City on the Edge
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Synopsis
An American teen living abroad discovers the truth about himself and his family in this thrilling novel from "one of the best dialogue hounds in the business" (New York Times Book Review).
In the wake of a baffling tragedy, 13-year-old Graham moves with his family to Beirut, Lebanon, a city on the edge of the sea and cataclysmic violence. Inquisitive and restless by nature, Graham suspects his State Department father is a CIA operative, and that their family’s fragile domesticity is merely a front for American efforts along the nearby Israeli border. Over the course of one year, 1974, Graham’s life will utterly change. Two men are murdered, his parent’s marriage disintegrates, and Graham, along with his two ex-pat friends, run afoul of forces they cannot understand.
In the wake of a baffling tragedy, 13-year-old Graham moves with his family to Beirut, Lebanon, a city on the edge of the sea and cataclysmic violence. Inquisitive and restless by nature, Graham suspects his State Department father is a CIA operative, and that their family’s fragile domesticity is merely a front for American efforts along the nearby Israeli border. Over the course of one year, 1974, Graham’s life will utterly change. Two men are murdered, his parent’s marriage disintegrates, and Graham, along with his two ex-pat friends, run afoul of forces they cannot understand.
The City on the Edge is elegiac, atmospheric, and utterly authentic. It’s the story of innocents caught within the American net of espionage, of the Lebanese transformed by such interference, of the children who ran dangerously beside the churning wheel of history. One part Stephen King’s “The Body” and another John le Carre’s A Perfect Spy, it’s a transformative crime story told with heart and genuine experience.
Release date: May 25, 2021
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Print pages: 336
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City on the Edge
David Swinson
One
The murder of the Middle Eastern man was the first homicide I ever witnessed. I still consider him my first body, because you never forget the first one. There would be plenty more to come in my future, but nothing like that time in 1972 and ’73, in Beirut, Lebanon—and watching it happen.
It was fall of 1971 when Dad requested the post in Beirut. We were settled in Arlington, Virginia, having spent four years in Mexico City. I was certain, even at that young age, that his decision to go back overseas was so that he could distance our family from the city where my sister, Dani, had died over six months ago. Unlike my totally transparent mother, the signs of something like grief or depression in Dad were never made obvious. Yes, it was difficult to see my mother go through that. I believed the move was more for her benefit. Tommy was three years younger than me. He felt great sadness but got over it. I did too, but not as fast as him.
My mother kept herself in her bedroom, drinking vodka, smoking cigarettes, and watching the portable television. Sometimes all day and night. At that point, totally incapable of looking after me and Tommy. Dad took leave before he had to go. He was a Foreign Service Officer with the State Department. Taking leave seemed to settle things, enough so that he felt comfortable with the decision.
Mother, Tommy, my bull mastiff Buster, and I were moved to a hotel in DC when Dad left for Beirut in the spring of 1972. All the furniture and our belongings were packed by movers and shipped. Everything I owned, aside from what I had in my suitcase, which wasn’t much. He even took the necklace I’d been wearing for over a year from me. It had the Star of David attached to it. Mother gave it to me because of her Jewish heritage. She said that it was important that I know her family’s heritage, and that the necklace would be a positive reminder.
I had a hard time with having to take it off. It’s one of the only things Mother gave me that meant something. Family history or some shit like that.
“I’ll keep it safe until we return to the States,” Dad said.
“Why, though?”
“Why what?”
“Why can’t I wear it?”
“Because we’re going to be guests in another country. It’s a country where the people won’t appreciate this symbol on your necklace, worn around your neck.”
“I’ll keep it tucked in my shirt.”
“No, it’ll be safer this way.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t have to make sense. We have to respect that.”
“Mom said it’s important because it’s a part of our heritage.”
“That’s fine. You can wear it when we get back.”
“Mom told me I’m Jewish because she is.”
“You’re not Jewish. You’re Presbyterian, like me.”
“It’s a blood thing, she said.”
“You’re a damn Presbyterian, Graham. Now hand over the necklace.”
“Geez.”
