The Age of Hysteria

by Ryan Schow

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says, his cheeks getting red. “I’m pretty sure I do.”

  “Okay then,” Adeline says. “Six o’clock.”

  With that, he thanks us, promises to be on time, then leaves. I look at Adeline and she looks at me and then she says, “There’s no greater motivator than love,” to which I say, “Sex is a pretty good motivator, too.”

  “Are you referring to him or you?”

  “Me, of course.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Adeline and I are able to bring ourselves back to reality, which happens rather quickly. She’s worried about our kids, same as me, but I’m also trusting my plan.

  Rather, I’m putting faith in my plan.

  It’s getting dark outside, and even though I’ve got Diaab’s boys inside, I’m wondering if there will come a time when I actually have to start cutting off body parts.

  Shaking my head, I push away these dark thoughts.

  “Why don’t you check on the boys and I’ll start dinner,” she says.

  Kamal and Nasr are in the smallest bathroom on the second floor. It’s just a toilet, a pedestal sink and an oval mirror. I press my ear against the door, listening first to see if they’re moving around, or grunting, but they’re not, so I open the door. Both boys look up at me from where they’re sitting on the floor. There eyes don’t show me trauma, even though I’ve duct taped their mouths shut and zip-tied them to each other around the base of a pedestal sink. Kamal’s right hand is tied to Nasr’s left hand, and Nasir’s right hand is tied to Kamal’s left hand.

  “Are you two hungry?” I ask. Both boys nod their heads. “Yeah, me, too. I’ll let you know how it is.”

  With that I shut the door, head downstairs and see how I can help Adeline.

  “How are they?” she asks.

  “Alright. Let’s make a little extra for them.”

  “I was planning on it,” she says. Then: “It’s crazy I’m over here worrying about this monster’s boys while he’s holding our kids hostage, or worse.”

  “It’s not their fault,” I reason. “So we can’t really treat them badly.”

  “The sins of the father…” she says, her eyes filled with the untold horrors of “what if…”

  “We don’t need to use these kids as retribution just yet.”

  “I know,” she says. “This is just so surreal. I mean, honestly, with you being gone so much and me having to compartmentalize my fears, it’s helping me here, but Fire, my heart aches for my kids. It aches.”

  I wrap her in a deep, loving hug and say, “Me, too, babe. Me, too.”

  Ice, Eliana and Carolina come in through the back door and pretty soon it’s five of us, which is about to become seven of us.

  “If I’m cooking for seven, and we have dozens of mouths to feed,” she asks me, “how the hell are we supposed to save these people, much less save ourselves?”

  “Nine people,” I say. “Don’t forget the boys.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” she says. “You just told me that.”

  “Let me worry about that,” I tell her, rubbing small circles into her back. “You just do your thing and let me do some of the heavy lifting, too.”

  “I want to help,” Eliana says.

  “I would like to help, too,” Carolina says in rudimentary English.

  “Thank you, Carolina,” I say. Looking at Eliana, I add, “And thank you for not killing me the first time we met.”

  “You’re welcome,” she says.

  I can tell by her body language this compliment strikes her well. She is a powerful woman, a killer for the right cause, a force to be reckoned with. That I can see that and side-step my ego, which isn’t that easy these days, seems to settle well with her.

  “I like extra cheese on my enchiladas,” I tell Carolina as she grabs the cheese grater and goes to work.

  “I like cheese, too,” the girl says with a smile.

  Eliana takes an avocado from Adeline, then turns to me with the knife and the fruit and says, “Let us work, take your pretty face away from here.”

  Amused and giving in, I kiss Adeline on the cheek, then say, “Whatever you need, ask me and I’ll get it, or do it.”

  “Or be it?” she says, playfully.

  God, I love this side of her!

  “Within reason, of course.”

  “Good, now go already,” Adeline says.

  “Remember the bathroom on the second floor is not working,” I say, giving a slight head turn Carolina’s way.

  “I remember,” she says.

