Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! (38 page)

“What's it mean?” Annette wondered aloud.

Beverly drummed her fingers on the table.

“Could you not do that?” Gwen requested, gnashing her dentures.

“What?” Beverly was oblivious.

“The thingie with your fingie,” I said.

“I think through my fingers,” Beverly explained. “After years at a keyboard, that's where my brain went.”

“Can you put it back in its cranium?” Gwen moaned.

“Deep breaths, everyone,” Annette counseled. “Inhale one, hold two, exhale three.”

Annette had been consciously breathing for over forty years, convinced that all problems—trivial and monumental, personal and worldwide—could be solved by such a practice. We complied, slowly inhaling and exhaling a half-dozen times.

“When I woke up, I wanted to kill myself,” Sonya cried, clutching her breast.

“We could commit mass suicide,” Judith sniggered.

“Like lovers,” Annette sighed.

“And cults,” I charged.

“Start saving pills,” Bev said.

“Mass Suicide Stuns Elder Care Facility,”
Sonya cackled. “At least, Helen Temple would lose her job.”

Gleeful approbation circled the table.

“Suicide is a sin,” Gwen said piously. She'd recently returned to the bosom of the Catholic church.

“Sin?” Beverly mimicked harshly. “Mistreating old people is the sin currently under discussion.”

“If we killed ourselves, we wouldn't be around to gloat,” Sonya reminded us.

“I'd be around,” Gwen said, already lonely.

“It would be a good joke,” I smiled.

“It's not a joke,” Judith said.

“We're not getting anywhere,” Bev barked.

“Maybe, we should sleep on it again,” Gwen piped.

“I'm not sleeping until I'm sure your nightmare won't invade me,” Sonya said.

“Maybe, your nightmare invaded me,” Beverly countered.

“I don't think so.”

“But you're afraid.”

“Who wants to end up a thingamajig?” I spoke for all of us.

“I want to die conscious,” Annette beamed. “Inhale my last breath fully alive.”

“I want to go to bed and wake up in heaven,” Gwen mused.

“Inject me with sodium pentothal and send me to the Caribbean,” Sonya said dreamily.

Bev declared, firm and decisive, “I plan to blow myself up in front of the Pentagon.”

“What!” we chorused.

“P-E-N-T-A-G-O-N!”

“Brilliant!” Judith conceded.

A frisson raced through us as we grabbed each other's hands.

“After one of us is diagnosed,” Judith said.

“With a fatal incurable terminal disease,” Bev continued.

“Before we're too infirm—or lose our mind,” I said.

“I can't possibly kill anyone,” Annette agonized.

“You wouldn't be killing anyone,” Judith emphasized.

“Just yourself,” Sonya reasoned.

“I don't mind killing a few certain persons,” Beverly said sharply.

“That's a personal choice, don't you think?”

“I'd rather kill machines,” Judith said.

“So the doctor delivers a death sentence and then?”

“I wonder if it hurts to blow up,” Sonya pondered.

“The free animal/has its decease perpetually behind it/and God in front
… ” Gwen was good with quotes.

“We're animals” Annette observed.

“Who's the German poet?” Gwen asked anxiously.

“Wagner?” Sonya guessed.

“He's not a poet,” Beverly muttered.

“A?” Gwen paused. “B?” she didn't think so.

“Rilke,” Judith said. She had given
Duino Elegies
to Gwen for her birthday.

“Let's discuss how this will work,” Bev interrupted.

“Shouldn't we have a name?” Sonya queried.

“We have a name,” Judith said.

“It sounds awfully exciting to die.”

“We should envision it as self-sacrifice,” Annette offered.

“The ultimate sacrifice,” Sonya said.

“We can't use
that
phrase. It's what the President says when something bad happens to the troops.”

“It makes their families feel better,” Gwen commented.

“Will this make our kids feel better?” Annette asked.

“Don't count on it.”

“That's why our goal has to be pure.” Annette again.

“Pure like Buddhist monks who set themselves on fire in protest of war.”

“So
others might live free,”
Sonya rhapsodized.

“They are noble,” I said.

“We can be noble,” Judith said. “It depends how we go about it.”

“Once you get your death warrant, we'll need a signal,” Sonya said. “How about wearing orange?”

“Why orange?”

“Blonds, brunettes, everyone looks good in orange.”

“Do you see blonds and brunettes here?” Bev snipped.

“Orange communicates high alert,” Sonya asserted. “It's the Homeland Security code.”

“I like the idea of a signal,” Gwen agreed.

“It's the color of Buddhist robes,” I added.

“Orange has never suited me,” Judith blurted, once a stunning redhead.

“If you don't want to wear orange, then bring us each an orange.”

“That'll be confusing,” Annette complained. “I eat oranges all day.”

“We'll have to look old and inconspicuous.”

“That won't be difficult,” I croaked.

“She means gentle and respectable.”

“She means helpless and ugly,” Beverly chided.

“Back to logistics,” Judith prodded.

“Maybe, we can include an abortion clinic,” Gwen said timidly.

“Are you insane?” Bev exploded.

“We're all in favor of a woman's right to choose,” Judith frowned with a ferocious expression.

Gwen cowered. She was once in favor herself, but the church had filled her with contradictory feelings. Propped beside her bed was a photo of Buzz Aldrin. He took Communion on the moon.

“I'll pretend you didn't say that,” Beverly said snidely. “By the way, blowing yourself up is a cardinal sin even at an abortion clinic.”

“Don't we get to pick our
own
target?” Sonya asked.

“Like Nordstrom's?” I scoffed.

“We should agree it's political. That's the point,” Bev said. “And sign something beforehand like a proclamation.”