I unlatched it from around my neck and handed it over to him, but not without throwing him a look like I’d struck out on the third pitch.
He cupped it in his hand and walked away without another word.
Two
The plane began its descent over the Mediterranean Sea, the water below a vivid blue-green, like glass. Even from our altitude and looking through the scuffed window, I could see the white sand and reefs at the bottom. Reefs that looked like dark stationary serpents. That’s what I thought they were at first.
And then there was the land. The soil red, like clay.
Red Play-Doh.
“It’s the color of the earth in this part of the world,” Mother told Tommy.
“It looks like blood,” I said.
“Why do you always have to be so morbid?” she said and wrapped her arm around Tommy.
“Blood,” Tommy said, like it was a funny word.
My mother was nursing a vodka on ice. I had lost count, but she was drunk.
I reclined in the seat, looked out the window. I thought about Buster in cargo, surrounded by luggage like a piece of luggage himself. Over eight hours. That was a long time. The longest he’d ever been crated and on a plane. The vet gave him something to help him sleep, and Dad told me dogs don’t have the same sense of time that we do. He survived the trip to Mexico City and back. He’d survive this.
When we arrived at the airport, we were met by an embassy driver. He had hair cut high and tight, like he might be military, but he wore khaki slacks and a cream-colored short-sleeved shirt. He drove a black American-made sedan with diplomatic plates.
I held Buster tight on a short leash. His legs were a bit unsteady because of the sedatives. People walking by looked at him suspiciously, like he posed a danger. Some sort of monster. He was a brindle and had a big head and broad, muscular shoulders—a dog they probably hadn’t seen before. Or possibly they didn’t think he was a dog.
“That’s a tough-looking boy,” said the driver.
“He’s a bull mastiff,” I said.
“I thought they were taller.”
“That would be the English mastiff,” I said.
“Nice-looking dog. The locals will steer clear of him for sure,” the driver advised.
My mother said nothing and walked toward the rear door. The driver opened the door for her. She scooted to the other side. Tommy followed. The driver went back for our luggage. It fit easily in the large trunk.
I had Buster hop in first. His back feet slipped off the seat but he was able to plop to a sitting position next to Tommy. I stepped in and sat close to Buster. I placed my left arm around Buster’s thick neck, scratched the top of his broad shoulder. He was drooling. It was a thick, slow-to-drip drool.
“Yuck,” Tommy said.
I wiped it away with the bottom of my white T-shirt, leaving a clear, gooey, snotlike stain.
“Oh, don’t do that, Graham. That’s disgusting,” Mother said.
“I take care of my boy,” I told her.
“Well that’s noble of you, but still gross.”
I rolled down the window as the driver pulled away from the curb.
The air was hot and dry, but not oppressive. Lot of different smells, unlike DC or even Mexico City. Salty sea odor mixed with spices, decay, vegetation. All at once.
We hit the Corniche, a long seaside highway that ran along a seawall with a view of the Mediterranean Sea on one side and Beirut and Mount Lebanon to the east on the other. A city on the edge of the sea. There was a sidewalk with rails on top of the seawall overlooking the Mediterranean. Pedestrians walking. Pushcart street vendors, some of them selling colorful-looking fruit I’d never seen before. Below, along the reefs, old fishermen using long bamboo poles with lines out were standing on almost every one of the craggy reefs along the bottom of the wall, the waves gently slapping the reefs and over their feet.
The sea is what held me. All these years later and I’m still there. The most beautiful water I’d ever seen. It looked like the color of what I later discovered on the beaches of Tyre to be Phoenician glass. Aqua, green, blue, and see-through. There was so much to take in along the way that it made the trip seem shorter than it probably was.
The Riviera—a tall, extravagant hotel that towered over the Corniche—was on the northwest corner of a narrow road. Every room had balconies and a view of the Mediterranean. I was excited for a moment, thinking this was where we would be staying. The driver made a right on a narrow road. The side of the hotel took up a good portion of the road as he continued up, passing the hotel. Hell, not staying there.
