The Insurrectionist (14 page)

            After a game was over, Deni ran down the bleachers and straight to Mikail on the sidelines. Deni tried to dance around Mikail, but Mikail caught Deni around the waist and lifted him in the air and playfully tackled him to the ground.

            The brother’s horsing around caught the attention of cheerleader, Jamie Unger—the girl who would make Mikail’s American dream complete—tall, fit and a ponytail with the slightest curl at the very end. Jamie wasn’t as superficial as the other girls: she was a true, die-hard sports fan who would shout calls and cheers from the sidelines. “It seems you have a fan,” she said to Mikail.

            “Oh him,” he said and then set Deni on the ground. “He’s just my brother.”

            “Cute,” Jamie replied with a flirtatious smile.

            Deni sized up Jamie. “Is she your girlfriend? She’s hot,” he whispered to Mikail.

            “No,” Mikail replied.

            “You should ask her out. She’s real pretty and you’re a football star. She’d be crazy not to go out with you,” said Deni.

            Mikail smiled at Jamie. “I don’t know.”

            Deni burst out to Jamie. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

            Horrified Mikail covered Deni’s mouth.

            Jamie smiled bashfully and then looked up at Mikail. “Well yeah.”

            Deni elbowed Mikail in the ribs.

            “Maybe we can get together tomorrow?” Mikail suggested awkwardly.

            Jamie crossed her hands, resting her pom-poms against her thighs. “I’d like that.”

            Finally, Deni wiggled free from Mikail. “My work is done here!” He winked at Jamie and then said to Mikail. “See you at home, bro.”

 

            “Deni,” Marsha said to get his attention.

            “Can we talk about something else? Anything else?” asked Deni.

            Marsha sat back in her chair. “Your relationship with your brother is very important to this case. It’s going to come out in trial; it’s your best defense.”

            “How so?”

            “Wasn’t it his idea? Didn’t he do most of the planning? It would help if we can prove you were bullied or manipulated in some way,” replied Marsha.

            Deni chuckled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. My brother loved me; he would do anything for me, as I would do anything for him.” He sat upright and turned toward Marsha. “You don’t understand what we’ve gone through as a family. What we have endured together; no one will. Here in America it’s easy for a man to turn on his brother, but not where I come from. There is nothing thicker than blood.”

            “I appreciate your loyalty even after his life, but your fate is not glued to his. You were not Siamese twins. You may be of the same blood, but not of the same body, mind and spirit. You are your own man,” asserted Marsha.

            “I know that! I am my own man,” he spat.

            “Are you?” Marsha challenged. “You’re brother’s life was not your responsibility.”

            Deni laughed. “You’re not my mother.”

            Marsha sighed. “Thank goodness.” She knew she wasn’t getting any more out of him today. “Alright. We’ll let it go for today, but we will get to him again soon.” She stood from the chair and collected her belongings.

            Marsha was one of the few people Deni trusted; he actually trusted her with his case and his life and just like his father, he hated to disappoint her, but he couldn’t escape the attachment he had to Mik. It wasn’t just blood; there was a whole lot more he just couldn’t put his finger on.
Life was so much easier when he didn’t have to answer for every one of his actions and emotions. Life was easy when he could just go through the motions
, he thought.

            Deni reclined in his bed with his hands behind his head and remembered his brother. They could not have been more different. Mikail was strong, sensitive, and very shy. Deni was curious, contemplative and often very chatty. Growing up, Deni never gave much thought to Mikail; he was his brother and that’s all he needed to know.

            Now lying in a prison facility, he’d been forced to scrutinize his brother and his relationship with him.
I am not Mik, he is not me, yet we are one. That’s all anyone really needs to know
.

 

            Reading High School history teacher, Mr. Hoffman, strolled through the aisles, handing back the students’ essays. He handed Heather her paper. Deni leaned over and peeked at her grade. “A B, well that’s kind of a shocker. Miss political science only got a B on her history essay. What will become of us?” he joked.

