Nightrise

Hot.

Heat rose from the Earth’s dried scalp in waves and thermals, but the festival was alive this late afternoon. Try as she might, no amount of passion from the Sun could keep the humans inside their homes this hot July day. It was the Fourth of July in Colorado, and it was a tradition that the Vailians conjoin at the Eagle County Fairgrounds to celebrate. Rolling knobs were littered with booths of people both selling and shopping; an all-American band played rock under a wooden pavilion; and torrents of families spread their blankets and chairs all along the hills and sat and listened. One group in particular was sprawled higher up on the rise, lying in a triangular shape atop a checkered red-and-white blanket separated from their group in a private game. A pile of cards was their centerpiece.

And then a little white hand shot out to grab at it. Two other hands followed to smack loudly on top of the first: one about the same size, and another slightly larger and browner in complexion. The owner of the initially crushed hand—a brown-haired fourth-grader known to others as simply “Markus”—squealed in pain.

“Uunnngh…” He gave a steely whine. “You guys don’t have to hit so hard!”

The two others stared at one another. Blue eyes met brown. Then they both looked down and removed their hands from Markus’s reddened one. He withdrew it and brought it to his mouth to blow on it.

“Ewww, it looks like I’m turning into a human peppermint,” he said between breaths. “All white and red.”

The middle-aged Saudi across from him, plump like most of his voluptuous kind, turned his head and hid his grinning face behind a backturned palm. A fifth-grader to the left of him named William, with wavy blond locks cut underneath his ears, closed his eyes and shook his head. Then, pausing for a moment and suddenly opening them again, he looked back to the now-smeared card pile and frowned.

“Markus, you stupid cheater!” he cried, pointing at the face-up Red King and Four of Hearts sitting on the picnic blanket. “You weren’t even allowed to smack then!”

“Well, what else am I supposed to do?!” the fourth-grader roared back. “I have no cards and I’m really bored!”

The Saudi growled, “You know the punishment for false smacking.” William stood up, whirling about to stare at his best friend, punching his fist into his palms and glaring. With his eyes shadowed by bangs and grin spreading across his round face, he looked simply deranged. Markus’s eyes widened and he sat back. Then he threw his hands into the air.

“…Corporal punishment…”

And with that William threw himself onto the squealing Markus and proceeded to smack him. The remainder, poor Abdul the Saudi, took the time to clutch his head and growl to himself as the two boys fought, and then, finished, shot out sharpened claws and hauled the grunting William back by his shirt collar. William, flanks heaving, looked back at him with eyes blue and bright with adrenaline.

“William,” Abdul growled in that strange rolling accent of his, “I thought we agreed on no punishment penalties!”

“Aw, I thought you would’ve liked corporal punishment, Abdul,” the boy replied, smiling.

Abdul stared at him.

“…You know, since you’re Saudi and everything!”

He thrust his head into the checkered blanket. Clutched it to his face and writhed. He knew that was coming. He knew that was fucking coming!

He lifted his head again, adjusted his glasses over his eyes, and stared at William. William was still smiling.

“No ‘Corporal Punishment’.”

“Man, you are picky,” the fifth-grader continued. “Alright, alright. We’ll have it your way. Would you prefer it if we flogged him instead of just smacking him? How does forty lashes sound?”

“You’re about five seconds away from getting forty lashes,” the Arab roared. “With my hand to your miserable hide!”

“Ew! Abdul’s going to spank me; ew! Call nine-one-one!”

Markus giggled. “Hoo hoo hoo! I love Egyptian Ratscrew!”

“Actually, I think this game is getting pretty boring,” William continued. Abdul looked at him. “Look!” he said, indicating to the large stack of cards that was sitting to the side of him, and the little blip of a one that Abdul was thumbing in his fingertips. “I basically won this thing. Abdul only has like, five cards left! And Markus, you have nothing.”

“I’m a winner in my own heart,” he said, closing his eyes and beaming.

“You wanna know a real sports game?” William said, grinning, now taking the time to stand up and hold the deck between naught but his forefinger and thumb. He pointed it to the blazing, victorious sun. “It’s called Fifty-Two Pickup!”

Abdul stretched a hand up. “Billy, don’t you dare—”

But it was too late. Pinching back, William flung the cards out of the stack, one at a time, letting the colorful cards billow out upwards and upwards into the lonely heavens, adding friends for the blue sky. The cards, flipping white, blue, white, blue, backwards and forwards, catching little eddies on the wind, tipped and spiraled up and then back down, down, like glorious square snowflakes until they settled back onto the ground and green sea of grass, and William and Markus threw up their hands and danced under them, beckoning and reveling in the strange blizzard of royalties and numerals. Abdul felt his cheeks grow hot.

“William Joseph Harding, pick up these goddamn cards right now!” he shrieked.

“You aren’t my dad, Abdul!”

