by Theo Cage
"Anything I can help you with?" She seemed to lean into him slightly, provocatively. But then weren't all young American women shameless this way?
"I am ... just looking," he said.
"Where are you from?" she asked, direct as a street hooker. He struggled to find his tongue.
"Libya," he answered. "Benghazi, actually."
She smiled and said, "Welcome to America." Then she looked at him expectantly, waiting for his answer. There was an innocence in her eyes that surprised him.
"Thank you," was all he could think of until a thought came to him. "Do you work here?" She smiled and pointed at Tony. "See that gorilla over there? He's my husband. We own this store together. I'm Sonya." Yusuf was surprised by her frankness. Such disrespect for a husband. But he couldn't help but agree. He hated the owner.
"Your husband and I had a discussion a few days ago about a bauble he had on display. We couldn't come to a satisfactory agreement on the price. Though I offered him thousands for it."
Sonya turned back to him, instantly serious. "Really. Something we have in the store?" It occurred to him then that he had been dealing with the wrong partner. She clearly didn't believe that anything they had in inventory could be worth more than a few dollars.
"What was the item?"
Yusuf answered in a low voice, which caused Sonya to lean closer, her perfume slowly dismantling what common sense he felt remained in his possession. He felt almost giddy. "I am reluctant to say and cause his asking price to go even higher."
"You can tell me. I'll go look it up. Tony is not a businessman. He's our box boy."
"Yes. I feel I can trust you. I was looking at an amulet shaped like a small egg with colored glass attached. It was in the display cabinet."
"I know the one. We've had that for months. Years."
Yusuf told her his contrived story about his grandmother. She responded appropriately. As she walked away, Yusuf tried unsuccessfully not to stare at her. What an intoxicating woman, he thought, feeling that strange sensation in his chest again. He hadn't thought about females for some time - as distracted as he was with his life and his unreadable future. Sonya was impossible to ignore though. All of his other concerns seemed to fade away. This thought amused him - like he had discovered an unwritten truth that had evaded him for forty years of living. Something he had discovered not in a holy place or a learned book - but the White Street Trading Shack.
She returned to him a few moments later. “He says it is not for sale."
"And did he say why?"
Sonya looked away for a second, a sure sign that she didn't believe her husband's words.
"He says it has historical value," she shrugged. "And he wants an expert to look at it."
"And when might that happen?" asked Yusuf.
"Knowing Tony? Next year, if we're lucky."
"So he won't sell it then?"
Sonya shook her head, as if to say not selling something in the store was an abomination to her, but her husband was clearly an unmovable object.
Yusuf said, "That is too bad." And he meant it. In ways Sonya could never predict.
. . .
Yusuf had somehow procured a day off. His brother-in-law agreed to work the store for one day. Just one day, he said, his gold tooth flashing, his rings moving through the air like shiny satellites circling his giant body.
Yusuf also had access to one of his brother-in-law’s cars, a sedan as big as a truck with four massive doors and a trunk lid the size of a garage door. The aging Plymouth had hundreds of thousands of miles on the meter, but it started with regularity and stopped when the brake pedal was pushed to the point of a leg cramp.
Yusuf had a plan. And since this was his only day off, today was the day the plan would have to take effect.
Yusuf parked in the back lane of the thrift shop in the loading zone, trunk facing the ancient metal door he had jimmied a week earlier. He looked at the door with uncertainty, all evidence of his crime now removed. He accepted his fate. He was an evildoer pure and simple. His mother, if she were still alive, would be ashamed. She would ignore him in the street, her eyes down on the cobblestones.
Yusuf knocked on the back door, then saw a sign announcing, "Ring for Service." He rang the bell and heard it echo throughout the back of the store. Both Tony and Sonya were working today. He had a 50% chance that the woman would answer the door. That would make things so much simpler.
The door opened, and Sonya looked out. When she saw Yusuf, she smiled. "You have something for us?” she asked.