As he drove, the first thing I noticed in the distance, midway up a large hill, was the figure of a man wearing an off-white gown and a white tagiyah hat. He was holding a long bamboo pole up to the sky. The pole had a white rag tied to the tip. He moved the pole in wide circles, with some thirty or so pigeons flying a few feet above and following its direction. The man in the gown stood to the side of a makeshift shack.
The driver turned left onto a dirt road and parked at the edge of an overhanging garage with several parked cars underneath. A walkway led to a small elevator. A small man wearing a white short-sleeved button-down shirt, neatly pressed black slacks, and shiny combat-style boots sat on a folding chair. The apartment building was ten stories. On the other side of the dirt road, about one hundred yards below the large hill, was a small playground. It had a swing set with four swings, a long slide, and a Tetherball on a metal post. No kids were playing, but it was early evening. Sun beginning to set.
To the right of the apartment building, where the dirt road ended, was a village. Small housing made of whatever could be found extending on each side of a wide dirt walking path with a trenched-out gutter in the middle that looked like it held sludgy water. An old woman was pulling dried clothing off a line in front of one of the shacks. An older boy farther down was kicking a soccer ball up with his feet and knees and keeping it from hitting the ground. Damn good job he was doing.
The driver opened the door for my mother. I opened my side and stepped out. Buster’s feet were still unsteady as he jumped out and almost took a slide on the dirt.
“You should take him for a walk. He probably has to relieve himself,” Mother said. “We’ll wait here.”
“Okay.” I scoped the vicinity for a good spot for him.
There were large cement steps that led up the hill to some other large apartment buildings and what looked like a road. The man with the pigeons was on the right side of the steps and far enough away that I didn’t worry about bothering him. The paved road we had turned off became a dirt road that ended at the hill. On the other side of it was a cinder-block wall; a few yards between it and the dirt road had shrubs and tall grass. I walked him there.
I turned to notice a local boy who looked to be in his early teens—older than me. He was at the front of what appeared to be a small convenience store attached to the building, with a large window display that had Arabic writing on the wall above it. The boy watched me intently. Out of nowhere, he began throwing air punches in my direction, trying to show off some fancy footwork, like he was Muhammad Ali. I was and still am a fan of Ali, so I know his shuffle, smooth and quick. The boy was neither. It was odd and I should have seen it, but I was just a naïve boy. That kid, Toufique, would soon become my mortal enemy.
Buster took a long piss, squatting like a girl dog. Urine traveled down the edge of the road so strong it cut through the dirt.
Three
The man sitting on the chair was the concierge. He held the elevator door open for us. The driver helped with our baggage to the eighth floor. We stepped out of the elevator to a hallway. There was one door on the left and another on the right. Only two apartments on the floor. He led us to the right, set the luggage down, and reached into his front pants pocket to retrieve a set of keys. He unlocked the door, handed my mother the keys, and carried the luggage into the foyer.
“Your husband asked that you give him a call when you arrive,” the driver said. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a card. “This is where you can reach him. Would you like me to take your baggage to the rooms?”
“No, thank you. You’ve done more than enough.”
“This is a beautiful city,” he said. “Paris of the Middle East. Enjoy.”
My mother smiled, found the dial phone on a corner table in the foyer, and called our dad.
I unlatched Buster from the leash. He looked around, sniffed and moved toward the living room, smelling the ground as he walked.
It was a large apartment. The living room had a huge sliding-glass door that opened to the balcony. The dining room was on the left, and to the left of that was an open door to what looked like a small bedroom. There was a single bed in it. Dang, I hope those aren’t the rooms we’ll have. All our furniture was there. I walked into the living room while my mom was talking to Dad. There was a large den on the left with another sliding-glass door. My dad’s bar was in there, along with shelves of books and his stereo and reel-to-reel system.
I was anxious to know where my room was. Tommy joined me in the living room. There was a hallway to the left of the foyer, and I assumed that was where the bedrooms were.
“Let’s check out the hallway,” I said.
He followed.
To the right was a bedroom at the corner, with an eight-by-ten piece of paper taped to the door and MASTER BEDROOM written on it. To the left was another room that had Tommy’s name, and to the left of that a door with my name on it. At the end of the hall on the left of my door was the bathroom. Another dang because I might have to share the bathroom with Tommy.
