The Insurrectionist

by Mahima Martel

  Dr. Atkins patted Deni on the shoulder. “Hang in there.”

  Deni nodded, hating the spectacle everyone was parading around him. All the coddling made him feel weak and helpless and what was worse was that nameless, spineless asshole who hit him, had won.

  Bashir pulled away from the school with the game still going on. In a few minutes, Bashir arrived home with Deni and within a moment, Dr. Atkins’ black Mercedes pulled up behind Bashir’s used blue Toyota. Both men helped Deni from the car and into the house.

  Kamiila took one look at Deni and screamed in Russian, “What happened?”

  “It’s nothing,” said Bashir in a calm voice. “He just got hit hard; he’ll be fine in a couple days.”

  “I told you that sport is dangerous!” she scolded Deni in Russian.

  “It wasn’t dangerous when Mik played,” Deni argued back in Russian.

  “He’s bigger and stronger than you,” Kamiila replied in Russian. “You shouldn’t be putting yourself out there like that. What’s the matter with you, allowing people to hit you all the time?”

  “It’s a game, ma! A game!” Deni yelled in Russian as he grabbed his ribs and nearly doubled over in pain.

  Kamiila turned her attention to Dr. Atkins. “Who’s he?”

  “Dr. Atkins. He works at St. Josephs. He’s here to help Deni. Would you like the doctor to help our son?” questioned Bashir.

  “You’re a doctor,” replied Kamiila.

  “He kindly offered his help with our son,” said Bashir in a strong tone suggesting she calm down.

  Dr. Atkins spotted a recliner seat in the living room. “Why don’t we put him there instead of making him walk up the stairs?”

  Bashir agreed to Dr. Atkins’ suggestion. After Deni rested in the chair, Bashir made an ice pack and placed it over Deni’s ribs.

  Dr. Atkins stood above Deni’s chair and looked down at him. “Do you have any anti-inflammatory?”

  “We should have something,” said Bashir.

  “Try to relax and get some rest,” Dr. Atkins said as he opened the door to leave.

  Bashir straightened a blanket over Deni, handed him a glass of water and two pills. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Deni wanted to believe his father, but he knew he was betrayed by that asshole, Brad Dietrich. If he couldn’t trust his own teammates to protect him, who could he trust? Am I supposed to forever hide what I am? Am I constantly going to have to defend my family and my parents for their faith? Will I ever be truly accepted here? Who can I trust?

  The next day there was a knock at the Daudov’s door. “Ma!” Deni yelled from the recliner. “There’s someone at the door.”

  Kamiila came to the living room and opened the front door. She was shocked to find that pretty blonde-haired girl carrying two large brown paper bags. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Heather. I’m a friend of Deni’s,” she said, nodding toward her brown paper bags. “I brought Chinese food and some ice cream for dessert.”

  Kamiila paused and wondered whether to let Heather inside.

  “Heather?” questioned Bashir as he peaked around the door, “So you’re Heather.” He opened the door for her to enter. “You must thank your father for helping us out last night.”

  “Oh, he was glad to do it. He’s kinda do-gooder type,” replied Heather. “I bought some food.”

  “I don’t trust her,” Kamiila said in Russian.

  “She bought us food, what’s not to trust?” questioned Bashir in Russian.

  “She just waltzes to our door like some princess with bags of food. I can feed my son; I don’t need handouts,” argued Kamiila in Russian.

  “Ma, it’s okay; she’s my friend!” yelled Deni in Russian.

  Kamiila released an ironic chuckle. “Girls don’t bring boys food unless they want something from them.”

  Deni muttered a quiet obscenity at his mother; one she would surely not hear or understand.

  “So what did you bring us?” Bashir asked Heather in English, hoping to ease the tension that was all over her face.

  “Some cold sesame noodles, chow mein, fried rice, egg rolls and scallion pancakes. Deni likes scallion pancakes,” she said.

