FBI has a warrant out for his arrest.  His given name again is Billie Joe Quagmeyer.”

“Roger that. Oh, yes, I saw his mug on a poster when we were sorting through HQ debris looking for a sat-phone.  What caught my attention were the thumb-tacked eyes.  Excuse me, General, continue.”

“Roger that. I’m forwarding aerial photos—verification that our hijacked jeeps and one Humvee made it through the Pass to Peshawar.”

“ISIS recruits, General?”

“Don’t think they ever got that far Mac, I mean Bobby.  Info’s sketchy.  Anyway . . . excuse me a second.”  The phone was muffled.  “Take that back.  Guess I’m not hungry today. . . Tommy, grab that photo that just floated under my bed, will you? . . .  I’m back. Of course, the Pakistanis had eyes on our vehicles from the moment they crossed the international border.  We monitored their pilot to command and control communications. I’m sure a drone took in the whole scene.”

“Yes, I’ve seen their drone—or should I say, our drones—with a live pilot on board. Iran’s flying them, too.  Hard to detect. High tech.”

General Robertson coughed into a Kleenex.  Blood. “Just before dusk today, the convoy of jeeps loaded up and left Peshawar, headed east toward Islamabad; fifteen minutes later they were blown to hell by a pair of Bell’s Viper choppers.  The Humvee remains parked at Peshawar.”

“Sir, were our soldiers killed in that explosion and can we expect reprisals from Pakistani air or ground forces?”

“As I said, what we know for sure is that Sergeant O’Dwyer was left alive in Peshawar. The photos are clear on that point. Before You came on board she flew out of your base—very fine soldier; a sharpshooter at age 18.”

“So, we want to know who, if any other soldiers, are with her?”

“That’s half the recipe, Bobby. The other half is—figure out how to get them out of there before they’re captured.  NOW.  If the Pakistanis investigate, Jinny–I mean, O’Dwyer–is toast.”

“Sir, with your authorization I am prepared to breach the border, drop in behind Peshawar and get our soldiers–or body bags–out of there.

“What you got on hand?”

“We have a couple of Blackhawks on standby at the Jalalabad air field.  They are the closest and quickest option.”

“Roger that, Colonel.  You’ll meet no resistance at Peshawar.  It’s a refugee encampment.  Photos will show you the best place to land. My aid spotted O’Dwyer on a roof. Wish we had radio communications with th. . .  Wait a minute, there should be a sat phone in that hummer.  Tommy, can we turn that sucker on remotely.”

“Yes, sir, and we can make it bark like a dog.  They’ll hear it,”  replied the General’s aid.  Unless Quagmeyer found it.

“Did you copy that, Colonel?”

“Yes, General Robertson.  I’ll get our choppers in the air—one for pick up; one for cover. Will you let me know when radio communications have been established with Sergeant O’Dwyer?  We’ll get in and out before the Pakistani’s react. Think the Three-Star can calm Pakistani nerves?”

“Count on it,” replied Robertson.  He’s my mother’s brother.  The round trip should only take an hour and a half.  Well, maybe a little more.  Lieutenant O’Dwyer will likely know the status of the other two soldiers. Thank you, Colonel. Keep me posted.”

“Roger that, Sir.  You’ll be going home soon.  Get better. Out.”

Major General Robertson would return home, but, like many “heroes proved through liberating strife,” he would never recover. Not really.

He heard a scuffle, opened one eye, and realized the television wasn’t on.  Is the air-conditioner busted in here?  Wait a minute. Hold up! Boss, this isn’t Motel 6!  Seaman’s Cap opened the other eye and realized he was holed-up in Peshawar, not Islamabad. Cramped between the hospital wall and the generator, his neck felt  stiff like a giraffe’s–SC hated dogs more than giraffes.   He arose, crept around back of the hospital, stretched his neck, peeked through one of the narrow windows, and  swore.  The matron and her staff-had returned to work,  and the hospital was abuzz with activity.  An expectant father had  boiled water, and a newborn had brought both peace to the heart of her mother and signaled the return of normalcy to Peshawar.

