The colonel’s wife was screaming something in Persian, the boy too, and Lester turned to see them both standing in the darkened hallway over Kathy, who was on her back in a robe which was parted to the sash at her waist, one of her breasts exposed. Her eyes were half open, looking up at the ceiling with either great interest or none at all. Then the colonel stepped from the light of a side room holding an iron wrecking bar, but with one hand, like he was simply transporting it someplace else, and his wife was screaming even louder, crying now, and the boy stood perfectly still and so did the colonel because Lester had him centered in the tip and notch of his gun-sights. He was yelling at the colonel to drop it, drop it!Though he meant for him to only put it down because if he dropped it it might hit Kathy, but he couldn’t yell anything else. His heart was beating in the grip of his hands, in the squeeze of all his fingers except one, and it was a pained effort to keep that one from pulsing against the trigger, pulsing until there was no more screaming, no one standing over Kathy half naked on the floor, even the woman, and the young handsome boy.
A GAINST THE WALL I REST THE IRON WRECKING BAR AND I LONG FORputting my body between Lester V. Burdon’s raised weapon and my wife and son, but I cannot do this without stepping over the nearly conscious body of Kathy Nicolo, and this I am quite certain the tall yelling deputy sheriff will not allow. My blood is thick and cold within me and I feel my arms have become mere threads. Lester V. Burdon keeps his weapon aimed directly at my heart and he is yelling many things at once. Questions and orders. What did you do to her? Step back! Pick her up! Shut up! This last to Nadi who is screaming uncontrollably, and he points the gun and she falls silent, clutching our son who has become completely still and quiet, watching the man and the gun as if from a great distance.
I attempt to begin explaining things, but I can only open my hands and say, “Listen. Listen.” And he aims the weapon back at me, the flowers behind him appearing like evil wings. But then Kathy Nicolo makes a sound and Lester V. Burdon stops his yelling and watches as the girl moves her head once from side to side, her heavy eyes focused on the air above her. “Les? Don’t, don’t.”
“Move!”Mr. Burdon waves his weapon at us, and my wife and son and I retreat to the rear of the corridor as he kneels at the woman’s side, his back against the wall, his weapon resting on the carpet in his hand. He pulls the robe securely over her chest, then he places his hand upon her forehead, speaks her name, asks if she is all right. In the light from the bathroom, the color of the young woman’s face is not good, like green olives immersed too long in water. She turns her head to Lester V. Burdon, and her strangely small and dark eyes do not appear to see him. She smiles weakly. “You’re here.”
“Yes, I’m here. I’m here.” He pushes away the hair from around her face. I feel the time has come to speak but I must choose my words carefully. It is clear he loves this Kathy Nicolo; I must not have any disrespect in my voice. She has closed her eyes, a tentative smile upon her lips, and Lester V. Burdon regards us immediately. “What did you do to her?”
I take in a breath to speak, but Esmail steps forward. “She took a whole bottle of my mother’s sleeping pills. You want to see?” And without waiting for a response from the armed Mr. Burdon, Esmail retrieves the empty prescription bottle from the bathroom sink and then returns to his mother’s side, holding the bottle out in front of him for Mr. Burdon’s inspection.
“Bring it to me.” Burdon raises the pistol but does not point it at us. His voice reveals some emotion: fear. And I too am filled with it as my son stops at Kathy Nicolo’s bare feet and gives to Burdon the bottle. He must narrow his eyes to read the label in only the light from the kitchen, the candlelight from the living-room area, and in English I ask my son to return to us, but he stays at the feet of Kathy Nicolo, as if it is important he wait there.
Burdon lowers the container. “How many? When?”
My wife tells to me in Farsi the bottle was nearly full, perhaps thirty to forty tablets.
“English!”
“My wife is saying in the bottle there were thirty tablets, but Kathy Nicolo was in the bathroom a very short period, perhaps only a half hour’s time, and my wife has made her lose her stomach. She has vomited the pills.”
Burdon looks down at the young woman once more. He pulls from her chin and mouth a strand of hair, then rests his palm on her forehead. I feel the moment has come to continue. “She also attempted to shoot herself with that pistol.”
He regards me very quickly, the skin above his eyes drawn in tight lines, and I am careful not to use his name. “I discovered her with it in her automobile. She was quite upset. She had been drinking a great deal.”
Lester V. Burdon looks from me to Nadi, to Esmail, then at me once more, his lips open beneath his mustache, as if this piece of information must enter his mouth as well as his ears. But then he shakes his head and stands. “Bullshit. Bull shit.”And he orders us to carry Kathy Nicolo to a bed.
There are tears in Nadi’s eyes, but she appears relieved to be allowed movement again. She quickly administers to Kathy Nicolo, closing the robe around her bare legs, securing the knot more tightly at her waist. In poor English she directs me to take the arms of Kathy Nicolo while she and Esmail see to the legs. My back is stiff but I squat low behind the woman’s head and place my hands beneath her upper arms. She opens her eyes, but again, they are quite small and dark. We lift and begin to carry her into Nadereh’s room, and Lester V. Burdon is so close behind me I am able to hear his breathing. He tells to us to be careful, very careful, and in his voice there is still the menace of his anger and disbelief, but also his fear for the well-being of the young woman. But what concerns me more than these is this man’s probable knowledge of my visit to his superior officer. If he is capable of breaking into our home, of pointing a loaded weapon at us, what more can we expect of him?