Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (12 page)

Brighton perked instantly. “You’re kidding!”

“Yeah. He’s in Germany this week.”

“He’s out of Afghanistan?”

“For a while anyway. He has two weeks in Europe for R&R.”

Brighton stared as he thought. Sam, his adopted son, the lost sheep of his fold, the young man he loved as much as he loved his natural sons, was off on his own now, having joined the Army right out of high school. No college, no hesitation, just a jump into life. But ever since joining the Army, his relationship with his adopted family had become distant and it seemed they heard less and less from him now. “Did he say anything?” Brighton prodded.

“Not really. He was in kind of a hurry.”

“How is he?” Brighton asked eagerly.

“Seemed OK. I told him you were on your way to Saudi Arabia this week. He wanted to know if you were stopping in Germany to refuel. If you are, he wants to hook up.”

Brighton frowned. Much as he’d love to, it’d be very difficult to make it work. “How’s his unit in Afghanistan?” he asked, eager to hear Sam’s report. He kept a very close eye on the status reports from the Special Forces units operating in Afghanistan, but word from the theater was hard to come by, especially from the Ranger units who were working with the CIA.

Luke smiled. “He was glad to get a hot shower and sleep in a bed, but you could tell he was really satisfied. He said he’s making a difference. It sounds really cool!”

Brighton eyed his son. “It’s not as cool as you think, trust me, Luke. Sleeping in tents. Every meal an MRE—cold soup and spaghetti out of plastic bags. Sharing a latrine with fifty other filthy men. It’s muddy, cold and extremely hard work. Don’t even think of enlisting! You’ve got to be an officer! So do what I say, Luke, enroll in an ROTC program. And for heaven’s sakes, don’t be a grunt. Why would you join the Army when you could learn to fly jets! You talk about cool, but what could be cooler than that?”

Luke didn’t answer. They had had this conversation before. Flying? Yeah, he thought it would be OK. But it seemed the Air Force took their best pilots and jerked them out of the cockpit and into staff positions long before they were ready. And besides, there was something else, something greater, a feeling that the real men fought their wars in the blood and mud, not from some sterile cockpit at forty thousand feet. But he had never told his dad that. And he never would.

Brighton moved to the hallway and returned with his flight cap and briefcase. “When is Sam taking his R&R?” he asked.

Ammon and Luke were gathering their climbing gear. Ammon hesitated, then shook his head. “He didn’t say. But he said he could meet you at Ramstein if you layover there.”

“Did he talk to your mother?”

“Only for a minute,” Ammon answered. “She was on her way to meet you at the embassy reception. And he was in a hurry, too; he said he wanted to call his old man. He hasn’t seen him in a couple years and apparently the old bag isn’t feeling too well.”

Brighton shook his head. “Don’t call him that,” he said.

Ammon hesitated. “He doesn’t deserve any better. After what he did to Samuel, he deserves a lot worse.”

“Doesn’t matter!” Brighton answered, his voice growing sharp. “It doesn’t help Sam when you call his father that.”

“You should hear what
he
calls him!” Ammon replied.

Brighton looked stern and Ammon shut up. This wasn’t an argument he was going to win. And his father was right. It’s just that he hated Sam’s natural father so. All the things he had said, all the things he had done, how could Sam want to talk to him, let alone still call him dad!

The three were silent, then Luke headed for the door. “Come on, Ammon,” he shouted. “We should have left fifteen minutes ago.”

Ammon stopped at the built-in locker in the back hallway of the old Victorian house and pulled out a pair of gum-soled climbing shoes. “See you tonight, Dad,” he called as they walked out the door.

Rassa was silent during the evening meal. Azadeh cleared the table, washed the dishes, then sat down beside him as he smoked by the fire. A biting wind blew down off the mountain to claw at the clay shingles that lined their low roof. Azadeh could feel the cold draft as she passed by the window to sit beside her father.

Rassa turned to her, looked away, then turned to her again. “Let’s go for a walk,” he offered in a low voice.

