Authors: Ruth Francisco
I felt as I had before in the windmill, my heart longing for him, missing him even as he held me.
As he fell back to sleep, his arms didn’t let go.
#
We arrived in New York at 4:40 PM, 9:40 PM London time.
We were exhausted.
The lines at customs were long.
Security guards were everywhere with dogs.
A handful of Marines held weapons across their chests.
Peter and I stood in separate lines, a little game to see who got through faster.
After about twenty minutes, I stepped up to the counter.
The immigration officer stood on a platform, towering over me.
He scrutinized my passport as I fidgeted with my purse strap.
“You are Ann
Aulis
?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Your visit to Europe was rather short,” he said.
“My mother wanted us to come home.
She bought me the one-way ticket.
I have my original roundtrip ticket in my purse.
Do you want to see it?”
The agent gave me a hard look, then back at my passport.
Damnit
!
I was acting like an idiot, talking too much, acting suspicious.
“You stayed in Amsterdam for one day?
You left May twenty-seventh?” he asked.
“We were on our way to a friend’s engagement party in London.”
My lie surprised me—must be my nervousness, stupid and unnecessary—he didn’t care.
“Is this all of your luggage?”
“Yes.
I travel light.”
“Anything to declare?”
“No.”
A second agent opened my bag and looked briefly through it.
“Everything looks okay, ma’am.
Welcome home.”
“Thank you.
I’m glad to be here.”
I hurried away and looked around for Peter.
He was still talking with his immigration agent, getting asked a lot of questions.
His agent signaled someone on the far side of the room.
Two security guards came up on either side of Peter and began to escort him away.
“Peter!” I cried, bolting after him.
Another guard stepped up quickly and grabbed me around the waist.
“Let me go!” I demanded, swinging my fists.
“That’s my boyfriend!”
“Calm down, ma’am.
It’s just
routine
.
A random selection of people is taken aside for secondary questioning.
It’s a precaution we must take.
Please understand.
You may wait for your friend over there.”
I was terrified.
I knew this search had nothing to do with
random
or
routine
.
Peter was half
Arab.
#
Peter’s last name is
Abulhassan
.
His father, Ali
Abulhassan
, was born in Saudi Arabia.
When Ali turned ten he immigrated with his parents to Connecticut, where he grew up, went to Boston University and raised a family.
A jovial man, warm and funny, Ali supported his family as a dentist, but his job was to enjoy life.
Peter’s mother, Gloria, a feisty butterball artist of Dutch and English descent, kept up with his jokes.
They were a
couple
who loved to entertain, loved to party, and when Peter and I took the train from Philadelphia to Connecticut for the holidays, we spent the entire vacation playing with his parents.
Because Peter’s grandfather had been educated at Oxford, and Ali was raised in the United States, the family was thoroughly American, with a large dose of European bon vivant.
I had never met parents who
were fun
before.
They were easier to love than my parents who had the American disease of wanting to be good caring people, which had the somewhat unpleasant side effect of making them dull.
The idea of my parents getting drunk, or jumping naked into a lake, or even dancing in front of us children was unimaginable.
I waited for half an hour before I again asked the guard what was going on.
He said he would check on it and came back a few minutes later.
“Federal Marshals are holding your friend.
Somebody’s coming to talk to him.”
“Somebody?
Who?
We have a plane to catch.”
“Someone from the FBI wants to interview him.”
“Doesn’t he get a phone call?
Or a lawyer?”
By now I was nearly frantic.
I ran to a phone and called my dad in Los Angeles, who by some miracle actually answered his phone.
I explained everything, and he told me to ring him again in fifteen minutes.
When I called back, my father said he had talked to Peter’s parents, who were vacationing in Maine.
He then called a friend in New York, a commercial real estate lawyer, who was on his way to the airport, and who would stay with Peter until he figured out if Peter needed a criminal defense attorney or another law specialist.
I was to wait for him.
#
I’ve never been much good at waiting.
As a child waiting could send me into a temper tantrum.
I hated the feeling of anger and anticipation churning inside me until I sprang to my feet, pacing and fretting, whining between my teeth.
I never imagined it would become such a huge part of my life.
Waiting.
Like Anne Frank.
Imagining the worst.
I watched the endless shuffle of weary passengers through customs, Americans in jeans and sweatpants and sneakers, so badly dressed it was embarrassing, lugging large vinyl suitcases and black gym bags.
My eyes stung from fatigue and the dry recycled air.
My lids closed.
I concentrated on slowing my fluttering heart and my rapid breathing.
