Even though he graduated in the top ten percent of his class, John Veranda couldn’t find a job. Stuart said he was too idealistic, too intent on holding out for the perfect positon saving the world, and that there were plenty of places that would hire him if he’d just get off his high horse. But, for whatever the reason, as friends took jobs with lobbyists, or at white-glove law firms, government offices, or NGOs, John went home. He intended to only stay a few weeks while still sending out resumes, but a year later he was still in Southern Illinois being a glorified gopher at his father’s small firm. Finally, after his father pulled every string he could, John was offered a position in Senator Tim Wamsler’s Capitol Hill office. John couldn’t wait to head back to DC.
Once he got moved in to the chic-but-shabby brownstone he shared with two other staffers, he called Stuart and they agreed to meet for drinks. Stuart, who was already putting in long hours and making a name for himself at the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission (FERC) and who now had a serious girlfriend with “high earning potential,” walked in sporting a three-piece suit, starched white shirt, and the kind of tie with a gold pin under the knot that they’d always joked was only worn by politicians looking to pull one over on the easily impressed common man.
While Stuart described his work, John realized how much his friend had changed. Stuart now carried himself as if prepared for scrutiny of every movement of limb and torso. His hair was as perfectly manicured as the greens prepped for a major golf tournament. Veranda was six inches taller than Stuart, but Stuart projected a stature he didn’t physically possess. Plus, he had a way of staring at you as if he’d never yield his position. John hoped he never faced him in a court of law. Had Stuart always been this serious? Maybe, John thought, he hadn’t been serious enough.
Over a second round of beers, John talked about his new position. “Basically, the only thing I know about him is that he’s a Democrat, he’s got seniority on Foreign Relations, and my dad thinks he’s a solid guy.”
“Find out what other committees he serves on,” Stuart suggested. “Those are the best clues as to what you might be working on. Get hold of some of the testimony presented to his committees and study it. It’s all in the Congressional Record.”
It seemed like good advice, and he intended to follow up on it, but just getting moved in had been a full-time job. Plus, John hadn’t yet had time to enjoy himself now that he was back east. What he really wanted was to get up to New York and see college friends, go to a few Baltimore Orioles games, hang out at the Maryland and Delaware beaches, and pretty much do anything but think about work before his official start date.
The next time Stuart called, he asked if he’d looked into the senator’s committees.
“Not really. I’ve been busy with other things.”
“Well, a word of warning. I mentioned Senator Wamsler to a few people. He’s got an AIPAC target on this back.”
“Air pack? What’s that?”
“AIPAC, the American Israeli Public Affairs Committee. It’s a lobbying organization. A powerful one. I’m telling you this as a friend. You’ve got a lot to learn about life on Capitol Hill, John Boy.”
I’m not a complete rube, Jew boy, he’d wanted to retort, but he didn’t. Stuart had always made fun of John’s Midwestern roots and the fact that he’d grown up on a farm, but John knew there was a world of difference between John Boy and Jew Boy.
Still, John always took Stuart’s advice to heart and with his start date approaching, he was soon reading through the Congressional Record and studying committee testimony. Turned out Wamsler was knee deep in the messy politics of the Middle East, a part of the world John knew next to nothing about. So he dutifully set about trying to untangle the various political perspectives to understand Wamsler’s positions. It was in the middle of this effort, less than a month after he’d joined the senator’s staff, that a man by the name of Frank Dalton and a young girl named Cheryl Halia Haddad walked into the office and requested to see Wamsler about an urgent family matter.
John had been instructed to be as patient and friendly as possible with constituents from the home state, but to push the meeting to a speedy conclusion if there was no policy, political, or fund-raising angle. He quickly realized there was an art to this: keep one eye on the clock and the other on constituent service.
After introductions and arranging themselves in Veranda’s minuscule office, he opened the conversation. “How can the senator be of help?”