            Heather stared at her essay with disbelief and then placed it inside her folder. “Well, win some, lose some.”

            Mr. Hoffman gently hit Deni on the back of the head. “I want to see you after school.”

            “Ooh, someone’s in trouble,” teased Heather.

            Deni sunk in his seat and tried to brush off his concern.
It’s just a paper; it’s just a grade
.

            Later after school, Deni knocked on Mr. Hoffman’s door and entered. “You wanted to see me.”

            “Yes, have a seat.” Mr. Hoffman got out of his seat and walked around the desk. He sat on the edge of the desk and faced Deni. “I want to talk to you about your essay.”

            “Yeah,” sighed Deni.

            “Why did you write the essay on the fall of Rome through the perspective of Alaric?” asked Mr. Hoffman.

            Deni chuckled. “Because his people have been abused by the Romans for centuries.” He sat up in his seat. “Rome was weakened by their decadence, greed, and corruption. They were so full of themselves, so full of pride and arrogance they didn’t notice the Barbarians at the door. Alaric changed the world, yet no one remembers his name. Isn’t that just the way? An anonymous man can change the world, yet the masters of history try to write him out. I wanted to write him back in.”

            Mr. Hoffman sat back, reached for Deni’s paper and then handed it to Deni. Deni fumbled with the paper and saw the A+ grade. “You can let your girlfriend know you ruined the curve.” Mr. Hoffman paused and then continued, “Deni, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have you thought about what you’d like to do in the future?”

            “Well,” Deni sighed with a shrug. “My father was a doctor. I was thinking of following in his footsteps.”

            “That’s great, but if you don’t mind I’d like to suggest journalism. You have the talent for seeing different sides of the story. You have the talent for seeing what others don’t, plus you are thoughtful, comprehensive and a good writer.”

            Deni stared up at Mr. Hoffman dumbfounded by the compliment. He didn’t think much of the essay, only that when he wrote it he was feeling a bit rebellious. Deni stood from his chair. “Thank you, Mr. Hoffman. I’m going to consider it.”

            When he left Mr. Hoffman’s classroom, Heather was waiting. “Is everything okay?” she asked.

            Deni proudly portrayed his A+ paper. “It seems Mr. Hoffman believes I could have a career as a journalist. Maybe I’ll be a foreign correspondent.”

            “Wow, I can see it,” she said and then pretended to hold a microphone before his lips. “Say, this is Deni Daudov reporting from Kandahar.”

            Deni took her pretend microphone and said in a put-on serious voice, “This is Deni Daudov reporting from Kandahar.”

            “Ah, so sexy,” Heather said.

            He put his arm around Heather’s shoulder. “Yeah, I can dig.”

            Deni returned home from school full of excitement and pride from his teacher’s encouragement. Mikail turned around and Deni could see the discouragement in his face. “How was school?” asked Mikail.

            “Eh, school,” mumbled Deni and then walked into the kitchen where Kamiila was feeding Mikail’s one-year-old daughter, Elena. He said nothing about the situation and reached in the canister for a handful of cookies.

            “Dinner’s in a half an hour,” said Kamiila.

            “I’ve already touched them. You don’t want me to put back fingered food in the canister do you?” questioned Deni.

            “Go sit with your brother; he’s a bit down these days,” replied Kamiila.

            “What’s wrong?” he asked.

            Kamiila shrugged. “You know the jobs are hard to come by.” She sighed. “Crazy, Mikail is so bright, so qualified. I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t hire him.”

            “Right,” said Deni and then returned to the living room to sit with his brother. Deni didn’t say anything to Mikail; he could see the answers written across his face. Mikail was a young man without a reason.

 

 

            Prison guards entered Deni’s hospital room with a wheelchair. They unstrapped Deni’s legs from the bed and helped him into it. He was wheeled away with nothing but his composition book and pen. The prison hallway was stale and sanitized. It smelled like a combination of Clorox and piss. The medics stopped outside a door in solitary and helped him from the chair and into the room.

