The Merchants of Zion (25 page)

“Sure is. There's no need; this is the safest car in the world. German engineering.” He wasn't wearing his seat belt either. I didn't want to tell him how to raise his granddaughter, but I also didn't want this geezer to crash his car and send her flying through the windshield. If he wanted to die that was fine—he was old anyway—but he had no right to endanger Elly due to his misplaced faith in technology and Teutonic superiority.

“Elizabeth Esther Felkins,” I said, doing my best to imitate her mother's tone. “You put on your seat belt right now.”

It worked, and she was wrestling with the strap when Mr. Berger said, “Oh, leave her alone. Let the little girl live for once in her life. Her parents baby her too much as it is. She's almost nine; she can make her own decisions.”

She pulled the strap as far out as she could, then let go of it so she could watch it zip back. Assuming a deviously innocent face, she said, “Come on, Cliff. I just wanna live my life,” spinning the last three words into a cotton-candy whine.

“Mr. Berger, with all due respect,” I began.

“Oh boy, I'm gonna enjoy this,” he said.

“Look, 
sir
,” I said, “This isn't about coddling your child, and has absolutely nothing to do with whether your car is or is not safe. Your daughter entrusted you with the safety of her daughter, your granddaughter, and you're rejecting one of the most effective life-saving devices ever invented while you operate a piece of heavy machinery. It's like telling her she doesn't have to look both ways when she crosses the street, or that she can ignore a streetlight that says 'don't walk.' Think for a second, how terrible you'd feel is she was injured when you were actually behaving responsibly. Now think if that same thing happened, only—”

“All right, all right. I'll make her put her seat belt on if you'll shut up.”

“Fine.”

“Elly, put on your seat belt. If your nanny wants to ruin everyone's fun, so be it.”

“Okay Gramps.” She put on her seat belt.

I didn't say another word for the rest of the ride. Maybe I hadn't changed any minds, but I'd done my job.

Mrs. Berger had prepared cold cuts, and Elly and I ate in frosty silence. Her husband shut himself in his bedroom while his wife stayed out with us.

“Oh dear,” she said. “Why is Walter all in a tiff?”

“I dunno,” I mumbled.

“He's mad at Cliff,” Elly said.

“Is he, sweetie? Why is that?”

“Cliff ruined our fun by making me put on a seat belt.”

“Did you now?” she said.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but—”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” She rose from the table and went into the bedroom. I raised my eyebrows at Elly. She shrugged, and continued eating.

“I thought you hated baloney,” I said.

“No way, José,” she said. “Grandma puts ketchup on it. So it's super tasty.”

Muffled arguing reached us from the bedroom. It died down, but the door stayed closed. Elly watched an episode 
Eponymals.
 I read about Brian Anderson perturbation and despair on discovering Felicity al-Nour was in a relationship when he gave her an expensive opal ring he'd bought from a hunchbacked, voodoo-wielding old hag. She'd promised him it was magic, and that it would capture her heart.

Elly's grandparents didn't reappear until it was time for dinner. Her grandmother was making handmade pizza and sent her husband out to grab a few ingredients. When he left she apologized to me, for him.

“Walter was wrong, and in his own way he's sorry. He's more embarrassed than anything. He can seem... abrasive to people who don't know how him very well.”

“It's no big deal. My roommate is the same way.”

“You must be very patient.”

“I try.” We laughed. Elly joined in, despite not understanding the joke.

Mr. Berger returned with a pepperoni sausage and two cans of black olives. “Your mother said this was your favorite,” he told Elly.

Mrs. Berger made the pizza Chicago style, thick like lasagna and served with a knife and fork. Elly proclaimed it the best pizza ever made, and I said I normally preferred New York slices, but eating this every day could change my mind.

I helped with the dishes. When Mrs. Berger and I finished cleaning up her husband offered me a whiskey nightcap. He asked Elly if she wanted one as well—watered down, of course—but the offer had been in jest, a tactic to draw out a disapproving glare from his wife.

“Fine,” he said, winking at Elly. “No one knows how to relax anymore, do they Elly-baby?”

“Nope,” she said. “It's not like the good old days.”