Seaman’s Cap squatted behind the heavy back door, depressed the handle, and yanked. “Still locked.”  He growled, disgruntled  that he couldn’t storm in, kill the new father, and overpower the women.  He scampered on all fours beneath the narrow windows and then stood up–his back against the wall. One side-step at a time, he crept around the  building’s circumference hoping to peak into the village undetected.   “There she is, there she  is–still parked where Coco left her—goodie, goodie, go-go.”  He took one step toward the Humvee then froze, looked sixty yards up the far side of the Khyber road, and couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Grave-robbers? What are you digging him up for? That’s Catfish Durant. Leave him be,” he snarled under his breath as four men painstakingly retrieved and bagged the bound body.  SC backtracked a few steps but continued watching as the men hoisted the rigid bag to their shoulders, marched out of step, and carried the captain toward the hospital.  A few passersby paused and reverently observed the procession, but most Sunni citizens crisscrossed the square on their way to and from the market, greeting one another as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Even Rami rolled in from the alley, backed her cart against a display case, and unloaded a few dozen eggs–and two plucked  chickens–without even noticing the procession.

SC smacked the wall nine times while repeating, “I’m in the right place at the wrong time.”  But before he could make his move on the Humvee,  he heard a man’s voice call Rami by name and come hustling, out of breath, from the alley. SC took note of the sidereal auburn hair, combed over to hide the otherwise bald pate belonging to the rotund gentleman,  but he was intrigued by the gold chain hanging from a black satin vest.  “Gold Watch, I’ll bet.” The chain glimmered in the sunlight when the gentleman bowed and glibly greeted the vendor.

“Rami, you old hen, I tried to catch up before you flew the coop, but you got away.”

“Old hen?  Surely you mistook me for my sister, Mr. Mayor.

“My oh my, as usual you are very witty today, my dear woman.”

“And, as usual, you are very winded today, my dear Mr. Mayor.”

They cackled and clucked cheerfully like two birds of a feather.   After a few minutes, the mayor turned away and pulled two coins from a bulging purse.  He dropped them, one at a time, into Rami’s cupped hand and pecked her cheek.  “Good-day to you, Miss Chicken-charmer, and thank you for candling  my eggs,” he said mirthfully.  The mayor picked up a white plastic bag and headed back down the alley, whistling and swinging his purchase like a sling-shot.

 “Gold,”  SC grunted.   “There goes the goose that could lay my golden egg.”  He ran a few options plays across  his narrow field of vision.  Option one:  Interfere with the mayoral election cycle and withdraw everything portable from his campaign fund— including the watch, chain, and coin purse—and then hitchhike to Islamabad.  Option two:  Forget the mayor; hot-wire the Humvee,  drive east, and sell it for cash.  Easy pickins.

SC’s ticker ticked like a time-bomb urging him to hastily chose option two.  But problem number one:  Which way is east?  Problem number two: Where’s the key?  Problem number three:  Which pedal is the brake? 

Without parting his lips to allow for a debate, he made a decision.  He straightened, stepped away from the building, and casually pretended to be a typical Sunni out for a stroll. He passed to the blind-side of the vehicle, stooped down, and congratulated himself by shaking hands.  Then he lifted his head like a child about to sneak a cookie and looked through the rolled-up window. No key in the ignition.  No ride. 

Guess I’ll try my hand at hot-wiring like on TV.  Lowering his head, he put the squeeze on the door handle, and then it happened:   A  dog, drunk with rage, began barking from behind the front seat.  SC scratched out option two and ran, flat-out, for for his life–in the wrong direction–the Khyber Pass.

Dalal sat on the hospital stoop aiming and pretending to pick off the last survivor of Karim’s crew, but when the dog barked, she stood, sighted ahead of the bow-legged thug by a few yards, and watched him hightail it up the road.  “Bang, bang, you’re dead.”  She relaxed her trigger finger, having decided to let the vultures enjoy a hot meal, and squinted until SC was out of range.