  The last thing we need is Carolina seeing the boys. She wouldn’t understand. Worse, I’m afraid it will startle her. Give her PTSD.

  “Is that where the boys are?” Eliana asks as she pulls the seed from the avocado. I look at her startled, but then realize Carolina might not understand English very well, or the context of the conversation. One glance at her and I can tell she’s too busy with the cheese.

  “Yes,” I admit. “We have them for leverage.”

  “I assumed as much,” she says.

  “I just don’t want her”—I say, nodding toward Carolina—“seeing them in the bathroom and thinking we are like the men we rescued her from.”

  “She knows you’re not.”

  “But if she sees them zip-tied to the sink with their mouths taped shut, I’m afraid she won’t understand. That she maybe get flashbacks of her kidnapping and abuse. We want her to feel safe with us. Not scared.”

  “I will tell her what is going on after I’m done here,” she says. “Now go visit with your brother.”

  I stand up straight, my eyes kind, my soul open to these women, my heart finally beating with compassion once more.

  “You heard her,” Adeline says. “Shoo!”

  Ice and I catch up in the front room, but the conversation is hollow. We’re both worried, but unwilling to hash it out before dinner. That’s a longer conversation. Besides, Ice knows I don’t want to talk. He knows there’s nothing to say until Diaab calls. Even then, the conversation will change, turning to the ways and means by which we get my kids back.

  So right now it’s a waiting game. Not just with the kids, but with everything else, too.

  “The storm’s here,” Ice says. “A small flurry of snow is falling.”

  “How wet?”

  “Wet.”

  “It’s been brewing,” I say. “Getting cold.”

  Neither of us want to talk about this complication, because with all the TV networks now down, and the weather service inactive, we can’t say for sure what’s coming. It could be an inch of snow and then sun, or a three foot dump and weeks of bitter cold.

  I know we should prepare to survive not just this urban wasteland, but a storm coupled with possible power outages, too. The knock on the front door doesn’t exactly startle me, but it does pull me from my reverie and the mounting dread it’s bringing.

  “I’ll get it,” I say, standing up.

  “Good evening,” Eudora says when we open the door. She’s dressed up beautifully in an emerald green dress with a thin, patterned coat, her hair done, her makeup on. There are small flakes of snow on her shoulders and arms, and on her thighs.

  “You look beautiful,” I tell her, making her blush. “Are you wearing perfume?”

  “I am.”

  “It’s lovely,” Ice says, moving beside me.

  Draven pushes her inside.

  She looks up at Ice with a jovial smile and says, “Oh don’t you two patronize an old woman.” There’s a sweetness in her voice that says she’s eating all this attention up. She then adds, “Unless you want to. If you do, I’m sure I’ll find myself unable to stop you.”

  “Grandma,” Draven says.

  “Oh stop, I haven’t flirted with two good looking men at once since the sixties. In those days, with all the drugs, you didn’t have to act like a prude or apologize for your reproductive inclinations.”

  “I wasn’t saying stop,” Draven replied, his cheeks glowing a b
right red. “I was going to say I forgot the bottle of wine.”

  “Well drop me off and go get it then,” she says. “In the mean time, I’m freezing my nickers off in front of these two handsome deviants.”

  “They’re not deviants,” Draven says.

  “Actually, we are,” Ice tells him in jest. “But that only adds to our appeal, wouldn’t you agree Eudora?”

  “I’ll say,” she says as Draven rolls her near a heating vent. “That hot air feels good.”

  “Would you like me to take your coat, grandma?” Draven asks.

  “You’re DEA, right?” Eudora asks, ignoring her grandson.

  “When there was a DEA.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any pot?” she asks. “I’m not asking for me, mind you.” And then she leans forward and gives me a hearty wink.

  Laughing, the only thing I can say is, “When we rob the criminals, it’s usually for guns and money, not pot. That’s a gateway drug…”

  “To a good time,” she teases. “C’mon boys, don’t deny an old lady her small pleasures!”

