Tuesday, October 2, 2018
Faraj
The wooden bench pressed into Faraj’s legs as he reached into his locker. He sifted through his bag, right to the bottom, and touched something hard. His soccer shoes, smelling dark and musky, though the leather was freshly polished, just like his daddy told him—black polish covered the three white stripes to mask the logo. Daddy would be proud of him, proud of the hour he’d spent on the back stoop, brushing and brushing until they shone in the fading light.
The usual chatter filled the locker room, excitement at getting out on the grass, nervousness at who’d be last pick. Then silence, like Coach had entered. But he hadn’t.
The acrid tang of body spray hit Faraj’s nose, inflaming it already. He stifled a sneeze as he looked around, eyes stinging, blinking away tears.
Hayden stood across from him. Blue eyes, blond hair swept low, just above his eyebrows. Topless, just wearing tighty-whities. He sprayed again across his pale skin. Before practice, like always.
Who is he trying to smell nice for? Coach?
Hayden stepped closer to Faraj, brandishing the can like a weapon. “Got anything to say?” He jabbed a finger into Faraj’s chest. It hurt. “Towelhead.” That hurt worse.
But Faraj still didn’t look up.
Never look up if they’ll see the fear in your eyes. That’s what his daddy told him. Only look up when they’ll see the righteous fury they can’t hope to deal with.
“Hey, Towelhead.” Hayden prodded Faraj’s shoulder now. Then again, harder. “I’m talking to you, Towelhead.”
Faraj felt it now, the rage building inside him, boiling at the pit of his stomach, burning through his veins into his arms and legs. Now he looked up, fists clenched. “What did you say, mama’s boy?” His voice sounded shrill and childish, quiet and distant. Hardly a threat, hardly the righteous fury they can’t hope to deal with.
Hayden laughed. “I heard about your daddy, Towelhead. Heard he left you and your mama. That right, Towelhead?”
Faraj stood up as tall as he could get, but he still had to look up at Hayden. But he had rage on his side. “Shut up!”
“Your daddy ran away, Towelhead. Who’s the mama’s boy now, huh?” Hayden pushed him.
Faraj stumbled backward, his shoulder hitting the locker, his knees bumping the bench. He tried to stay standing, to show no fear, just rage and fury, but he fell down, his ass cracking off the wood.
Weak. Pathetic. A victim.
The other kids sat watching in silence. Nobody trying to help, nobody looking away.
Hayden stood over him, his fist pulled back like he was going to punch. Instead, he reached down and grabbed Faraj’s soccer shoes from the floor. “Aw, did your daddy get you these before he left you, huh, Towelhead?”
“Give me them back.” Faraj reached for them.
But Hayden threw them to a buddy, then pushed Faraj again.
His head bumped off the locker. The pain was almost as bad as the hatred broiling in his stomach.
Hayden caught one shoe and put his hand in, holding it like a club. “These smell older than you, Towelhead. Your mama can’t afford new ones?”
“Go, Hayden!” His accomplices joined in the laughter as they tossed the soccer shoes around. “You the man, Hayden!”
The rest of the class sat round, watching.
“You not going to speak, Towelhead?” Hayden grabbed Faraj’s chin with his free hand and jerked his head up to look in his eyes. “It’s no fun if you don’t say anything.”
“Stop!” Jacob charged across the locker room toward Hayden, his muddy-brown hair in a bowl cut dancing around, ruddy cheeks redder than ever. He slapped Hayden’s bare back, a sharp sting that shut up the crowd. “Stop!”
Hayden took his time turning around to look at Jacob, the practiced menace he’d seen in the movies. He looked him up and down, then laughed again, face screwed up, head tilted. “Get outta here, Fatboy.” He brushed off Jacob with a flick of the wrist.
“I said, stop!” Jacob pressed his forehead into Hayden’s and held it there. He was fat, that’s true, but he was taller than Hayden and much heavier. And he had power on his side, maybe even rage and hatred. “Faraj is my friend.”
