“Can I help you?” Omar asked like they were in a store or something.
“No.”
“Then stop staring.”
“Stop making noises.”
Omar angrily turned on his side. “I don’t make noises.”
Abdul snorted like a pig.
“How dare you accuse me of being unclean.”
“You’re not unclean. Just your throat.”
Omar sat up. “You know nothing.”
“I know animal noises.”
His brother rolled away and continued pretending to read. After a moment, he said, “What are your plans?”
Abdul hadn’t thought beyond bouncing the football. Omar looked at him pityingly. “For life.”
“Becoming a football player.”
Omar snickered. “You’re too short.”
“I’m fast. Papa said that’s more important.”
“What did he know?”
Abdul squeezed the ball. “Everything.”
His brother smirked. “Right.”
“And he’s in Heaven giving me advice now.”
Omar shook his head. “No, he’s not.”
“I hear him.”
“Not from there. He didn’t go to Heaven.”
“Don’t say that.”
“He liked the Crusaders. He helped the Crusader children.”
“He didn’t.”
“He didn’t pray. He wasn’t faithful. I had to leave home because he shamed our family.”
“No.”
“Allah hated him.”
“Shut up.”
“Allah hates traitors.”
Abdul sat up, eyes blazing. “Don’t you say that.”
“Pay attention,” Omar said dismissively, leaning against the pillow. “You’re better off that he’s dead. At least if you try, you might have a future.”
Abdul rolled the ball from knee to knee, then fired an overhead pass which hit Omar in the face. He screamed. Abdul started smothering him with the pillow. There was a lot of blood before his mother pulled him off.
• • • •
DRAWINGS OF FIVE frogs, all very different in the evolutionary process, rested before the children sitting cross-legged on the twinkling grass. The Irish girl with the big green eyes was the only one who spoke English and even that Zelda barely understood. Brogue, was that the phrase?
Zelda squirmed, Diego poking away. She’d barely slept what with Clary using her as a sofa and the other three children in the tiny cabin taking turns snoring. Tired and uncomfortable, but she could somehow sit here for hours; Zelda suddenly missed teaching.
The four boys rolled their eyes, impatient to get away and join their friends in running around rocks and kicking stones, the game of the day.
Zelda pointed at the Irish girl’s picture. “Be a frog.”
“How?”
“Be what you draw.” Wishing she had a crane, Zelda hopped unsteadily; the boys laughed.
The Irish girl rescued her, sticking out her tongue at the boys who, even if they were Swedish/German/Hungarian/Russian who knows what, understood a dare. She hopped and they hopped and soon passing children, leaving their music and dance and language classes, joined in, ribbeting from around the world.
Clary shoved through the circle with a jealous scowl and sat beside Zelda as the class was dismissed to find more wonders in this weird-ass place.
“What’s that?” Zelda pointed at a plastic bag under Clary’s arm. The girl waited warily until all the children had scattered and unfolded the Yankees t-shirt.
“Bueno,” Zelda said.
“Beisbol, si.” Clary mimed swinging a bat. “Home run. We go.”
Zelda frowned. “We go where?”
“To Puppy Beisbol.”
She tenderly squeezed Clary’s arm. “No, sweetheart. We don’t go to Puppy Beisbol. We stay here. New casa. Amigos, games. Happy.”
Happy’s a lot easier when you have no choices.
Clary’s nostrils flared. “We go to Puppy Beisbol. Yankee Stadium.”
Diego kicked and Zelda figured she could only tolerate so much self-indulgence from her children. “Yankee Stadium? No, we don’t…”
“Me.” She clenched her hands. “Not Zelda. Muchachas go.” Clary ran in a dizzying circle mish-mashing different languages of all the muchachas. She finished, surly hands on hips.
Zelda firmly led Clary over to a row of tree stumps which served as a bench.
“Clary and muchachas go?” Clary nodded. “To Puppy Beisbol.” Clary nodded again, relieved by Zelda’s sudden insight.
“Abuela muerta.” Clary hummed the Grandma song.
Zelda gripped her shoulders. “Why are you singing that?”
Clary kept humming, adding a smirk. Zelda shook her to stop, but Clary continued in a melodically defiant sing-song until finally she stopped, as if Zelda were punished enough, and said with finality, “Puppy Beisbol.”
Hazel was teaching a class on woodworking by the gentle stream which wound its way around the spidery roads, licking through the massive trees brushing against the gleaming, phosphorous ceiling. Zelda caught his attention and waited near a clump of bushes.
He limped over with a big smile. “Morning. How’s it going?”
“Like I’ve been here for years.”
“That’s the idea,” he said. “Not thinking about the outside world’s a nice notion.”
Zelda steadily met his stare. “How’s Clary doing?”
He chuckled. “Quite a little girl. I think she might run the world someday.” They considered Empress Clary for a moment. “And a pretty good athlete. She took out a second baseman with a high slide to his chest yesterday. It was a little dirty.”
“She made it all the way from Barcelona. That must have a price.”
“So do all these kids. Rapes, beatings, watching their families murdered. About fifteen thousand orphans.”
“Just living here.”
“Until it changes,” he said carefully. “They’re not going into Cousins homes anymore. No more brainwashing.”
“You rescued them?”
“Sort of,” Hazel sighed impatiently. “I can give you more background another time.”
“I’m more interested in Clary’s Yankees shirt.”
“What’s the problem?”
“She said you’re taking her to a baseball game.”
“No.” He smiled cautiously.
“Clary doesn’t lie.”
Hazel thoughtfully tossed aside pebbles. “I think she’s a little confused. There are twenty-two languages here, last I checked. Communication can be a problem.”
“I’ve met two teachers who speak Spanish.”
“They think they speak Spanish.” Hazel rubbed his Gelinium knee. “There’s going to be a special game in a few days honoring the veterans. We want these kids who came to America to know our history and what these soldiers sacrificed so there’d be somewhere left in this world where they’re wanted. We’ve found a way to pull down a feed of the game off the vidsport. The kids are getting t-shirts for both the Yankees and Cubs so we can make it a party and have everyone watch. Hot dogs and pizza. You’re welcome to join us.”
“Will they be singing
