Beneath the Same Heaven Page 14

  I let out a low sound of affirmation. With these few words he has distilled our common purpose. I will write whatever pablum will help me protect and provide for my children.

  The waitress brings our food on plates the size of serving platters.

  I look up at Oscar, slightly embarrassed at the abundance.

  “When can you start?” he asks.

  “Today.”

  An elderly woman unlocks the door of apartment number 31. “It is not very big,” she says, “but there’s a view.” She opens the door allowing me to enter first. I step into the kitchen; worn linoleum floor and slightly shabby appliances. “You’ll want to see the living room and the balcony.” She steps past me, pulling back floor length blinds to reveal a sliding glass door and a view of the ocean beyond the freeway. I can see how the sun will drop to the horizon and into the sea. The glass door squeaks on its rollers and I step out. The neighbors’ balconies are filled with surfboards, beach cruiser bicycles, volleyball nets.

  “There’s a pedestrian bridge,” the landlady explains. “You can see it just to the north, a block from our parking garage so you cross over the freeway to the beach.”

  “I have two little boys,” I say, still staring at the horizon.

  “The railings have been redone in the last couple of years. They’re up to code, so a child can’t slip through. Just as long as you have no pets, kids are fine.”

  “I want it. Can I leave a deposit, Mrs…?”

  “Call me Elaine. Don’t you want to see the bedroom first?” She chuckles. “Everyone falls in love with the view, as if they’ll just spend all day looking at the ocean.”

  I follow her into the bedroom.

  “Great, should I sign a rental agreement?”

  She opens the door to show me the bathroom. “You can fill out the application and I’ll run a credit check.”

  “Um, is that really necessary? What if I just give you an extra month’s deposit, could you skip the credit check?” I try to sound nonchalant, thinking of the names that would appear on my credit report. The pile of crisp 100 dollar bills in my purse—the exchange for my wedding gold—should eliminate such questions.

  She turns and scrutinizes my face. “You have a job?”

  “Sportswriter at the San Diego Sentinel.” I proffer my brand new business card.

  “I guess an extra month’s rent would do. Cash.”

  I smile. “Perfect.”

  Michael runs along the beach with his cousin Valerie, her elder sister Amanda carries Andrew on her back. Ted and I walk along without talking, allowing the sound of the waves to substitute for conversation. The crispness of the air fills my lungs and I feel alive.

  Michael runs back to us, and holds both of our hands. “Do, 1-2-3. Pleeeeease. 1-2-3 me.”

  “OK, hold on,” Ted grins. He and I call out 1-2-3, swinging Michael into the air on the third stride.

  Michael squeals, and cries out, “Again!” We repeat the acrobatics a few times, and I feel for a moment like a picture book family. The deep fractures in my life obscured, erased even, by the sound and motion of Michael’s body.

  “All right, I think that is about all my back can take,” Ted concedes.

  “Just one more!”

  “All right, one more,” Ted smiles at me.

  Michael rises into the air with our support and then lands safely back on the earth, intact, beautiful, happy. Ted gives him a playful smack on his backside and Michael breaks into a run toward his cousins to beg their launching services.

  “So Janet’s totally relieved,” Ted says to me, as we watch Michael.

  “Why?”

  “She thought you might crash with us forever, and turn into one of those freaky broken widows who never recover.”

  I am careful to modulate our path between the soft dry sand that swallows up our footsteps and the wet sand that makes a sucking sound around our shoes and threatens our feet with the tail ends of the waves. “Your friend Oscar said he’d like to bring me on as staff.”

  “You’re way more skilled than they need. How’s the salary?”

  “I’ll get by.”

  Ted leans down and picks up a discarded clam shell, turns it over in his hand. “Tivela stultorum, Pismo clam.” He dusts off the sand, examines the tightly closed seam between the shells. “Hardly find these clams anymore, thanks to the pollution and the refineries.” He tosses it gently into the water. “Hey, what’s happening with the insurance settlement?”

