Fire & Wind

by Leo Gher

  “Samantha,” the server replied. “I had you for news writing.” Iza smiled, thanked the girl, and then she refocused on Sam.

  “It does seem like someone is planning a visit.”

  “But why?” Iza mused.

  “That’s the question,” said Sam. “Our conversation was one-sided. Jake was the one asking, and I was the one providing the answers, as best I could.”

  Jake and Conor are so different, Iza thought. Conor has accomplished so much in so little time. Then she asked, “Does Jake have the money to make such a trip?”

  “His job at the Port of Chicago doesn’t pay a lot, but he mentioned something else – an inheritance from grandfather – a treasure of sorts. I think he plans to sell this treasure to finance his trip to Azerbaijan.”

  “Has he talked to Conor about the treasure?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Wouldn’t Conor have a say in the matter?”

  “They don’t talk much,” Sam said.

  “Are you going to let Conor know about this inheritance?” Sam didn’t answer, so Iza shifted gears. “What does Jake do, exactly?”

  “Security guard,” Sam said. “He’s a U.S. Customs and Borders inspector.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  “I guess. But being paranoid about bombs, terrorists, and refugees flooding onto U.S. shores doesn’t explain everything.”

  “I wonder about his girlfriend.”

  “Lindy? How so?”

  “She mentioned Armenia several times,” said Iza. “Bedrosian is an Armenian name, you know.”

  “That’s funny, Iza. Jake brought up Armenian militiamen. I didn’t pay much attention; thought it was part of the FAA.”

  “How old is Conor?”

  “Twenty-six, next May,” said Sam.

  “Jake talk about anything else?”

  “More ramblings about the FAA… and the need to return to ‘our American values.’ More than once, he said, ‘My father fought them overseas, now they’re invading by the boatload.’”

  “Who are they?”

  “Muslims, I suppose. I think he really means terrorists. He forgets that we are Muslims.”

  “He seems to be all over the place, and angry at times, too,” Iza said. “What do you think Jake really wants?”

  It was the right question. In the past, Jake had talked about his promise, but he had waffled over and over about what action he should take. But Sam sensed there was something more, a secret inside Jake’s soul. Then Sam said, “Settling scores, plain and simple. I think that’s it.”

  “Revenge?” Iza was confused, “For what, against whom?

  “It became clearer as we spoke. Jake believes Seymur Rasuli and Rufet Qurb were responsible for his father’s death, and – this is the crazy part – he suspects Conor as well, thinks he was involved somehow.”

  Iza was quick to reply, “That’s silly and irresponsible. Someone must be feeding him these crazy, angry notions.”

  “You’re right,” Sam replied, “It’s the FAA, that Martin Mills fellow, and Lindy’s neurotic Uncle Mike.”

  “Mike Bedrosian?” She searched for understanding. “The FAA? I don’t get it. Gotta be more to it.”

  “On the trip to Azerbaijan, Jake told me about the FAA, but I wasn’t paying much attention,” Sam explained. “I thought he was talking about farmers, you know, FFA. I had it all wrong. Jake has lived his whole life on the South Side of Chicago – farmers, how stupid was I?”

  Iza was beginning to see Jake in a different light. In her mind, he had always been just a kid being raised by a single mother on Chicago’s sketchy South Side. This new Jake was peculiar, and who was his girlfriend, Lindy? “I understand settling the score, and I understand the terrorism thing. What I don’t understand is the FAA.”

  Sam reached for a little cup of cream in the basket. He opened it, poured half into his coffee, and then stirred. It wasn’t an easy topic to know, let alone to explain. He said, “Freedom Army of America.” Sam searched for the right words, and then took a sip of coffee. “They have a hero, a guy named James Wesley Rawles.”

  “Never heard of him.” The name raised more questions than answers. “I don’t know a Rawlesian from a Presbyterian,” she said.

  “Yeah, I get that,” he said with an uneven smile. “I didn’t know much about them either, but I’ve been doing a little research.”

  “And?”