Abdul stared at him. William stared back. Then, suddenly the Arab reared back to lunge at him, but the fifth-grader, with his step light and springy with youth, quickly spun back and simply tripped away. Markus, glued to faithful William at the hip, giggled and shrieked off after him. Abdul, watching the retreating children—those horrible little pissants!—, released a handful of empty oxygen and swore wrathfully. Then he gazed down at his ring finger, at the white-gold band laid with glittering tanzanites. A promise looped around his finger…

Engagement, engagement.

Ugh.

He never asked for this. He had fallen in love with her and he was happy—until, of course, this relationship caught the attention of her demon child, William. Now he wouldn’t leave him alone, constantly reminding him that he’ll never live up to this Shimmering Greatness his past father was.

His poor, past father that had died a certain September morning a few years back…

Again, he had never asked for this. But he loved her too much to give her up…

Ugh!

Lifting himself from the picnic blanket, he proceeded to pick up all the landed, flightless cards.

---

Hot.

It was still hot.

But maybe not as much so.

The Sun had burnt herself out. She hung low in the sky, it being painted red, the color of her anger. The brow of her great, round face peered over the tops of the grizzled conifers, her normally pale cheeks now a fiery orange. Clouds of purple and pinks swirled over her, just out of reach from the simmering beast’s rage, watching her downfall, downfall… But she’d be back tomorrow. Tomorrow. A high of an uncanny eighty-five would roast those fair-weathered Coloradoans out of their clothes.

But Abdul wasn’t paying attention to any of this. Dead in a deep sleep, he was oblivious; however, his rage was as hot as the Sun’s when, all of a sudden, he felt smashed into the ground.

He reached for his glasses, and slipping them on, watched the metamorphosis of a pallid white blur shift into the form of a grinning William stretched across his back.

“Don’t touch me!” he shrieked again and shifted, throwing the ten-year old off of him. William, obviously unabashed, simply got up and turned to his mother, who was napping beside her angry fiancée, her blond curls splayed out from underneath her head, making a halo about her peaceful face. He tentatively nudged her.

“Mom? …Mom?”

He poked her again. She stirred.

“Unnngh?”

“Mom, when do the fireworks start?”

“Nngh!”

William stared at her. Patricia lied motionless for a couple more seconds before stirring again, this time taking the time to prop herself up and rub at her eyes sleepily. She yawned, looked down at Abdul, who had resumed lying back down but beamed up at her, and then looked at her son, whose face was set like stone.

“Uh, not until nine-thirty, honey,” she said, taking her fingers to run them through his hair. William sighed.

“But, Mom, I’m bo-o-o-ored!”

“Maybe you and Markus can go walk around the fairgrounds,” she said, leaning back to use Abdul’s hip as a headrest.

“But we already did that all day!”

“Uh-huh,” Markus replied. “We rode the Moon Bounce ten times. And went down the slide eleven!”

“Well, I’m sorry, boys, but you’re just going to have to be patient.”

William asked, “What time is it now?”

Patricia looked at her watch. “Eight-forty.” William groaned.

“Why don’t you just freaking shoot me?” he grumbled under his breath and sat down on the blanket next to his mom in Indian-style, propping his elbows up onto his knees and burying his face in his hands. Abdul shifted, twisting his head so he could stare at the blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked doll in front of him. She returned his gaze with a smile.

“Want some funnel cake?” he asked.

She giggled. “Mmm, of course!”

She lifted her head and he got up. Well, that was that. It was time to escape the those two little terrors—

“Hey, William? Markus? Why don’t you go with Abdul to go get something to eat?”

Where was that wretched blanket to scream into when you needed it? Abdul watched as William instantly lifted his head and his blue eyes shone with terrible glee.

“Alright!” he said, leaping up and bounding beside him. Markus followed. Abdul suppressed the heavy urge to groan and rip his own hair out. Of course the two terror twins wouldn’t bypass an excellent chance to pester him. And then he looked at Patricia. Delicate, doe-like Patricia who wished for nothing more than a family again…

He thumbed the band around his finger again, realized he was doing it, and stopped. Then looking at the still sharp-eyed William and the beaming Markus, he sighed.

“Ah, come on,” he cried, and the two children bounded off after him. One hour until he left…

---

And on the return trip back, Abdul saw him the same time the children did; of course, against the twilit sky, how could anyone miss him? The man was a walking rainbow, as if all the rejected colors of Crayola vomited on him. He was laced with neon greens, reds…, bright purples and yellows. Flashing lights and lasers. He was an acid trip anthropomorphized. And, looking down, he could see that the children were already addicted.

“Abdul,” William said, eyes plastered, hands taking a fistful of his linen thobe, “what are those?”

Abdul looked. He knew what they were. Glowsticks.

Of course, he had a better word for it.

“Expensive!”

“Aw, come on, Abdul; what are they really called?”

The Arab turned his head. “Glowsticks…,” he whispered.

“Can we have some?” Markus asked.

“After you two’s behavior today, all you’re going to get is grounded!”

William clasped his fingers together. “Puh-leaze?”