Dalal approached the noisy Humvee, trailed by excited, curious children, thinking to rescue the thirsty, hungry dog trapped inside.  “A telephone?”  What a disappointment.  Rescuing it from behind the driver’s seat, Dalal pushed a button or two in an attempt to turn off the bark before more children arrived in the square.  Too late.  She pushed another button.

A human barked, “Killpack here, United States Army Kabul Command, to whom am I speaking?”

“Me,” replied Dalal defiantly as she rested the stock of her loaded shotgun on the ground, shushed the children, and held the phone to her ear.

“I say, this is Colonel Killpack in Kabul.  Identify yourself?”

“I already know who I am, and my name is Dalal, as if it were any of your business.”

“O—kay, Delilah, I need you to put me in touch with any US Army personnel at your present position.  This is urgent.”

“Dalal replied, “First, my name is Dalal, and personnel?  NO . . .  I MEAN YES! JINNY.”  She left the village children in her dust and raced down the alley—the shotgun in one hand and Sat-Phone in the other—her hijab waving like a banner on its way into battle. Shutters clattered and closed.

“No danger.  No danger. Just business as usual,” she puffed, attempting to quell neighborhood jitters.  “Colonel Killebrew, should I leave this thing on while I’m running?”

“No, it may soon need a charge.  Turn it off until you get it to the sergeant.  She’ll know how to use it.  Thank you, Dalal.  How long before you reach ground zero?”

“Ground zero?? Three or four minutes, if I don’t trip over my abaya.”

“Roger that. Out.”

“ Out of what?” Come again? Panting, Dalal shut off the sat-phone, raced up the stairs to Gharam’s apartment, and burst through the door.”

Gharam cane unglued. “What’s wrong? That monster hasn’t come back;  Dalal, tell me he hasn’t come back!”

“No-no-no, you’re safe. Where is Jinny  . . . and the boys?  Look.” Dalal showed Gharam the sat-phone.

“Oh, thank the Lord.  You scared me, girl. They left ten minutes ago to breakfast at Abdul-Akim’s.”  Laying aside the trusty shotgun, Dalal slid down the banister and leaped through the open door into the alley.  Across the way, Rami’s sister, snoring in the rocking chair, missed all the action, but others on the street inquired, “Dalal, what’s the hurry?  Are you okay?”

“Yes, for the first time in many hours . . . I am okay. Please excuse me, my mission requires speed.”

After knocking three times on Abdul’s door, Dalal was greeted by Asad.  Asif was close behind.  “Dalal!”

“Where’s Jinny?”

“She left a few minutes ago to draw water from the spring.”

“Oh me, oh my!” Turning around, Dalal ran smack-dab into Jinny.  Ignoring the upset water bucket, she thrust the sat-com into Jinny’s hands. “You must answer this call.  His name is Killebrew.”

“But where did you find this phone?”

“It was barking at me from within the army truck.  Really, a dog? You Americans are an odd bunch.”

“Oh yes. Why, why didn’t I remember?  There is a sat-phone stored behind the driver’s seat in every Hummer on patrol.” Jinny excitedly fumbled for, pushed the call button, and held up the receiver so Dalal could listen in.

The calm voice of another American soldier warmed Jinny to full attention.  “To whom am I speaking?” asked the voice.

“I’m, I’m . . . ”  Like  dominoes, the memory of Arlington grave markers pitched over one at a time and laid bare buried emotions. “This is Sergeant Virginia O’Dwyer, Bravo Company, Sir.”

“So, you are alive, Sergeant.  This is Colonel Bobby Killpack, in command at what’s left of Eagle Camp, Kabul.  Do you copy.”

“Roger that, Sir.”

“Now to the point—how many U.S. military personnel are with you in Peshawar?”

“Sir, one deserter, who called himself Sham, took his own life several days ago; and Captain Edmund Durant was killed by, well you probably know who . . .”

“So he’s dead.”  Pause.  ” And we have eyes on you as we speak?  What’s the current status of the two soldiers, Sergeant?  Can we bring them home?”

“Durant is being prepped for burial, Sir.  Sham is in the cemetery.  Does this mean you are coming for me?  For us?”