  I misstep too far to my right and my foot sinks into the wet sand leaving a border of brown grains on my shoe. “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean nothing? What the fuck are they waiting for?”

  “A body. No body, no cause of death. No cause of death, no final report from the FBI. No report, no claim.” I reach down and pick up a stone to throw into the water. “Honestly Ted, I don’t think that money will ever come, and that’s probably fine. I don’t want it now. He’s gone, no longer part of my life and I don’t want anything that ties me to him.”

  “Well how about those kids? Seems like they still tie you to him.”

  I stop walking. “Those kids are mine.”

  Ted stops, turns back to face me.

  “They don’t have his name, they don’t need his money, they don’t need to know anything about him.” My voice has grown loud, loud enough that even the few sunset surfers might hear me as they ride in.

  Ted’s characteristic bemused expression transforms into something that borders on sympathy, or at least a reservation of judgment.

  “Andrew won’t even have any memories of him.” My voice grows quiet again. “Anyway, at this point, you’re more like a father to them than he is.”

  He turns to look at the children and then back toward me, avoiding my eyes, “So, let’s turn back and go to your place and eat. Janet’s waiting for us.”

  Chapter 5

  * * *

  Oscar leads me through the newsroom past a row of cluttered cubicles toward a glass walled office at the far end of the room. He pauses next to an empty cubicle, “Hopefully you’ll be sitting here. We just need to convince Ed that you can crank out copy on deadline—he doesn’t know anything about sports.”

  I smile my bright red lipsticked smile, “Haven’t missed a deadline yet.” I have brought copies of my resume and my little collection of sports articles I have written for the Sentinel as a freelancer.

  Just before we reach the glass door bearing Ed Harley’s name, Oscar turns to me. “Oh before I forget, here’s your mail—the marketers and PR people are always quick to pick up a new reporter’s name in the paper.” He hands me a few postcards—advertising upcoming sports events—and a single white envelope.

  Oscar opens the door and I stop, still outside the threshold. I recognize the envelope, no return address.

  I look at Oscar and wonder what he knows. What has Ted told him about my past? What does he think of this envelope? Has he reported this piece of mail to anyone? Does the mailroom maintain a mail log?

  Oscar looks at me curiously, “You look scared. Don’t worry, Ed’s great.” Oscar gestures me into the room.

  A balding, white-haired man turns away from his computer screen and stands to greet me, extending a hand over stacks of paper on his desk. “Ed Harvey. You must be Kathryn. Heard a lot about you.”

  “You have?” What has he heard? What does he know? I shove the envelope into my purse.

  Ed offers his hand again, and I compel myself to respond. He chuckles, “Don’t worry, it’s all good. Oscar says you add a level of sophistication to sports writing that would make even me want to read it.” He comes around the front of his desk to remove a pile of newspapers from one of the two chairs for guests. “Sorry, I’m a bit behind in my reading. Have a seat.”

  I sit stiffly, setting my purse under the chair, hoping that the leather bag will protect me from the envelope. Ed asks me questions about my experience, my interest in the paper, my availability for the job. I feel lik
e I am in a witness box. Although the questions are friendly, I am careful not to reveal too much, I try to speak only about the present.

  The phone rings and Ed picks up the handset and barks a few terse sentences into the mouthpiece. With the interview suspended I start thinking about my next move if I should fail today. I will be back at the beginning. I will comb the job listings, make cold calls, I will have to tell Ted and face his disappointment. I close my eyes and brace myself for the effort.

  Ed hangs up the phone. “What the hell does ‘above the fold’ mean to the web designers,” he mumbles to himself. He looks back at me as if he just remembered I was there. “Oh, yes. So let’s finish this.”

  I start to thank him for his time, posturing myself for a quick exit.

  “So then you’ll start on Monday? Oscar, talk to HR so we can get Kathryn’s contract in the next day or two.”

  “Perfect,” Oscar says. “I’ll call them now.”

  Stunned, I take a few shallow breaths. “Monday? Sure. Yes. Great.” I force out a little smile. “I’ll call the daycare to arrange for full time.”