I could hear my mother in the foyer.
“I’m very tired,” she said. “I might be in bed when you get home. Yes, I’ll make sure they’re settled in. We ate on the plane so I’m sure they are fine.”
I hit the left toward my room.
“Buster,” I called out, and he followed.
I opened the door to my bedroom, told Tommy to go away to his own bedroom. “The door that has your name on it.”
He frowned, not wanting to go in there alone.
“I can wait,” he said.
“Go on now,” I ordered, and he walked away back to the foyer.
“Can I take Buster?”
“Negative,” I told him. “He’s with me ’cause this is his room too.”
I’m sure the hallway seemed at the time much longer to Tommy than it really was. He dragged his feet across the carpet, pouting.
“Baby,” I mumbled.
I didn’t know it then, but I was jealous. After Dani’s death, Tommy got all my mother’s attention. It was like I wasn’t there unless I was getting in trouble.
I opened the door. My bedroom was in several boxes—six medium-sized, and one larger wardrobe box. It’s not like I had years of personal property collected. I was happy my dad had left everything for me to put in place. There was my double bed in the center of the room, facing my dresser drawers with a mirror in the middle. A small empty bookshelf was to the left of it. Across the room were open curtains, and a sliding-glass door that opened to the wraparound balcony. I could see the hill above the playground, with the steps carved up along the center. The man with the pigeons was gone.
I opened the sliding-glass door and stepped out. Buster followed. To the left was a privacy wall that separated this balcony from the neighboring one.
“All these new smells for you, boy,” I said, looking down at him. He was sniffing away, poking his nose as much as he could between the rails of the balcony’s fence.
I walked to the right, where the balcony wrapped around our apartment to the dining room. On that side was a view of the striped lighthouse surrounded by the cinder-block wall, and the Mediterranean Sea. The sun was setting, casting a beautiful blue-orange sky over the horizon.
“That’s the Mediterranean Sea,” I told Buster. “Give that a smell. It’s something.” I breathed it in.
A man’s voice cried out the Islamic call to prayer over a megaphone at a nearby mosque in that moment. It was hypnotic—calming and peaceful. I was excited to be there.
Four
On the day my older sister died, my mother was in New York City visiting relatives. She took Tommy with her because he was young, and my dad had to work. Dani and I, mostly Dani, were at the age where we could take care of ourselves until Dad returned home from work, not so much Tommy. It was summer vacation. And I say mostly Dani, because she did look after me. I was not responsible. I was not a good boy. I’d go through a whole box of Cap’n Crunch in a sitting, an hour before dinner. I also had a way of finding trouble, or rather finding myself getting into trouble. Dani had a way of convincing me otherwise when she realized what it was I was about to do. Hell, I don’t remember how after all this time, bu. . .
The murder of the Middle Eastern man was the first homicide I ever witnessed. I still consider him my first body, because you never forget the first one. There would be plenty more to come in my future, but nothing like that time in 1972 and ’73, in Beirut, Lebanon—and watching it happen.
It was fall of 1971 when Dad requested the post in Beirut. We were settled in Arlington, Virginia, having spent four years in Mexico City. I was certain, even at that young age, that his decision to go back overseas was so that he could distance our family from the city where my sister, Dani, had died over six months ago. Unlike my totally transparent mother, the signs of something like grief or depression in Dad were never made obvious. Yes, it was difficult to see my mother go through that. I believed the move was more for her benefit. Tommy was three years younger than me. He felt great sadness but got over it. I did too, but not as fast as him.
My mother kept herself in her bedroom, drinking vodka, smoking cigarettes, and watching the portable television. Sometimes all day and night. At that point, totally incapable of looking after me and Tommy. Dad took leave before he had to go. He was a Foreign Service Officer with the State Department. Taking leave seemed to settle things, enough so that he felt comfortable with the decision.