“Actually, Mr. Veranda,” Dalton said, “our representative in Illinois recommended we take our request directly to Senator Wamsler. He said he was going to send a letter to the senator letting us know we would be coming. Cheryl here, was one of my students, and I came along to help her.”
“Are you related?” John asked, confused as to why her teacher and not her parents were with her.
“No,” Dalton said, with no further explanation. Then Dalton must have sensed his hesitation, because he added, “I’m just an interested party. Cheryl was one of my best students. Occasionally, I take a special interest in a personal matter, especially if it has educational value.”
“I need to find my father,” Cheryl blurted out, and the story of her father’s disappearance while on a trip home to Syria to visit his ailing father poured out. “He was only supposed to be gone a couple of weeks, a month at most.” Cheryl leaned forward, tears glistening in her eyes. “We haven’t heard from him since.”
“I see.” Veranda glanced between Cheryl and Dalton, but directed his answer at Dalton. “Actually, Senator Wamsler does work closely with interests in the Middle East, but, respectfully, locating her father seems a job for local law enforcement, or even family.”
“The family has exhausted other avenues,” Dalton said. Of course, that was a lie. Along with her mother, Cheryl’s uncles had exerted zero effort to find her father.
“What does law enforcement say about—”
Irritated at being ignored, Cheryl interrupted. “My mother is law enforcement. She’s a cop in Chicago, and she and the other cops there—including my two uncles—have refused to do anything including even making sure he got on the plane. Which he did. I’m sure of it. My father didn’t disappear in this country. Who would have kidnapped him? What would be the motive for that? He would never just leave me, never disappear without letting me know why. He was on his way to Syria and something must have happened between the time he left Chicago and when he got there. All these years, my mother has refused to do anything. She just insists he abandoned us. But I know that’s not true! And now that I’m eighteen, I decided I’d try to find something out. Our congressman told us to come here, that Senator Wamsler would do whatever he could to help. Was he telling the truth? Will the senator help me?”
John studied the girl before him. She was trying very hard to be determined and strong, but he sensed a sad vulnerability beneath the skin. He shifted in his seat. Syria, he thought; well, that’s better than Lebanon. At least Syria wasn’t embroiled in a civil war.
“Do you know for certain he left the country?” This time Veranda directed his question to Cheryl.
Before she could answer, Dalton said, “We’re not certain, actually—“
Cheryl pursed her lips and glared at Dalton. She sat forward in her chair, gripped Dalton’s arm, and he stopped. “Yes, I am certain, Mr. Veranda. I know my father, and he would not—under any circumstances—have changed his plans without telling me.” She slumped back, her resolve clearly dissolving. John thought she looked younger than eighteen. “That’s why we suspect foul play. It sounds ridiculous, but maybe he was kidnapped. I just don’t know.”
“So is your father an American citizen? Does he have dual citizenship, or is he still a Syrian citizen?” John asked.
Cheryl looked at Dalton and back at John. “Congressman Bradford was supposed to find out about his status. My mother won’t even talk about it. She won’t tell me anything. She doesn’t even know I’m here.”
John’s brow furrowed, and he cast a dark look at Dalton.
“It’s not like that! Mr. Dalton’s the only person who would help me,” Cheryl said, her voice pleading. “I need answers, and no one else will even listen to me.”
“Okay,” John said turning back to Cheryl, resisting the urge to reach out and pat the poor girl’s knee or wrap her up in a hug. “Well, it seems this is more complicated than a simple missing persons case. What’s your father’s name?”
“Elias. Elias Haddad.” Cheryl grabbed the folder sitting in Dalton’s lap and shoved it toward Veranda. “Here, Mr. Veranda. This contains everything I know.”
“Please, call me John.” Cheryl blushed and nodded. He opened the file and scanned the paper, then shook his head, confused. “Wait, you mean, he disappeared nine years ago? In 1973?”
“Right,” said Cheryl. “I was nine years old.” She sat up straighter. “Now I’m eighteen. And I can vote, too.”
