toward the Visitors Center, narrowly avoiding a collision with the lumbering van. “Good thing Vinnie’s a little on the slow side,” Ryan muttered, shaking his head and trying to regain his composure.
“Almost dead, and we haven’t even gotten to the interstate,” Julian moaned as the entrance to I-26 loomed ahead. “If you really want to get outa this place, I strongly suggest that you keep your hands on the wheel and your brain focused on driving!” Julian warned as the van accelerated and shook noticeably as they approached the freeway speed of 60 mph.
“Say goodbye to tradition, Jules!” Ryan grinned, looking back over his shoulder one last time at the towering spires of St. Michael’s and St. Phillip’s churches, well-known landmarks of the historic old city.
“Mother of God!” Julian grumbled, hoping desperately that “Lady Madonna” wouldn’t be next on the oldies playlist. At least we’ve made it to North Charleston! he consoled himself as the van rumbled up I-26 heading for Asheville.
“Orange Peel, here we come!” shouted Ryan, motioning northward out the window with his index finger while Julian shook his head in total disbelief, fully convinced that his demise was imminent, most likely prior to even reaching the neighboring town of Summerville, a mere twelve miles up the road.
chapter 3
Drugs, Thugs, and a Minor Deity
Portland, Oregon
July 6, 2002
Ben felt slightly anxious as he flipped on the turn signal of his dark-green Mazda Miata just prior to a sharp right onto NW Maywood Drive. It was a partly cloudy summer evening in Portland, with the temperature hovering around 70 degrees and the sun already beginning to create a spectacular array of pink, orange, red, and violet hues in the western sky. He checked his watch, 7:30—good, right on time. The light was already beginning to fade as he wound his way up the hill toward his parents’ home on Culpepper Terrace, and as usual, his tensions also began to fade with the ascent. Prior to moving into the dorm his junior year at PSU, Ben had lived there with his parents since his first year of high school and honestly thought it was one of the most beautiful neighborhoods on the planet. The Amanis lived just a couple of houses from Hillside Park and Community Center, in a rather-lavish home perched high on a hill overlooking downtown Portland with a view to die for. He remembered many times sitting out on the deck, watching the sun rise, with its golden rays reflecting off the buildings and beautifully silhouetting snowcapped Mt. Hood farther east beyond the city. From that deck he could see Mt. St. Helens and, on a clear day, all the way to Mt. Ranier, farther to the north. Who couldn’t love the Pacific Northwest with a view like this? Ben often thought to himself, this evening being no exception, as he rounded the last curve and pulled up into the alley behind his parents’ home. Far below, the entire Portland metroplex was coming to life, with myriads of twinkling lights now beginning to augment the fading summer sunlight, creating a mesmerizing visual amalgam that extended in all directions almost as far as the eye could see. In the darkening sky to the east, what he liked to call “city stars” were now becoming visible as they descended in perfectly choreographed omnidirectional patterns, indicating the arrival of seemingly endless numbers of air travelers making their final approach toward PDX, the city’s international airport, several miles to the east.
Ben had seen his parents only briefly at Christmas, and sensed then that they wanted to have a talk with him about his future. He assumed that their invitation to dinner tonight might have such a purpose, and while part of him actually appreciated their interest, he also knew that their disparate backgrounds would likely result in a career tug-of-war with him in the middle. Not a pleasant thought, really, but the breathtaking beauty of the city below offered him considerable solace at the moment. As he parked in the driveway behind the house and walked up the rear steps, that feeling was further augmented by the pure nostalgia of just being home.
Margaret Amani—a trim, attractive, and now slightly graying woman in her late forties—must have seen her son’s headlights when he pulled in, since she was standing by the large eight-foot sliding glass door leading into the great room from the back deck, just waiting to give her son a big “welcome home” hug. As Ben stepped up onto the deck and headed toward her, she did her best to throw her arms around his strapping six-foot, four-inch frame. “Hi, honey! We’re so glad you could join us for dinner. My goodness, I think you’ve grown another two inches since Christmas! Pretty soon I’m not going to be able to get my arms around you at all!” she laughed. “And you’re so thin too!” she frowned. “Are you getting enough to eat, Benji?”
“Benji” was still her favorite name for their now-towering and strikingly handsome young son, much to Ben’s dismay, as well as that of her husband, Anwar. It had been hard enough for Anwar to concede to the name Benjamin, which he had done largely out of respect for his wife’s Jewish heritage, although he had secretly hoped for a “junior” or at least an Abdul, Abir, Omar, or the like. Now, Margaret’s persistent use of this juvenile abbreviated version was even more of an annoyance to him (and to Ben as well, though he most often just ignored it to humor her). “Benji” was just way too boyish for a young man now about to be a senior in college. Besides, Ben’s distinctively Middle Eastern features—haunting dark eyes, olive-colored skin, dark mustache, and shoulder-length black hair—made him look much more like the popular Greek pianist Yanni than some floppy-eared Hollywood canine superstar.
Nevertheless, Ben just smiled at his mother, knowing that she loved him and that some little things were just better left alone. “Well, I have pretty much stopped eating meat,” he began, only to be interrupted by a booming voice from the top of the stairs.
“Stopped eating meat? Are you crazy? What’s wrong with meat? I’ve been eating it all my life, and it hasn’t hurt me!” Anwar scoffed as he descended the steps into the great room. “It’s all your mother’s doing, I’m sure—first you’re a Benji, now a vegetarian! Pretty soon I won’t even be able to eat what I want in my own house!” he grumbled.
“Anwar, really!” Margaret scolded her six foot six, 280-pound husband. “You look like you could benefit from a few more vegetables yourself! Ease up on Ben, we haven’t seen him since Christmas!” Looking up at her son, she smiled warmly, “Don’t mind your father; he just had a rough day at the pharmacy and hasn’t quite settled down. You know, it seems like we didn’t get to visit much over the holidays. I’ve really been wondering about you—how school is going and what you’re thinking about these days. I’ve made your favorite dinner, too: eggplant parmesan, brussels sprouts, and your special salad!”
“Thanks, Mom! Sounds great, and smells great too! Yeah, I’m sorry about Christmas and all. I was just really busy, and remember, my friends and I left to go skiing on the 26th, so I didn’t get to spend as much time at home as I would have liked.” Ben knew his family enjoyed having him around at holiday times, but he had been looking forward to that ski trip to Whistler for months and no way would he have missed it. He loved skiing, and had a blast in BC—a welcome relief from the pressures of school. In fact, it was just what he had needed to refocus on the important decisions in front of him the next year, decisions that his parents obviously shared his concern about.
The room he had just entered was truly a “great room,” measuring some forty by thirty feet, with a huge vaulted tongue and groove wooden ceiling and a massive stone fireplace almost as tall as the room’s length. The wide-planked pine floors responded with their usual creaks and squeaks as Ben walked across toward a wall of oversized windows and French doors that invited all the dancing lights from the city below to fill the room, giving it a magical quality all its own. The evening was breathtakingly beautiful as usual, and Ben took a moment to soak in the incredible view that was his favorite memory from growing up there. His father’s voice behind him quickly brought him back from his brief reverie.
“Hi son, glad you could make it,” Anwar smiled, extending his arms and giving Ben an affectionate hug. “Even though it looks like I’m stuck with eggplant tonight,” he added while mumbling under his breath, “could have at least been baba ghanoush. Food aside, though,” he smiled, “your mother and I have been looking forward to spending a little time