Mother, Tommy, my bull mastiff Buster, and I were moved to a hotel in DC when Dad left for Beirut in the spring of 1972. All the furniture and our belongings were packed by movers and shipped. Everything I owned, aside from what I had in my suitcase, which wasn’t much. He even took the necklace I’d been wearing for over a year from me. It had the Star of David attached to it. Mother gave it to me because of her Jewish heritage. She said that it was important that I know her family’s heritage, and that the necklace would be a positive reminder.
I had a hard time with having to take it off. It’s one of the only things Mother gave me that meant something. Family history or some shit like that.
“I’ll keep it safe until we return to the States,” Dad said.
“Why, though?”
“Why what?”
“Why can’t I wear it?”
“Because we’re going to be guests in another country. It’s a country where the people won’t appreciate this symbol on your necklace, worn around your neck.”
“I’ll keep it tucked in my shirt.”
“No, it’ll be safer this way.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t have to make sense. We have to respect that.”
“Mom said it’s important because it’s a part of our heritage.”
“That’s fine. You can wear it when we get back.”
“Mom told me I’m Jewish because she is.”
“You’re not Jewish. You’re Presbyterian, like me.”
“It’s a blood thing, she said.”
“You’re a damn Presbyterian, Graham. Now hand over the necklace.”
“Geez.”
I unlatched it from around my neck and handed it over to him, but not without throwing him a look like I’d struck out on the third pitch.
He cupped it in his hand and walked away without another word.
Two
The plane began its descent over the Mediterranean Sea, the water below a vivid blue-green, like glass. Even from our altitude and looking through the scuffed window, I could see the white sand and reefs at the bottom. Reefs that looked like dark stationary serpents. That’s what I thought they were at first.
And then there was the land. The soil red, like clay.
Red Play-Doh.
“It’s the color of the earth in this part of the world,” Mother told Tommy.
“It looks like blood,” I said.
“Why do you always have to be so morbid?” she said and wrapped her arm around Tommy.
“Blood,” Tommy said, like it was a funny word.
My mother was nursing a vodka on ice. I had lost count, but she was drunk.
I reclined in the seat, looked out the window. I thought about Buster in cargo, surrounded by luggage like a piece of luggage himself. Over eight hours. That was a long time. The longest he’d ever been crated and on a plane. The vet gave him something to help him sleep, and Dad told me dogs don’t have the same sense of time that we do. He survived the trip to Mexico City and back. He’d survive this.
When we arrived at the airport, we were met by an embassy driver. He had hair cut high and tight, like he might be military, but he wore khaki slacks and a cream-colored short-sleeved shirt. He drove a black American-made sedan with diplomatic plates.
I held Buster tight on a short leash. His legs were a bit unsteady because of the sedatives. People walking by looked at him suspiciously, like he posed a danger. Some sort of monster. He was a brindle and had a big head and broad, muscular shoulders—a dog they probably hadn’t seen before. Or possibly they didn’t think he was a dog.
“That’s a tough-looking boy,” said the driver.
“He’s a bull mastiff,” I said.
“I thought they were taller.”
“That would be the English mastiff,” I said.
“Nice-looking dog. The locals will steer clear of him for sure,” the driver advised.
My mother said nothing and walked toward the rear door. The driver opened the door for her. She scooted to the other side. Tommy followed. The driver went back for our luggage. It fit easily in the large trunk.
I had Buster hop in first. His back feet slipped off the seat but he was able to plop to a sitting position next to Tommy. I stepped in and sat close to Buster. I placed my left arm around Buster’s thick neck, scratched the top of his broad shoulder. He was drooling. It was a thick, slow-to-drip drool.
“Yuck,” Tommy said.
I wiped it away with the bottom of my white T-shirt, leaving a clear, gooey, snotlike stain.
“Oh, don’t do that, Graham. That’s disgusting,” Mother said.
“I take care of my boy,” I told her.
“Well that’s noble of you, but still gross.”
I rolled down the window as the driver pulled away from the curb.
The air was hot and dry, but not oppressive. Lot of different smells, unlike DC or even Mexico City. Salty sea odor mixed with spices, decay, vegetation. All at once.