  “And how do you know what my son likes?” questioned Kamiila.

  Heather grinned awkwardly. “I’m sorry if I interrupted anything. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Bashir shook off her apology and said nothing. He opened the foil tray and peeked inside. “I never had scallion pancakes.” He glanced at Kamiila. “Why don’t you get some plates?” And then he turned his attention back to Heather. “This is very kind of you.”

  Deni propped himself upright on the couch. “Don’t I get any?”

  “Oh look the sultan of the recliner wants Chinese food,” joked Bashir. “Should we take some to him?”

  Heather opened the carton of noodles and dangled them into her mouth using her fingers. “I dunno. He’s been quite the prima donna lately.”

  Bashir whispered in Heather’s ear for only her to hear, “He gets that from his mother.”

  Kamiila arrived with a handful of plates and promptly presented them to Bashir.

  “Why don’t you and I eat in the kitchen and allow the kids to have some privacy,” Bashir said to Kamiila.

  Heather smiled warmly, knowing she had secured an ally in the Daudov household.

  She carried the bags to the coffee table in the living room and filled a plate with food. “Feeling better today?” she asked before handing him a plate.

  “Do I get food if I give you the right answer?” he retaliated.

  She held the plate above him. “Yes.”

  “Then I am doing great,” he said matter of fact.

  Heather handed him the plate and sat on the couch. She looked around at all the Russian and Islamic décor and the many, many family pictures. It was evident Kamiila was very proud of her family and children. She noticed a football game on television. “Who’s playing?”

  “Ohio and Iowa,” Deni said.

  “Huh,” she grunted and then started filling a plate of Chinese food for herself. “I wanted to let you know that after you left, Coach Schwartz had the guy who hit you ejected from the game. Brad Dietrich is benched indefinitely. And you better as hell call T-Bone. He’s really upset.”

  “Yeah, I’ll talk to him,” Deni muttered.

  Heather reached in her purse and handed Deni her cellphone. “Now.”

  “Who made you the boss of me?” questioned Deni.

  “The day you started acting like a total jerk to your good friend,” she said and forced her phone on him.

  Deni took the phone from her with a wily smirk and texted T-Bone an apology. Within a minute all was cool with his good buddy. He tossed Heather her phone. “Thanks,” he grunted.

  “No problem.” Heather admired an old picture of when Deni was just a boy. “Where was this taken?”

  “When we were living in Volgograd,” said Deni.

  Heather stood to look at all the Daudov family pictures Kamiila had placed on a decorative shelf. There was Bashir and Kamiila’s wedding picture, a dashing picture of Bashir in his Soviet uniform and many pictures of Deni and his brother and sisters of various ages. “These pictures are so great. You all look so happy. It’s just me and my older sister Jessica and well, my mother doesn’t believe family pictures go with the décor.”

  “Yeah, that’s nice. Can you move your ass? You’re blocking the television,” Deni joked.

  She thrust out her butt further so he couldn’t see.

  “You are such a brat,” he said.

  “And you’re being such a pissy-face,” she retaliated and then returned to her seat on the couch, but before she sat down she kissed Deni on the lips.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  “No reason. I just figured I’d take a pot shot at you since you’re immobile,” she said.

  “You better be careful, or I’ll have you ejected,” Deni teased with a g
rin.

  Heather took a handful of cold sesame noodles with her fingers and lowered them into her mouth. “Yeah, just try it.”

  Deni smiled at Heather. She was the only girl he could talk to like a best buddy. She never seemed to be offended and could always give it right back, but most importantly she was always there for him. “Classy,” he teased.

  An hour after Heather left, Deni wasn’t sure if it was the Chinese food, Heather’s company or the fact that everyone on the team, including his coach, stood behind him, but he felt good. He peeled himself from the recliner and stretched out his legs.

  When he walked into the kitchen to get some ice cream, Kamiila cornered him. “I don’t like that girl for you,” she said.