  “The last time I saw my grandmother get high was never,” Draven says. “I hope you realize her sense of humor is a little off-center.”

  “Don’t be telling these boys my secrets,” she snaps. “Aren’t you getting that wine?”

  “Yes.”

  “I still see you here…”

  The second Draven heads next door, Eudora starts in on this story about how she once took two tabs of acid at Woodstock and ended up not wearing any clothes in someone’s tent, and as out of the blue as it seems—her telling us this—it really gives me a sense of this woman.

  “Normally I wouldn’t divulge such criminal activities to men of the law—”

  “Oh, I’m not law enforcement,” Ice says.

  “—but I figured you being the DEA,” she now says, looking at me, “you’ve seen your fair share of things.”

  “I have.”

  Draven returns quickly, then sits down and relaxes as best as he can. We swap some stories from our past, and I have to say, talking with Eudora, hearing about her life, makes me forget all the problems staring me down. For a second, I feel unperturbed, maybe even a bit rested, which is unusual considering how high strung I’ve become.

  “As much as she likes to talk,” Draven finally says, taking her hand, “she has a calming sense about her.”

  Ice says, “I see that now.”

  “But I’ve got no problem drawing down if you try taking my stuff,” she adds.

  “I see that, too,” Ice says, laughing.

  When dinner’s ready, everyone gathers around the kitchen table as I head upstairs for the boys. When I open the door, the two boys look up at me again.

  “Do you smell that?” I ask, sniffing the air. Kamal nods his head, but Nasr just looks at me. “It’s fresh enchiladas. We made extra, thinking you might like some.”

  The boys’ eyes widen.

  “But as hungry as I am, I’m thinking I might tell my wife I’m going to give you the food, but really I’ll just come up here and eat the extras. Would you like to watch me eat? I think that would be fun. Does that sound like fun to you?”

  Nasr narrows his eyes at me and mumbles something unintelligible. I tear off the duct tape and say, “I didn’t catch that.”

  He utters something in a language I don’t understand, but I know the tone.

  “In English, little fella.”

  “I said I don’t want to eat your poison.”

  “I didn’t say you could have any. I only said I might eat it up here because when my wife makes Mexican food, it’s incredible.”

  “It’s Mexican food,” Nasr grumbles.

  “Kamal, how do you feel about enchiladas?” I ask.

  “They’re alright.”

  “Here, let me listen to your belly,” I say, leaning forward. He starts to scoot back but I say, “I won’t hurt you. Just let me listen to your tummy, see what it says.”

  I put my head near his stomach and it grumbles.

  “Ah, yes! Your stomach says it’s willing to give these enchiladas a try!”

  Kamal fights back a smile.

  “What about you?” I ask Nasr. “Have you ever had enchiladas before?”

  “My father wouldn’t allow us to eat that dog meat.”

  “I think your stomach might say otherwise,” I say. “I’m going to give it a listen.”

  “Stay away from me,” he says.

  When I lean forward, however, instead of his stomach growling, he squeaks out a pint-sized fart.

  Leaning back and sitting up straight, I say, “Sounds like you’ve had enchiladas before.”

  He tries not to laugh, which makes it pretty hard for me not to laugh, but Kamal isn’t as strong. He starts giggling like crazy and pretty soon we’re all belly laughing.

  When the hilarity wears off, I say, “I’d like to invite you both down to dinner. This will be a civilized meal with good people. But I’ve told them the same about you two. Would you like that?”

  “Are you going to poison us?” Nasr asks.

  “No.”

  “Okay, then,” he says, looking and sounding older than his years. “We’ll give it a try.”

  “Are you going to cut our toes and fingers off if my father doesn’t call you?” Kamal says, taking the jovial mood down a notch.

  “No, but I don’t want you to tell him that. In fact, if you don’t tell him that, you will be safe. But if you tell him that I wouldn’t dare lay a hand on you, then I will most certainly hurt you because I will have to. Do you understand?”

  The boys nod their heads and I free them.