The noise was like chalk on a blackboard—the endless rolling of plastic wheels from people dragging their luggage, the snap of extension handles, voices, muffled footsteps and occasionally the click of heels, the whoosh of steamed milk from a nearby Starbucks, a two-toned dingdong from the loudspeaker before announcements, a baby screeching, the sound of heavy American bottoms thudding down on the seats beside me.
I resisted opening my eyes to look at the clock, knowing only minutes had passed.
Every second was like a boulder I had to push aside in order to proceed.
The more I wished for time to pass quickly, the faster horrifying images flashed behind my lids—
Marjon
lying in blood, her graceful hands flitting around the kitchen preparing dinner, necks gaping wide like hungry mouths, hair matted with drying blood, brown blotches of blood absorbed into the rugs, speckles of blood on the couches, dull streaks of blood on the hardwood floors.
Anne Frank lived with windows blocked with blackout curtains, her clues to the passage of time the noises of the workers in the shop below, coming and going, the rattle of gunfire and bombs outside, friends stopping in for lunch to deliver the latest news.
Two years of it.
I wondered how she managed not to go mad.
#
I waited for an hour and ten minutes.
Then I saw him.
Baron Fairchild didn’t look like a lawyer.
He was well over six feet, barrel-chested with a gray fringe for a beard like a Mystic sea captain.
His perfectly tailored steel-gray Italian suit and briefcase gave him away.
I stopped him before he got to customs and pointed to the guard outside the interrogation room.
He introduced himself,
then
walked over to speak to the guard, who let him inside.
I waited another hour before Fairchild came out again.
He wiped his upper lip with a handkerchief,
then
ambled over to me slowly, as if organizing his thoughts.
He squeezed my shoulder, sat, and took my hand.
“Your father and I have known each other for thirty years.
I will not leave until this is sorted out.
Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good.
Peter’s name popped up on an FBI watch list.
It probably is a case of mistaken identity.
Apparently this other Peter was on a list of terrorism suspects.”
“They must know he’s not the same person, don’t they?”
“The photos don’t match, but they find it suspicious Peter flew into Amsterdam one day before the
Jenever
Theater murders and flew to London hours later.”
“There must’ve been hundreds of people who spent just one day in Amsterdam.”
“But not with the name
Abulhassen
.”
“How long are they going to keep him?”
“The FBI wants to take him into custody for further questioning.”
“Custody?
Where?
Here in New York?
Can they do that?”
“They can.
Will you stay here a minute?
I have to make some calls.”
He walked over to a bank of windows and flipped out his cell phone.
He paced back and forth, talking, then sat with his elbows on his knees, his head propped up by his hand.
He came back fifteen minutes later.
“I have a criminal defense attorney coming.
Peter’s parents are flying in from Portland tonight.
Your father wants you to take the next plane home to Los Angeles.
There’s nothing you can do here.”
“I’m a witness.
I can tell them he had nothing to do with anything.”
“That’s not a good idea.
At this point, your name hasn’t been mentioned and we want to keep you out of it.
I know how you feel, but your father is right.
You need to go home.
This could drag on for days.
They will not let you see him.”
“But why?
I can’t leave.
I don’t give a shit if—”
Fairchild caught my hands, gently cupping them between his palms as if snagging a butterfly.
“You did the right thing calling your dad.
Peter will be all right.
I’ll make sure of that.”
I began to cry, not out of relief or humiliation or fear or fatigue or hunger or any combination of those feelings raging inside of me.
I cried because I knew this kind gentle man was wrong.
Peter would not be all right.
None of us would be all right.
Chapter Three
Usually I took the Super Shuttle from LAX to my home in Santa Monica, but my mother insisted on picking me up.
My father and little sister, Cynthia, were with her.
I felt both relieved and annoyed at this bevy of brethren.
I hadn’t seen my family since Thanksgiving, six months prior, and it was good to see them.
But I felt irritated they were making such a fuss—the hugs, the squeals, the compassionate long looks.
My adventure to Europe had been a disaster.
I was scared for Peter.
I had been up for twenty-six hours without anything but airline food to eat.
I wanted to be alone.
I barely tolerated a hug from my father.
My mother, sensing my mood, didn’t even attempt an embrace, brushing my forearm with her fingers.
“I’m glad you’re home, honey.”
Cynthia stared at me with big round eyes as if I had just been released from prison.
They all looked a little afraid of me, which struck me as funny, and I started to laugh, a raucous
witchy
cackle.
My rude, barely contained hysteria felt delicious to me—powerful and nasty.
My parents shot each other alarmed glances, which made
me
laugh only harder.