Bitter Paradise

by Ross Pennie

  “That’s what Hamish said, especially when we reviewed the results of her spinal tap.”

  “And how did that family take the news?”

  “Hamish insisted I come in with him when we briefed them.”

  “No surprise there.”

  “He stayed cool as anything.”

  She knew Hamish’s lack of upset meant the family hadn’t made a scene or asked dozens of questions. The guy wasn’t good at questions. His brilliant but longwinded answers often upped his pedantic factor, which put people off. She often thought he needed a minder — someone like Zol who was equally smart and a whiz at gracefully toning him down.

  “The mother and father didn’t turn a hair when Hamish mentioned polio,” Zol said. “But then, they understood little of what we said. They’re a family of four, refugees from the civil war in Syria. Here less than a year.”

  She wondered how you translated poliomyelitis into Arabic. “Could they speak any English?”

  “Only the nine-year-old brother could converse with us — well, more or less. Certainly not the parents. And Jamila wasn’t making any sense. I think the mom and dad finally understood that their daughter was being admitted with some kind of infection. They were stoic the entire time.”

  “Or just numb?”

  “Anyone from Syria has been through a helluva lot in the past seven years. A week ago, the father started mowing lawns for a landscaper. And the mother is cooking meals in what sounds like a refugee women’s lunch cooperative. They meet on Wednesdays in a church, somewhere in the North End.”

  “Oh dear,” Natasha said.

  “What?”

  “Jamila’s mother is cooking meals for public consumption?”

  “Well, I guess so. What’s wrong with . . . ?”

  “I hope I hear a penny dropping,” she said.

  “Shit! But we’ve seen no transmission between friends or within families. Hamish says this Parvo-W is behaving more like hepatitis C virus than classic poliovirus. It persists on environmental surfaces, but person-to-person transmission requires a special set of circumstances.”

  Hepatitis C’s special set of circumstances included contaminated blood transfusions and heroin needles, which didn’t apply to any of the three polio cases at Cathcart School. She’d verified that already. But until they discovered what was unique to Parvo-W, every mode of transmission was on the table. “But we haven’t absolutely ruled out foodborne transmission. Not yet, anyway.”

  Zol drew a diminishing circle on her tummy with his fingertips. “Okay then, you’re going to make a visit to that women’s cooperative.” His fingertips moved up toward her unusually sensitive nipples. “But all of that can wait.”

  Chapter 16

  Max had a run of bad dreams featuring blood gushing out of firehoses, hunting knives whirling through the air, and eyeballs staring from beneath black hoods. Each time a dream woke him up, he told himself it had been more gory than scary and gore never bothered him. He’d watched tons of operations on YouTube and had practically memorized the illustrations in his dad’s copy of Gray’s Anatomy.

  He got up early, about seven thirty, even though it was Saturday. He couldn’t sleep any longer because his head was aching. And it hurt when he touched the Band-Aid above his left eye. Travis heard him in the bathroom having a pee and shaking a couple of Tylenols out of the bottle. The two of them threw on some clothes and went down to the kitchen.

  Before entertaining any notion of putting breakfast together, Travis made Max walk a straight line, heel to toe. Next, he grabbed Max’s right wrist and pushed and pulled on his arm to test its strength. After that, Dr. Travis told Max to do some deep knee bends, walk on his heels, walk on his toes, and put his feet together and stand with his ankles touching. Travis was happy that even with his eyes closed Max kept his balance. Using the flashlight from his bedside table, Travis checked Max’s pupils then told him to keep his chin still and follow the light with his eyes.

  “You’re good,” Travis said confidently when he’d finished. “You passed the same tests my neurologist does on me twice a year.” He chuckled and pointed to the huge bruise around Max’s left eye. “Except for that shiner.” Trav’s eyes strayed to the door leading to the basement. “I didn’t test your reflexes. I should get a hammer from your dad’s workshop. You know, for completeness’ sake.”

  “Forgeddaboutit,” Max told him. He looked at the clock. It was almost eight. “You hungry?”