  “She’s just a friend,” Deni responded.

  “Honey, that’s impossible. No girl is just a boy’s friend.”

  Deni stopped scooping ice cream and turned to Kamiila. “Is it Heather you don’t like, or don’t you like her because you didn’t choose her for me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Besides a mother always knows her son better than anyone,” Kamiila replied.

  He thought to bring up Mikail’s wife Jamie, but decided against it. “Okay,” he said dully. He was not about to pursue the conversation anymore; he let it be another one of his mother’s victories. If that’s what she believes, let her, he thought.

  Instead of returning to the recliner, he walked up the steps to his bedroom and eased himself onto his bed with a big bowl of ice cream. It’s odd how everyone assumes they know me. They all believe they know what I want, who I am when even I have no idea, he thought as he slurped down his ice cream.

  There were things Deni believed, but his beliefs were never something he could define for himself. He believed in the truth, but could hardly answer the truth about himself. He believed in justice, but more times than not he criticized himself too harshly. Truth and justice were lofty goals when he struggled personally.

  Alone in his room, Deni often read the philosophers of truth and justice—Voltaire, Nietzsche and of course a slew of Russians. With all these writings, surely he would find himself. He just had to be more than what his family and his friends made of him.

  When the words grew too heavy for his mind, Deni set down the book, opened his window and pulled a plastic baggie of weed from under his mattress. Sitting by the window he lit a joint and puffed thoughtfully. It is a beautiful October day, despite the pain in my ribs and my mother’s meddling. Maybe one day I’ll be free from all if it.

  Chapter 10

  Later that evening, Deni opened his composition book and pressed a pen to the next blank page. It felt as though his life was starting over and he could write it any way he wished. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, he started writing in Russian.

  Sometimes it’s so hard to see injustices that no one else does. You try to explain it to them and people think you are crazy or you have lost your mind. And sometimes people see them, but they just don’t want the discomfort of caring. People start to distance themselves from you because they cannot conceive contemplating an alternative truth. So where does that leave you—alone, voiceless and helpless?

  Deni looked around his hospital room, hoping to see that dark whispery shadow that follows him but unfortunately tonight it was not visible. He wondered if the shadow was a reminder that he was not alone.

  Ten-year-old Deni lay in bed, staring at the dark shadow standing at the foot of his bed. He pulled the blankets up to his neck, cringed under the covers and glanced at his brother sleeping in the bed alongside him. “Mik. Mik, are you awake?”

  Mikail opened one eye and stared at Deni. “Go to sleep.”

  Staring at the black apparition at the end of his bed, Deni whispered, “I think this place is haunted.”

  “Maybe you’re just crazy,” muttered Mikail and turned away from Deni.

  Deni pulled his covers tighter to his neck. “Please leave, I want to go to sleep. I can’t sleep with you hovering over me,” he said and then the spirit vanished. Deni couldn’t believe his power over the ghost, suddenly believing it meant no harm. Perhaps it was even a friend, he thought.

  Glancing around his hospital room, Deni wondered if he indeed had a guardian angel. Was there something, or someone looking out for him and if so, why would it let him end up here?

  Deni glanced down at the notebook, wondering if any of his words could eventually be used against him. It’s the case with anyone these days. The mind can be very dangerous especially if you have the courage to write it down. He continued to write:

  It’s all a deterrence of humanity—survival. You have to keep life at a distance so it doesn’t touch you. If it touches you, if you feel it, you have to admit your attachment to it and any guilt that surrounds it. We can all say an injustice bothers us, but what does anyone really do? Did the Abolitionists speak openly for the slaves they helped? Did they invite them to their dinner table or feed them scraps? At what point does one truly put oneself on the line for another being?

  He closed his eyes and allowed the silence of his room and the entire prison to lull him to sleep. Later that night, while Deni was sleeping, a prison nurse came back to check his vitals. Curiously the nurse lifted the composition book from under his hands and turned to the first page which was written in Russian.