“Friend, huh?” Hayden made kissy-kissy faces. “Get a room.” He made to walk off, but Jacob put a meaty hand on his shoulder. Hayden looked down at it. “What do you think you’re doing, Fatboy?”
“This.” Jacob stepped forward and locked his right leg around Hayden’s, then nudged his chest. Hayden toppled backward, landing on the tiles with a sickening crunch. You could hear the gasp around the room as Jacob flipped Hayden over, pushing his face into the floor. He knelt on Hayden’s back and grabbed at his chin, pulling his neck back, like they were on WWE. “Submit!”
Hayden shook his head as much as he could. “Never.” His voice was a thin croak, sounded even weaker than Faraj’s.
None of Hayden’s helpers were getting involved.
Faraj walked toward them, ready to stop them if they attacked his friend.
Jacob yanked at Hayden’s chin again. “I said, submit!”
The door clattered off the wall. “What’s going on?” Coach Smith stood in the doorway, hands on hips, eyes wide. His gray hoodie done up over his belly, at least two layers of white tees underneath. A whistle hung around his neck, but he hadn’t used it once in all the time of coaching them. Took him a few seconds of mouth breathing before he stormed into the locker room. “Jacob?” Even he looked shocked. He wrenched Jacob off Hayden. “I thought you were better than this, Jacob.”
Jacob slouched over to his locker space and the kids on either side shifted to give him space. Space meant respect. In those few seconds, Jacob had climbed a few rungs up the ladder. He glanced over at Faraj, a smile flashing across his lips, then looked away, muttering something to himself.
Coach helped Hayden to his feet. “You okay, son?”
Hayden limped over to his locker, rubbing the back of his head. His friends had shuffled around, narrowing the space. He picked up his body spray and gave a blast before tugging his soccer jersey over his head. “He attacked me!” The way Hayden spoke, it was like he couldn’t work out which of those words surprised him most. That someone had attacked him? Or that the someone was Jacob?
“He was protecting me.” Faraj couldn’t look at Coach. The rage and fury had turned to shame and embarrassment. “Hayden called me Towelhead.”
“Hayden Johnson…” Coach shook his head, jowls wobbling. “Son, I don’t want that sort of language in my locker room, do you hear me?”
“But Coach, he—”
“I don’t give a damn, Johnson.” Coach swung around the room. “The rest of you, get your asses out on that practice pitch this minute. Two laps, you hear?”
“Yes, sir!” They couldn’t get out of there fast enough, even to two laps of the soccer pitch.
Coach watched them go, his eyes narrow.
Faraj put his feet into the shoes. They felt too tight. Got worse as he tied the laces. He chanced a look at Jacob and caught a sly smile from his friend.
I don’t care what punishment we get, I have a friend now.
“Johnson, I’m disappointed with you.” Coach stuffed his hands in his three-quarter-length track pants. “This isn’t how a team captain behaves, okay?”
Hayden pulled his soccer shorts up to his knees. “I don’t want no Muslims on my team. I just want Americans.”
“That’s it.” Coach pointed at the door. “My office, now!”
Hayden stared at him, open-mouthed.
“You heard me, right?”
“I heard you.” Hayden tugged up his shorts. “Soccer’s dumb, anyway.” He stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind him.
Coach sat next to Faraj. “Hey, son. What that boy said to you, nobody should hear that. Okay? Nobody.”
Faraj wedged a finger down the side of his soccer shoe. Pins and needles already. Definitely too tight.
“Son, where I grew up, they don’t like black dudes like me there.” Coach didn’t look black, but then he didn’t look white either. Like Faraj, he was stuck in the middle. “I’ll make sure he’s disciplined for what he said, you hear?”
Faraj nodded slowly. “I hear you.” He caught Jacob’s smile again.
Something thumped outside the room.
Coach looked at the door.
Footsteps rattled out in the hallway, heavy and lots of them.