  “You ever see me not?”

  “Banana pancakes?”

  “Deal.” Travis reached into a top cupboard above the counter and removed the electric frying pan.

  Max handed him two bananas. “You mash these up with a fork. I’ll get out the Bisquick.”

  “The what?”

  “You’ll see.” Max pulled the box of Bisquick out of the baking cupboard and showed it to Travis. “Dad says he wants a shipping container full of this if he’s ever exiled to a desert island. You can make anything with it.”

  “Including KFC?”

  “Something pretty close.”

  “And pizza?”

  “You have to add yeast.”

  “We should try it sometime.”

  “Dad’s taking Tasha out tonight. Somewhere nice for dinner. We can make a couple of pizzas for ourselves.”

  “Deal. If they flop, we can always order in. You got the yeast?”

  “In this house? You need to ask?”

  “I forgot.” Travis pulled a silly face, made air quotes with his fingers, and said, “My dad used to be the chef to the stars.”

  “I never said that. I just said that when he was young he was a chef in a restaurant where lots of Shakespearean actors used to hang out after their shows.”

  “Yeah, yeah. He made risotto for Romeo and jambalaya for Juliet.”

  “For shit’s sake, Trav, how come I get all your lip and —”

  “Nobody else gets anything?” He shrugged and looked at his bare feet. “You’re just lucky, I guess.”

  They never discussed Trav’s selective mutism. It wasn’t an issue between them, so there was no need to talk about it. They bantered constantly when they were alone. But Travis had been staying with the Szabos for a month already and was planning on staying for at least two more. Max was finding it increasingly embarrassing that the guy never said a word to Dad or Tasha. Not even a quick thank you under his breath.

  Max waved his sketchy arm to catch Trav’s eye and said, “You mean I’m lucky the two of us crawled out from under the same toadstool?” Max punched Trav’s shoulder with his good fist then opened the fridge for the eggs and milk. “Now, get back to those bananas.”

  Travis threw Max a military salute and said, “You got it, KB.”

  Only Travis and their buddies from Fortnite ever called Max by that handle. It was a secret between the two boys that showed Trav’s prowess as a history buff. KB was short for Kaiser Bill, Queen Victoria’s grandson who became Kaiser Wilhelm II, the Emperor of Germany. According to Travis, Kaiser Bill lost World War One for the Germans and was a nasty prick who nobody liked. But the guy had guts to spare — he’d been born with a withered left arm and grew up to be a commanding soldier-emperor. He was always pictured riding a tall horse.

  Max’s headache disappeared after four plates of pancakes. Travis pronounced it was the perfectly executed banana component that brought the batter so close to perfection.

  “Yeah, yeah. Do you want any more?”

  Travis patted his belly and let out a burp. “I’m stuffed.”

  They both heard a dinging sound echoing from upstairs and looked at the clock.

  “It’s not even nine,” Travis said. “Why is someone inboxing you at this hour?”

  “You clean up, and I’ll check.”

  Travis shrugged as if he didn’t care who was Facebook messaging Max
so early on a Saturday morning. But the speed at which he whipped around the kitchen told Max he was just as curious as he was.

  It was Omar, from their Fortnite squad. They played with him three or four times a week, and he always got his fair share of kills because he was quick on his feet and didn’t hide or hang back. His specialty was outsmarting timid opponents with the bludgeon. He’d once confided that the reason he loved playing Fortnite so much was that in real life he was no good at running. His left foot was fake and fit poorly. He’d lost his real leg below the knee when a bomb exploded in a market in his hometown.

  His in-game name — his IGN — was RUBBLE MAN. He said he picked it because there was nothing left of his neighbourhood back in Syria but a pile of rubble. Max preferred to call him by his real name when they were messaging outside of Fortnite.

  hello KB. i worrie. no sleep.

  What’s wrong, Omar?

  inbox me only from now on. no voice calls. okay?

  No problem. Messaging only. I got it.

  thanks.