“Yes, soldier.” There was another pause.  “I am putting two Blackhawks in the air from Jalalabad as we speak—one to provide cover and one to exfil all three of you.  How soon can you get both soldiers ready for exfil?”

Jinny stared blankly; her chin dropped; her mouth dropped open.  Dalal caught the phone on its way to the floor and stammered, “We can be ready within the hour, Mr. Sir.”

“Will the roof above your location support the weight of a Blackhawk?”

“How does He know where we are standing?. . .  It supports the weight of a hundred people whenever it needs to,” replied Dalal.

“Roger that. We’ll pick you up at 0930 hours. Do you copy that?”

“Yes sir, but . . .”

“What is it, Sergeant?”

Dalal continued as Jinny’s proxy. “Are you aware of the two little boys rescued a few days ago?”

Jinny whispered, “From Sector 12, Sir.”

“Yes, Sergeant, we were updated by Lieutenant Staley, who, by the way, called you a hero before he died.  He thought you’d been blown to hell.  Are the children in good hands?”

“Yes, Sir. My hands,” replied Dalal as she handed Jinny the phone.

“Say your goodbyes, Sergeant O’Dwyer.  We have a war going on over here.  You are still on duty.”

“Yes Sir, but . . . “

“You have your orders, Sergeant.  Return and report. Do you copy?”

“Yes, Sir. Loud and clear.”

Dalal took the phone.  “We’re done here.”  She pushed the end-call button and helped Jinny rejoin Asad, Asif, and Abdul-Akim inside his apartment.  Dalal then rubbed her eyes, dry, executed a crisp about face,  and hurried to complete her pledge—retrieve and bag Sham, update Gharam, and ask the hospital staff to deliver Edmund Durant to the roof of Abdul’s building.

Jinny collapsed to the floor between Asad and Asif as they huddled under her protective wings for the last time. The infected wound on her face stung, sanitized by salty tears. Her plaintive, chocolate brown eyes looked to Abdul, who leaned forward, his countenance drawn, but empathetic.  He gently placed a hand on Jinny’s head. “God will give you what to say and strength to endure—the same God who healed Asif’s eye.”

Overcome, Jinny could not speak.  Asad asked, “Mama, why do you weep?”

She choked out, “A helicopter soon lands to return me to my duties as a soldier, but my heart . . .”

Three broken hearts.  Three quiet sobs.  Asad pled, “But Mama . . . “

Gharam arrived out of breath and fluttered into the nest.  “Yes . . . Mama, Asad.  But until the day of your reunion may I be your mother’s sister?  Please, please, please?” Smudged faces stayed pressed against Jinny’s worn, wrinkled uniform.

Abdul led poll-bearers up the stairs to the rooftop.  The boys followed Jinny, without a word, like lambs to the slaughter.   Dalal carried Jinny’s gear, but  Gharam carried a heavy heart, large enough to love everyone.  Sober-eyed, all looked upward  like first-time visitors at Golgotha. The wash of helicopter blades cooled the resilient colored tiles; Jinny was warmly welcomed aboard.  Bernie Oliver urged back the collector, and the Blackhawk lifted Llewellyn’s  child up and away.

Asad, Asif, Abdul, Gharam, and Dalal looked on from the rooftop.  No one waved.  All refrained from bawling goodbye. The helo crested the snow-capped mountains.  The boys’ eyes remained fixed on the horizon long after Jinny had vanished into thin air.

My sons. My sons.

The freshly resurfaced Dickinson County road spit gravel at four plastic wheel-wells.  A young passenger, unaffected by the blitz and riding shotgun, sat asleep, his head against the warm window.  Feverish brakes—assaulted and battered for five miles—seemed to squeal, “Achtung.”  The VW graveled to a stop, and the motor shuddered, “Caput.”  The driver buzzed open his window, closed his eyes, and tried to visualize Jinny’s features—a penciled sketch, framed, smeared, and faded by time.  No breeze paraded through open windows, but an aging, leafy sycamore played kaleidoscope, shafted sunlight through its magnificent canopy, and bid welcome to the strangers parked in the driveway.