  “They’re survivalists, Iza,” Sam replied. “I read about them on Wiki. The movement began mid-twentieth century during the Cold War Era.”

  For Iza, the idea of a Cold War and the possibility of a nuclear conflict had a distant ring to it—remote, ancient and unreal. “I thought that craze had disappeared.”

  “Apparently, the FAA is the latest incarnation of the survivalist movement in the Midwest.”

  “What set it off?” she asked.

  “They have countless grievances: refugees, terrorists, illegal immigrants, but everything is tied to surviving catastrophe. This Martin Mills guy insists that all FAA members train to become self-sufficient, ready for emergencies and disruptions in the social or political order. They see themselves as knights-errant, and that’s why they’ve established so many fortifications down here in the Shawnee Forest.”

  Iza had endured numerous difficulties in her life. Such grim talk was off-putting, stomach-turning, repellent. She was no shrinking violet, but she now had daughters to consider. Natia and Elene were Muslims; they were all Muslims. “Sam, what kind of beliefs are you talking about?”

  “They worry about gun confiscation, of course, but also the end of Christian values, the dissolution of the U.S. Constitution, and the takeover by the forces of One World Government. That’s why they hate international treaties. They see such agreements as the precursors of this One World thing.”

  “Seems like nonsense to me.”

  Sam waxed philosophical, “When you think about it, it’s an old story.”

  “I think there’s more to it than just FAA drivel,” Iza replied. “There’s something hidden under the surface, maybe a lot of somethings.”

  “Nonsense to us, but not to them. Out west – Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, and Utah – there are dozens of similar coalitions. And it’s not just right-wing nut jobs. There are leftist groups too.”

  “Sam, you’re talking about numbskulls, but have you given any thought to the Armenian connection?”

  He looked at her quizzically.

  It was late morning, and Iza needed to pick Natia and Elene at the swimming pool. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “You’re going to call Conor, right?”

  At that moment, Sam’s iPhone began buzzing. It was an incoming text from overseas. “It’s Conor now,” he exclaimed, “on the secure line.”

  12

  Confession

  Jake Moynihan always wore tanker boots, cordovan with black heels and toes. He wore them summer and winter; to fancy restaurants, to Bears games, to the movies; and even at church, there was Kathleen Moynihan’s son in his tankers. At Brother Rice High School there was a strict dress code, which included gray slacks, white dress shirt, tie, and black shoes. But Jake still found a way to wear his tankers. To avoid demerits, Jake would merely tighten the buckles and slip the trousers over the boots. Only the black heels and toes were visible, so, strictly speaking, Jake followed BR Rule #23. Besides, none of the Brother Rice martinets wished to take on the quick-tempered Jake over his shoes.

  Arguments with his mother about the boots were unavoidable. She would insist, “You cannot wear those goddamn clodhoppers to church!” Katie was Chicago Polish and all Catholic, a combination that required absolute adherence to decorum as well as dogma.

  Jake would laugh, thinking himself beyond such rebukes. “Go ahead, mother, make my day.”

  Once he was out of high school, K
atie stopped trying. Today, she avoided any attempt to scold, and instead, tried to reason with her son. “You’ll get a blister, Jake.”

  Full of himself, the wise-cracking Chicago South Sider snapped back, “Better than Father Wysocki’s sermon, Mother.” During his on-and-off college years, Jake had figured out that Katie would not fight his stubbornness. This was especially true after the divorce; and when Tom died three years later, mother Katie had settled into a pattern of letting Jake do as he pleased.

  There was, however, more to the tankers than youthful rebellion. For members of the FAA, the boots were obligatory. Equipped with steel toes, heels, and sole guards, the Patton-designed tankers were the group’s identity. Jake had taken that identity one step further by burnishing the FAA logo, an encircled Liberty Tree, into the heel of his right boot.

  Jake was lazy that Saturday morning, and didn’t get up until 9:30 am. It was October 14th – the feast day of St. Andrew the Apostle – reckoning day for one Jacob Moynihan. Off to confession. This was the mother-son squabble that Jake had always lost. “You must seek forgiveness at least once a year. Otherwise, it’s hell to pay. And I do mean hell!” Jake didn’t believe the outmoded mumbo jumbo, but he felt it was the thing he could concede to keep his mother from having an apoplectic fit.

