“Don’t make me do this!” Ott yells at me. “Don’t make me do this!” His chest is heaving, every muscle tensed.
“Do it!” Tim shouts from the other side of the car, his eyes wide and crazed, intoxicated by the violence. “Do it now!”
Ott hesitates, and in that moment of indecision I shut off the engine and hand Ott the keys over my shoulder.
“Take it,” I say, my voice quivering, just above a whisper, desperate to calm him down. “Please. She’s just a baby. Take it.”
36
“So, how long have you known Holden Hurley?” Ott Bowles asked the well-dressed, dark haired, bearded man seated across from him at the small cocktail table. He asked this question while sipping a beer and following the major league baseball game playing on a television over the bar.
“Two years,” the man said, exhaling smoke from a cigarette, uninterested in the game.
It was late afternoon, on a bright, summer Saturday, and the bar was deserted. Ott was not yet of legal age to consume alcohol, but Trudy, the owner of the bar built against a mountain on Route 26 between Huntingdon and Altoona, served her customers without regard to age and, for this reason, Ott had been there many times. Trudy was a large woman with flaming red hair, and this afternoon she sat behind the bar watching the game and waiting for customers. The man sitting across from Ott was obviously of legal age but he sipped club soda through a straw.
“Yes!” Ott said, clenching his fist as a runner crossed home plate. “Bottom of the ninth, and the Pirates just scored, they’re coming back!” He swallowed a gulp of beer and belched. “You got to admit, Sam,” he said, “that Hurley’s one weird dude.”
“He is a bit eccentric,” Sam said, “but he’s one of the most talented people I’ve ever met. He could build a computer out of cereal boxes and sell steaks to vegetarians.”
Ott studied Sam’s blue eyes and dark complexion and laughed. “That’s true,” he said. “But, I don’t know…I think he actually dreams he’s Hitler when he’s asleep. He’s got some pretty extreme ideas.”
“He’s not such a bad guy,” Sam said, taking another drag on his cigarette. “Everybody has dreams, and dreams sometimes become reality if you work at them long enough. He’s been good to me. I owe him.”
Ott picked up his beer and turned back to the baseball game. He didn’t like talking about Holden Hurley and wished he hadn’t even brought him up. He enjoyed the camaraderie of The Eleven enough, and the military training and the paintball war games they played-and the way everybody treated him like a celebrity because of his family’s past-but he couldn’t understand the president of The Eleven’s rabid hatred of Jews and blacks-it was just this kind of extreme racism that made people believe the Holocaust actually did happen. Sam’s defense of Hurley meant he was probably just as radical. “Where are you from?” Ott asked, changing the subject.
“New York.”
“No, I mean your family. What kind of name is Samar Mansour…French?”
“No, it’s Palestinian, actually.”
Ott examined Sam more closely. He could see the Arab face now-the steep nose, beard, and dark skin, but where did those blue eyes come from? Ott had never known an Arab, and he couldn’t imagine somebody like Holden Hurley doing anything to help one. Hurley hated anybody who wasn’t white and a Christian. Maybe it was because Sam seemed more European than Middle Eastern, with his aloof attitude, articulate speech, and pressed blue cotton dress shirts and black pants-more like a Londoner or a Parisian. “When did your family come here?” Ott asked, looking back up at the baseball game.
“My dad came over when he was about your age. He was one of the Palestinian refugees…his parents were killed by the Jews during the war in 1948.”
Ott glanced at him, then back at the game.
“Most Palestinians stayed in the Middle East,” Sam continued, “but after the war my father got a job carrying equipment for an archaeologist on a dig in Jerusalem. He was a professor from over at Juniata College; Mijares was his last name. I think he was Argentinean. In any case, he was very wealthy, and very generous, and he liked my father; I guess he thought my dad was pretty smart, because he offered to send him to college here, all expenses paid. My father accepted. He attended Columbia University, married an American woman, and stayed. I was born in New York.”
Sam waved for Trudy to bring them another round of drinks.
“Be right there, honey,” she said, pulling two glasses from under the bar, grateful for something to do.
“Just another refugee story,” Sam said to Ott. “Not very different from your own.”
Ott was thinking the same thing. He finished his beer, accidentally dribbling a little onto his t-shirt. “You know my story?” he asked, reaching across to another table for a bar napkin.
“I know all about you,” Sam said. “Brian and Holden told me a little, and I’ve done some research on the Rabuns too. I’ve spent a lot of time doing research in Germany, actually. People don’t realize it but Germans and Arabs have a lot in common. Das ist warum ich beginnen wollte, Sie zu kennen.”
A look of surprise flashed across Ott’s face. “Sie sprechen Deutsches?”
“Wenig.”
“Wieviele Male sind Sie nach Deutschland gewesen?”
“Ich habe ein ungefähr Jahr dort verbracht.”
They stopped speaking in German when Trudy brought the drinks to the table.
“You boys want anything from the grill?” she asked. “I can fix you some burgers.”
Sam shook his head, no. “You want anything, Ott?” he asked, “I’m buying.”
“No, thanks,” Ott said.
“You boys just let me know,” Trudy replied, a little disappointed. She returned to her stool behind the bar to watch the game.
“Too bad about Brian, wasn’t it?” Ott asked.
“Yes,” Sam said. “He was pretty young to have a heart attack, and in good shape. I guess you never know.”
“The funeral was tough; Tim and his mom took it hard. On top of everything else, I guess Brian had everything mortgaged to the hilt and stopped paying his life insurance. They have to sell their house and the mushroom farm to pay off their debts. Tim’s been staying with me for awhile.”
“He’s lucky to have you as a friend,” Sam said. “It must have been hard on you when you lost your grandmother. She was a great woman; I admired her a lot. It wasn’t that long ago, was it?”
Ott nodded uncomfortably, losing eye contact. “About a year now, I guess-less than a year after she got out of prison. Prison killed her. We were real close.” He looked out the window painfully, filled with grief and pent-up rage, then back again at the baseball game. “How come I never see you at any of the meetings?” he asked, changing the subject.
“I’m not exactly a member,” Sam said. “The Eleven supports what I’m doing, and I support what they’re doing.”