Beneath the Same Heaven Read online

  “Ed. What would I do without Ed?” At the mention of his name I feel at ease. When I asked him if he could suggest a dinner companion he had seemed relieved, told me he wondered how long I was going to play a nun in red lipstick.

  “I used to think sports were just a stupid distraction from all the things that really matter,” I reply to Johannes. “I mean, war can be overshadowed by the Superbowl. Millions of people will spend less time thinking about who they’ll put in Congress than they think about who’ll win the NBA playoffs.”

  “You’re right.”

  “So I came to realize that sports distract so well, because they tap into some of our most basic instincts.”

  “How so?” He leans in, interested. He really is a handsome man. Ed had only described him as a divorced doctor in his fifties.

  “I think all sports are a substitute for war, our most basic competition. Some sports are like hand-to-hand combat, others are like a battlefield, and some are just to display physical prowess, like how men have competed to lead the tribe and win the favor of the most desirable female.”

  “Really? Hand-to-hand combat?”

  “Think of boxing and wrestling, of course, but also golf—I mean it’s about swinging a club.”

  Johannes nods, amused. “Battlefield?”

  “Anything where teams vie for territory, American and European football, basketball, rugby, hockey.”

  “And so the other sports, swimming, track and field, skating…”

  “All about demonstrating physical prowess, the prerequisite for both leadership and the attentions of women.”

  The waiter brings the wine Johannes had ordered. We pause in our conversation as he skillfully slices the metal casing, twists the cork screw and removes it from the bottle in a single flowing motion.

  “I think he’d win the gold if cork pulling were an Olympic event,” Johannes winks at the waiter and approves the first pour of the wine.

  “Oh, and the Olympics,” I continue, “are an incredibly efficient substitute for a global war. Every four years nations demonstrate their power for very little cost, either in blood or treasure.”

  “Hmm,” Johannes seems impressed with my analysis, he raises his glass in a toast. “Well, here’s to more sports and less warfare.”

  “I’ll certainly toast to that.”

  “And especially the kinds of sports that win the affections of a woman!”

  Johannes sits next to me in the concert hall, the entire string section vibrates, the musicians send their bows back and forth with amazing speed, then break into a melody I think I recognize from the opening of a news program I watched years ago. A musical interpretation of Mercury, god of flight. The musicians on the stage bring us through the solar system, one planet, one melodic theme at a time. The effect is magical. As we approach Jupiter—the bringer of jollity—the tones expand into a rich resonant strolling arc. I weep at the beauty. I reach for Johannes’ hand as the strings join with the horns. “Thank you,” I mouth without sound. I don’t know if he understands me or not, but he places his other hand over mine.

  Before we reach Neptune I want to have a man again. I do not need a man, I have proven that to myself over and over in the last decade. But now I want Johannes, the way I sometimes want a chocolate cake or a beautiful pair of shoes, as a luxury, a delicious experience.

  After the concert we sit on the couch in my home.

  “I’ve seen patients heal more quickly after surgery when they have music in their hospital rooms.” He touches his fingers to his heart, traces the path of his aorta, “It’s as if music can act like a lifeblood.”

  “I can imagine that. It’s been so long since I’ve heard live music. The Jupiter melody…” My hands make arcs in the air as if drawing the music. Johannes reaches for my hands mid-flight, and kisses them.

  I stop talking and smile. He caresses my fingers, running his own into the spaces between them. I shift my hips on the sofa allowing my legs to separate slightly beneath my skirt. He proceeds, raising my fingers to his mouth, one, then two of my fingers disappear into the warmth of his tongue, his lips, his beard bristling against my palm. I close my eyes and lean back. His hand is at my knee, reaching inside. A surgeon’s hands, I think, delicate and precise.

  He pulls me down onto the carpet, I feel the wool fibers against my back, I feel the weight of him over my hips. The intensity of his movements increases.

  “Wait, not yet.” I press my hands against his hips to slow his movements. He looks at me with a confused expression. I roll him on to his back and sit astride him. “It’s been a long time, I don’t want it to end yet.”

  He laughs and relaxes, allowing me to lead. And I take my time with our bodies, feeling skin, feeling muscles and bone, hair and lips. I allow him to breach my self-reliance, I accept the pleasure of a man.

  In the silence that follows we drift into a sleepy oblivion.

  At some point later, I wake. I sit up and look around the room. The darkness of the night still promises hours of sleep. I walk to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. Even this simple act of walking through the room, feeling the air on my naked body provides a new sense of freedom. I drink the entire glass and fill it again for Johannes. I return to him, whisper into his ear, “Come, let’s sleep on the bed.”

  He opens his eyes, focusing on my face to remember where he is and who I am. He sits up on his elbow and accepts the water from me. He looks to his sex, now flaccid, and checks his watch. “I should leave now.”

  “No,” I say with conviction. “Sleep, you can leave in the morning.”

  “All right,” he smiles, “I appreciate the hospitality.” And he follows me to the bed. We slide between the sheets, I wrap my legs around his and tilt my pelvis into his body. He puts his arm around me, runs his hand down the length of my back.

  “I don’t know if I have it in me for more tonight. Turn over.”

  I do as he says and he begins to massage my back. His hands are strong but with soft skin, the hands of a man whose work is indoors. I must drift off to sleep, images of the distant planets spin in my mind

  Then I feel a leg strike my back. I sit bolt upright in bed. “God-damit! Why do you always do that?” I accuse.

  “Do what?” Johannes asks, startled, half-asleep.

  “You kicked me!”

  “No…no, we were just laying together, maybe I was turning over.”

  “Oh…Johannes,” I say, disoriented, “it’s not you.”

  “Its OK,” he strokes my shoulder, coaxes me to lie back down. “You’re all right. We all have bad dreams sometimes.”

  And I lie down, wide awake in the arms of a different man.

  I turn the key in the mailbox lock. I nearly throw away the whole pile of mail, political flyers for the upcoming mayoral election, and newsprint ads for the local grocery store. But then I notice an extra envelope, better quality paper than the usual bill or solicitation. Addressed to the Beneficiaries of Rashid Siddique, the envelope bears the name of an insurance company. I am so glad I have never allowed the boys to fetch the mail, have never given them a key. What would I have to explain if they had found this envelope before me?

  I turn my back to the building, where the boys are already upstairs, and open the envelope. As ten years have passed without correspondence as to the status of my claim, the company has determined to resolve the claim by paying a quarter of the policy’s death benefit. Several pages describe the process by which I can appeal their decision, with proper evidence of the policy holders’ death.

  The settlement check, even though it represents tens of thousands of dollars, seems cheap and flimsy at this point, as useless as the two-for-one cantaloupe coupons in my other hand. I laugh, scoff, at this unexpected reminder.

  “Mom,” Andrew shouts from our doorway, “what’s for dinner?”

  I use the newsprint to wrap up the check and the envelope and shove it into my purse. Maybe I should ask Ed what to do with it. Or maybe I’ll just s
hred it at the office.

  “Mom?!”

  “Omelets,” I call back.

  Chapter 9

  Twenty years after the bombing

  * * *

  I stand at the kitchen counter, rushing to sort the mail with one hand, while I pour my afternoon coffee with the other. I will respond to the fundraising packet from Loyola Law School after Michael’s graduation tomorrow. The symphony subscriber’s magazine can go on the stack of reading material next to the couch. The envelope with the quarterly payments for the family of Rashid Siddique will have to go to the bank. I resent the timing, the necessary trip to the safe deposit box, the inevitable bad dreams when I have so much to do to prepare for Michael’s law school graduation party.

  I place the money in my purse, next to a printout of directions to the hospital where my father is dying. My mother discouraged Ted and me from coming earlier this week. As Father had already outlived the doctor’s expectations given the cancer, my mother expected he would hold on for news of his grandson’s graduation.

  “Mom! Open up,” Andrew bangs on the door. I open it to see him struggling under several restaurant catering trays. I clear a space on the table, where he sets them with a groan. “Are we really going to need all this food? Who’s coming?” He takes off his UC San Diego baseball cap and combs back his sweaty dark hair.

  “Hello,” I say, demanding a proper greeting.

  “Hi, Mom,” he says dutifully. “So who’s coming?

  “I’ve invited our usual people, Ted and his family, Oscar, Ed. Mostly, Michael invited a lot of new friends from law school, and some of the people he’ll be working with at the ACLU.”

  Andrew rolls his eyes as he opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of juice. “So a whole room full of lawyers.”

  “Is Hema coming?” I ask.

  He sets the bottle down. “Why do you always have to use that tone when you talk about my girlfriend?”

  “What tone?” I turn to open cupboards so I don’t have to mask my discomfort from him.

  “You know, the tone that tells me how much you dislike her. Is it because she’s Egyptian? Muslim? You’re prejudice against Arabs, aren’t you?” He moves closer, so when I turn around he stands in front of me, challenging me.

  “It’s not Arabs,” I say, feeling my stomach tighten. “Hema’s a beautiful girl, I’m glad she doesn’t wear a headscarf, so you can see how beautiful she is.”

  “But?”

  I step around him, pull paper plates and napkins from a grocery bag on the floor. “It’s just more complicated to be with someone from a different culture. It can cause you a lot of problems.”

  “What the fuck, Mom…”

  I spin on my heel to face him, “Don’t you dare swear at me.”

  “Sorry,” he says too quickly, “but really. I mean you married a Greek guy,” he emphasizes the words sarcastically.

  This is the first time Andrew has mentioned my husband, his father to me, taking a sideways strike at our family taboo.

  “And this Johannes guy you try to keep away from us, what is he? Dutch? Danish? Isn’t that another culture?”

  “Johannes came to this country as a child.” I stumble, reach for the counter to support myself. “That has nothing to do with this. Is Hema coming or not?”

  “No,” he says defiantly, “I didn’t want her to have to drive over here to take this kind of crap from you.”

  I sigh. “Can you just help me get ready for this party? I have enough on my mind without you…” I let the sentence hang, unfinished. I look around to assess my preparations. “Can you go and get a couple bags of ice?”

  “Like it isn’t already chilly enough around here.” He steps out and slams the door behind him. I wonder where the sweet child who used to sit on my lap has gone.

  Chapter 10

  * * *

  I sit between Andrew, Ted, and Johannes. Before and behind us rows and rows of people have come to witness the milestone of graduation. Ted beams like a proud father. I think maybe I shouldn’t have invited Johannes after all, Andrew didn’t speak to him even once at the party last night.

  I squeeze Ted’s hand, “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For all your help raising Michael. He wouldn’t have been here if not for you.”

  He shrugs, “I just fed you dinner once in a while. You’re the one who fed his obsession with rules. And now you’re the one forking over for the tuition.” He laughs.

  Johannes taps my shoulder, pointing to the embossed commencement program. “Did you know Michael’s speaking? Looks like he’s giving the Statement of Class.”

  “What?” I hold my own program at arm’s length. “I wish I hadn’t forgotten my reading glasses.”

  “Looks like we’ll find out soon enough,” Johannes points to the elevated dais in front of the graduating class. The dean—authoritative in his black robe, complete with a velvet lined hood draped over his shoulders—walks to the podium.

  “Welcome. Welcome to all of you who have spent the last three years learning the law with us, welcome to all of you who have supported these students through their academic journey.” He goes on, offering a few words about the pride we should feel in these graduates, the honorable tradition of the law, the drive toward excellence that the school embodies. I wonder if he gives the same speech every year. “And now, I will let you hear from the class itself, from its representative. This young man,” he intones, “has been an exemplary student, responsible, intelligent, compassionate.” I like to think he is describing Michael, but it could be another student. “But what distinguishes him, what radiates from his mind is an indelible belief in the power of the law to allow individuals and communities to solve their differences, to resolve their wrongs not for the benefit of the richest and most powerful, but for the youngest and most vulnerable. It is my honor to introduce Michael S. Capen.”