  Where are you?

  bedroom. door open. parents downstairs. can hear everything.

  What’s wrong?

  mother crying. not werk today.

  Travis, now reading over Max’s shoulder, was up from the kitchen and up to speed on the thread. The boys groaned at Omar’s slow typing speed but cut him plenty of slack because he’d only been writing English seriously for a few months. His mother tongue was Arabic. Max was a bit slow at typing too, but his right hand was adept enough at double duty. His dad said that was because the right hand got his brain’s full attention.

  Did your parents have a fight? Is your mother hurt?

  no fighting. just angry talk. no one hurt.

  So why are you worried about your dad?

  u watch tv news?

  Sometimes.

  last night?

  No.

  u hear about barbershop?

  You mean the one on Upper Paradise where they had a knifing?

  my father, he was there. I see blood on his clothes.

  “Holy crap!” Travis said, then covered his mouth and shut Max’s door. “His dad must be that big guy, the wrestler type who pinned Marwan’s arms while Ghazwan . . . Oh my God, Omar’s dad’s an accessory to murder.”

  Max felt close to shitting his pants but took a deep breath and kept typing.

  OMG! Your dad, what did he do?

  he help. now i scared for him.

  “No shit!” said Travis, pacing behind Max and pointing to the laptop’s screen. “See? His dad has to be one of the murderers, and Omar’s scared of the cops coming after him.”

  All Max could do was keep typing and hope that Omar’s dad was one of the barbers, not the assailants.

  What’s your father’s name?

  u not tell anyone?

  Never.

  promise? on grandmother grave?

  Promise.

  sorry. father coming. wait.

  Travis looked like he was going to toss his pancakes. “What do we do now? If his dad sees this message string on Omar’s . . . he’s gonna . . .”

  Max pointed at the screen. “Omar hasn’t signed off. You taught him how to blank the screen, remember?”

  “So we wait, or what?”

  “Go brush your teeth.”

  Travis loved brushing his teeth. He had four different brands of toothpaste and used them in rotation. Something about the buzz of the electric toothbrush calmed him down. Because he was mute, everyone thought Travis was a passive, boring guy. Max saw his dark side of the moon, which wasn’t dark in the least. Just hidden.

  Two minutes later, Travis was back in Max’s room. He smelled like spearmint. A second later, Omar returned.

  KB? u still there?

  Here.

  father bring me breakfast. gone now.

  “What kind of murderer delivers breakfast to his son in his bedroom the day after slitting a guy’s throat?” Travis said. “He sounds like some weird dude.”

  Max shrugged and kept typing.

  Are you okay? I mean, did your father see our string?

  no problem.

  You were going to tell me his name.

  why u care?

  We care about you. We want you to be safe.

  we?!!!! who is WE?

  Just me and Trav.

  you mean TRAVMAN from our fortnite squad? he got 100 dubs?

  It’s 107 wins. But yes, that’s him. He says hi.

  hi TRAVMAN. why you at KB house so early? r u brothers?

  Max looked at Travis. What should he say? Max knew what he wanted to say.

  “Tell him the truth,” Travis said, elbowing Max in the ribs. “We’re bros.”

  Max gave Travis a thumbs-up and went back to the keyboard.

  Yeah. Travman is my bro.

  who is older?

  Trav. By one year.

  same promise? grandmother grave?

  Same.

  okay . . . i tell you.

  my father. he is hosam. he is working as barber in that shop.

  Travis thumped his forehead with the heel of his palm. “That’s a relief.”

  “Oh my God,” said Max. “Hosam told us he had a boy about our age. I remember when he went to the Salvation Army thrift store and bought a used laptop for him.”

  “Got an incredible deal on a passable Acer,” Travis said. “It even has a camera.”

  KB?

  Still here.

  u guys know LION-NADS, from FN?

  The boys nodded in unison. Sure, they’d played against a Fortnite player whose IGN was Lion-Nads. He was a pro who’d logged almost two thousand dubs, which was a good nineteen hundred more than either of them. They had no idea what his real name was or what city he lived in.