  “Good, see you then.” Ed turns back to his computer.

  As Oscar and I step toward the door, Ed looks up. “Kathryn, one more thing.”

  I freeze. Oscar looks at me and nods reassuringly as he closes the door on his way out.

  “Sit down again.”

  I do as I am told.

  “Let me speak to you frankly, to put your mind at ease.”

  The muscles of my thighs involuntarily tighten.

  “I’m aware of what’s happened to you this year. I know you were married to Rashid Siddique. Of course I know about the bombing.”

  My intercostals turn to stone. I can barely breathe.

  “I run a newspaper, I can’t hire someone without doing some basic investigative reporting.” He folds his hands in front of him, a gesture of sincerity. “I can only imagine how difficult this has been for you and your family.”

  I clutch my purse tighter. Don’t cry now, he’s already hired me.

  “You were not responsible, it’s obvious from the reporting that you weren’t involved, that his actions were a shock to you as well. This is America, and we’re only responsible for our own actions, we’re individuals. You have the right to rebuild your life. And I’ll be lucky to have you on my staff with your skills.”

  I blink and nod, trying to project the thanks I cannot speak.

  “We don’t need to discuss it again. I just wanted you to feel comfortable here and know that I’ll consider your work without prejudice.”

  He stands; conversation over. I reach out my hand again across his stacks of papers and he responds quickly. I feel the warmth of his flesh in mine, and I reach out my other hand. I see a flicker of affection in his eyes and he joins his second hand. We stand there in a kind of four-handed embrace. For the first time since the bombing I feel a calmness, a thawing in a stranger’s presence. The crags around his mouth and the wrinkles that crackle out from the corners of his eyes deepen as he smiles. Despite his balding head and his belly protruding against the buttons of his shirt, I think he is the loveliest man I have ever seen.

  Chapter 6

  * * *

  I set Andrew at one edge of the carpet and I take up my place next to Michael at the other edge. Andrew lifts a bare foot and plops it down in front of himself. His other foot follows. I see his weight fall too far forward and his eyes grow wide with anxiety, but he recovers and repeats the process, quickly, hurtling himself across the length of the carpet and into our arms. Michael and I cheer and kiss Andrew on his cheeks. My baby is breathless with excitement.

  “I am so proud of you, little brother,” Michael says reaching for Andrew’s hand, practically towering over him. “Walk to the balcony, so we can see the ocean.” Andrew eagerly toddles along holding his brother’s hand for stability. I follow them quietly.

  “Now you can grow up to be a big boy,” Michael—unaware I am listening—speaks in a voiced tinged with his idea of paternal gravitas. “After you get good at walking, you’ll be able to run, and then ride a bicycle.” Andrew holds onto the spindles of the balcony railing and looks up at his brother. “After I could run my father said he’d teach me to ride a bicycle. But he died in an accident. But it doesn’t matter that I don’t know how to ride a bicycle, because I’m going to learn how to surf.” He kneels down so he shares his brother’s perspective, as I have done with Michael thousands of times. “Can you see the waves? Surfers ride the waves, like dolphins. I’m going to learn to do that, Mommy says it’s the best sport because there are no teams, no fights.”

  Andrew sways on his feet, leans his backside out and back and finally lowers himself to sit on the balcony. “Mie Mie,” he smiles with his version of his brother’s name and he points at the ocean giggling.

  “Don’t be sad that we don’t have a daddy,” Michael rests a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “We don’t need one, we don’t even need to talk about him. Mommy takes care of everything for us. And I’m getting bigger so I can help too.”

  Andrew plucks his toes and sings random notes to himself. “Daddy was from Pakistan, but tell everyone he was Greek. Greekland is better, no one likes Pakistan.”

  I take a few steps back so I can walk to the sliding glass door as if I had just arrived there. “Come in now, it’s getting windy.”