"Yes. I noticed you sell old records, and my uncle has a collection."
Sonya frowned slightly, not apparently excited by scratchy old phonograph records. But she still entered the alley and closed the door behind her. Today she was wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt and tight lemon-colored jeans. Yusuf had no idea what a Led Zeppelin was, but he still enjoyed how the shirt covered her upper body. He drew her to the trunk of the old Plymouth, facing the back bumper, and pulled the keys out of his pocket.
"If you could help me to lift them from the trunk? My back has been very sore lately." She nodded. Yusuf turned the key and lifted the massive trunk lid.
"They are under the blanket," he said. When she leaned over the trunk lid for the coverlet, he reached down and grabbed her ankles and lifted her up into the storage space with one quick motion. She landed on her neck and yelled out before Yusuf could cover her in the blanket. He lowered the huge lid and slammed it shut. She was still yelling, but he was surprised by how much the sound was muffled. They obviously used heavier sheet metal and insulation in these older cars. Now if it will just start, he prayed.
Yusuf cranked the oversized steering wheel to the left as he turned onto Wisconsin Avenue, his arm out the window, the hot breath of a Washington summer on his face. He felt dwarfed by the Plymouth, like a child pretending he was an adult. And failing.
He had heard some thumps from the rear of the car, a couple of muffled screams, but all he had to do was make a tight turn and he could imagine the store’s brazen proprietor rolling around in the cavernous trunk, banging her head on the spare tire or falling on an assortment of tools. He shouldn't be angry with Sonya; after all, what had she done to him? But she became the focus of all his frustration, all of his crushed dreams, his inability to conquer as simple a thing as the challenge of life in America.
Yusuf pressed down on the gas pedal, imagining gallons of precious fuel gushing into ancient carburetors, and heard the engine roar. But the monster sedan barely responded. He rocked the wheel back and forth again, heard the soft bump in the trunk, and he laughed. He must be going insane. This crazy country had driven him mad with the flashing lights, the fast cars, and the half-naked women. Here he was, driving home, a shameless slut locked in the trunk, and he was laughing like a fool. If by chance a policeman was to pull him over, he would never see daylight again for the rest of his life. Yet he somehow felt more alive than he had for months. He was taking action. He was responding to Allah's gift.
. . .
Sonya knew, more than most, about secret places. She often thought of herself as a travel guide to those dark, hidden tunnels; tiny refuges from fear and personal shame and terror. This trunk, shaking her around like a drumstick in a seasoning bag, was to her, just one more ugly private cave to explore.
When she was eight, her step-dad, the elevator repairman with the thinning black hair and brooding eyes, suddenly began to take a heightened interest in her. At first, she was excited by the attention. She had often felt ignored and under-appreciated. But it wasn't long before she began to notice the hugs were lingering into uncomfortable territory, and the questions were becoming more personal and adult. She started to watch his hands, like they were hungry predators that needed to be swatted away and avoided.
Finally, on a family camping trip one summer, he had crawled into her pup tent at night and showed her what his new expectations were as head of the Ellis household. Later, she had cried uncontrollabl
y, which made her hate herself. She wasn't a trembling waif or a victim or a pathetic loser. She had never seen herself this way. But when she fought back and scratched his arm, he had hit her cheek so hard with his fist; she was momentarily stunned by the sheer adult power of it. How could you fight something so powerful - so primal?
For weeks, she planned gruesome revenge on her step-dad, each plot more intricate and violent than the last. She remembered sitting on her haunches, staring into the laundry cupboard at various bottles and vials, hopeful that one might contain the toxicity required to end his life in seconds. Because she feared the possibility of a long drawn-out death, where he might still have the strength to club her again with his hated fists.
But some taboo, stronger than her shame, stopped her. She always imagined faceless authorities dragging her off to some medieval prison, her family shocked and unsympathetic.
"He was a good man, that Harry," they would say. "What possessed that crazy Sonya to kill her loving father?"