Lance stood out of sight on a fifteen-year-old flatbed truck behind his home, unaware of the late-model Avis rental parked out front.  Shafted to a horizontal drum in the loft, a Baldor motor purred and commenced winding the inch-thick rope, attached through a peak-mounted pulley to steel hooks thrust into a waiting bale on the truck.  Lance climbed aboard the bale, and the rope snapped taut as the motor—remotely set in motion by Albert—spooled as if it had snagged a record-sized catfish, or a bound-and-gagged soldier.

Riding to the loft was the fun part.  Lance jumped to the hay mow floor, swung the suspended bale inward, released the clutch, and dragged his catch to the back. Then he wiped his sweaty forehead on a torn, plaid hand-me-down and stared at Albert, who sat in a wicker rocker eating lunch outside the back door.  From time to time Uncle Al had paused to give advice, either not knowing or not caring that with his mouth full his pickled words were unintelligible and, therefore, had a short shelf-life.

Doors slammed out front. Lance looked down and watched two men, headed for his front entry, disappear beneath the roof-line.  Megan heard, “bang-bang.”  She dried and shelved the last dish, wiped her hands on an appliqued dishtowel, hustled through the house to the screened back door and—to keep out the flies—opened it just a tad.

“Oh, Uncle Al, sorry.  Did I startle you?  Was lunch okay?  Can I bring you anything?”

He swallowed and replied while picking his teeth with a fingernail needing trimming, “Nope, yep, and nope. Thank you, Meg.”

“Lance, did you hear the car pull in the driveway?”

“Yes, Megan, I heard.  And I’m busy, so hold on; you’ve got eyes, don’t you?  I’ll be there in a minute, but let’s make darn sure it’s a short visit, whoever it is.  I still have one, two, three . . .” he counted, “maybe got a dozen bales to string up, and it’s Havana-hot out here.  But Megan, don’t unchain the bar-latch until I get there.  I don’t recognize the BUG.   Looks like a rental.” Lance grabbed the loft rope and, hand over hand, adroitly dropped to the flatbed, jumped to the ground, and took off his cowhide gloves.

“Be right back, Uncle Albert.  Somebody’s at the door.  It better not be . . . ”

“Yep.  I heard.”  He hadn’t.  “I’ll ride this rocker until I’m off mine.  But remember, I’m leaving for vacation soon.”  Only Albert smiled. Only Albert rocked. Lance double-timed his march through the house and accidentally elbowed George Washington in the face.  The General  and his men spilled into the icy Delaware,  landed on the linoleum, and broke the frame.

Megan beat her husband to the front door and asked, “Who is it?” The barricade swung slowly out of the way, and she backed into Lance, who indignantly stood his ground. A brief, unproductive staring contest ensued.  The two men standing out on the stoop were dark eyed, dark complected, dark haired, well-groomed, and clean-shaven—both apparently in excellent physical condition.  Like Lance they were suntanned.  Unlike Lance, they wore collared Ralph Lorenz shirts, pressed tan slacks, and sockless sandals. The younger stranger had interwoven his slim fingers chest-high, as if he were trying to prevent his heart from leaping out and bouncing off the same screen that had left hash-marks on Jinny’s nose.

“Excuse the intrusion, but we have come to call on Virginia O’Dwyer, if you please.”

“We hope she’s here,” cheerfully added the shorter of the two strangers, who nervously swung a black nylon bag back and forth with his left hand.

“Well, she’s not here,” snapped Lance.  He was sorely tempted to open the screen door and confront the strangers nose to nose, but for Megan’s sake he elected to perform racial profiling from inside the house.  “Who are you, and what do you want from Jinny? You look like the FBI, minus the shades, but those bungling bulahs got their comeuppance long ago.”

 “Oh no, we’re not FBI. We’re normal. Can you tell us when Jinny might return?  We kind of wanted to surprise her.”

Megan slipped her hand into Lance’s back pocket and squeezed.  “Perhaps we should invite our visitors to come in and sit down.”

