Greg Hrbek - Not on Fire, but Burning

First there had been the phone call from Omar’s mother. Then the e-mail from Omar. Then out of nowhere, Karim. Not apologizing, thank God. Not making me accept an apology. But the way he came over and all the stuff he said: it was like, if he could, he’d go back in time and do things differently. After he left, I wheeled the mower into the garage, took a cold shower, and found a message in my inbox: KHALEELA KINGSLEY WANTS TO BE FRIENDS ON LIFEBOOK. I confirmed the request instantly. Scrolled through her feed. Found the photo of me and her at the party, and became the twelfth person to like it. One of the other likes was from him. Which made me think. The kid came to you. Then he gave her your name so she could find you. The least you can do is add him. Five minutes later, there he was. Number 526. A little after that, my father appeared at my door to ask if my face still felt as bad as it looked, and also to say:

“This is your call.”

“What is.”

“What to do now. You remember what I said before. You want to go to the police, I’ll take you there.”

The next morning, I was looking in the mirror. The bruises weren’t gone, but they were starting to disappear; a few more days and no evidence would remain. I couldn’t figure out how I really felt about it. The police. That idea was way behind the curve. But was the incident really going to just fade out of sight and mind, like a post that no one cared about, that wasn’t even worth a comment?

No. Because even if, on that same morning, Keenan Cartwright hadn’t told a counselor at Invention Camp (an engineering major from the Rhode Island Colony, who had suggested to Keenan the week prior, that you had to watch Muslims very carefully in a camp that teaches electronics skills potentially usable in the construction of remote triggering devices) — even if Keenan had not told this young man about what had happened in his neighborhood over the weekend, the incident would not have been forgotten. In fact, over time, it would have been spoken of often, as all concerned parties, children and adults alike, came to see that something good can come of violence: that the prejudices that lead to violence can be overcome — not through acts of violence, but by passing through such acts … Although an outcome of this type is purely theoretical. Because Keenan Cartwright is a constant across all pathways. When given the option, he will always tell his counselor at lunch on that Monday what occurred at the pool party on Saturday — and by Tuesday will be in receipt of an e-mail from a representative of the local chapter of a nonprofit organization called the American Resistance Alliance. I’m sure you’ve heard of us . Keenan has not. But he needs no information beyond the profile picture on the group’s Lifebook page — the flag of the Islamic Caliphate going up in flames — to know that he (along with 3,582 other people) likes them, and that they should talk to Dorian.

Which brings us to Wednesday.

Same old drill. The four boys return home from their separate summer camps and convene at the in-law apartment. Today, Zebedee is first and claims prime real estate under an ancient window air conditioner as large, loud, and energy-efficient as a jet propulsion engine. Second is Dorian. Whose face, having taken a hit during a morning game of Bombardment, is in a fresh state of pain. Last comes Dean. Totally chonged, wearing a shirt with an iron-on marijuana leaf.

“Yo, Rastafari-mon,” Keenan says.

“Hello, mons.”

“In your honor,” Keenan says, “we play some Old Testament.” He scrolls on his handheld and switches to a song from the days before digital downloads: I shot the sher-riff, but I did not shoot the dep-yoo-tee .

“I bet your grandma listened to this,” Dorian says.

“So?”

“So play something that doesn’t suck.”

“Sure. As soon as you do something that doesn’t suck. Deal?”

“Do?” Plaxico says.

“Yeah, do , my Obama. About Saturday.”

“You have any sodas?” Dean asks.

“There’s juice boxes.”

The grandfather clock plays Westminster Chimes. Strikes the hour of five. There comes a knock on the sliding glass door. They can all see him: a guy much older than they. Probably a friend of the family, Dorian thinks; expecting, when Keenan lets him in, that he will shortcut without ceremony through the apartment. Instead, in a strangely official manner, he says: “Hello, gentlemen.” Older than their brothers though younger than their fathers. Blond hair so perfectly barbered it might be chipped from stone. In one hand, a tablet computer in a leather case.

“Let me guess,” he continues. “You’re Dorian.”

Dorian nods.

Then, in a tone somewhere between reassurance and disappointment: “You don’t look that severely fucked up.”

“You shoulda seen him on Saturday,” Keenan says.

The guy ignores this, and holds his hand out. “I’m Jon-David,” he says. And though some voice inside is saying Don’t take it , Dorian can’t see another choice. They shake. Awkwardly. Hands not quite locking together. Then he’s requesting some bottled water, sitting down on the couch, and saying: “Is there a smell in here?”

“Prune juice,” Dean says.

Keenan, returning with the water: “Used to be my grandma’s apartment.”

“You use this water exclusively?”

“Yes.”

“He bathes in it,” Dean says.

From the look on his face, it’s clear that Jon-David doesn’t find the comment very amusing. To Dean, he says: “You drink tap water?”

Dean shrugs.

“In this county alone, there are thousands of miles of unprotected pipeline. Any raghead with a bicycle pump and a grade-school understanding of hydraulics could introduce botulism, plague, you name it, into the distribution system. See, there’s this thing going on called World War III. Or have you not heard of it?”

“Sorry,” Dean says.

As Jon-David uncaps the water and takes a long drink, Dorian is thinking: I know who he is. I’ve seen people like him downtown, standing on corners, handing out flyers. One time, I accepted one, and my mother immediately took it out of my hands and crumpled it into a ball …

“But I shouldn’t have to tell you guys. A battle was fought here.” (Gesturing at the battered face.) “Guess who lost.”

“I wasn’t there,” Keenan says.

Dean: “Me neither.”

Jon-David nods, as if these qualifiers are perfectly understandable. Then, closing one eye, he says: “Well, where the fuck were you?”

Dorian waits for his friends to explain about the Calypso Fest and the fractured femur.

“Some people think the war is in the Middle East. But the real war is right here. In America. You have to remember that. In the schools and in the backyards. There are four of you. There were four of them , correct? If you’d all been there, it would’ve been a fair fight.” He takes the pad from the case. “Would could should. Let’s talk names.”

“Ab-Del-Karim,” Keenan says.

Jon-David, fingers darting around the keyboard: “Last name?”

“Hoo-sane,” Dean replies.

Keenan shakes his head. “No, Hassad.”

“This is the kid across the street,” Jon-David surmises. “Father’s name?”

“Banfelder.”

“House number.”

“Thirteen.”

“Okay,” says Jon-David. “The other three.”

Keenan gives Dorian a look.

“What?”

“He needs the names.”

“Can I ask a question,” Plaxico says.

“Shoot.”

“You take these names and then what?”

“Kidnap the suspect, tie him down on his back, and you get to pour water over his face and into the breathing passages.”