We hit the Corniche, a long seaside highway that ran along a seawall with a view of the Mediterranean Sea on one side and Beirut and Mount Lebanon to the east on the other. A city on the edge of the sea. There was a sidewalk with rails on top of the seawall overlooking the Mediterranean. Pedestrians walking. Pushcart street vendors, some of them selling colorful-looking fruit I’d never seen before. Below, along the reefs, old fishermen using long bamboo poles with lines out were standing on almost every one of the craggy reefs along the bottom of the wall, the waves gently slapping the reefs and over their feet.
The sea is what held me. All these years later and I’m still there. The most beautiful water I’d ever seen. It looked like the color of what I later discovered on the beaches of Tyre to be Phoenician glass. Aqua, green, blue, and see-through. There was so much to take in along the way that it made the trip seem shorter than it probably was.
The Riviera—a tall, extravagant hotel that towered over the Corniche—was on the northwest corner of a narrow road. Every room had balconies and a view of the Mediterranean. I was excited for a moment, thinking this was where we would be staying. The driver made a right on a narrow road. The side of the hotel took up a good portion of the road as he continued up, passing the hotel. Hell, not staying there.
As he drove, the first thing I noticed in the distance, midway up a large hill, was the figure of a man wearing an off-white gown and a white tagiyah hat. He was holding a long bamboo pole up to the sky. The pole had a white rag tied to the tip. He moved the pole in wide circles, with some thirty or so pigeons flying a few feet above and following its direction. The man in the gown stood to the side of a makeshift shack.
The driver turned left onto a dirt road and parked at the edge of an overhanging garage with several parked cars underneath. A walkway led to a small elevator. A small man wearing a white short-sleeved button-down shirt, neatly pressed black slacks, and shiny combat-style boots sat on a folding chair. The apartment building was ten stories. On the other side of the dirt road, about one hundred yards below the large hill, was a small playground. It had a swing set with four swings, a long slide, and a Tetherball on a metal post. No kids were playing, but it was early evening. Sun beginning to set.
To the right of the apartment building, where the dirt road ended, was a village. Small housing made of whatever could be found extending on each side of a wide dirt walking path with a trenched-out gutter in the middle that looked like it held sludgy water. An old woman was pulling dried clothing off a line in front of one of the shacks. An older boy farther down was kicking a soccer ball up with his feet and knees and keeping it from hitting the ground. Damn good job he was doing.
The driver opened the door for my mother. I opened my side and stepped out. Buster’s feet were still unsteady as he jumped out and almost took a slide on the dirt.
“You should take him for a walk. He probably has to relieve himself,” Mother said. “We’ll wait here.”
“Okay.” I scoped the vicinity for a good spot for him.
There were large cement steps that led up the hill to some other large apartment buildings and what looked like a road. The man with the pigeons was on the right side of the steps and far enough away that I didn’t worry about bothering him. The paved road we had turned off became a dirt road that ended at the hill. On the other side of it was a cinder-block wall; a few yards between it and the dirt road had shrubs and tall grass. I walked him there.
I turned to notice a local boy who looked to be in his early teens—older than me. He was at the front of what appeared to be a small convenience store attached to the building, with a large window display that had Arabic writing on the wall above it. The boy watched me intently. Out of nowhere, he began throwing air punches in my direction, trying to show off some fancy footwork, like he was Muhammad Ali. I was and still am a fan of Ali, so I know his shuffle, smooth and quick. The boy was neither. It was odd and I should have seen it, but I was just a naïve boy. That kid, Toufique, would soon become my mortal enemy.
Buster took a long piss, squatting like a girl dog. Urine traveled down the edge of the road so strong it cut through the dirt.
Three
The man sitting on the chair was the concierge. He held the elevator door open for us. The driver helped with our baggage to the eighth floor. We stepped out of the elevator to a hallway. There was one door on the left and another on the right. Only two apartments on the floor. He led us to the right, set the luggage down, and reached into his front pants pocket to retrieve a set of keys. He unlocked the door, handed my mother the keys, and carried the luggage into the foyer.
