“It’s called God Bless America,” Mooshie said.
God. When’s the last time anyone heard that publicly. Privately.
Grandma turned to Cheng, “They only sing this once, right?”
The First Cousin nodded with a vague smile. “That’s all that’s needed.”
“God bless America, land that I love,” Mooshie sang.
“Stand beside her, and guide her
Through the night with the light from above.”
The orchestra members turned into soldiers.
“From the mountains to the prairies
To the oceans white with foam.”
Mooshie faced Grandma.
“God bless America, my home, sweet home.”
Mooshie’s voice turned hard, savage.
“God bless America, my home, sweet home.”
Now the words flew out of the HG soldiers’ mouths and the crowd saluted the flag flying over the field. The song ended and, as the cheers faded, a voice echoed.
“We’ve been lied to.”
One of Hazel’s kids stood behind the Cubs’ dugout, the red-haired girl seen simultaneously on the scoreboard.
“My name is Hanna Duchin,” she said with a heavy Dutch accent. “I’m an orphan. I was abandoned by America and raped by the Allahs.”
A gasp rippled across the stands. Mooshie stared at the stunned Grandma.
A little boy stood. In Italian, he said, “My name is Francis Mangella. The Allahs killed my parents by scooping out their insides.”
Now another girl said in German, “My name is Alycia Stine. I was tortured in an orphanage.”
All over the stadium, Hazel’s kids talked about the brutality of the Allahs. A contingent of Black Tops rushed toward the control room; so did Frecklie.
The scoreboard filled with vids of the crescent moon and star over Britain’s Parliament building, Paris, the Eiffel Tower festooned in Arabic wording. Stumbling lines of unkempt children marched at the point of Holy Warrior bayonets through a swamp. Dead nuns and dead priests. The lush beaches of Hawaii filled with vacationing Allahs, while Islamic soldiers snow-boarded in Alaska. The mushroom cloud floated over Los Angeles. The White House collapsed.
“This is the peace Grandma gave us,” the voice said quietly, because there was no need to shout.
On the second level between home and first, Miners ambushed the approaching BT squad with a few quick shots outside the control room. They fired at Frecklie, who barely ducked behind the corner.
“This is the peace she wants to continue,” the voice continued.
Grandma and Abdullah, in his white robes, smiled together from the scoreboard. One horrified gasp seized the ballpark.
Puppy saw orange wigged heads fill both bullpens.
“Hello, my darlings. This is the most important talk we’ll ever have. You and I and our new friend, Abdullah bin-Nasr. Yes, his father is the Grand Mufti. Yes, our old enemy. Which means you must listen. Because peace isn’t enough, my darlings. We sit here, American and Arab, in our secure homes and believe a world which is forever on the verge of a holocaust will last. It can’t. Hate doesn’t work, even when we have a reason to hate. We had a reason to hate Islam.”
“And we, a reason to hate the West,” added Abdullah.
Some fans in the bleachers threw food at the scoreboard.
“You oppressed us, but you didn’t understand how,” the Son continued. “We oppressed you, and justified it. You deported us. We blew up your cities. You blew up ours. We won.”
Miners ran to their positions along the foul lines. Faintly, ‘copter blades approached.
“Yes they did,” Grandma said. “Oh, we could’ve settled the score by using our nuclear weapons, but that would’ve meant the end of humanity. There were many who wanted that, who hated so much that destruction seemed sensible. I chose otherwise because we all are one people who have a duty to everyone on this planet to survive until we can figure it all out. Abdullah and I are making a start.”
Abdullah fussed with his robes.
“I have taken control of the Caliphate of Europe and expect the Caliphate of Our Ancestors in the Middle East and Africa to follow suit,” he said calmly. “Not all my people want to hate. Our religion has been corrupted by the pursuit of power, greed and corruption. Allah teaches us to love.”
Abdullah paused, as if he could hear the angry shouts.
“It’s difficult for you to believe that. It’s difficult for us to believe many things about you, too. But we need to move ahead together. We need to live together. To trust each other. To see each other. Touch each other. Share meals. Laughter. To learn together.”
“It will take time.” Grandma smiled. “But we must forgive.”
“Rabbi aghfir li,” Abdullah said in Arabic.
“Rabbi aghfir li,“ Grandma repeated, the sound of her speaking Arabic shocking. “We need not fear. The love we’ve shown in rebuilding a new world must be shared. We don’t need weapons anymore. Our hearts and our minds are the strongest guns we can ever have. I know this is a lot to ask and a lot to understand. I have faith in all of you. I love you all. May we show the same love to our enemies that we show to each other. Let us build a new Family.”
Everyone in the stadium stared at the real Grandma, white-faced, dimly looking at the the video she and Abdullah taped in the secret Manhattan location fade away.
“Is this what we want again?” the voice asked over more grisly scenes of American soldiers bodies washing ashore. “Our survival is at stake. We must take back our freedoms before they’re surrendered forever. Finish the job.”
In red, white and blue, FINISH THE JOB spurted out of the scoreboard as oranged-wigged Miners poured onto the field, firing at the arriving ‘copters. Artito’s security team rushed protectively toward Grandma. Miners leaped out of both dugouts and butchered them with a volley.
A ‘copter crashed by first base and a second aircraft was blown up by a surface-to-air missile. Puppy dashed around the burning debris, plunging through the rebels toward Grandma.
Ty tossed Puppy a bat; he winged a Miner. Mick brought down another with a blow to the head.
Mooshie reached under her dress for the .38. One shot, two maybe. The bitch was