“Boys, stay here.” Coach walked over to the door and peeked out into the corridor. Then he stepped back, hands up.
A soldier stepped into the locker room, his face hidden by a mask, pointing a rifle at Coach’s chest. Two others flanked him. “Faraj al-Yasin?”
Without taking his eyes off the rifle, Coach pointed into the corner.
The two other soldiers marched over and hauled Faraj clean off his feet.
Sweat trickled down his back. His guts churned. What are they going to do to me?
The first soldier pulled his mask to the side to show a hairy mouth, his tongue like a snake’s. “S-son.” Sounded like he was covering a stutter, like Ashlyn in Faraj’s class. “We need to speak to your father. Where is he?”
The soldiers gripped his arms tight. Faraj looked around the room for help, for answers, for anything. Jacob sat there, open-mouthed, panting like a dog. Coach wasn’t any help, still holding his hands up, staring at the gun.
Faraj looked at the soldier. “I don’t know where he is.”
“Sure about that, son?” The soldier’s tongue ran over his lips like the Joker in that Batman film Faraj wasn’t supposed to have seen, but which still woke him up at night. “We can do this the hard way, son, or the easy way. Choice is yours.”
“I don’t know where he is!” Faraj tried to wriggle but they held him tight. He locked eyes with Coach, pleading for him to help.
And he did, finally. Coach clenched his jaw. “I thought the military exercise was later?”
“Well, it’s happening right now, mister. I’d advise you to stay out of this.” He pointed the gun at Faraj. “Now, where is your father?”
Faraj couldn’t speak. He just shook his head, like it could get rid of them.
“So you really want to do this the hard way? Okay.” The soldier didn’t give him another choice, just set off toward the door. “Come on.”
Jacob lurched forward, roaring as he slammed into the soldier’s leg, like a linebacker spearing a quarterback.
Almost.
Jacob only knocked the soldier off balance, not clean over. The other two soldiers let go of Faraj and grabbed Jacob. They pulled him away, but couldn’t lift him off his feet.
“Stop!” Jacob kicked and screamed, breathing heavily, gasping for breath. “No!”
Coach stood there, eyes bulging, hands higher than ever.
The first soldier, the one with the stutter, took Faraj by the arm and pulled a hood over his head. Faraj felt a sting in his neck and his legs stopped working. Jacob’s shouts stopped as everything went black.
And that’s the last thing Faraj saw.
A year later
Saturday, November 30, 2019
Mason
I shuffle out of the Starbucks and take the table nearest the edge. It’s got a good-enough view of the mall’s lower level, but also across to Pottery Barn Kids. They’re still inside. A couple minutes until I need to move, so I scrape back the chair and sit. The semi-automatic clunks off the plastic seat.
The two women at the next table don’t notice the sound. Instead, they put their wallets away, like I’m going to steal them. One of them wears lavender perfume so thick I can taste it.
So I wait, sipping bitter coffee through the lid, getting milky foam stuck in my beard. Just a regular guy having coffee at a Starbucks.
Tuna fish hits my nose. One of the Golden Girls nibbles at a toasted sandwich, her birdlike movements catching in my peripheral vision. But she’s looking at me.
Never leave an impression.
Shouldn’t have bought the coffee, shouldn’t have sat down. But I need to blend in while I scope out my targets. So I shift three tables down, putting a plastic plant between me and the Golden Girls. Shoppers have left pennies in the plant’s soil, confusing a Starbucks in a suburban mall for an ancient burial ground.
The view from this new table sucks—a walkway obscures the mall’s ground floor, and I’m too far from the Pottery Barn to see clearly. I can still make out the line inside, though, almost reaching the door. No sign of anyone leaving yet.