  The nurse didn’t know if he should confiscate the composition book or report it to someone. Writing in Russian was sure to draw suspicion; it could be a confession of some sorts. He lay it back down under Deni’s hands, deciding it was best to tell his boss and let the authorities decide.

  Marsha arrived the next morning without Viktor. She set up her camp of files and books alongside Deni’s hospital bed. “I was questioned this morning about your writing,” she said first thing.

  “Why?” asked Deni.

  “It would be helpful if you have anything to say; say it in English,” she responded.

  Deni gave her a questioning glare. Surely someone peeked in his book last night. “Even if it was in English, most Americans wouldn’t get it.”

  Marsha sighed as she took a seat in a chair next to him. “Deni, there are different types of people in this world—some who think and others who don’t. Many, many people of this world are quite content living their life not caring of the troubles of the world.”

  “That’s why the world has so many. If people would just stop and think, there could be some real positive change,” retorted Deni.

  “You’re an idealist,” she said.

  “Is there something wrong with that?” asked Deni.

  “When you kill people, yes!” she responded with authority.

  “It got people’s attention,” he said.

  Marsha mindlessly shuffled papers. “When you raise the sword, people stop listening to your words. Days are long gone of violent uprisings. It may have worked for the French and even the Bolsheviks, but today violence doesn’t sell.”

  Deni chuckled. “America thrives on violence—violent television and movies, violent video games, wars, children gunned down in school.”

  “You can blame the Germans and all the Eastern bloc nations for that,” said Marsha. “They bought down your Soviet Union without one gunshot. Revolutions no longer occur with bloodshed.”

  “Look at Syria,” replied Deni. “It’s easy for Americans and most Europeans to believe in the fairytale of peaceful revolutions, but they are not being violently oppressed, just mind controlled into believing that they bring peace and democracy to the countries they invade. Peaceful resistance only lasts for so long until someone is killed and then they need to blame someone.”

  “I didn’t come here to philosophize with you Deni. I actually have to do some work on your case,” replied Marsha.

  “Okay, so what’s going on?” questioned Deni.

  “The prosecution is putting together your case based on forensic evidence; eye witnesses,” said Marsha.

  “How are they doing?”

  Marsha
laughed. “They are looking for needles in a haystack.”

  “That’s a good thing then,” said Deni.

  “It’s a big haystack and there are lots of needles,” she responded. “As they are building the case, the one thing they don’t have is you to help piece it together for them. You and I need to be able to counter anything they come up with.”

  “Where do we start?” asked Deni.

  “Let’s talk about your brother,” said Marsha.

  “He was my best friend. I’d die for him as he died for me,” replied Deni quickly.

  “He died for you?” she asked.

  “He was giving himself up when the police shot him. He told me it was him they were after; he wanted to give me a chance to get away, not to mention his wife and kid were in the house. He sacrificed himself for those he loved.”

  “He was giving himself up?”

  “Yes, but you know how it goes in America, shoot first, ask questions later. Dead man can’t talk you know. They can make up any story they want for the precious media and every policeman walks home a hero. It’s the story Americans love.”

  “At trial, please learn to shorten your answers to yes or no; the jurors may not appreciate your commentary,” replied Marsha.

  “Yes,” stated Deni matter of fact.

  “Tell me about your brother. It is obvious you were close, but how did he fair in America. Did he like it here? Did he have problems adjusting?”

  “I was eight and we didn’t follow in the same circles, but he was a damned good linebacker in high school. He could have gone pro,” said Deni.

  “Why didn’t he?”

  “He couldn’t get into a good college. He started at Kutztown, but then dropped out.”

  “Failed American dream,” replied Marsha.

  Deni laughed. “The American dream is a farce and unfortunately my brother fell for it.” He stretched himself out on the bed. “He was a dreamer; he believed he could have it all, but unfortunately no one can have it all. Most men have nothing.”