She curled up with her tablet in Mr. Berger's reading chair and was asleep before I'd taken my second sip. Mr. Berger reminisced about his youth, telling me about his first job as a junior analyst, the first condo he'd bought, right after 9/11—a spacious four-hundred and seventy five square feet and a steal at a hundred and eighty thousand dollars—and what it was like to raise children.

“Let me tell you something, Cliff. You ever own a dog?”

“When I was a kid, yeah. We had a Sheltie named Napoleon.”

“I mean living on your own. If you were in your parents' house, they were doing the lion's share of the dogcare.”

“Oh. No, I haven't.”

“Well having a kid is sort of like having a dog, only a thousand times harder. And you can't train a baby to shit outside. You have to feed it, worry about it, train it. You get the idea. But that dog is a baby for its entire life, while a kid—” he held his hands out, palms facing each other like he was measuring something's size. “A kid grows up,” he said, expanding the gap to illustrate the idea. “Best advice I was ever given: you're not raising a child, you're raising an adult. And you should keep that in mind always.”

I nodded, figuring it wasn't worth it to tell him I never planned on having children, for the exact reasons he'd described. I loved Elly, but who wanted their life to revolve around a being wholly dependent on you? I thought of how prepared Helen had been for this trip and knew I'd never be ready to accept such a monumental responsibility.

By the time I'd drunk my first glass Mr. Berger was almost done with a second. We said our good nights, and I cradled Elly in my arms and carried her to bed. I considered waking her up so she could brush her teeth, but her face was wrapped in utter content and too peaceful to disturb.

* * *

Mr. Berger dropped us off at the train station the next morning, after a hearty breakfast of sausage, eggs, toast, and orange juice. I thanked him for his hospitality and Elly told him how much she loved him, and promised to mail him a picture she was going to draw on the train.

He had a present for each of us. For Elly: a receipt for ten thousand dollars worth of Liberty Bell stock, which under no circumstances were we to mention to her parents. “You need to start accumulating capital at a young age,” he said. She gave him a deep-thought look and thanked him.

For me, a leather-bound journal held closed with a brass clasp. Inside was an expensive fountain pen with a scalpel blade tip. Helen had told him I was a writer.

“Did you learn cursive in school?” he asked.

“Yes sir.”

“Do you young people write on paper anymore?”

“I do, a little.”

“Good.”

I'd scribble a page or two on the way home, then set it on my bookshelf with the others. When people learn you have writerly aspirations, a nice journal becomes the default thoughtful gift. I already had four. Three were empty and one—the one with Mary's poem and Ruth's short note—was almost full. It had taken me ten years to fill a hundred and fifty pages, front and back. Still, the pen was nice, and this journal was more expensive than my other four combined. I offered my heartfelt thanks, which he seemed to appreciate.

And then we were off. We had the same conductor as on our trip here. She didn't remember us, but she did have bad news: the original train had been diverted for national security reasons and its replacement lacked private compartments. We were going to have to sit with the unwashed masses (she didn't say it quite like that).

Ruth texted me, asking when I'd be back in the city. I responded that I was on the train now and, barring any major delays we'd be back this evening, so I expected to be back tomorrow morning. Elly had been leaning against my arm and surreptitiously spying. Ruth texted back, “Callllll me,” and Elly revealed her treachery.

“Who's Ruth? Is she your girlfriend?” she asked.

“Huh? Has anyone ever told you to mind your own business?”

“But who's Ruth?”

“She's a friend of mine.”

“Is she pretty?”

“No, she's ugly and disgusting.”

“Really?” Elly scrunched her face up. “Gross.”

“I'm only joking. She's very pretty.”

Elly pestered me with questions: how did I know Ruth, did she have a boyfriend, what did she do, etc. Had we ever been on a date? At first I thought she found the whole thing romantic, but as her questions became sharper I had the impression she was jealous.

“Do you think you two'll get married ever?”

I laughed. “I doubt it.”

“Then why go on a date if you're not even gonna marry her?”

“That's what grown-ups do.”

“Well I'm only gonna date my husband.”

Eventually she grew bored of questioning me and pulled out her Zephyr to draw a picture for her grandfather. I'd had a rough week—the Berger's couch had been too short for me to sleep on comfortably—and took a nap.