John smiled at the girl’s innocence, her earnestness. He cast another glance over at the man sitting next to her and wondered again about Dalton’s real motives.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll neeed some time to look this over. I’ll call you if I have questions. Is your contact information in here?” John held up the folder.
“Yes, but … we want to talk to the senator,” Cheryl said.
John studied her. She wore a simple, but pretty yellow sundress and flat sandles, and was petite, but with strong rounded shoulders, like a swimmer who excelled at the butterfly. Her coal-colored hair was streaked with lighter shades of brown, like dark coffee with cream. Its fullness reminded him of the soft yarn that sat in tangled bundles in the basket beside his mother’s chair. She had a healthy summer tan and a flawless complexion, creamy and smooth as perfectly griddled buttermilk pancakes, that magnified deep-set green eyes. He could certainly imagine why Dalton’s interest might go beyond helping a student in need. He could certainly imagine …
“But the Congressman said—”
“The senator isn’t in today, but I promise I will speak directly with him, Miss Haddad, and I’ll let you know how he wishes to handle this.”
Dalton stood up and shook John’s hand. “We’re staying in DC for a few days. The number you can reach us at is in the folder.”
“We’re staying at a really cool youth hostel,” Cheryl piped up. “The one on Fourteenth Street?” John knew the area. It was anything but cool.
“Yeah. It’s very cool and we’re going to see all the museums. It’s my first time here.”
“It’s a bit worn,” Dalton said, “but at least the sheets are clean. Lodging, as you probably know, is exorbitant in this town.”
John didn’t comment. He’d just gone through the process of finding a place to live and knew full well how expensive DC was. Instead, he said, “You should definitely see the museums and tour the White House, too. In the meantime, I’ll make some calls and let you know what I find out before you return home.”
Cheryl reached out to shake his hand. “Thank you, Mr … John.”
John knew he would have little time to fill the senator in on the details of the missing man before he headed home for a district fund-raising event, so he boiled the details down to a quick pitch.
“Nine years?” Wamsler asked, looking puzzled. “Why are we just now hearing about this?”
“It seems the girl’s mother never pursued an inquiry, and it seems, sir, she’s unlikely to.”
“Maybe this girl doesn’t know all the details. Details her mother didn’t then—and doesn’t now—want to share with her. Maybe the marriage went south and the man decided to return home to stay and didn’t want to disappoint his daughter. See what you can find out from the mother. Though, I suspect that after all this time, there’s little hope of finding him.”
“There is little hope, I agree. But perhaps pursuing his disappearance may help us make a few new friends with the American-Arab and Middle Eastern policy groups in town. God knows, we always need new friends.”
“Hmm, that’s not a bad idea. It’s a humanitarian pursuit. Good constituent service for a first-time voter and smart policy outreach.” The Senator reflected in silence for a few minutes, then said, “OK, do some checking. Don’t make it missionary work or anything. Start with the local American-Arab groups back in Chicago. Here,” the senator scribbled a name on a piece of paper and handed it to him, “check in with this fellow, he’s a former state department official who worked the Middle East beat and now publishes a magazine about the region.” The senator stood and placed his hands on his desk, the unspoken signal their meeting was over.
“One more thing, sir?” Senator Wamsler nodded. “A friend of mine, a guy I went to law school with, he says you’re on AIPAC’s enemies list.”
The senator laughed. “You know what they say about shit lists.”
“They stink so bad, you can’t help but know you’re on them.”
John chuckled, even though he didn’t know anyone who’d ever said that.
“I’m just passing along the information, sir. You said you can’t get enough ground intelligence in this business.”
“True enough, son, true enough. I’m well aware I’ve got a big target on my back, and, unfortunately, I don’t think it’s going away any time soon.”
Later that day, John called the number at the hostel. When Dalton came to the phone, John asked to speak directly to Cheryl, and then he told her the senator had put the wheels in motion. “Things move slowly in this town, but I will call if we learn any new details about your father’s disappearance.”