“No, I think we’re good right here,” Lance replied curtly, bracing himself and broadening his stance.  Megan felt his vibes, chilled, and swallowed her smile.

Gemma had paid for the karate lessons after all.

The younger visitor limped forward and shaded his eyes with his hand. “I am sorry. This isn’t going as we had hoped.  Pardon us for showing up unannounced.  My name is Asif, and this is my brother, Asad.”

“Asad?  Asif?”  The screen door almost unhinged.  “I don’t know what in the ding-louie I was thinking.  Sorry guys.  I am Lance, Jinny’s brother, and this is my plump, pregnant wife, Megan.  Come on in and sit a spell—uh, there on the couch, if you like.  Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

Comradery replaced confrontation, and all shook hands like team captains after the coin toss.  Megan was so excited she even shook Lance’s hand. Relieved, the brothers symbiotically replied, “thank you,” settled on the front edge of the worn leather love-seat, and Asad dropped the black bag between his feet.  Megan collapsed into Caleb’s old, cushioned recliner; Lance wheeled in and straddled a noisy secretary’s chair.  The O’Dwyers didn’t hold hands, but Megan and Asad trembled with excitement.

“We knew Jinny during the Great War.  To you, it may seem out of place, but to us she will always be Mama; at least, that’s how it is spoken in English. She has spoken well of us, we hope?”

From not far upstream someone opened a floodgate and channeled bitter-sweet tears down Megan’s rosy cheeks.  “Oh yes, yes, she did indeed speak well of you.  Jinny told us so much about you; and she wept, like I am, at each telling . . . what a happy day . . . if only we had words to describe how much your visit honors us.”

Asif acted like he’d just been introduced to the woman who invented ice cream.  “We, too, have looked forward to this day for many years.”  From the street, your home looks just as Mama described it—even the barn.”

Asad could barely contain his joy. “Perhaps you will want to know—three weeks past we entered the United States of America on student visas.  We have come to study at the Southern Methodist University in Dallas, you all.”  He grinned.

“My brother’s English is good, yes?” asked Asif, a wry smile on his face.  “But where is Mama—a—Jinny?”

“JINNY.” Lance felt ill-prepared to pull the punch he was destined to deliver.  He was ill-prepared.  “Jinny is, well, after honorably completing two tours during the Great War, she came home and married Marvin Gunnerson, a real son of a . . .”

“Marv is a good guy.”  Megan grabbed the torch before Lance could douse it.  She looked away, moistened her lips, nervously tucked her golden hair behind her ears, and reached pleadingly for her husband’s withdrawn hand.  It was an embarrassing moment. “Well, like I say, he and Jinny were happy.”

 Lance managed to keep his crusted animus at bay. Megan perceived a heightened anticipation in the water-colored eyes of both brothers and hastened to fill in the blanks—not fire bullets. “Until last year, Jinny hadn’t been able to get pregnant. Then came the long-awaited announcement—twins.”

“Really?  TWINS?  The brothers high-fived one another.  “Are the babies here? Now?”

Every muscle in Megan’s face tightened involuntarily; she breathed rapidly and plead, “Lance, help; please dear, help.”

Asad and Asif knew something was amiss, something neither wanted to hear.  Lance made a guttural sound, nervously cleared his throat, looked at the floor, and blurted, “Sometime toward the end of the second trimester . . . I’ll spare you the details . . .  I rushed Jinny to the hospital in Abilene, but the babies died on Independence Day.  A month later . . . Jinny committed, well, she took her own life.”

A midnight thunder storm had blown, spattered, and pasted large wet sycamore leaves and tufted seeds on the VW. Pigeon bombs had been washed away. From a distance the car had looked inexpensively decorated for a parade.  Asif, a future doctor of applied physics, put the petal to the metal, backed the Karmann ghia’s cousin from the driveway and, ignoring the large canal on his left, headed east.  The O’Dwyer homestead more than filled the rear-view mirror as the tires tracked the freshly striped road toward Abilene; but the image scaled down, scaled down some more, and soon vanished from sight—but not from memory.  The siblings ignored the fallow land, the run-down homesteads, and didn’t even hear the pea gravel pelting the undercarriage. Neither man spoke for a time—or a time and a half—although the radio buzzed blissfully below the dash.