            Deni limped inside to the cement bed with a paper-thin mattress and sat down as the prison guard closed the door. There was a small desk with a cement stool, a toilet, sink combination, and a shower all within feet of the bed. Next to him was his new wardrobe—a clean pair of orange coveralls, and two pairs of khaki scrubs, two pairs of white underwear and two t-shirts, a towel, a hand cloth, blue sneaker slippers, and a toothbrush.

            The room itself was only about six foot by eight foot, barely enough room to pace without walking into a wall. There was a five-inch wide, four-foot frosted window. Light could come in, but Deni couldn’t see anything through it. He checked the sink; only lukewarm water flowed through the spigot. He flushed the toilet just to see if it worked and then ran the shower for a brief second.

            At the time, solitary didn’t seem quite so bad. He had all the facilities to live independently without the badgering of a cellmate. He had a place to rest, and a place to take a shit.
What more do I need?
he thought.

            In the faint distance, beyond the walls of his isolated room, he heard the screaming and howling of other inmates. He found it odd that grown men howled at the darkness.
What could they want? What could they be screaming for?

 

            Six-year-old Deni awoke to the sound of howling wolves. He sat up in the bed he shared with Mikail. Looking out the bedroom window he could not see them. He crawled out of bed and peeked through every available window he could, hoping to get a sighting of the wolves.

            Through his Uncle Aslan’s kitchen door window, he met the icy blue stare of a wolf sitting in the middle of his uncle’s backyard in Volgograd. The wolf and Deni held a connection with one another until other wolves from the pack joined.

            Slowly, with apprehension, the pack of wolves approached his uncle’s house, so Deni was able to get a better look. He was mesmerized and even taken with the animals as they sniffed around the outdoor table looking for scraps of food. They appeared so harmless; Deni wanted to go outside to pet them.

            Deni was unaware that Uncle Aslan approached from behind and his big hand on Deni’s shoulder startled him. When he turned around he noticed his uncle had a rifle in his hand.

            “Step aside Deni,” said Uncle Aslan.

            “You’re not going to kill them, are you?” asked Deni.

            “No,” replied Uncle Aslan, “I just want to scare them so they know not to come near the house. They need to know their limits.”

            His uncle pushed Deni behind the kitchen door as he carefully opened it. He raised the rifle and shot several times into the air. As his uncle closed the door, Deni saw the pack of wolves run back to the woods.

            “What’s going on?” asked Bashir as he tied the sash of his robe.

            “A pack of wolves wondered into the backyard,” explained Uncle Aslan.

            “I saw them pop!” Deni exclaimed excitedly. “One of them looked right at me.”
            His uncle laughed and messed with Deni’s hair. “He thought you were dinner.”

            “He didn’t look that scary to me,” responded Deni.

            “That wolf pack would have devoured you up before you would have had a chance to scream Deni,” said his uncle. “Fear, it’s a great deterrent.”

            Deni gazed out the window again. He saw the crystal eyes of the wolves just beyond the wood’s edge. It would be a while before the wolves would work up the courage to come back.

 

            As the inmates’ howling subsided, Deni returned to his thoughts and his writing.

 

 

            Deni set down his composition book and rested his head on his pillow. His eyelids were heavy and his body exhausted but the cell light kept him from sleeping. He got up and walked around the cell looking for a light switch, but there was none. “You gotta be kidding me,” he said. “Hey, can you turn off the lights!” he shouted, but no one listened.

            “Shit,” he grumbled as he fell back onto his cement bed. He tossed violently a few times and then swung his forearm over his head to block out the light.

 

            A slapping sound woke Deni from his sleep. He was surprised he had actually fallen asleep under these conditions and survived his first night in solitary; he almost felt proud of himself. Gazing at his cell door through groggy, sleep-filled eyes, he saw his food tray.