Laughter burst out. Deep, howling laughter. Men, women, and children.
Amirra trembled, stony-faced, tears running down her cheeks.
The old man held Perry’s arm, laughing and patting him on the back. Perry felt his face warm. Extended hands offered other stones. Perry took one. The crowd leaned to watch him like he was about to burst a piñata. He aimed carefully.
Amirra moaned. The sound touched the bottom of his stomach. The sight of white running shoes and jeans emerging from her long black dress unsettled him.
The stone made a sharp thud against her forehead. The sound throbbed in his hand, as if he still held the stone. A wet, surprised sob burst from Amirra’s lips. She fell onto one elbow. Gulped for air.
The air filled with stones. The pitch of Amirra’s cries changed sharply as stones thumped her head, her arms, her ribs. Perry’s stomach turned. He’d never seen a stoning before.
Amirra shrieked, shielding her head. Her lips and nose shone slick with blood. Stones snapped and thudded until blood sucked her abaya to her body. Her face became unrecognizable.
Perry looked away. He swallowed viscous saliva. He couldn’t throw up. The old man looked at him strangely. Perry breathed deeply.
“Mr. Abdullah,” Perry said.
The old man shepherded Perry through the crowd. He banged on Mr. Abdullah’s door, and yelled an order in thick Arabic. Mr. Abdullah’s wife opened the door. Perry stepped into the gloom. Marched to Mr. Abdullah. He knelt gracelessly and yanked away the blanket.
The bandaged stump of Abdullah’s left arm was still there, but the right arm was hairy and muscled, ending in five short, stubby fingers. Perry clutched the hot hand. Abdullah would not look at him. His tears dripped on his lap, mixing with Perry’s.
The room darkened. The crowd pressed at the doorway, peering in. Perry put his arm around Abdullah as he’d seen Lewis do and wiped his cheeks in embarrassment.
The next morning, Perry took down the picture of his mother. In the parking lot, the driver scrubbed the tires of the Bronco with a soapy brush. Lewis appeared at the door. His shoes glowed.
“So how did it go?” Lewis asked.
“We got some good press,” Perry said, holding up a newspaper clipping. “I bought you a copy.”
“I’ve already got a copy,” Lewis smiled.
Perry nodded, unsure of what to say.
“Would you like to sit down, Mr. Lewis?” Perry asked into the silence.
Lewis shook his head. “I just came to say good job.” He smiled. “How do you feel?”
Coiling feelings bit at one another in his stomach. He hadn’t been able to eat that morning. “Fine, Mr. Lewis.”
“Missing the first throw was genius,” Lewis said. “Was it on purpose?”
Perry’s cheeks warmed. He winced. “Nerves,” he said.
“It’s hard to fake that kind of honesty until later in your career. Your instincts were dead on with Mr. Abdullah. Bringing up tears at just the right time makes you look warm and sympathetic.”
“Thank you.”
Lewis vanished.
Perry put the newspaper clipping under glass and hung it on the wall where the picture of his mother had been.
FINE IN THE FIRE
Lee Thomas
I didn’t answer the phone when my brother, Toby, called. His name appeared on the screen of my cell like a bad biopsy result, and instead of answering, I threw back another slug of beer and returned my attention to the television set. The sitcom wasn’t particularly interesting, nor was the company of my wife, who’d already decided our marriage was unsalvageable, though it would be another month before she let me in on the fact. She sat on the sofa, frowning. I didn’t bother to ask what was wrong. By that point, unhappy had become a default setting her face hit whenever we shared space, so I barely acknowledged it. What are you going to do? Shit happens, and when enough shit happens, you go Pavlovian. Talking to my wife hurt, so I stopped talking to her. I treated my brother with a similar, perhaps greater, level of avoidance. His phone calls invariably included an ample portion of four-alarm crazy and a request for cash. Since I had the routing information for his bank account, I could send him money. Why not cut out the miserable attempts at conversation and the grief?
When the phone rang again three minutes later, my wife climbed off the sofa and left the room. I closed my eyes and waited for the ringing to stop. If it was important — and it was always important to Toby — he could leave a message. I figured God had created voice mail for just such occasions.
So many months later, as the anniversary of that day bears down, I know I should have answered the phone. I get that now. Sometimes when a boy cries wolf, there really are teeth at his neck, but how was I supposed to know? I’d come to think of Toby’s head as a scalding pot, and I’d learned to keep my fingers away from it.
Once upon a time, Toby was the golden boy, the Prince of Barnard, Texas. I wish I could ask what happened to him and wonder on the question with genuine naiveté. But I know what happened. The cause. The effect. The whole of it was as clear as an image beaming through a polished projector lens.
Sundays are for church and fried chicken. I sit at the dinner table with Daddy, and I’m thinking about the morning sermon. The story of Lot’s wife remains vivid and horrible, and I try to imagine what it must feel like to have every speck of my body turned to grains of salt. I see the ceramic saltshaker in the middle of the table. It is in the shape of a white hen with a pink bow, the wife of the peppershaker rooster. And I wonder if I became a pillar of salt, would people — maybe my own parents — shave bits of me off to fill their shakers so I could flavor food?
My father smokes a cigarette before the meal and asks me if I’ve finished all of my weekend homework, and I lie and say, “Yes, sir,” and then Toby, who is fifteen years old, opens the kitchen door and stands on the porch, wiping dust from the seat of his Lee jeans. His shirt is torn at the shoulder. Patches of dirt cover his knees and shins. Mussed hair juts away from his scalp in haphazard clumps. A bruise blossoms on his jaw, and his left eye is already good and swollen. Though his appearance could be attributed to any number of accidents, I believe he has been in a fight.
A yelp of distress flies from my mother’s lips, and she rushes to the door. Slowly, my father rises from his chair and crosses the room to join her.
Frightened by Toby’s face, shocked by the damage, I find myself more upset to think that someone would dare strike him. Besides being taller than most boys his age, Toby is an athlete, a star on the baseball diamond and the football field. Thick muscles cover his arms and legs; he has our daddy’s build. And even without such physical attributes, Toby would have made an unlikely target, because people liked him. He didn’t bully or shove or insult any of his classmates the way the other football players did. What kind of fool had the nerve to lay fists on him?
Then the phone rings, and Toby’s eyes open wide, and fear simmers in those eyes. I’ve never seen my brother afraid before, except for the pretend fear he acted out when we were little kids, playing Cops and Robbers. Mama remains with Toby, fussing and tutting and asking him what happened. Daddy leaves the doorway and goes to answer the phone.
As children, Cops and Robbers was our favorite game, and Toby always played the hero. The games would begin with me mortally wounded, dying in my brother’s arms and Toby vowing revenge against some “motherless cur”—a phrase he’d picked up from an old movie.
Then after a spluttering death, worthy of a Shakespearean royal, I would resurrect as said cur and we’d spend an hour running around the backyard jabbing our plastic guns at each other and saying, “pow,” and “bang,” and “eat lead.” It was common. Normal. A cliché enacted by kids all over the world.