  Michael helps Andrew to his feet and steps back, encouraging his little brother to walk to him. I look over my shoulder, instinctively looking for their father to share my pleasure at this milestone. Of course, I am alone, only ghosts could hover behind my shoulder. Never mind. I walk to the phone and call out in my most sing-song voice, “Let’s call Grandma and Uncle Ted and tell them Andrew’s walking!”

  I greet my nieces who are watching television cartoons. Janet calls out a greeting from the back yard. We step outside. Ted rummages in the garage as Janet makes a bee line for Andrew. She squats down before him, flattening the precise crease in her pedal pushers, “Andrew! Show me your walking.”

  I smile and let go of his hand. Janet and I must look like mirror images of delight. Andrew rushes to her and she embraces him, still not the full-bodied hug I would give him, but genuine.

  Ted emerges from the garage, a red bicycle with tassels dangling from the handlebars held aloft as he wades out between neatly stacked and labeled boxes. Do they ever use the things in those boxes? I wonder with a tinge of jealousy about their intact history.

  “Come on little man,” Ted booms with a smile. “Time you learned how to ride a bicycle.”

  Michael looks at me for permission first, and when I smile he runs to Ted, who has set the bike on its kickstand in the driveway.

  Andrew pulls on Janet’s hand, trying to lead her back into the kitchen. I look back at Ted who holds the bike and positions Michael’s feet on the pedals. For a delicious moment I stand alone in the garden, absolved of demands. Safe. Welcome. I have learned to take these moments, recognize these fleeting spaces, the interstitial seconds, when I need not project anything for anyone else’s benefit. I am simply a woman living, breathing, feeling the air on my skin, hearing the sounds of the world moving around me, a simple presence with neither future nor past, neither regret nor hope.

  And then Amanda’s voice calls out from the living room, “Mom! Dad! Come quick. You should see this.” A curious tone in her voice—a deadly urgency—transposes to a happy note. “Hurry!” I rush in. Andrew has led Janet to the drawer where he knows she keeps cookies. Janet sweeps Andrew into her arms, still holding a cookie, closing the drawer with her foot before joining her daughters in front of the television.

  The cartoon program has been replaced by the somber face of President Obama, the backdrop precise, dignified, serious. “The ten-year search for Osama bin Laden is over.” The man who has terrorized us has been hunted down and killed. “He was killed in a precise surgical strike in his compound in Pakistan.” I think of the compound, the cluster of rooms where I li
ved for brief periods as part of a Pakistani family. I understand that even a patriarch like Osama—a man who had perfected hatred and terror mongering—would have been surrounded by women and children.

  Ted lets out a cheer, as if he were at a football game. “About friggin’ time we got that bastard.”

  “It’s been a long war.”Janet sighs. “Hopefully this means we’ve turned a corner.” Andrew squirms in Janet’s arms until she returns him to the floor.

  The ticker along the bottom of the television screen repeats Obama’s statements almost as quickly as he makes them, interspersed with tallies of the deaths Osama’s side has inflicted. 2,977 killed in the September 11, 2001 attacks. 1,864 soldiers in Afghanistan. 52 in the London subway attacks. 202 in the Bali bombing. 3 in the double freeway bombing in Los Angeles. My blood runs cold. Did they all read that luminous statistic on the screen? I hear the awkward silence in the room. Are they are all avoiding my gaze? Are they holding me responsible for that last number? Perhaps they didn’t see it. Perhaps this is just my imagination. As Obama completes his address the broadcasters display a selection of file footage; Osama in his videotaped addresses, Osama standing outside at a training camp in Afghanistan years earlier, the iconic image of Osama the wanted man. Suddenly a little hand strikes his face. Andrew has swaggered to the television screen and continues to hit at the oversize face on the wide flat-screen television.

  “That’s right Andrew. Give him what he deserves.” Ted eggs on my little boy.

  The image changes and Osama’s face is replaced by Obama’s. Andrew continues to bang at the screen. I know I should retrieve him, know he is behaving badly, but I dare not step in front of them. I don’t want this family, this whole, healthy, normal family to notice that I am here.