  “If you’re good, we can continue to live like civilized people. But if you test me, especially you, half-pint, I’m going to show you the bottom of my toilet bowl, just like I showed you the bottom of yours. Fair enough?”

  He looks up at me. “Fair enough.”

  When I take them downstairs, I introduce them to everyone by name and eventually say, “These two fine young men are friends of mine from up the street. Their father is away conducting some business so they chose to have dinner with us tonight, if that’s okay.”

  Everyone knows the score here, but they pretend they don’t for the boys’ sake. Looking down at them, I give a reassuring smile. They return the gesture and I can feel something different going on here. I like it.

  “If you’d like to wash up boys, we’re going to need to be extra clean because it may be impossible to see a doctor in the coming days. Under these circumstances, it will be critical to keep your health. The bathroom is the door just under the stairs.”

  When the boys are washing their hands, Adeline is looking at me funny.

  “What?”

  “Who are you and what have you done with my husband?” she says.

  Everyone starts to laugh, but a reminder of the moment and our stolen kids is cut short as reality rudely intrudes on what could have been a lightening of the moods.

  We manage to get everyone plates and napkins and seats, and no one seems to mind the under-planned accommodations. Everyone compliments the cooking, as they should (it’s amazing!) and then they eat. We all eat even though some of us don’t have hearty appetites because who knows what tomorrow will bring? At this point, who knows what the next thirty seconds will bring?

  When we’re done, Eudora says, “I want to talk to you about my plans for the neighborhood.”

  “The floor is yours,” Ice says.

  Turning to Draven, Eudora says, “If my dentures slip, don’t be afraid to tell me. I don’t want to scare the youngsters.”

  Draven smiles and nods his head.

  “For starts, my grandson is a capable person. To put up with an old crank like me is enough to drive a person to drinking, but Draven is not like that.”

  He takes her hand and smiles at her, his moment of vindication.

  “Now do this old lady a quick favor, if you will,” she tells Draven. “My mind being what it
is, I forgot the map you created of the neighborhood.”

  “It’s on the kitchen counter, I think,” he says.

  Then to us, Eudora says, “He went down the street and knocked on doors earlier, figuring out which homes were occupied and which ones weren’t. I’m sure a few of the homeowners didn’t open the door, but that still leaves a lot of empty residences. These homes are where we’re going to go shopping from.”

  “Why not go to the grocery stores like normal people?” Nasr asks.

  I see Carolina trying to catch up, but also looking a touch empty in the eyes because the language barrier is leaving her out of the conversation.

  “People are killing each other over food and water,” Eudora says. “I wouldn’t expect you to know that, and I hope you don’t have to witness any of it. It’s traumatizing enough on an adult let alone a child.”

  “I’m not a child,” Nasr says, a bit defiant.

  “Show me your armpits,” I tell the kid. “Stand up now and lift your arms up.”

  He just stares at me, not sure why I’m asking what I’m asking. He stands up, lifts his arms to the ceiling and rolls his eyes.

  “Shirt, too. One side is fine,” I say. He pulls up a side of his shirt. “Kamal, do me a favor and count the number of armpit hairs he’s got under there.”

  “Fire, don’t do that,” Adeline says, like she’s disappointed in me.

  “The kid’s got grapefruits for balls, Adeline. Trust me, he’s more annoyed than he is embarrassed.”

  “None,” Kamal says.

  “That’s right, you’re still a child. Now put your arms down, sit back down and don’t lip off to Eudora. She’s your elder and in this country, we respect our elders.”

  “But she’s white,” he says.

  “I’ll have you know,” Eudora says, completely serious, “I’m only seven percent white.”

  She stares him down like she’s totally serious while the rest of us know if we burst out laughing we’ll ruin everything.

  “When I tell you something young man, from now on you say ‘Yes, ma’am,’ or ‘No, ma’am,’ and that will suffice. In the mean time, if you’re going to be part of our discussion, and I hope you will, use your manners.”