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Radio Free Mississippi

Terry Sanville

I. Meridian

    Louise blames it on “those damn radios.” She complains about how their teenage son holes up in the guest cottage at the edge of the Kudzu-choked woods and wastes nights and weekends closeted with his short wave sets. She figures the radio beams have fried Jerry’s brain, sort of like her microwave cooks TV dinners. Or maybe it’s the toxic fumes he’s breathes in while soldering his electronic wizardry. There’s nothing else to explain it.

    But then, Jerry is “one weird homey,” according to Jamal, a clerk at the stop-and-rob not far from the boy’s Meridian home. Like clockwork, Jerry ambles in after midnight and buys a 20-ounce coffee, black with four sugars, his ragged hair catawampus, a spaced-out look freezing his freckled face, as if he’s struggling to answer a question he can’t quite remember.
    Sometimes Jamal and the boy hang out. “So Jer, who you been talkin’ to on dat radio?”
    “Some babe in Rio. Couldn’t get voice and she has a lousy hand, doesn’t know code for shit.”
    “Yeah, dem foreign bitches are somethin’.” Jamal tugs on his dreadlocks and dreams of making it with a hot Brazilian, on a white beach with the sea rolling in.
    Jer continues muttering. “It makes me wonda, ya know, what it’s like away from this backwata. I get so wound up...”
    “I hear ya. Ya gotta teach me how to use one of dem radios so I’s cun hook up with...”
    “Yeah sure. Come over any time.”
    Jamal always figured the boy for one of them dudes with a sawed-off shotgun under his jacket, who’d someday make the evening news for blowing away his classmates. That never happens...but what does is no surprise to Jamal.

    Stan hates surprises. He knows what Jerry is up to, at least he thinks he does. When his son was fourteen, he’d bought him his first transceiver and helped him erect the antenna. Stan hoped that talking on the radio would cure his son’s terminal shyness. But it just turned Jer into a short wave junkie, spending hours listening to conversations from around the world, mumbling his call sign and waiting for answers.
    “CQ, CQ, CQ...this is WA6YHG...wide awake six, yesterday’s hot garbage.”
    One night, Stan creeps to the cottage’s window and listens to the crackling radio. He makes out voices with thick accents, one of them sounding Russian. His boy greets them as if they are friends. Stan barges in and demands: “What in God’s name’s goin’ on? You in some kinda spy ring or somethin’?”
    “Nah, Pop. I’m jus listenin’ to people out there, ya know. Sometimes I talk back. There’s this guy in Korea that –”
    “Christ, it’s bad enough the niggas have taken the White House. But it’s the Chinks that are takin’ our jobs and...”
    “Yeah, Pop, it’s them damn Chinks.”
    After that, Jerry mostly uses Morse code and taps away into the early morning hours, saying God knows what to whomever. Stan tells him he can use their Internet connection to contact his overseas buddies.
    Jer scowls. “The feds kin trace them connections. Harder ta do with short-wave, ’specially coded stuff.”
    “But I...I don’ like ya talking with all those...”
    “It’s all right, Pop. I ain’t gonna overthrow anythin’...not yet anyway.”

    Louise is actually relieved when her son enlists in the Army after graduating high school. It seems Jerry has no interest in college, working for his father, or much of anything...except radios.
    “It’ll get ’m outta the house, give ’m discipline,” she tells Stan, “and later they’ll pay for school.”
    “Servin’ his country is...is an honor. But goin’ to Iraq? I don’ know if that boy got’s enough smarts to keep his butt down. Those rag heads are sneaky sons-of-bitches.”
    She remembers her first nine years with Stan, including his stint in Desert Storm. She had finally threatened to leave him if he didn’t quit the Army, being fed up with cockroach-infested base housing. She’d refused to consider having more children while Stan was still in uniform. “I ain’t draggin’ a brood of kids around just to live in...in slums.”
    Ironically, Jerry is her only child, and now she’s glad that he enlisted. She hopes the Army will get him interested in something other than global gossiping. But her real worry is that Jer had never dated...never had a girl...never went out. Her Meridian Women’s Club friends tell her she’s lucky he isn’t messing around with white trash or drugs. They tell her that he’ll get interested soon enough when he leaves the house. Every Sunday at the First Baptist, she sizes up eligible members in the congregation and prays that her son will find someone. She forgets that nobody controls how prayers are answered.