Mall cop at ten o’clock, downstairs. Cuffs, flashlight, and nightstick swaying from his belt. Wants people to know he’s a big shot. Maybe he was, back in the day. Some kick-ass detective until he busted his knee. Or he’s just full of himself and wants to pretend. He’s taking it slow, thumbs in his belt loops, nodding at passing shoppers, their bags bouncing off him. He disappears under the walkway and I lose him. And you can’t control what you can’t see.
The Pottery Barn door opens and the noise level swells. Kids scream, inane music blares, and parents try to talk above the racket. Two fathers in full preppy uniform are out first. Sweaters over polo shirts, 501s, Nike sneakers. Probably Microsoft or Amazon drones spending quality weekend time with their families. Four sons dressed the same, all preschool but acting the same, heading to the same jobs in twenty years. Assuming there still are jobs then.
A big man walks out the front door, holding hands with two small boys. His sweatpants are ripped almost to the point he shouldn’t wear them. But he does. Bet his wife’s happy with him.
Next, a group of soccer moms, perfect hair like their daughters, all beaming at the coffee mugs they’ve just painted.
And then she walks out, strutting like she owns the whole mall. Megan Holliday, homecoming queen fifteen years later. Aviators push her blonde hair up and back, more elegant than a headband but completely unnecessary on a Seattle Saturday morning, and inside to boot. Red lipstick. Blue-striped blouse and black leggings, a thousand-dollar bag dangling from her shoulder. Boy does she look harassed, like everyone’s out to ruin her day, especially her kids, a pair of polecats fighting each other around the stroller she’s pushing, even though her kids are too old to need it.
Avery is a clone of her mother: matching blouse and leggings, but with jet-black hair instead of blonde. She walks away from her brother, carrying herself like she’s at a beauty pageant, wide smiles and drama in every precise movement.
Brandon has his mother’s hair, worn long to match his baby grunge gear, ripped jeans and plaid shirt, though his sandals kind of ruin the look.
She’s four, he’s three. All ages are difficult, but those are pretty much the worst.
Megan talks to them, but I couldn’t hear her even if I was next to them. Brandon hops in the stroller, rocking like he’s on a bronco, and Megan pushes him toward the elevator. Avery stomps alongside, slapping away her mother’s outstretched hand, her face twisted with petulance.
I give them ten seconds while I finish my coffee, then I pull on my shades and tug my hood up over my head, pull the baseball cap low. As I pass, I stuff the coffee cup deep in the garbage can—never leave a trace—and shadow their footsteps on the opposite side of the mall, sucking in cinnamon smells from the donut kiosk, avoiding the line of mall walkers powering toward me, a centipede of velour and white hair.
On the opposite walkway, Megan’s pleading with Avery, both of them frowning. She keeps checking her reflection in the store windows, not even pretending to listen to Avery’s complaints now. Heard it all before, so many times. She parks the stroller by the elevator and hits the call button. Then she crouches, making sweet promises to her daughter, offering the world for a minute’s silence.
Avery buys it too, her pout becoming a grin just like that. Ice cream, maybe.
Megan navigates them into the elevator, and I quicken my pace over the walkway.
The door starts to slide shut, but I catch it with my foot. “Thanks.”
Megan’s head tilts to the side as she examines me sidling into the small space, mama bear guarding her cubs. Her shoulder bag lies between her feet, Avery hiding behind her legs.
I reach down to rub my knee, and groan. “An old war wound.”
Megan gives me a curt nod and hits the button again.
The doors close this time, then the elevator rumbles, grinding like a streetcar as it takes us down to the parking lot.
I lean against the bar, the metal cold through my hoodie, though I don’t grip it. Never touch anything. The camera points at Megan, not at me, but it wouldn’t get anything useful even if it did. No detail I couldn’t change.
“Mommy, Brandon’s had the stroller for so long.” Avery’s broken her promise already. “It’s my turn!”
Megan smiles at me, embarrassed. “You’re too old for that, sweetie.”
“But I want—”
“We’re getting ice cream on the way home, honey. Okay?”
Got it in one.
Avery kicks a foot on the floor. “Okay.” Doesn’t look like it.