Abdul clicked his tongue and raised his eyebrows. “Not for three and five bucks each!” he screeched. “Do you think I’m made of money? What do you think I am?”

William grinned, not a second off beat. “A Saudi!” he declared.

Abdul called for the writhing-blanket again. He should’ve known not to leave himself open with something as dangerous and twistable as…questions. Why? Why?! He resisted the urge to bang his head into a tree.

He sighed. Looked at the two little beggars, namely the conniving pissant, William. “Well, congratulations. You’ve just blown it for the both of you. I was going to consider, but—”

Now the fifth-grader was no longer smiling. He glared up at Abdul, eyes alight.

“Why did you have to come with us anyway?” he cried, thrusting a finger at him. “Can’t you see that you’re ruining my July Fourth?”

Abdul opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, but no words came out. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t bloody speak at all.

“Don’t…you point those…those—” was as much as he could say before giving up.

“Why can’t you disappear?” William was crying now.

Abdul snarled, “When I close my eyes and reopen them, you’re the one who better have disappeared, William Joseph Harding.”

And William fled. So much for a family jaunt.

---

“Billy, I don’t care how angry you are at me. I’m still not going to buy you glowsticks,” came a rolling whisper right in his ear. William turned to his other side and scrunched himself up into a tight coil, jamming his fingers into his ears and singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” loudly. He guessed that he finally found him on top of this sparkling hillcrest, bordering the trees for which their cool shadows blanketed him from easy sight. He felt Abdul’s eyes on him, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care if he had to stay like this all night. He simply didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear another word spewed forth from his mouth. He’d rather have his stinking ears ripped off.

William sighed. Wrung himself even more so his knees pressed against his ribs and his fingers dug so deep into his canals that he winced. The corners of his eyes began to hurt, and the bridge of his nose. Then he blinked and squeezed his eyes shut, and felt them water. His throat strained with a whimper and he bit his tongue and held it back.

This was the worst Fourth of July ever, by the way.

It would have been better if Abdul wasn’t here, he thought, still continuing his song in a half-strangled hum. Why did Mom even have to invite him? Why couldn’t he have just stayed at home, and it would have been just the two of us? Why couldn’t it have been Dad next to me instead of him, Dad, who would’ve—

But William hummed louder and realized Dad would never be there again.

Abdul said something muffled, sliding down to lay next to his turned back. William removed his fingers and turned backwards to look at him.

“I said I don’t know why you want those things anyway,” the Saudi repeated, looking at his pallid face and reddened nose. His eyes were bright. “When you have the stars.”

“Just a buncha little white dots,” William sighed, but Abdul didn’t say anything. The fifth-grader turned back to face the hills in his tightened ball, but then he couldn’t help but sit up and look at Abdul again. The Arab was frozen, stuck in a mindset where time and circumstance didn’t matter, and William saw in the reflection of his glasses thousands and thousands of stars.

And then he too looked up, and was lost.

He was drowning. Drowning in an abysmal stretch of navy. Only the light pulled him up, the light of millions—no, billions—of shimmering dots. Stars. He gazed at them, got overwhelmed by the sheer brevity of them. Twinklers and shiners. Some outglowing others while dying ones feebly glittered from the back. The whole sky was full of them—no, blanketed with them, these…these glittering balls of dust and gas. How something so ugly could be so beautiful… Then he looked at Abdul, who was now sitting up and grinning at him.

“See them?” he asked. “See the constellations? See the shapes they make?”

William shook his head and slid down so he was stretched upon the blanket, nuzzling his head into the Arab’s lap. “No.”

“Right there, to the northwest. Isn’t that what you Americans call…the Big Dipper?” And he drew a ladle with his finger. William stared, then sighed. He knew that one already…

“How about another one?” he asked, curling himself into another ball and snuggling up close. He wiped at his nose and sniffed.

“How about al-Hamamah?” Abdul asked, pointing to multiple curving lines to the far, far, west. “I don’t know what you call it in English.”

“What’s it mean?”

“‘The Dove’.”

William didn’t say anything… Just stared into the heavens. Heavens. Heaven… He suddenly sat up. Wrapped his arms around his chest and turned to face the staring Saudi.

“Abdul,” he began slowly, voice heavy with tears. “…Do you think that my father—” But then he stopped and his sentence trailed off into oblivion. What a stupid question. What a stupid, stupid question. He slid back down to the ground, facing the hills again. Abdul’s face was grave. He leaned over the weeping boy and looked at his tear-stained face.

“Of course,” he whispered, kissing him on the cheek, brushing him with those long Arab eyelashes of his. “Of course…”

William sobbed. Abdul turned to the sky.

“In the Qu’ran, of course it was Allah—ar-Rahman wa al-Azeem—that set out the stars,” he said. Then he smiled. “To guide us.”

“Abdul, I’m…—” And then he stopped again. Why couldn’t he say it?

I’m sorry.

Abdul smiled at him. “I understand,” he said. “I understand.”

And then a glittering rocket climbed the sky and exploded.