II. Kabul

    From her family’s mud brick house, high on a rocky slope above Kabul, Adila watches the morning sun burn through haze hanging over the plain. It’s early. Crusty snow covers the twisting path that runs along the ravine. Adjusting her sky-blue burqa, she grabs a knapsack and hurries downslope. It’s three kilometers to the school where she teaches 25 girls. She has never been late and isn’t about to evoke the wrath of Mrs. Poyanda.
    Once out of sight of her house, she unfastens the screen that hides her face and sucks in crisp air. Ever since the Americans occupied the city, more women bare their faces, although Adila never does when leaving home nor in the marketplace where Taliban sympathizers lurk. At a sharp bend in the trail she stops, retrieves a small mirror and inspects her face, smiling back at the pretty image with smooth skin, dark eyes and full lips. She wants to set a good example for her students, believing that all women, no matter what age, should nurture self-confidence and beauty. Hurrying as fast as her confining garment allows, she passes the abandoned ruins of Soviet-built apartments. The trail angles sharply downward. Adila slows and moved sideways. Her shoe catches in the hem of her burqa. She falls, landing hard on her hip, and slides. The rocky slope cuts her hands. Screaming, she rolls over the ravine’s edge and disappears.

    Jerry is four months into a second overseas tour, this one in Afghanistan. Much to his mother’s disappointment, he’s become a radio repairman in the Electronic Maintenance Branch. But his father is proud that his boy stayed out of harm’s way, and is skilled enough to get promoted to sergeant.
    “McBride, I want you to check the main ridgeline transmitter.” The warrant officer points to a rocky crest that borders Kabul. “We’ve got reports the locals have been messin’ with it. You’ll go with Sergeant Johnson’s squad...and be careful.”
    Jerry nods at Johnson. “Yes sir, we’re on it.”
    They pile into two humvees and leave the compound, heading for the phalanx of barren hills half covered with mud houses. Stopping a short way upslope, they park the vehicles under guard and hustle single file along a narrow trek toward the ridgeline. The frigid air burns Jerry’s lungs. He drains his canteen quickly. Black dots swim before his eyes. As they pass clusters of houses, the locals come outside to watch; some wave, others stare, unsmiling. The trail is slippery with snow. Their curses and labored breathing fill the quiet morning.
    Half way to the ridgeline they take a break. Jerry sits with head between knees, trying to ease the headache beating his temples. Off to his left, he catches sight of a flutter of blue at the bottom of a ravine. Wiping his eyes, he tries to focus. The wind whips the blue cloth; a bloody bare foot peaks out from one edge.
    “Hey Johnson...get over here.” Jerry winces, the sound of his voice causing his head to pound.
    “Yeah, what is it? You already sick? We’re not even half way....”
    Jerry points into the ravine.
    Johnson frowns. “Shit man, that’s...that’s a woman.”
    “She ain’t movin’. We gotta check ’er out.”
    “Yeah, yeah, just lemme think.”
    Before the staff sergeant can decide, Jerry eases his way down the side of the gully, wedging his feet between rocks to gain footholds. At the bottom he stands over the woman who is fully covered, apparently lying on her stomach. He reaches forward and touches her shoulder. A moan sounds from beneath the blue shroud. She moves.
    “Easy, easy, don’ hurt yourself...”
    She rolls onto her back, her scream ripping the silence. Between gasps, a barrage of her strange words overwhelms him.
    Jerry stands helplessly. “I...I’m sorry, I don’ know what you’re sayin’.”
    “Help me,” the woman wheezes.
    “You speak English?”
    “A little...please...the pain.”
    Wisps of dark hair fall across her eyes. Jerry pushes them back gently. He removes his Kevlar vest and slides it under her head. She has a pretty face and looks to be in her late twenties...but it’s hard to tell with Afghan women.
    “How’d y’all get down here?” He immediately feels stupid for asking.
    She rolls her eyes. “I fell...please...help me get...”
    She makes a move to sit up but shrieks and clutches a hip.
    “No mo’ movin’. We’ll getcha outta here.”
    The woman stares at him with tear-filled eyes and tries to smile. Pebbles rain on them as Johnson and a couple others shinny down. The woman pulls the screen over her lower face and shudders.
    “Can she get up?” Johnson asks.
    “Nah, probably broke a leg or hip or somethin’.”
    “Well, we can’t haul her outta here.”
    “Call in a medevac. Have ’em take her to CSH.”
    “No. We’ll drop her at Malalai and – ”
    “That place is a joke. Fly her to the CSH.” Jerry’s voice has hardened.
    “All right, all right. But take three men and get your butt up the ridge. Checking that transmitter’s more important than this babe. You need to – ”
    “I am not, what you call, a babe,” the woman interrupts, glowering.
    Johnson stares, open-mouthed. Jerry grins. “You tell ’em, ma’am. Take good care of ma vest. I’ll come get it later.”
    Remembering the look on Johnson’s face, Jerry laughs to himself as he crests the ridge. Below, a red-crossed helicopter hovers above the ravine, a basket filled with bright blue dangles below it. Jerry watches them pull the woman through its open door. The chopper noses down and flies across the vast city, becoming a dot in the yellow sky. Not a babe, huh, he thinks. Hard ta tell covered up with that burqa. Still, the way she looked at me....