But ice cream is a complication. Could go either way. Meaning I need to act now.
Megan rolls her eyes at me, shame flickering in them. Maybe anger, maybe despair.
“Heard that so many times myself.” I give her a warm smile. “Got a boy of my own. Older, but I’ve still got the scars.”
Megan rolls her eyes at her kids. “It never stops.”
“Oh, it does. And then you miss it and you’d do anything to get it back.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Megan grabs Avery’s hand as the elevator crunches to a halt. “Now, don’t you let go, okay? And what do we do?”
“Look both ways!”
“Attagirl.”
I’m already out into the garage, tasting the stale gasoline as I place my forearm over the door, guiding them out like a concierge, all gentlemanly.
“Why, thank you.” Megan trundles the stroller out, clutching Avery’s hand tight. Brandon’s already asleep.
I tip my imaginary cap at her and sidle off in the opposite direction. Pretend I’m getting into a sedan, but I’m just crouching, watching Megan and her brood through the glass of ten parked cars.
Avery’s complaints are getting louder, not believing she’ll get the ice cream, demanding she gets in the stroller.
Megan’s minivan lurks over in the shadows, boxed in on both sides by a pair of SUVs. A light flickers above.
I wait, watching her put the children in back, fastening them into booster seats, buckling them in and checking. Once, twice, three times. She slams Brandon’s door and the noise echoes around.
Now it’s just us down here. Me and them.
I set off, keeping low and sticking to the walls, where the light’s faintest, can’t even hear my footsteps—she has no chance. Past an SUV and I’m behind her. Waiting, so close that her prickly perfume hits my nostrils. Fresh and organic, like rose petals.
I reach into my pocket for the syringe.
Megan opens her door, but the elevator clunks open again.
Footsteps come from behind, loud and fast. “Ma’am?” The mall cop is hurrying across the garage, holding something above his head. “Is this your bag, ma’am?”
Megan’s hand shoots up to her shoulder. “Dammit.” Then she’s all business, flashing her smile at the mall cop. “Thank you, sir. That’s so kind of you.”
“You left it in the elevator.” He adjusts his security hat and stands there, thumbs back in his belt. Just a regular guy doing his job. “All part of the job, ma’am.”
Megan gets in the minivan and the engine spits as the door clicks. She reverses out of the space, the mall cop watching her, whistling an old Elvis number over the drone.
I missed my shot.
And it was way too risky here. Too many moving parts, too much out of my control.
But time is running out. No time for this shit, no time to wait.
And it hits me. “We’re getting ice cream on the way home, honey. Okay?” There’s a gelato store on the route back to their McMansion. And I know every permutation of the route back.
Time for Plan B.
Second time around the block and it’s clear. Rain teeming down, thundering off my roof, slicking the windshield as the wipers struggle with the biblical flood that Seattle contends with every day. I pull up and sit there, letting the gears click around in my head. Real sweet neighborhood, a realtor’s dream. Lights on at this time, glowing in the gloomy downpour. Porches, wooden boards painted gray, bigger front yards than you’d expect, but old enough to have mature shrubs, young enough that the trees don’t need serious trimming yet. Three-car garages, with all the cars out on Saturday morning errands—swim club, shopping, birthdays, soccer practice.
I swallow hard, the pain digging deep into my gut.
This is it. This time. No mall cops to stop me. Should’ve stuck to this plan, should never have even considered the mall. What was I thinking?
I grab my backpack and get out into the rain, taking care to shut the door quietly. Checking out each window for signs of movement. Listening hard to the thundering rain, tasting the Pacific in each drop.
Nothing. Nobody. Good to go.
I march over to the house, acting like I own the place, crunch up the long drive past a shiny VW sedan, the only car in the street. I knock on the door and dump the bag at my feet.
Nothing inside. No lights, no sounds, no smells.