  Yeah, we know who he is. Aggressive dude. Averages thirty kills a game.

  he is from back home.

  i saw him at my father barbershop before they fire him.

  now he making big trouble.

  Trouble? How?

  deliver bad messages to my father from syrian warlord.

  “This is too much,” Travis said. “Omar’s talking Syrian warlords? The guy’s been playing way too much Fortnite.”

  “Come on, Trav,” Max said. “We did see Marwan murdered right in front of us. And he was Syrian, same as Hosam. Omar’s not making this up.”

  LION-NADS brought your dad a message? How?

  two times. envelopes to our house. afternoon yesterday

  and today morning.

  they say wicked things in arabic. bad things gonna happen.

  You mean the envelopes contained threatening messages?

  wait. i check google translate.

  yes. threatening. my father have to do certain things or the warlord gonna send men to kill us. me and my mother. like happen to marwan. like happen to people in syria.

  You read these messages yourself?

  yes. but father does not know i open envelopes.

  And you’re sure the guy who sent them is a warlord?

  i hear my parents talk.

  sounds like warlord from aleppo. thats my city in syria.

  they call him the caliph.

  Doesn’t sound good, Omar.

  very very bad. my father promised canada not have such bad guys!!!

  he lied to me. what a piss-off.

  Travis tapped Max on the shoulder. “A guy, his IGN is Lion-Nads, and he used to work at our barbershop? Must be Leo. Remember him? He got fired because he gave such lousy haircuts and was rude to the customers.”

  Max knew Travis had nailed it. But a Syrian gangster who played Fortnite against teenagers and made dozens of kills every time? That was beyond weird.

  “So Leo shows up at Hosam’s hou
se with written death threats from his boss,” Travis continued, “after Ghazwan, one of his ex-barber buds, knifes Marwan to death in broad daylight?”

  “We don’t know for sure the slasher was Ghazwan. Maybe he just looked like him.”

  “Oh, yeah. It was Ghazwan. I’m almost sure of it.”

  Max wiped his sweaty hand against his knee. It felt like his laptop had become a wormhole, a path into real danger. This wasn’t the exhilarating danger of Fortnite that everyone knew was fake. “Come on, Trav. Almost sure isn’t good enough when you’re talking about a murder suspect. It all happened so fast we didn’t get much of a look at the guy’s face.”

  “I got a pretty good look.”

  “Enough to identify him to the cops?”

  Travis made a face, then studied his sneakers and retied the laces. “So, what do we do?”

  “We gotta think. Plan a strategy. This isn’t the sort of thing we can handle on the fly.”

  “We should tell your dad.”

  “He’s not a cop, Trav. What do you propose we tell him?”

  “That Hosam, his personal barber, is in deep trouble with a bunch of Syrian gangsters. And like I told you yesterday — but you didn’t want to hear it — we have to tell him we have a good idea of who one of Marwan’s murderers is.”

  “So, we give Ghazwan’s name to my dad and the cops, and we end up dead or in Witness Protection. Is that what you want?”

  “You’re exaggerating. Those things only happen on TV.”

  “Trav, get real. If we rat on Ghazwan, his boss the warlord will be on us in a flash. We’ll have to hide — you, me, and Dad. Tasha will never marry Dad if he’s in Witness Protection. I’ll lose my only chance at getting a mom who actually lives with us. You’ll never see your mom again. And . . .”

  “And what?”

  “You and me, we’re kind of distinctive. Sooner or later, someone in a shopping mall at the other end of the country is gonna notice us. And . . .” Max beamed his stare straight into Trav’s dilating pupils. “Do I have to spell it out?”

  KB?

  Max wiped his right hand with a Kleenex then let his thumb and fingers hover over the keyboard. He felt like a sapper approaching an undetonated bomb. He needed to type his reply with as few keystrokes as possible and get him and Trav out of there. He wasn’t going to bother with the SHIFT key.