* * *

Elly's pinching woke me up. “What's up Ells Bells,” I said groggily, rubbing my eyes. She pointed to the far end of the car. Two men—one white, one black—in army fatigues had boarded the train. They were wearing sunglasses and green caps with the words “U.S. Minutemen” stitched in yellow letters. The gold badges on their chests were shaped like the continental United States. One looked like an ex-con skinhead 
sans
 visible tattoos (I could imagine a swastika tucked away neatly beneath his cap). He raised his hand to quell the murmurs spreading through the car, and pulled a standard-issue national ID from a green pouch clipped around his waist.

“Folks.” Toneless, but polite. “This is a standard border checkpoint. Please have your identification ready for inspection.” He started down the side opposite me. The black Minuteman took the other.

Across the aisle from us, a middle-aged woman cursed beneath her breath. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the seat, and her unease rippled over to me. Our eyes met briefly before hers skittered across the car, setting on the men with panic.

“Elly,” I said, nudging her “Take out your ID.”

“Okies.” She rummaged through her bumblebee backpack and, unable to find it, started again.

“Elly,” I said, taking the bag from her. “Where was the last place you had it?”

“I dunno. It's gotta be in here.” She dumped its contents into my lap and we sifted through them. I placed her phone and Zephyr back into her bag.

There was a shout from the front of the car. Skinhead had grabbed a passenger and was yanking him out of his seat. The man held on tight to his chair, and the border agent put him in a headlock. The unlucky passenger wrapped his arms around his headrest while his face bloomed red, with a tinge of blue. Finally he let go in order to punch at the meaty arm hooked round his neck. The Minuteman was ready for this and it was over: the man's face hit the floor with a thwomp. Skinhead reached at his belt and pulled out a taser. Z
ap
, and the man screamed, flailing like a fish on a boat-deck. An ozone odor filled the air and the two border agents dragged him toward the exit. He slid behind them and grunted as his head hit each of the stairs leading off the train.

Elly, who had been peeking over her chair, returned to her seat and covered her nose with her shirt. “It stinks in here.”

“Yeah. Unless you want to go through that, we'd better find your ID.” I shoved the garbage from my lap into the gap between us and we continued picking through it. Candy wrappers, bottle caps, and bits of food rained down on the floor. She returned her more precious possessions to the backpack: half-peeled stickers, scraps of paper with single, unintelligible words scrawled upon them, and empty make-up boxes that I knew she 'borrowed' from her mother. Elly liked to take Helen's make-up and wash it out in the sink, then keep the container to store any treasures she found. I'd bought her a cloth pouch once, but she insisted on the tiny boxes because each one could be assigned a single object.

The candy wrappers piled up. “I didn't realize I let you eat that much junk food. Don't tell your mother. And I'm not buying you any more from now on.”

“I'll tell Mommy if you do.”

“Quit being a brat,” I replied, glancing at the woman across from us. She was staring at me. I smiled faintly. Two big hoop earrings dangled from her ears, and the foundation caked on her face concealed both her age and all but the vaguest suggestions of her ethnicity.

The agents reentered the car and continued their inspection. I checked my wallet to make sure I had my ID—I did—then redoubled my efforts find Elly's. We finished sorting through the mess on the seat, then I checked all the side pockets and hidden zippers, asking her if I'd missed any. She shook her head and emptied her pockets. More candy wrappers and a set of keys. No ID.

“I must have left it with Gramps and Grams.”

Panic rose in my throat, trying to claw its way out and flee. Outside, I saw a tactical infantry transport with a mounted machine gun parked next to an unmarked blue van. Four men in Minutemen uniforms and armed with assault rifles stood guard, their sunglasses masking any trace of humanity. What would I tell her mother? Or would they take me along with her for harboring a fugitive?

Elly squeezed my hand. “Earth to Cliff. Over.”

“Cliff here. What's up Earth? Did Earth find her ID? Over.”

She giggled. “No, but it'll be okay.”

“I hope so. Otherwise your mom's going to kick my ass.”

The black agent came up to us and asked for our identification. I handed him mine, then explained the situation. “Sir, Elly here, she lost her ID. We were visiting her grandparents in Chicago and she must've left it with them.” My forehead burned. I helped pay this man's salary, and the fact that I had to prove my citizenship was absurd. Obviously we were American, and honestly, if we weren't what was the big fucking deal?