I step back and scan the street again. Neighbors on both sides, trees rustling behind, the wind licking them hard, knocking droplets of rain off. The Victorian opposite looks empty—no lights, no plumes of heating outlet—so I hide behind the shrub at the side of the house, the eaves shielding me from the rain.
The perfect spot to wait, eyes closed, focusing on the sounds. Rain pattering the ground, but I can tune it out. Distant traffic, then the roar of planes landing at SeaTac. Then kids playing soccer, girlish squeals and parental shouts. I swallow hard, biting down on a memory.
An engine approaches, heavy, diesel. I glance around the bush.
A pickup rolls on down the road.
I let out a breath. Didn’t even know I was holding it.
Where are they?
Ice cream means picking up a cone, the kids licking the gelato as they watch a Disney movie on the back of the car seats, hypnotizing them into a light sleep.
Doesn’t it?
Maybe they were eating in, Avery and Brandon digging spoons deep into giant dishes, while Megan sips an espresso, wishing she could have a smoke or a cocktail.
I should’ve tracked their journey, kept my eyes on the target instead of surveilling the acquisition site.
I could still drive over there, watch them and—
No. Wait here. Stay the course. This is a good plan. It will work. One way or another, they will be here. It’s still safe.
Another engine rumbles. I don’t even look, because I know the sound. Slowing, the drive belt whirring as the minivan turns into the driveway, where it stops. The mailbox clatters and the din of a kids’ movie bleeds out of the minivan.
I check the gun, cold through my gloves. Just in case. The syringe is where it’s at, though. For now. I uncap it, locking it between my fingers, my thumb touching the plunger, my heart thudding in my ear.
Then the music dies and the car rumbles again, inching toward me. It stops again and the engine dies this time, the suspension sighing as it deflates. The driver door opens. One heel clicks down, then the other. The door shuts again.
And I’m off, grabbing my left hand around Megan’s mouth, my right hand stabbing the syringe into her neck. Keys tinkle as they hit the pebbles. I don’t give her a chance to look around to see who’s doing it. That’s not what this is about.
Inside, the kids stare at the TV screens mounted on the back of the front seats, dialogue droning through the glass, dulled music swelling.
Megan’s head rolls to the side and she’s a dead weight.
I snap off the syringe and stick it back in my pocket, then walk Megan over to the porch, much harder than it should be. I sit her down, resting her head against the door, and place the typed note on her lap, out of the rain’s reach. They’ll never trace it back to me.
Part one done, but I can’t stop, not even for a second.
I jog over to the minivan, checking my pocket for the two remaining syringes, then snatch up Megan’s keys and my bag in one fluid movement. I get in the driver side and stow my backpack in the passenger footwell.
“Where’s Mommy?” Brandon breaks off from Disney long enough to look at me, his little pink face still showing traces of chocolate around his mouth. I can barely hear him over the movie.
My free hand opens another syringe. “She’ll be here soon.”
My wrist aches with each twist of the screwdriver, the final tightening sending a flare of pain up my arm. I yank up my sleeve and check the damage. A tiny imprint of Avery’s teeth, my skin broken in a few places. I roll my sleeve down and step back to inspect my work. Even I couldn’t tell the plates didn’t belong to the car. That’ll do. I put Megan’s plates back in the bag and scan the parking lot again. Still empty, just a boarded-up Burger King sleeping across the cracked asphalt, the realty signs offering a steep discount nobody’s taking.
The freeway moans downhill, hidden by a row of condos stalled mid-construction. The nearest intersection is empty.
Nobody’s watching me. Nobody’s listening.
I get back in the minivan. Behind, this morning’s Seattle Times rests between the sleeping kids, their chests rising almost in time with each other. I reach into the backpack pocket for the burner cell phone and snap a photo. I send it to the cell’s only contact along with a message:
Big Al’s truck stop off I90. Be there by noon or they die.
Holliday
Senator Christopher Holliday held his iPhone to his ear, listening to the ringing tone as downtown. . .
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