“Are you sorry we made the visit?” asked Asad, after muting the noise.

“No, we needed to come, if only to deliver Jinny’s memorabilia, but I am troubled.  Where did Lance go this morning?”

“Perhaps he had chores.  It was nice of Megan to arise early and see us off, though.” Asif read a passing road sign.  “Asad, where did you put directions to the cemetery?”

“Megan slipped a Post-It note inside this book she gave us, but your stomach tells me you need directions to breakfast.”

Asad stripped the note from beneath the book’s cover and read aloud: “‘Wish I could have made you breakfast.  Loved your visit.’”  Asad thumped his tummy.  “Yes, let’s get breakfast and then make haste to the—here it is—to the Abilene Memorial Cemetery.” He scrolled down his I-Pad screen.  “The website says gates open at 7 a.m., and Megan’s little map gives the exact location of Mama’s grave.  I had hoped to tell you that General Eisenhower is buried there, too, but Google says, no, his grave is near the Presidential Museum off S.E.  5^th Street.”

As they passed stores and shops in downtown Abilene, the first eye-catching sign stood atop a café.  It looked like a double-decker Union Pacific dome car—and that’s what it was. The gaudy-colored neon tubing formed the words: Eisenhower Express Cafe.  “Hmm. Maybe the General will  wait our table. Not funny?”

“Not funny.”

As they entered the café, Asad paused to hold the door for a group of well-dressed women who looked askance at him and hurried through without a word.  He smiled and posed. “What do you think of my profile?” he quipped in his native Pashto.

After breakfast, each brother held a free souvenir toothpick with his fingers.  “Wonder what these are for?” mused Asad as he rolled it across his palm before letting it fall to the pavement.  Both knew the answer.  Neither smiled.  Both climbed into the cockpit. Asif pushed the starter button, the VW shook, and then settled into a comfortable rhythm.  Asad recited directions to the cemetery, picked up the gifted book, and examined its worn cover.

“Asif, did I hear you say that Megan said, ‘you’ll love this’?”  No reply. Asad shrugged and opened to the first page.  “Keep your eyes on the road.  I’ll do the reading. ‘This book belongs to Jinny O’Dwyer.’”  Below her signature she had added, “‘My poetry may not mean much to you, but it reflects who I am and what I believe—even the goofy stuff?’”

“We’re here.”  Asad lent his lame brother a strong arm, a willing hand, and together they solemnly followed Megan’s map to the marker.  A small porcelain vase holding three rain-soaked, long- stemmed roses had dropped crimson petals onto the etched granite headstone.  Asif removed a clean café napkin from his pocket, knelt, brushed the petals aside, and read the inscription.  Asad clapped his hands to his mouth.

Virginia O’Dwyer Gunnerson Veteran, United States Army B. 4 July 1996  D. 7 August 2036 Buried Alongside Her Sons. Asad and Asif. B. 4 July 2036 D. 4 July 2036 Once separated, now together forever.

After unfolding and laying a large sheet of white paper across the small marker and then brushing with the side of a pencil to copy its message, the brothers stood and meted out their last goodbyes.  As they walked away, arm in arm, one said, “Now together forever?”

“Have faith, little brother, have faith.”

Jinny was a patriot. War killed Jinny.  War kills too many Americans.  One is too many.

And Albert?

Candy Corker steered northeast toward Topeka in a custom Bohemian-Red Rolls Royce.  She adjusted the rear-view mirror and electronically moved her seat forward.  Albert’s Blondie III lazed by the back window, perhaps wishing she had more tail to wag, or perhaps she missed Albert.  A grimy black duffle bag straddled the back seat and smelled of potatoes.

Another tail lagged not far behind, this one bearing government plates.  As Grandpa Llewellyn used to say, “When ya picks up one end of the stick, ya picks up the othern.”

The End