  Jake was lazy that day; thought he’d be gone only a short time, so he didn’t put on a T-shirt or socks. The no socks thing was a mistake. Something, a small pebble perhaps, had wedged its way between his heel and the boot’s inner pad and was hurting like hell. Jake had been seated inside the confessional for some time and was growing impatient and cantankerousness. He reached down, pulled off his boot, and then felt the back of his heel. Blister, he cussed. Mother was right, damnation.

  So he sought someone to blame. His fellow sinner on the other side of the confessional door who was taking so long would do. He must have something nasty to tell. Guy? Could be a woman, he mused, and started thinking about her sinfulness: Sex, lying, had she stolen cigarettes from the drugstore?

  It was 10:30, and with nothing to do but sit and wait, Jake gave his cell the once-over. It was made entirely of wood (walnut, he thought) and appropriately cheerless. Only a pin light above a crucifix illumined the confessional box. The priest had closed the sliding partition so tightly Jake couldn’t hear anything from the other side. It was maddening. Few Catholics used the old-style confessional anymore. These days, most sinners just sat down with their confessor in the rectory and hashed out their troubles.

  St. Andrew the Apostle was the oldest parish in Calumet City, and the Polish people there were set in their ways. Tradition wasn’t a burden; it was a blessing. The church even offered a Latin Mass once a month. At long last, the divider slid open, and light flooded into the cubicle. Startled by the unexpected glare, Jake thought, That’s why it’s so dark and gloomy in here. It’s a trick, a portend that forgiveness is at hand. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “How long since your last confession?” With the traditional rejoinder, Jake recognized that his confessor that day was Father Edward Wysocki. He had been Jake’s catechism teacher throughout his elementary years.

  Jake shifted uncomfortably on the hardwood seat, then wiped a hand across his mouth. “One month.” It was a lie, of course, and most of Jake’s confession that day would also be an invention. He had no interest in playing the game – no matter how large or small his foibles – to anyone, anytime. Besides, if God were omniscient, as the church proclaimed, he already knew Moynihan’s sins. This dishonesty was an audacious act for any Catholic, no matter how devout or indifferent, and Jake secretly wondered if he would one day have to atone for it. Probably not, he made his case to no one in particular. Still, Jake suffered from prickly mindfulness about this entire soul-saving ritual. It was meant to get Katie off his back. Then he thought of his mother: daughter of the Kowalski clan, sanctimonious devotees all. One couldn’t have a Sunday dinner without hearing the story of Martin Kowalski, the priest who climbed the ranks to become a monsignor under Archbishop Kinsella.

  After his declarations, Jake found himself searching for some useful truth, an emotional space he seemingly could never fulfill. He was thinking of that place far from Chicago. Edward Wysocki – an able counselor – recognized the troubled moment and asked, “What’s bothering you, Jake?” And then the priest added, “Not your confession, then, something more?”

  For all his bluster, there was one thing that bothered Jake, a thing he had wanted to talk about for a long time. “A dream,” he said.

  Wysocki was quick to recognize the young man’s angst. “About your father?”

  Now Jake understood why Wysocki’s confessions took so long. The priest had an able personal touch. “Yes, about his death. I dream about it sometimes. Can’t seem to shake it.” That Saturday, in the darkness of the confessional, Jake finally felt the need to tell his story, and the veiled partition between them was sufficient enough to allow Jake to feel secure and open up. It was time, past time, for Jake Moynihan to tackle the anger he held about his father’s death.

  “Tell me about it, Jake. Tell me what happened.”

  After a moment, Jake relaxed, leaned back against the cubicle wall, and began, “I was 16, and my father and I had flown to Azerbaijan for my brother’s graduation. Sam was with us.”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother.” Wysocki had been at St. Andrew for a long time and understood that Tom Moynihan had died in the line of duty. But he knew none of the details.