“And suicide note,” Gwen said.

“It's not exactly suicide,” Annette quibbled.

“It is suicide but the reasons are unconventional.”

“Nordstrom is a perfectly legitimate target,” Sonya insisted.

“It's not military-industrial,” Bev objected.

“The clothes are made in sweatshops. Slaves probably make them. Slaves make jeans and shoes. Nordstrom is famous for shoes.”

“Isn't that a syllogism?” Gwen asked.

“Sonya has a point,” I defended. “It's anti-capitalist.”

“But is it worth killing herself over?” Bev asked.

“Maybe,” Sonya said.

“Don't mourn! Organize!' One
of Beverly's standards.

“Surely, there's no time for that,” Annette said.

“I vote Pentagon,” Judith proposed.

“First thought, best thought,” I said.

“Pentagon!” Gwen seconded louder than intended.

“You're not participating,” Judith said.

“We should choose our own target,” Sonya whined. “I mean it is our life.”

“What about voting on targets?” Gwen recommended. “A target needs three votes to qualify.”

“If you're not participating, you should recuse yourself from the discussion.”

“I already suggested a target,” Gwen said. “It just didn't meet with your approval.”

“Can we shut up about targets?” Bev seethed.

“I thought Judith said it was more important than wardrobe,” Sonya said.

“It's more important but not the
most
important.”

“Most important is how we make a bomb,” Judith said.

“And detonate it,” Sonya added.

“Keep your voice low,” Beverly hissed.

“Bomb! Bomb! Bomb! Bomb! Bomb!” Sonya was often bratty. “Did anybody turn around?”

Our eyes swept the café. The cheerful room with its terra cotta walls and comfy chairs, wi-fi, fair-trade coffee, homemade pastries, and potted plants was filled with sleepy young people dressed in black jeans and t-shirts, seated at faux marble-top tables, fiddling with their sleek laptops, their ears plugged with either speaking or listening devices. Even those playing chess were competing against computers.

“I don't think they're hard to make,” Judith said. “Directions are on the Internet.”

“You know that?” Gwen asked.

“Sure! But the FBI watches those sites.”

“Getting materials is tricky,” Beverly said. “They have strict restrictions on fertilizers.”

“What about a large vegetable garden at the Lodge?” I advised.

“I want to make sure we don't hurt anybody.” Annette cried.

“You mean 'collateral damage,'” Bev said.

“We wouldn't be murderers, would we?” Annette needed clarification.

“How about
saboteurs?”
Sonya's bad accent again.

“I couldn't possibly kill anything,” Annette repeated weakly.

“What if it were a building where there happened to be a cat?” Gwen adored philosophical conundrums.

“I would feel terrible,” Annette said.

“They don't let cats wander around the Pentagon,” I pointed out.

“What if we blew up a ship carrying weapons to the Persian Gulf? They might keep cats on board to kill rats. If the cats were already killing rats, would that make you feel better?”

“Cats naturally kill rats,” Annette reasoned. “This is different.”

“Is it?” Bev retorted. “Apparently, man naturally kills everything.”

“Kill one man, and you're a murderer. Kill millions of men, and you're a conqueror. Kill them all, and you're a god.”
Judith was also very good with quotes.

“Technicalities should be our focus,” Beverly said.

“Communication, acquisition, production, transportation, and execution, there's your outline.” Gwen jotted a few notes on her napkin.

Bev's eyeballs pierced the paper. “You'll have to burn that.”

“If you don't write down a few things, you won't remember.” Gwen had once been a professional facilitator. “You can't possibly keep everything in your head.”

“Do we claim responsibility and send out a press release?” Sonya asked. “I'd like to work on that.”

“Maybe, we can ignite an international elder terrorist movement,” Gwen said.

“Der Elder Hostile!” I whooped.

“I don't like 'terrorist.' It sounds negative,” Annette said.

“Die today for a good cause!”
Sonya was tempted to say it would make a good bumper sticker.

The vivacious waitress stood beside our table, pad and pencil in hand. Thick hennaed hair tumbled around her face. Her eyes shone and skin glowed with youth.

“Looks like you gals are having a grand time of it this morning,” she said, smiling at her Saturday-morning regulars.

“We have a lot to live for,” Judith nodded soberly.

We nodded in accord. “All of us have a lot to live for.”

Quotes by:
Joe Hill, Ranier Maria Rilke, Jean Rostand, William Shakespeare

Gary Phillips

The shotgun blast partially tore away the side of the bearded man's face. It didn't kill him or knock him over—though it did embed pellets in one eye, ruining its vision. He screamed profanities and cranked off two rounds from his Glock. But Masai Swanmoor went prone, squeezing the Remington's trigger again. This time his aim was better and he blew out the other man's stomach, sending him over backwards onto the coffee table, breaking a leg as it collapsed.

Swanmoor rolled as the other Aryan Legion member, a woman with a hatchet face and a weight lifter's body, came at him. The hunting knife she wielded cutting and slashing at his legs as he scrambled about.

“Motherfuckin' black motherfucker,” she wailed, arching the knife overhand at his groin.

Swanmoor swung the pistol grip stock of the auto shotgun to deflect the blade then aimed the business end of his weapon. “Put the pig sticker down, you ugly Nazi bitch,” he blared.

“Fuck you.” She didn't let go of the knife. She backed up several steps and stood hunched over, knife in one hand, eyes roving about the room.

Swanmoor stood up. “You're not that goddamn valuable to me. You or one of your other inbred sodomites will be of use.” Cowboy fashion, he held the shotgun low, left hand under the pump action, right finger on the trigger. “I'm happy to kill you.”