by Paula Jolin
“No thanks,” she told Gillian again. “I’m not quite done yet.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
FRIDAY AFTERNOON. Nine hours to midnight.
Gillian leaned on the bell again, and the chimes echoed inside the house. Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. He had to be home, right? Ding-dong. And if he wasn’t? She’d force the door, go right inside and wait.
She tripped down the obeah man’s steps and followed the neatly laid stone path toward the side of his house. There was a fence, but it was the work of a minute to scale it. Reversing the maljo spell, that was most important, of course. Save Mums, save Trinidad. