Borderline

by Allan Stratton

  I try downstairs, but my room feels empty without my computer. The living room’s weird too, with the blankets over the windows to shut out the clusters of people who’re still outside. Apparently, they haven’t figured out the show’s over, and they should maybe get a life.

  Where I end up is in Dad’s office. It’s the one room in the house Mom and I left untouched when we cleaned up. I’ve hardly ever been in here: that time a few weeks back when I got into his computer; the time after Mary Louise, when he gave me an online tour of the Academy; and a few times when I was little. I mean, this is Dad’s room. The room you only go into if you want to die.

  I leave the lights off. The dusk is all I need.

  Dad’s carpets are heaved up and over. The family portraits and Dad’s degrees are knocked off the walls. His desk’s pulled forward, all its drawers missing. The computer, printer, scanner, and filing cabinets are gone too. His roll-chair is in the corner, the leather ripped open; ditto the cushions on the window seat.

  I don’t know why, but I have this weird need to snuggle into the empty space under his desk; it looks so safe and secure, like my cubbyhole at the Academy. I crawl under and curl up, arms around my knees, in the place where his feet would be. Dad. I imagine his hands on a keyboard over my head. I imagine him humming, or chanting a favorite verse from the Qur’an. Dad.

  When I was in middle school, there was a kid who dropped dead in the middle of a volleyball game. Drew Lazar. Twelve years old, and he just dropped dead. His brother says their mom’s kept Drew’s room the way it was the day he died. The old posters are still up. The bed’s unmade. There’s a sneaker on the desk. He says the room is cold.

  It’s like that here, now. This cold. This strange cold. Like Dad’s gone and he’s never coming back. And this room will stay exactly the same, the way it was the night he left and our world changed, forever.

  In the near-dark, Dad smiles at me from the small framed photo of him and me—the one where I’m maybe six and his beard is tickling my cheek. It’s on the floor now, across the room. It must’ve been knocked off the desk and kicked aside during the raid. Somehow it’s landed upright, propped against an overturned wastebasket. The glass over the picture has broken into five pieces, but the metal frame is still keeping everything together.

  I want to reach out, to take it, to hold it close. But I’m afraid to touch it. What if the shards of glass dislodge and slice the photo? Still, if I leave it lying on the floor, sooner or later it’ll get wrecked for sure. I crawl over, carefully cup my hands under the frame, and bring the picture to my room, setting it on the table by my bed.

  I rest my head on my pillow and stare at it. Dad. What’s the truth, Dad? Did you do something wrong? If you didn’t, why are they holding you? Why are they saying those things on TV?

  What’s going to happen to us?

  Twenty-three

  All night I have nightmares.

  In the last one, I’m in an underground mine. It’s pitch black. Mom and Dad are with me. There’s dynamite going off. If we don’t get out, we’ll be buried alive. We race down narrow corridors, feeling the walls with our hands. An explosion. Rocks crash. “Sami!” Dad’s under the rubble. I scramble to free him. “Sami!” His voice is far away. The more I dig, the farther it gets. And where’s Mom? Another explosion. The floor gives way. I’m falling. Help!

  “The devil finds work for idle hands.” That’s what Mom tells me Monday morning.

  My suspension’s over, but I was hoping to stay home from school a while longer. I’m afraid of what’ll happen when I go back.

  “Nothing will happen,” Mom says. “Just hold your head high and carry on.”

  Easy for her to say. She’s taken off work to wait for word from Mr. Bhanjee. If he gets Dad a hearing, she’ll call the Academy and take me with her to the courthouse.

  All the same, even Mom knows it’s not business as usual. She drives me to school early, for fear reporters will hassle me if I’m alone on my bike. There’s only a few of them outside now, plus a couple of skinny losers with bad tattoos and fancy cameras: freelance paparazzi for the tabloids. I hold my knapsack over my face at the end of the driveway, as they flash through the car windows. Two or three days and they’ll be gone, I hope, along with the police tape.

  Mom drops me off at the main entrance to the Academy. I glance at the statue of Teddy Roosevelt. I wish I had balls like the ones on his horse. Oh well. I bound up the steps to the doors, concentrating like crazy so I don’t trip.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting, but this isn’t it. I mean, usually it feels like everyone’s staring at me, but they really aren’t. Today it’s like nobody’s staring at me, but they really are. All down the hall, students are hanging out at their lockers, bragging about their weekends. But the minute they see me, they go quiet and stare at their gym bags. I pass, and it’s whistles and talk again.

  The entire day is like this. At least I manage to avoid Eddy Duh Turd. Until last period, that is.

  I take my seat in Mr. Bernstein’s class. I’m the first one there. He nods at me, all friendly, his smile so normal it’s bizarre. Does he think I don’t know that he knows about Dad? That he’s just landed from Mars or something? The giveaway is, he doesn’t say anything. Cuz, what can he say? How was your weekend, Sami?

  The class spills into the room. It’s like in the halls: Idiot Central till they see me, then they act like they’re in chapel. Except for Eddy. On his way past, he mouths “Osama” and gives me a creepy wink.

  Mr. Bernstein revs into gear. “We’ve spent the last week and a half discussing the Cold War, yes? On the one hand, our very real need to guard against dangers at home and abroad. But on the other, our equally real need to remember what happens to freedom when we cross the border into the land of fear.” And he leaps into a riff about other examples: the attacks on the labor movements of the early 1900s, the spying campaign against African-American leaders before the Civil Rights Act, and the internment of Japanese-Americans during World War II.

  Out of nowhere he stops and grins. “Your turn.”

  Silence.

  Hunh? Normally there’s questions. Arguments. Ideas bouncing back and forth like balls at a ping-pong tournament. Not today.

  “Come on,” Mr. Bernstein smiles. “I hope I said something to offend you.” More silence. “Really? You accept everything I say? Nothing to challenge? Oh please. There’s always something to challenge. Something to get excited about.”

  Everyone stares at their desks, like they know something’s up. Then Eddy raises his hand. Not excited or anything. Just casual, almost bored. Mr. Bernstein waits a bit to make sure he’s not just stretching.

  “Mr. Harrison,” he says. “How can I help you?”

  Eddy curls the corner of his lips. “Well, sir, we get why you go on about minorities and all. But what if a minority needs watching? What if it’s a deadly enemy?”

  “Once upon a time,” Mr. Bernstein says, “every group I’ve mentioned was thought to be an enemy that needed watching.”

  “But today is different, isn’t it, sir?” He says it cold, like a statement. “If you have a cancer, you don’t pretend it doesn’t exist, do you, sir? No. You cut it out.”

  The room goes dead. I grip a pencil, keep my head down.

  “We remove individuals, Mr. Harrison,” Mr. Bernstein says calmly. “Not groups.”

  “Even when those groups are full of terrorists?” Eddy taunts.

  Die, die, why can’t I die?

  Mr. Bernstein leans against his desk. “The Holocaust was so indescribably evil, it represents the worst terrorism the world can imagine,” he says. “Nonetheless, we blame the Nazis for its horrors, not the entire German population.”

  “With all due respect, sir, that was then. There. I’m talking here. Now. There’s terrorists in Meadowvale. One got arrested Friday.”

  “An alleged terrorist,” Mr. Bernstein interrupts.

  “Yeah, well, we’re lucky to be alive. I say w
e round ’em up and send ’em back where they came from.”

  I whirl around. “I was born here, Eddy, same as you.”

  Mr. Bernstein leaps up. “Boys. Let’s keep the personal out of this.”

  “How?” I say. “How???”

  Eddy grins, his face a bubble of puss-joy. He’s got me.

  But Mr. Bernstein throws a curve. “We’ve had terrorists in this country before,” he says, his voice edgy as razors. “Ever heard of the Ku Klux Klan? It lynched African-Americans and torched their communities. It murdered Jews too, and attacked Catholics, homosexuals, and immigrants.” Mr. Bernstein’s voice pitches higher. “By the early nineteen-twenties, its members included fifteen percent of all adult, white, Protestant males, including society leaders, several governors, and judges. And it had at least one very sympathetic president.” He pauses. “Today white supremacists thrive in violent, underground militias. That’s here! That’s now!” A beat, and he swoops in for the kill. “Tell me, Mr. Harrison, what would you say if your father was treated like a terrorist, simply for being a white, Christian male?”

  An ugly smile rolls across Eddy’s face. “Are you saying my father’s a white supremacist, sir? Are you calling him a Nazi terrorist?”

  “No,” Mr. Bernstein snaps. “I’m saying that we condemn the bloody terrorism of white supremacists, but not the entire ethnic and religious group from which they come.”

  Mr. Bernstein and Eddy eyeball each other. Neither backs off.

  “I want each of you to write a short essay for discussion,” Mr. Bernstein says to the class. “Where should we draw the line between liberty and security? When, if ever, should we give up our rights?”

  Eddy pulls out his laptop; it’s his excuse to look away.

  Mr. Bernstein sits behind his desk. He watches us for a while, then opens a file folder full of paperwork.

  Suddenly…

  Rata-tata-tata-tata-tata-tata-tata!

  We leap from our desks. Somebody’s tossed a string of firecrackers into the middle aisle.

  Mr. Bernstein’s eyes blaze at Eddy. “Who did this?”

  Nobody says anything. Like me, they didn’t see. Or they’re too scared to say.

  Twenty-four

  Next morning Mom gets a call from Mr. Bhanjee. Dad has a hearing in the late afternoon. She calls the Academy and arranges to pick me up at noon. Vice Principal McGregor is waiting when she arrives. He brings us to the principal’s office.

  Mr. Samuels, the principal, has a shock of glossy black hair with a white streak running down the center. He looks like somebody put a skunk on his head. Aside from school assemblies and commencement, you never see him. He’s always behind closed doors, dealing with board members and alumni. And Head Secretary Mona James. There’s a rumor they’re having an affair. “That’s why she’s called his head secretary, get it?” guys snigger. Then they go, “Oh Mona, Mona,” and everyone cracks up.

  Anyway, Mr. Samuels leaves the day-to-day dirty work to Mr. McGregor, so for him to want a chat means something big is up.

  “Delighted to see you, Mr. Samuels,” Mom says warily. He goes to shake hands. Mom steps back, touches her right palm to her heart, and bows slightly. “We’re expected downtown. I’m afraid there’s no time to talk.”

  “I understand,” Mr. Samuels says, as slick as his hair. “I’d just like to express the deep concern the Academy has for you and yours. In difficult times, the last thing a family needs is financial pressure. As a rule, Academy fees are nonrefundable. However, understanding your difficult situation, the board has decided to offer a full refund of Sami’s tuition should he choose to withdraw from our program.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Mom says stiffly. “Sami’s education is our first priority.”

  “With respect,” Mr. Samuels continues, “considering all that’s going on, Sami may find life at the Academy stressful. Homeschooling is an option you might like to consider.”

  Mom looks him straight in the eye. “So you’re concerned about our family’s connection to the Academy.”

  “No, nothing like that,” Mr. Samuels says, temples red.

  “And I’m sure you’re not worried about fund-raising, either. Or having the other parents withdraw their sons.”

  Mr. Samuels blinks like a pithed frog.

  “Know this,” Mom says evenly. “My son’s fees are paid in full. He has as much right to be here as anyone. And I won’t have him punished because of baseless rumors against his father. Is that understood?”

  And I follow my mother out of the principal’s office, trying to keep my head as high as hers. I hate the Academy. But I’m damned if I’m going to leave now.

  We meet Mr. Bhanjee at a Starbucks, a block from the Rochester courthouse.

  “This is a ‘probable cause’ hearing,” Mr. Bhanjee tells us, wolfing down a date square. So much for his diet. “The government needs to convince the judge why Arman should be held.”

  “If they can’t, will Dad go free?” I ask.

  Mr. Bhanjee gulps the last of his coffee. “That’s the hope. But remember, the judge will be cautious. At least we’ll get a sense of the nature and size of the problem.” He pushes back from the table. We head out.

  The streets all around are barricaded to traffic. A wall of police is lined up on the courthouse steps; men with security badges march around, looking important; a government helicopter hovers overhead. Mr. Bhanjee points to nearby rooftops. There’s paramilitary types in helmets and flak jackets manning submachine guns. What, they think Al Quaeda’s gonna storm downtown Rochester to liberate Dad? Gimme a break.