After three days, John called again and told them that they shouldn’t waste their money waiting in DC. “I’ll let you know if we find any information. Can I have your phone and address, Miss Haddad?”
“Here, let me give you mine,” Dalton said. “Her mother won’t be happy if she knows Cheryl’s trying to find her father.”
A month later, there was still nothing new, which Veranda thought odd. Every inquiry led to a dead end. The best he could figure was that either no one really knew what happened to Haddad, or the man’s disappearance was kept under wraps by people with the authority to keep secrets from a senator, even a senator with seniority on the Foreign Relations committee. Veranda hoped for the young girl’s sake it was the former, and that time would reveal additional leads. If it was the latter, well, God help Elias Haddad and his daughter.
After updating Cheryl again, Veranda spent a long time wondering what the girl’s life must have been like without her father and whether
it was a good thing or a bad thing that she’d managed to get hooked up with someone like Mr. Dalton given what she’d said about her mother.
“She’s been to Washington! Went to Senator Wamsler’s office for help finding out what happened,” Paula Kabelevsky—she’d dropped the Haddad after her husband had been gone a year—hissed into the phone.
“Do not concern yourself about it, Paula,” Father Moody said, his voice as calm as ever.
“What do you mean, ‘do not concern yourself’? I’m in a fucking panic!”
“Calm down. There’s nothing to fear.”
“Calm down? How dare you? She’s a kid. She’s fragile. If she finds out, she’ll hate me. Hell, I gave her a gun. She’ll probably want to kill me.”
“Cheryl is no longer a child, Paula. And I highly doubt she would do anything so reckless. Besides, she will not learn anything. I don’t think the president of the United States could find out if he wanted to.”
“For that matter, neither can I. You won’t even tell me what happened when he stepped off that plane.”
“When we made our arrangement, you told me you didn’t want to know. That was our agreement.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure now. You don’t think this gnaws at me? Even after all these years? No matter how things were between Elias and me? I have an ulcer for Chrissakes. I want to retch when I see his clothes hanging in the closet, but every time I try to get rid of the damn things, Cheryl cries, starts accusing me of not caring about her feelings. She gets so distraught I think she’s going to hurt herself.”
“Paula, you know as well as I do, that parts of this world are incomprehensible. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, proxies fight proxies in a Cold War that burns hotter than the fires of hell. The Middle East is a region where alliances shift so swiftly that no one can anticipate what will happen next. Who really knows what happened to Elias after he returned to Syria? Assad keeps a lid on the political turmoil and all the simmering, historical hatreds, but many things happen inside the country that even I don’t know about.”
“I don’t want a fucking lecture on Middle Eastern politics. I trusted that whatever you concocted would be enough to get me out of my marriage, but I had no idea that meant Elias would disappear completely.”
“All I can tell you is that as far as you are concerned, your husband was going to visit his ailing father and pay his last respects. That’s all you know. End of story.”
“Cheryl is eighteen now, and I can’t control her anymore.” Paula drew a choked breath. “Good god, what if she tries to go over there? What if she tries to find his family?”
“You needn’t worry about that. Your daughter does not have a passport and even if she did, she would not be getting a Visa to travel to Syria.”
After a long pause, Paula whispered, “Jesus, Moody, who the hell are you?”
As the Mustang pulled up to the curb, Dalton could see Paula Kabelevsky’s profile in the front window. Shit. Before Cheryl could even get the car door open, the screen door banged against the porch wall and disgorged Cheryl’s mother like cannon shot.
“Dalton, you sonofabitch, you are in a heap of shit. I’m gonna see to it you go up the river for kidnapping.”
Cheryl jumped in front of her. “Mom, stop! You’re embarrassing me! The neighbors will hear.”