III. Dearborn

    Adila stares out the window of Delta Flight 821, at the incredibly green countryside sliding up to meet them. An airport materializes from the textured landscape. The plane’s tires chirp as their morning commercial flight from Atlanta to Meridian touches down. The jet engines reverse, tightening the seatbelt around her slender waist. She squeezes Jerry’s hand, feels the trembling in her new husband’s body, not unlike the delicious tremor that runs through him when they make love.
    Removing a compact from her purse, she checks her makeup, wanting to be perfect. She wears a modest western dress and closed shoes, trying not to attract attention, yet celebrating her escape from the anonymity of burqas.
    The plane continues to roll, finally slowing near the end of the runway and turns onto a taxi strip. Passengers stand and begin removing baggage from the overhead compartments. Jerry and Adila remain seated.
    “Are you sure we can do this?” she asks.
    “No. Ma folks are gonna freak...even though they’re expectin’ us.”
    “Certainly no more than my father. I feared he would have me stoned when you...”
    Jerry laughs. “Yeah, that was a bit tricky. But you were right...as soon as I –”
    The onboard PA sounds, advising passengers to check their seats before deplaning. Jerry stands and lets Adila enter the aisle. He kisses her lightly on the lips. She feels her face flush.
    “I must get used to such public displays,” she says, chuckling.
    “And I gotta remember we’re in the heart of Dixie. People are gonna think y’all are colored.”
    “I thought America had moved beyond such feelings.”
    “Not around here.”
    “Then why are you different?”
    “Long story...somethin’ about radios and a lotta late night talkin’.”
    The plane comes to rest outside a low building labeled “Key Field.” Mobile stairs are wheeled into place. The couple is the last to leave the plane. The humid air hits Adila like a wet towel. She struggles to calm herself. Ahead, a tall man with cropped hair and a heavy-boned woman wait at the edge of the tarmac. A black man stands near them, pulling on his dreadlocks. Adila cuts a sideways glance at Jerry. His mouth has that nervous twitch; his hand crushes hers in its grasp.
    “Mom, Pop, it’s good to be...”
    The man extends a huge hand and shakes Jerry’s. The woman encircles him in an embrace, all the while giving Adila a close inspection.
    “Adila, I’d like y’all to meet my folks, Stan and Louise.”
    Louise nods, as does Stan.
    “And this is ma ole radio buddy, Jamal.”
    “You dog, you,” Jamal says, grinning. “Neva thought you’d get anywhere near such a fine lookin’ woman as...”
    “Easy, Jamal. You’re talkin’ about ma wife.”
    “I am much pleased to meet all of you,” Adila says, feeling exposed and missing her burqa. “You must have so many questions. I know my own parents did when your son...”
    “Why don’ we go inside and find a quiet place ta talk?” Jerry suggests.
    “I’ve already got a bar-be-que goin’ back at the house,” Stan says. “Thought a few beers and ribs would be a good way of welcomin’ –”
    “Thanks Pop...but...but we can’t stay.”
    “Wha...I though you two could hole up in the guest cottage ’til...”
    “We gotta talk,” Jerry says.
    They enter the quiet terminal. The couple’s lonely luggage rests in the otherwise empty carousel. They sit on long benches and stare at each other.
    Jamal begins: “Ya know, this is y’all’s family stuff and I don’ need...”
    “Nah, it all right,” Jerry says, “you’re ma friend.”