“Your husband asked that you give him a call when you arrive,” the driver said. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a card. “This is where you can reach him. Would you like me to take your baggage to the rooms?”
“No, thank you. You’ve done more than enough.”
“This is a beautiful city,” he said. “Paris of the Middle East. Enjoy.”
My mother smiled, found the dial phone on a corner table in the foyer, and called our dad.
I unlatched Buster from the leash. He looked around, sniffed and moved toward the living room, smelling the ground as he walked.
It was a large apartment. The living room had a huge sliding-glass door that opened to the balcony. The dining room was on the left, and to the left of that was an open door to what looked like a small bedroom. There was a single bed in it. Dang, I hope those aren’t the rooms we’ll have. All our furniture was there. I walked into the living room while my mom was talking to Dad. There was a large den on the left with another sliding-glass door. My dad’s bar was in there, along with shelves of books and his stereo and reel-to-reel system.
I was anxious to know where my room was. Tommy joined me in the living room. There was a hallway to the left of the foyer, and I assumed that was where the bedrooms were.
“Let’s check out the hallway,” I said.
He followed.
To the right was a bedroom at the corner, with an eight-by-ten piece of paper taped to the door and MASTER BEDROOM written on it. To the left was another room that had Tommy’s name, and to the left of that a door with my name on it. At the end of the hall on the left of my door was the bathroom. Another dang because I might have to share the bathroom with Tommy.
I could hear my mother in the foyer.
“I’m very tired,” she said. “I might be in bed when you get home. Yes, I’ll make sure they’re settled in. We ate on the plane so I’m sure they are fine.”
I hit the left toward my room.
“Buster,” I called out, and he followed.
I opened the door to my bedroom, told Tommy to go away to his own bedroom. “The door that has your name on it.”
He frowned, not wanting to go in there alone.
“I can wait,” he said.
“Go on now,” I ordered, and he walked away back to the foyer.
“Can I take Buster?”
“Negative,” I told him. “He’s with me ’cause this is his room too.”
I’m sure the hallway seemed at the time much longer to Tommy than it really was. He dragged his feet across the carpet, pouting.
“Baby,” I mumbled.
I didn’t know it then, but I was jealous. After Dani’s death, Tommy got all my mother’s attention. It was like I wasn’t there unless I was getting in trouble.
I opened the door. My bedroom was in several boxes—six medium-sized, and one larger wardrobe box. It’s not like I had years of personal property collected. I was happy my dad had left everything for me to put in place. There was my double bed in the center of the room, facing my dresser drawers with a mirror in the middle. A small empty bookshelf was to the left of it. Across the room were open curtains, and a sliding-glass door that opened to the wraparound balcony. I could see the hill above the playground, with the steps carved up along the center. The man with the pigeons was gone.
I opened the sliding-glass door and stepped out. Buster followed. To the left was a privacy wall that separated this balcony from the neighboring one.
“All these new smells for you, boy,” I said, looking down at him. He was sniffing away, poking his nose as much as he could between the rails of the balcony’s fence.
I walked to the right, where the balcony wrapped around our apartment to the dining room. On that side was a view of the striped lighthouse surrounded by the cinder-block wall, and the Mediterranean Sea. The sun was setting, casting a beautiful blue-orange sky over the horizon.
“That’s the Mediterranean Sea,” I told Buster. “Give that a smell. It’s something.” I breathed it in.
A man’s voice cried out the Islamic call to prayer over a megaphone at a nearby mosque in that moment. It was hypnotic—calming and peaceful. I was excited to be there.
Four
On the day my older sister died, my mother was in New York City visiting relatives. She took Tommy with her because he was young, and my dad had to work. Dani and I, mostly Dani, were at the age where we could take care of ourselves until Dad returned home from work, not so much Tommy. It was summer vacation. And I say mostly Dani, because she did look after me. I was not responsible. I was not a good boy. I’d go through a whole box of Cap’n Crunch in a sitting, an hour before dinner. I also had a way of finding trouble, or rather finding myself getting into trouble. Dani had a way of convincing me otherwise when she realized what it was I was about to do. Hell, I don’t remember how after all this time, bu. . .
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