  My mind stumbles over the S as my son stands and strides confidently to the podium. He has no middle name. Why would he add an arbitrary letter to his name?

  He grasps the podium with both hands, looks out over the audience as if to ensure our collective attention. “Justice,” he pauses, “is a fundamental human requirement. Without a sense of justice, individuals and societies will engage in almost anything to achieve it. Deceit, wars, murders, mass killings,” he inhales, “terrorist acts.” His roving eyes seem to focus on me with these words. “All have been justified as attempts to achieve justice. Such seemingly barbaric actions are often successful, providing for the aggressor some satisfaction, some salve to a psyche wounded by injustice. The fundamental flaw with such systems of justice lies in the emotional toll they inflict on the families of both the wronged and the avenged.” He stops, looks down at his notes and then challenges the audience. “Imagine the children of a man in a tribal society, orphaned when he is killed over a land dispute. Not only are they deprived of their father, but they are then raised with the purpose to balance their sense of injustice, to make things right according to their own sense of fairness—an eye for an eye. Their future is stolen from them, their actions are predetermined by an archaic system of justice.”

  I feel adrenaline shoot through my body in response to these hypothetical orphaned children. From where did he imagine such a story?

  “Worse still, in our globalized world where we brush up against and even welcome into our country millions of people who have been acculturated into such revenge-based justice systems, their systems and ours can clash in the most explosive ways. Of course the dark day of September 11, 2001 still haunts our national consciousness.”

  I feel tremendously exposed, as if my son were revealing secrets I have long sequestered—for his own protection—here in the blazing public sun. I reach for my purse and slide to the front of my seat, looking for the easiest way to flee. I don’t want to be here, trapped among the folding chairs and fancy spring dresses.

  Ted places a hand on my knee. “You need to stay. He needs you
to stay.”

  I slowly slide back into my seat, but keep my purse on my lap. Johannes’ raised-eyebrow glance to me goes unanswered.

  “Thankfully,” Michael continues, “my mother taught me from an early age a set of rules, our own family code, designed to govern our lives in a rational, dependable, peaceable way. As children my brother and I learned that if you want something, you must ask nicely for it. If you are asked nicely for something, and feel you cannot give it, you must at least share it for a time.”

  I see them, as children fighting over toys and treats, hear my relentless repetition of this rule.

  “Knowing we could rely on a set of rules, parameters for our conduct, with fixed and predictable consequences should we violate them, instilled in me a desire to learn and use the rules of our legal system.

  “Our obligation,” he sweeps his arm over the podium, including in the gesture the rows of his fellow students before him, “our mission, as a group of students privileged to study perhaps the most evolved and sophisticated system of justice, is to act as a beacon to the world, to illuminate the ways in which a non-violent, legal method of solving disputes and meting out justice is superior to systems founded on a primitive hunger for revenge which employ tools of violence and intimidation.”

  He pauses, allowing his words to settle. “May you meet with success.”

  The audience responds with warm applause. Tears spring onto my cheeks. I hope Ted and Johannes will misunderstand my emotion as pride. My son’s eloquent words, however, have filled me with dread.

  I stand up, awkwardly step over Ted’s feet.

  “Mom, where are you going?” Andrew asks, reaching out for my hand.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” I lie. I must reach Michael before the others when he comes off the stage. I must protect Andrew from whatever Michael knows. I move to the edge of the stage, hovering there through the keynote address of some fabulously wealthy lawyer-turned-entrepreneur, through all of the students’ names, called out in monotonously alphabetical order. My mind blurs so that I don’t even see Michael as he receives his diploma.