So she withdrew into herself. That was a simpler plan and didn't require explanations or risky behavior. Young girls are just moody, they would say. Blame it on puberty. But Harry seemed to take her shyness as a sign of encouragement. She fought back less, which made things easier for him. Which increased her sense of guilt to stomach-churning proportions.
That was when she learned how to hide - not in a real room or cupboard, but inside herself. She would crawl up into some internal attic where there were no windows and no light - if she squeezed her eyes as tight as possible. Then in the dark, she would pull up her legs and her arms and roll up into an armored ball, like an armadillo she had seen once on a nature TV show. Then she would count the seconds, all of her being focused on the numbers as they ticked away in her skull.
Eventually, when her step-dad was done, she could uncurl slowly, listening to his steps receding into the hall.
Sonya was reminded of that now. In the murky hollowness of the trunk, she could hear her captor laughing like a drunk. What could he possibly be chortling about? He had stolen her. Like she was an appliance or big screen TV - something to entertain him when he wasn't busy watching reality TV or prostrate on his prayer rug.
She was done with going along, and she was finished with hiding in the attic. Once out of this trunk, when the opportunity showed itself, she was taking back all that shame and groping hands and cold flesh. She was going to shove them all where the sun don't shine. And she didn't care about the consequences anymore. Send her to the castle keep. Chain her to the slimy walls. She didn't care anymore.
And you could embroider that on your fucking throw pillow if you didn't believe her.
. . .
Yusuf’s rented pre-war bungalow on Cherry Lane had a single detached garage facing a narrow back lane. The turn was tricky, especially with the boat-like Plymouth. He backed in awkwardly, drove forward, backed up again, and over-corrected. He finally got out to take a look and saw that he had less than a foot of space between the massive rear chrome bumper and the frame of the garage door.
He pulled the cranky door up, the smell of paint and oil and mildew escaping into the late evening sunlight. He got back in and managed to reverse into the garage with only a minor scrape on one side. He squeezed out of the car and pulled the wooden door down. He stood there for a minute in the gloom, the only light, a splash of fading sunset sneaking through one greasy window.
He heard Sonya's voice, hoarse from yelling, weakened.
"Let me out!"
Yusuf shook his head. He knew that from this point on, his fate was out of his hands. Sonya should know that too. But of course, she wouldn't. This was the land of hope. For Americans, as poor as they might be, as forgotten, as maligned - there was always hope.
He walked over to a crowded shelf across from the rear of the car where he had left a paper bag. He reached in and pulled out a roll of packing tape. Some nylon rope. And a .38 revolver.
The gun was his brother-in-laws. He kept a gun at every one of his dry cleaning establishments. Security, he called it.
Yusuf had never held a gun before. It felt strange and foreign in his hand. He clicked the safety off, then on again, and felt a charge go through him. So many things in Yusuf's world were haram - prohibited by the scripture. Music. Certain foods. Types of clothing. But not once is a gun mentioned. Yet even he felt its wickedness in his hands. He didn't need a warning from his Bible to make him feel weak in the knees from fear for this thing he held. But without it, he couldn't take the next step. So he had no choice.
Speaking of haram, he had brought an old record player into the garage and the armful of old vinyl he had stolen from the junk shop. He expected Sonya to make a fuss; she was that kind of woman. The music would cover up her yelling. He placed the first record on the turntable and turned up the volume.
He turned then, facing the trunk with his legs braced for a fight, and lifted up the latch.
Yusuf stared at the woman from the thrift shop. Her long hair was disheveled and knotted and dirty. Twenty years of accumulated dust and road filth had been stirred up in the trunk and was now covering her ankle to elbow. She looked like a street urchin from some American silent film comedy.
Yet he was still slightly afraid of her. She was like a lion, dozing in the sun, looking innocent and sleepy, yet able to rip your head off with one angry swipe. He stepped back. Would a bullet be enough to stop her before she got her hands on him? He wasn't sure. Maybe guns were all Hollywood nonsense. Lots of noise and drama, but no real power to change things. He didn't know.