Azadeh stared at him, her eyes bright with anticipation. It wasn’t like her father to offer such a thing. More, it was cold and blowing. A hard storm was coming and the weather on the mountain could be violent and unpredictable. Still, he stood and pulled his coat on. “Come with me,” he said. “We’ll go to the market and walk around for awhile.”

Azadeh’s heart flipped. The market? At night? She had already completed their shopping. They had milk and eggs, cooking oil, and honey. They did not have to go shopping for another couple days. In her mind, she pictured the market, its shops crowded with people, merchants displaying their wares to the wealthy that had come up from the valley. She thought of the multicolored lanterns that would be hanging to light the night.

Going to the market at night when they didn’t need supplies? It could only mean one thing! He had not forgotten her birthday. He was going to buy her a present! Her heart leapt with joy!

Azadeh quickly draped a dark shawl over her shoulders and flipped the hood over her long hair, pulling it forward to protect her eyes as she followed her father out the front door. He waited for her and she ran to catch up as he turned toward the town square. She glanced down the dark streets toward the lights in the distance. They burned with an intensity she had not seen before.

Of course he had remembered! He would not forget. But the fact that he always remembered her birthday didn’t mean there was always a celebration. In a culture that never ran short on reasons to celebrate—birthdays, weddings, Mondays, anniversaries, leap years, government holidays, untold religious celebrations, it seemed they celebrated anything—there had been precious few presents or parties in Azadeh’s life. “No money,” her father would explain in a pained voice. It hurt him and she knew that, but the truth was there was rarely so much as an extra rial to spare. Although he was one of the ex-royal family, Rassa was nearly penniless, an anonymous and struggling farmer who had to scratch out a living just like everyone else. And it had been a brutal year. The cotton had nearly wilted in the fields from the lack of spring rain and then several flash floods had washed away some of the best cows in their herd.

Still, as they walked toward the market, Azadeh stepped quickly with hope. Could it be her father had somehow managed to scrape a few rials together? Might there be some extra money? Some unknown fountain of which she was unaware?

Tomorrow was her birthday. And not just any birthday, she was turning eighteen! In a few hours, her childhood would be left behind her. It was supposed to be a great celebration, a time to celebrate the passing of the young ways and the coming of the responsibilities that came with being a woman.

She shivered from excitement as she clutched her father’s hand.

He looked at her, then pulled away uncomfortably. The
mutawwa
would be angry if they saw them holding hands.

If Azadeh had been forced to be truthful, she would have admitted that there had been times in the past when she felt her birthday had become more a day of mourning her mother’s death than a day to celebrate her birth. Sometimes Azadeh wondered if her father realized that she felt lonely, too. And though she wanted a present terribly, what she really needed was a token, some kind of sign that her father loved her as much as he had loved his wife. She needed a symbol of his affection, some indication that he realized that she missed her mother, too.

She lowered her head against the wind and didn’t look up again until they were almost at the market.

She knew what she wanted. She had eyed it in the market some three months before. But it was no article of clothing, piece of china, or something for her dowry. No, this was something more.

In her mind, she pictured the only photograph that she had of her mother, a faded black and white taken on her mother’s wedding day. She thought of the bright dress, her mother’s eyes peeking above the white veil that covered her face. She thought of the golden headband woven through her black hair, the single diamond centered just above her eyes. Simple in design, it was beautiful and elegant.

It was nothing but a dream to think that she might own something so beautiful one day. Far too expensive. It was ridiculous. It was for too much to even ask.

But they
were
walking to the market. And it
had
been his idea. Who knew what he was thinking? Perhaps a miracle was in store!

The market was not crowded, the coming storm having chased most of the people away. But the wind had died down now and it was no longer cold. The lanterns cast multicolored shadows in every direction. Rassa moved toward a small booth with handmade dresses hanging in display, a clash of lace and colors. Azadeh hardly looked at them. These dresses were for little girls! Her father watched her reaction, checked the price, hunched his shoulders and moved to the next stall. They worked their way around the market. Dresses. Handbags. Shoes. Denim pants from the West. A silver flute. He checked the prices carefully, occasionally lifting some less expensive item as if to suggest it to her before placing it carefully back on its shelf. Azadeh tried to show interest, but her heart felt faint. They were moving in the wrong direction! The birthday present she wanted was on the other side of the market, almost a block away.

