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I stare at them in shock, silent behind my gag, and Asgar continues.
“Your father told you that he moved to America so you could live a better life, but that is not true. He moved to America because it was good for business. It was all about the money, sweetheart. The warehouse he visits every day is actually an arms production center. And rural Iowa is the last place any government agent will come looking for Russian mafia.”
I shake my head furiously, my eyes wide. That only makes Hazi chuckle, showing his yellow teeth.
“Your mother is in on it too. Does that surprise you? Oh yes, Susan is one of our most effective arms dealers. No one suspects a plump housewife from Iowa to be trafficking in lethal arms, but that’s where they’re wrong,” he chortles. “Your mom is da bomb.”
Da bomb? Susan Snow, baker of cookies and President of the PTA when I was a kid? It can’t be true. But Hazi merely shrugs.
“But let’s be clear: your father isn’t getting rid of your baby because he’s concerned about your future. He’s doing it because he’s concerned about the future of his business. The separatists are still men of the faith, sometimes even radical ones. Your having a baby without the rightful oversight of a man is disgusting and will not be taken kindly to in our country.”
Now, things are getting confusing. Men of the faith? What does he mean? My dad’s not religious at all, but maybe I actually know nothing about my parents. Hazi lets out a sinister laugh.
“Yes, Mr. Snow is sending you away to ensure that his ongoing relationship with his business partners remains undisturbed.”
I sit back on my heels, unable to believe this turn of events. No, it can’t be. But heaviness fills my heart and tears start to drench my cheeks. Asgar nods then.
“Because you see, your parents know who fathered the baby. You think you’ve been so successful at keeping your filthy secret? No, the help always knows. They informed your parents that you’ve been sneaking around with your new neighbor, and having a baby with an American solider could be disastrous for business. As a result, there’s been a change of plans. Your parents think you’re going to stay with relatives in Russia, but guess again. You’re going to Azerbaijan where you will be put in a home for unwed mothers. You will give up your baby after it’s born, and you will never see your family again.”
By the end of this explanation I’m hyperventilating and writhing about in my ties. The back of my throat runs dry and is now raw from muffled screaming. The goons laugh at me with sickening delight. I realize the horrifying state of my situation, and fall still. Even the tears, spilling madly moments earlier, screech to a sudden halt.
With the gag still in my mouth, I can’t respond. I can’t react. All I can do is sit and stare blankly while my world, and everything I know, crumbles around me.
9
Jordan
I’m in the living room watching TV. It’s an old military movie and it’s cheesy as hell. It’s about a young soldier and details his life after the war. It’s the same old clichéd shit that only happens to one out of a hundred of us. Jeff has PTSD, he takes to life on the street, falls into the grip of prescription pills, and ultimately becomes a violent criminal, causing mothers to yank their children away when passing him on the sidewalk. Hollywood gives us a bad rap, and it pisses me off. But what can I do? This is how movie producers see veterans. Assholes.
I try to keep my attention on the film, but it keeps drifting to Misty. I check my phone. Still no calls.
What the hell? It’s been days since the last time I saw her. She hasn’t been answering my calls or texts, and I haven’t even seen her out around her yard or anything. It’s a little strange to think she would go from practically living at my house for the last six or so weeks to completely MIA.
But then again, I did see that her parents, Mark and Susan, are back, so that has to be it. She’s busy keeping up the façade that we’re nothing but neighbors. I get it. We’ve been having an illicit affair and Misty doesn’t want to be discovered. Still, I’m worried and angry. What’s going on? Why doesn’t she at least text me?
How can she not at least have the respect to call me back and tell me that she’s busy? Or not interested if that’s the case? I thought I meant more to her than that.
Now, the man on the TV is chasing a woman down the street. I presume they’re going to have him steal her purse for drug money or some other criminal act and I snort in disgust. This is pure drivel, and I can’t take it anymore. Clicking the TV off, I slam the remote down on the arm of the couch and grab my keys before storming out the front door.