  “Perfect photo op for the cameras,” Mr. Bhanjee says.

  I can barely hear him over the drone of the chopper. “Hunh?”

  “Great way to start the government’s case,” he shouts.

  The media are clustered at the blockade by the main entrance. Mr. Bhanjee elbows a path through. I keep my head buried in my chest, my hoodie up, my arm around Mom. Mr. Bhanjee flashes a pass at the guards, and we’re waved in.

  I’ve never been in a courthouse before, so I’m not sure if it’s normal for there to be two sets of metal detectors to walk through, at the main doors and again at the entrance to the hearing room. But I can’t believe everybody has to have sniffer dogs all over them. This is even worse than when we’re at the airport and security bozos rummage through our stuff like we’re gonna blow the place up.

  Most of the seats are taken by reporters. Mom and I are directed to the bench right behind the defense table. Mr. Bhanjee says there won’t be much time to talk to Dad, and we shouldn’t say much anyway, because who knows what someone might hear and how they might report it.

  Dad’s brought through a side door, a guard on either side. He’s in prison uniform, handcuffed and shackled at the ankles. I want to run to him. He sees me. For a second, a cloud rolls off his face. Then he hangs his head in shame.

  They put him behind Mr. Bhanjee’s table, right in front of us.

  “Dad, I miss you,” I whisper.

  He nods like he’s heard, but he doesn’t turn around. Mom reaches forward and touches him gently on the arm. His head and shoulders shake.

  Mr. Bhanjee passes a tissue to Dad and whispers to him. Dad stays in control, but I can tell he’s upset; his head bobs, like he’s a bird pecking the ground for seeds.

  The clerk says, “All rise,” like in the movies, and we do. “Court is in session. The honorable Judge Chapman presiding.”

  The judge swings in on crutches. His head’s this old apple, wizened and red and covered in brown spots.

  Mr. Bhanjee starts by complaining about Dad’s handcuffs and shackles. The judge agrees, and orders them removed. Point for our side.

  Then Mr. Bhanjee says, “Your Honor, Dr. Sabiri is being held as a material witness. A witness to what? To date, no charges of any kind have been filed relating to my client. We ask for his immediate release.”

  Before the judge can blink, the lead prosecutor’s on his f
eet. With his bald head and boney hands, he looks like a skeleton in a suit.

  “Your Honor,” the prosecutor starts, and then he’s off and running about Dad and the Brotherhood of Martyrs. He uses PowerPoint to introduce the militia videos we’ve all seen on TV, and the photographs the FBI shoved in my face of Dad meeting Tariq Hasan weeks ago during his trip to Toronto.

  Then he shows the court something new: The e-mail Dad sent to Hasan the day before the raid. He reads it aloud:

  There must be nothing further to connect us. No more letters, calls, or e-mails. Be at the Best Western by the Rochester airport on Friday. I’ll pick you up midafternoon to show you around the area, but I can’t get you into the lab.

  Your trip will be rewarding. Getting the items you wanted out of storage was difficult. Not sure how I’d have explained it, if I was caught. Never mind. They’re packed and ready for you to take back to Toronto.

  Tariq, I admire your plans. I pray for your success, Inshallah.

  Dad shrivels in his seat. He turns to Mom and me: “It’s not what it looks like.” No? Then what is it, Dad? “I’ve told them. They won’t believe me.” Wonder why?

  I lower my head. I can’t even look at him.

  But Mr. Bhanjee is tough. He flicks his hand at the screen: “That e-mail proves nothing.”

  “Oh?” the prosecutor says. “Then perhaps my learnèd friend can explain how Dr. Sabiri, a middle-aged director of a category-four bio lab, happens to know Tariq Hasan, a young, unemployed Canadian and head of the Brotherhood of Martyrs. Perhaps he can explain Hasan’s plans, what items Dr. Sabiri was going to give him, and where those items are now.”

  “My client doesn’t have to explain anything,” Mr. Bhanjee retorts.

  The prosecutor stares right through him. “Your Honor,” he says, “Tariq Hasan is an imminent threat. He remains at large. It is reasonable to believe that Dr. Sabiri has information regarding his whereabouts.”