Rassa lifted a set of small gold earrings, holding them next to Azadeh’s cheeks. “These are beautiful,” he said hopefully

Azadeh smiled and agreed. “They are beautiful, Father.”

“How much?” he asked the merchant.

“Forty-five thousand rials,” the merchant answered. Five American dollars! Rassa’s eyes dropped in a look of despair. Azadeh watched him, her heart breaking. She heard the sound of the coins clinking in his pocket and she knew he did not have enough. What might he be holding? A few thousand rials? Not enough for the earrings. Not enough for anything.

She would not get a present. But she didn’t care about a birthday gift, at least not any more. She only cared about her father and how he must feel. What a failure he must feel like. How disappointed and embarrassed! She watched him carefully and for the first time she saw it, a look of complete despair. Everything he had, he had given to her. But it was not enough. He looked away in shame.

She leaned tenderly toward him. “It doesn’t matter, Father. I know we don’t have any extra money, but that is all right. Come on, let’s go home. It will be OK.”

Rassa looked at her sadly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It has been a bad year. The cotton. The cows. We’ll do better this year. And then I will get you . . . .” He gestured toward the shops and the brightly lit kiosks with their playful displays. “I’m sorry, Azadeh,” he repeated as he lowered his head.

She took his hand and pulled him toward their home. “It’s OK, Father. I really do understand.”

They walked in silence, making their way up the dusty roadway that led to their home. At the top of the hill they stopped and turned back, looking down on their village. The wind had swept the skies clear and the moon was bright and orange, a large ball rising over the mountains. The lights from the village shone in the clear air and a huge bowl of stars shined over their heads. The Milky Way was full and fat, a bright band of stars. They looked at each other and Azadeh forced a quick smile.

“She is up there,” she whispered.

“Who?” Rassa asked.

“Your wife.” She hesitated. “My mother.”

Rassa shook his head slowly. “I hope so,” he said.

They looked at the sky a moment longer then turned again for their home.

They were just coming under the light of their front porch when Rassa turned and said. “You wanted something special, didn’t you?” he asked.

Azadeh shook her head. Her father watched her, then pressed. “I could see it in your eyes. I could see it in your actions. Did I even come close to guessing what you wanted? I don’t think that I did.”

Azadeh was silent, hoping she would not have to tell him what she had been hoping for. “It was nothing, Father,” she answered softly.

“This is a very special birthday. I know you had your eye on something. I have tried to figure out what you hoped for, but I had no idea. Fathers are not good at these sorts of things. This is where you need a mother. She would know what to get you. But I couldn’t even guess.”

Azadeh was silent.

“What was it?” her father prodded.

She kicked her sandaled feet through the dirt, then whispered in an embarrassed voice. He nodded slowly, a look of great sadness clouding his eyes. It would have been far too expensive. “I’m sorry,” he apologized for the last time.

“I still love you, Father,” Azadeh teased in reply.

* * *

After Azadeh was asleep, Rassa sat alone for a time, then pushed himself up from his chair and walked to his bedroom and stood by his bed. Leaning down, he pulled out a small chest from under the headboard then extracted a hidden key from a chain around his neck. Opening the chest, he extracted two American silver dollars, the only wealth he had ever accumulated in his entire life. He fingered the coins. They were heavy and firm. He held them tightly in the palm of his hand, then closed the chest and pushed it back under the headboard.

* * *

Azadeh woke early. The sun was just breaking over the mountains and the dawn was pink and purple from the clouds overhead. She heard her father working in the kitchen and smelled his special jellyrolls, her favorite treat. She lay on her pillow and smiled. He was the best father in the world. She knew that she was blessed. It really was enough.

She lay there a moment, enjoying the laziness of lying in bed, then threw back the covers and put her feet on the floor.

She saw it on her bedside dresser and her heart almost stopped. The gold headband had been laid on a purple cloth, the delicate links having been carefully arranged into a nearly perfect circle that glittered in the morning sun.