    Adila sucks in a deep breath and looks directly at Louise. “Mr. and Mrs. McBride, let me tell you about myself. I am thirty-two years old. I was married once before, when I was...was very young. My first husband was killed by the Soviets. I have no children. I received a degree from the University in Kabul before the Taliban closed it. That is where I learned English. I teach girls in what you would call elementary school.”
    Adila stops talking. The silence lengthens. She lowers her head. “I did not plan on stealing your son’s heart. But he...he saved my life and...well...love grows in the strangest of places...between the most different of people.”
    “Jesus peaches, I get all that,” Stan says. “But why can’t y’all stay? Where ya going in such a hurry?”
    “Dearborn,” Jerry says.
    “Where?” Louise asks, her mouth staying open.
    “Dearborn, Michigan.”
    “What the hell’s in Dearborn?” Stan mutters. “Christ, it snows up there and...”
    “I’ve been accepted to the school of electrical engineering at the University. I start in five days.”
    Louise’s face brightens. “Didn’t I tell ya Stan that he’d get a good education? I knew he was no Army lifer.”
    Stan continues scowling. Louise gives her daughter-in-law another appraising look that makes Adila fidget.
    “I know all this is happ’nin’ so fast,” Jerry continues, “but...but my wife has relatives in Dearborn. They’ll help us get settled.”
    Adila hurriedly adds: “I have an aunt and uncle that own a shop that sells goods to the Muslim community.”
    Stan’s scowl deepens: “So there’s a lotta rag... er Muslims up there?”
    “Yes, it is a large community.”
    “I just wish y’all could stay a few days.” Louise sighs. “I’d love ta take ya to the First Baptist and show you off to ma friends. You sure have a pretty wife, Jerald.”
    Jerry looks at Adila and sucks in a deep breath. “Well, that’s the other thing y’all should know. Before we got married, I converted to Islam.”
    “You...you what?” Louise’s eyes turn glassy.
    Adila reaches forward and takes her limp hand. “Before Jerry and I could be married, he was required to convert. It is testament to the strength of his love for me.”
    “But...but...”
    “It’s all right, Ma. We all pray to the same God, and...”
    Louise pulls her hand from Adila’s grasp and sits back, frowning.
    “Ah, come on,” Jamal brakes in. “There’s lotsa brothers that’er Muslim and they’re jus’ as American as...”
    “Yes, I’m sure that’s fine for.... for your people,” Louise says curtly. “We brought Jerry up to be a proper Christian.” She turns her head away. Tears streak her cheeks and she dabs at her eyes with a tissue. Stan sits stone-faced.
    “I was afraid this was gonna happen,” Jerry mutters. “There’s always somethin’.”
    “What the hell does that mean?” Stan demands.
    “Nothin’, Pop. Nothin’.”
    When the silence becomes unbearable, Stan and Louise leave, promising to stay in touch. Jamal stands.
    “Sorry ’bout your folks....”
    “Yeah...I’m sorry for draggin’ ya down here. I’ll radio from Dearborn once I get ma rig set up.”
    “But what about all the gear at your folks house?”
    “Do me a favor, Jamal. Teach ma Pop how to use it. Maybe if he gets his head free of this place... Say, rememba, that hot Brazilian babe from Rio?” Adila glares at Jerry who grinned sheepishly.
    The couple waits for their connecting flight on a shaded bench outside the terminal. After lunch, Adila dons a burqa. Jerry unrolls their prayer rugs. She feels they are on a pilgrimage to a special life, linked to her past yet chasing a grand new adventure. They kneel and slowly touch their palms and foreheads to the cool concrete, facing the same direction that the thunderheads sail, eastward to Atlanta, Mecca, and Kabul’s rocky slopes beyond.

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