Coultrane

Calvin strained to understand the stream of Arabic, but the driver was angry, speaking rapidly, slurring his words as he argued with the armed men in front of his bus. Everyone else on the bus was suddenly quiet, except the chickens in the second row and the infant just in front of Calvin. Don't argue with a man who holds a gun, he thought, but of course the driver didn't care what he thought. Calvin pressed his head against the glass, trying to identify the rag tag soldiers. Should be all right, he thought. Uniforms—more or less. The jeep has insignia. Not Lebanon Army regulars, not Syrian. Local militia. The driver opened the door when they started to kick it in. "Out! Out!" yelled the Lieutenant in Arabic, switching to English when he saw the two blondes with backpacks in the front seat. Quickly they filed off under a torrent of abuse. The old lady with the chickens tried to hurry, but heavily laden old ladies can’t move fast. She was shoved out of the way as soon as her feet touched the ground. She sprawled in the dust, the chickens squawking and flapping frantically. She grabbed their trussed legs and crawled out of the way as the rest of the passengers hurried off the bus. As soon as Calvin cleared the door, he moved quickly toward the back of the crowd of passengers as they huddled between the bus and the edge of the plateau that fell away sharply to the flat valley far below. He wiped the sweat from his brow and resettled his hat low over his eyes. He turned and carefully studied the soldiers spaced in a circle around the old battered bus. All armed; all guns at the ready. Something's got them spooked, he thought. He glanced up and down the dusty highway; it was a desolate spot, miles from the nearest village. Across the road squatted a couple of low shabby buildings, shadowy faces peeking cautiously from the dark interior. Suddenly the faces disappeared. In a moment an old man could be seen frantically leading a young woman and two small kids across the dusty field away from the soldiers. In growing alarm Cal returned to his scrutiny of the soldiers. Maybe this isn't a normal stop and search, he thought. They were herded further away from the bus with much yelling and pushing with rifle butts until they stood with the steep slope to their backs, surrounded by a semi-circle of armed men. The Lieutenant glanced at Calvin; a smile touched his lips. He turned and shouted an order to his men. Cal tried to understand the Arabic phrases, but couldn't quite follow the words. A low wail burst from the lips of the elderly woman, and then he saw the eyes of the soldier nearest to him twitch. He turned and sprinted for the lip of the cliff. A stout, old lady and a young woman, their eyes glittering through the slits of their chadors, were in his way. He swerved to miss the old woman but hit the young one a solid blow with his shoulder, knocking her sprawling, and then both he and the girl were over the edge. He didn't stop running. His feet churned the empty air, trying to accelerate like Wile E Coyote; the ludicrous thought intruded even as he started to fall and the guns started chattering behind him. **** He's always jerked me around, thought Cal. All my life, he's always playing a tune on my gut strings. Fran now felt the same way. "He uses me," she had said. At first she refused to elaborate but it was obvious she needed to talk so Calvin had pressed for details. "The guy was a slime bag," said Fran. "But my dear husband was courting him on some merger deal. He kept telling me to be nice. Even when I told Spero the man was trying to feel me up under the dining table. 'It's no big deal,' he said. 'Be nice,' he said." Her face was in shadow; Calvin could not see her eyes. But the late evening sun streamed through the library window and illuminated her lap. Calvin watched her carefully straighten the folds of her pleated skirt and, over and over again, press them smooth against her leg. "Spero told me to drive the man to the airport. The chauffeur was available, but he insisted I do it. The last thing he said was, 'Damn it, Fran. This is important. You've got to help instead of fighting me.' "It was raining and foggy and traffic was heavy. I was trying to concentrate on my driving but he kept saying things, kept touching me--on the arm, on the leg. "I stopped at the terminal, waited for him to get out." She looked up and then dropped her gaze again. "He kissed me. He stroked my breast." She was silent for a long time. Calvin waited. The light from the setting sun had climbed her chest. Her nervously dancing fingers were now shadowed. The ray of sun grazed her cheek, illuminating the light fuzz on her chin. A tear glistened at the corner of her eye. "We made love," she said in a whisper. "Right there at the curb. The windows were all steamed up, people passing on all sides. I could hear them talking, hear their footsteps." She dropped her gaze to her twitching fingers. "It's an unloading zone, no waiting, no standing. A patrolman could have rapped on the window at any moment." Fran fell silent then raised defiant eyes to Calvin. "I was incredibly hot." Again she fell silent, concentrated on folding and smoothing the pleats across her leg. "We finished and he left. Then I noticed a glob of stuff on the seat. That's when I panicked. I was terrified that Spero would see it. He's so fastidious you know." She fell silent. Calvin waited, watching the sunbeams illuminate her haggard face. She sighed and her chin tilted. "But I didn't clean it up. I left it there. I wanted him to see it." She took a deep breath, almost a moan. "He never noticed." She looked at Cal, her face anguished. "How could he not notice?" she wailed.