Dalton got out of the car, strode around, and stood beside Cheryl. “Embarrassing you? I’ll show you embarrassing.” Paula, a good ten inches shorter than Dalton, jabbed her finger into his chest, glared at her daughter, and raised her voice another octave. “This man, Frank Dalton, a teacher no less, took my daughter for a week without my permission. That’s abduction!”
“She’s of legal age, Mrs. Kabelevsky,” Dalton said without moving or raising his voice.
“I decide when she’s of legal age, Dalton. Not you. She’s still under my roof.” Paula grabbed Cheryl’s arm and pulled her towards the house. “Get in the house. Now!”
Cheryl yanked her arm free. “You can’t tell me what to do. I’m eighteen. I can drink. I can vote. I can do whatever the hell I want for God’s sake! Even go home with Frank.” She knew using Dalton’s first name would piss her mother off. “The hell with you. At least he gives enough of a shit about me to help me try to find my father!”
Dalton set Cheryl’s suitcase on the sidewalk. “Maybe you should listen to your mother,” he said sheepishly, exhausted from the drive.
“What the hell? You’re siding with her now?” Cheryl’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Well, then, to hell with you both!” She grabbed her suitcase and ran towards the front door, tears streaming down her face.
“As for you,” Paula yelled at Dalton, “stay the hell away from my daughter. If you don’t, I’ll make damn sure a few of Chicago’s finest show up at your door. With your rap sheet.”
“I was completely honorable, Officer Kabelevsky. I was only trying to help her, and I think in making this trip to Washington, she learned a great deal about American government.”
“Oh, please, spare me the goddamn civics lesson.”
As calmly as possible, Dalton climbed into his car and drove off. He’d heard stories all his life about how Chicago’s finest often took matters into their own hands. And he didn’t think living in Joliet would offer him an ounce of protection. He didn’t have the money to hire a lawyer if the situation escalated. And he certainly didn’t want to end up in jail or with two busted kneecaps.
Ya abi,
I moved out of our house. I moved in with Frank Dalton, my old English teacher. I can’t deal with Mother anymore. I can’t. I know, I know, he’s twelve years older than me. He just turned thirty. But, he’s a nice man and he lives in a garden apartment on the outskirts of town. Kind of where we had to drive around that day Martin Luther King was shot, remember, and we couldn’t get back over the bridges?
You know what else? Mother told me if I left, not to ever set foot in the house again. Then she calls every day asking me to come back home, but I refuse to talk to her. She even sent two other policemen over to talk to me. Can you believe that? And they were really ugly to Frank. He was such a gentleman, though. I hate her for that.
After that, I did go back, but to tell her that only when she helped me to find you would I think about going home again. I found her in the bedroom, throwing all your clothes in a bag. All I could do was grab your favorite jacket and yell, I hate you! I’ll never forgive you! Then I walked out and slammed the door behind me.
How could she do that? You’ll come back. I know it. I’m glad I have your jacket. It still smells of your cigarettes, and the wonderful scent of everything from your home country. Like it’s from another time, long ago. I even smell zatar in your clothes! I found one of your handkerchiefs in the pocket. I use it as a headband! My friends at the diner say there’s an air of mystery about me when I wear it. By the way, my job is fine. The tips are great, and Frank doesn’t make me pay for rent or food, so I’m saving lots of money to get my own pad someday.
Papa, my faith is unwavering that we will find each other. And when we do, I will share all I have written to you. Frank says this is how I can keep you in my life until you return. Words will find their way to you, he says, and if I speak them, the sound waves will travel to where you are. He’s one of these mystical guys; believes in meditation and Zen, stuff like that. He gets high, too. A lot, actually. Every night. I don’t know how he grades his papers, or gets through all of his classes. But he’s good to me … in many ways. Ways I can’t talk about. Anyway, he tells me to look for you in the white spaces of life, to hear you in the silences of the world. He insists our energy waves are connecting.
I know you are out there somewhere.
Yom tani fil jannah bin tak