  “Years earlier, my father was married,” Jake explained. “Zarifa was her name. She was one of those Muslims, and a member of one of the most influential families in Baku, the Kedars.” When he said Muslim, Jake wished he could see the priest’s face. Was he surprised? Did he scowl?

  Both were silent for a time, then Wysocki spoke up, “Go on.”

  “I don’t know if they were actually married, but they had a son, Conor.” In his mind’s eye, Jake saw his brother’s face illumined by the campfire they’d shared that summer at the cottage. But then, his thoughts returned to Wysocki. He didn’t know if he wanted to continue with this confession. He felt the need for some fresh air and cracked open the cubicle door about six inches.

  The sound took the priest by surprise. “You’re not leaving?” Wysocki asked. “We’re just getting started, Jake.”

  The veiled curtain remained, and Jake turned back to his priest. “She died under mysterious circumstances. Some say she committed suicide; others say Zara – that was her nickname – died in childbirth. I don’t really know. I don’t really care.” Somehow those words rang hollow. “My father wasn’t with Zara when she died. Tom was severely injured in a Cairo riot and immediately medevacked to Chicago. He ended up at St. Bernard’s Hospital, and he remained there in a coma for a year. He only learned of her death when Sam arrived for a visit fifteen months later.

  “It was a heartbreaking time for him. He could hardly cope, but Tom had one blessing that saw him through, my mother. She was his nurse at St. Bernard’s. That’s where they met. They married a year later.” Jake’s mind drifted. “There’s so much I don’t know. I wish I had asked Sam more about it.”

  This time Wysocki asked, “Sam?”

  “Sam Mansour, my father’s friend from Egypt. He teaches at a university downstate, in Carbondale. He’s one of them.”

  “One of them?”

  “A Muslim.”

  “That’s twice you’ve mentioned Muslims.”

  “My mother blames them for their divorce and Tom’s death,” Jake replied. “She calls them ‘that damned overseas crowd.’”

  “About your dream, then?”

  “Yes, of course,” Jake grimaced. “We flew into Baku, and a guy named Rasuli met us at the airport. We got there about three in the morning, so he took us to a nearby hotel. We were drained from the long flight and needed rest. Sam said he was a friend, but I never truste
d Rasuli. He led us into a trap.”

  The priest seemed startled by his choice of words, “Trap?”

  Though he couldn’t see the priest through the scrim, young Jake Moynihan glared his way. And then he said, “You see, Father Wysocki, my father was murdered.”

  13

  Something’s Up

  The Pere Marquette Mall was located along the Calumet River on the South Side of Chicago. Before his confession, that’s where Jake had dropped off his mother and aunt. They would shop while Jake completed his annual religious duty. “Just an hour, and not more than 90 minutes,” Katie shouted as Jake drove away. But she doubted he was paying attention.

  For Katie and Julia, shopping was not their preferred Saturday morning activity, and so when Jake was late picking them up, both were predictably irritated. It was now 11:15. Julia pointed at her watch and carped, “The carpet cleaners are coming at noon. Where is your Jake?”

  “Big sins, I suppose,” replied a smirking mother. “Let’s get a Dunkin’ Donuts.” The shop was at the mall exit where Jake was supposed have been 15 minutes ago.

  “So, lots of penance for that one,” Julia said laughing, “Want an apple fritter?”

  Patting her middle-aged paunch, Katie shook her head, “No, just coffee.”

  The twin sisters were tall, big-boned Kowalski women and, as they approached the order counter, the clerk was somewhat amazed. After a studied Katie Moynihan glower, he spoke up, “What for you?”

  “Two coffees. Leave room for cream in one.” It wasn’t the snipped off expression that startled Julia, but the boy’s appearance. She surveyed his fingerless fishnet gloves and black choker. Odd, but nothing to summon up religious righteousness. The order didn’t take long, and then the women walked over to the waist-high counter next to the outside window and found a seat.

  Leaning against the wall, Julia asked, “How’s the dating going?”