"What do you want with me? As if I don't know," she said.
Yusuf wasn't sure what she meant. She must have guessed he had an interest in the necklace.
"You are my hostage now," he said, taking one more step back. She was unfolding from the trunk, looking taller than he remembered, and vibrating with some kind of feral energy. He didn't want to be within striking distance.
"Fuck you," she said, glaring at him.
Yusuf shook the gun. "I will shoot,” he said. "You must obey me."
"Go ahead. Get it over with. But you better kill me in the first shot, or I will scoop your eyeballs out with my fingernails and make you eat them." Sonya almost smiled. That was one of the fantasies she had planned for her stepfather when she was a kid. She had played that image over and over a hundred times in her head while he was on top of her.
Yusuf looked surprised. His fantasy obviously wasn't playing out as planned. He must have felt he needed to confirm his control. He wanted to slap her across the face, but was reluctant to get that close. American women were a constant surprise.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said, hoping negotiation would reduce her temper.
"Yeah, I know. You just want to make me feel loved."
"No. No. I am a married man. I only want the necklace."
Sonya crossed her arms and glared at him, full of suspicion. "The jewelry in the display case? That little egg?"
"Yes. You must get it for me."
"And why would I do that?"
"Because if you don't, I will have to kill you and bury you in a field somewhere."
"You don't look like a killer to me."
"Maybe I don't. But if I don't get the necklace, I will die. I have cancer. I need the money for treatment. You can see I am desperate. Don't underestimate me."
Sonya tried wiping some of the road dust off of her clothes. "So, I help you get the egg, and you let me go. What's to stop me from calling the police the second I get out of here?"
“Because I will be giving you lots of money,” said Yusuf.
“I think you’re confused about how this hostage taking works.”
“No. No. I have a buyer for the wristlet. I only want a finder’s fee. I can make you rich. If you can only convince your stupid husband to pay the ransom. To bring the trinket here. That is all.”
“Have you met my husband?” asked Sonya.
. . .
Hyde woke up fuzzy and
disconnected, startled out of one of those afternoon naps that wouldn’t let go, hanging on like a rabid dog. He felt more spent than when he hit the couch.
And the dog was whining now, wanting out. He looked down and saw jeans, a Harvard sweatshirt with the sleeves torn off, a beat up pair of running shoes on his sockless feet. What the hell? He didn’t remember changing when he got home, just collapsing on the sofa.
Hyde's daughter, Kyla, was away on a band trip to Boston, an annual excursion for Grade twelve students who had accomplished a certain grade point average. He wasn't sure what went on during these weeklong trips today. He knew they were chaperoned. But these kids weren't dumb. They knew the workarounds. He remembered what went on when he was a teenager - all of his indiscretions coming back to haunt him.
When Kyla was away, Hyde became her dog sitter. She owned a pug named George. Every night around eight, Hyde would attach George's lead and head down Pearl Street, patiently walking behind the short-legged canine. The walks weren’t long. George wasn’t a sprinter.
Tonight was a perfect evening for a stroll. The sky was clear; the air was warm - and Hyde’s cell phone hadn't gone off for hours. Unusual when he was on call. So, figuring the outing would only last a block or two, a five-minute break from the job that never ended, he clicked the leash onto George’s collar.
To Hyde’s surprise, George charged out the front door like a racehorse. Hyde pulled back on his lead, impressed by the heft of the dog. In motion, he was like a rolling cannonball.
After three blocks, George settled down to a trot. At this point, Hyde decided to extend the walk; take advantage of the weather, as long as George could keep up. It was a beautiful evening. Like another world. Maybe he had woken in some parallel universe. Children were laughing. No sirens. No screaming tires. A milky peacefulness pervaded everything. The sky, the air, the green shadows. A world that no longer needed cops, thought Hyde. That was hilarious.
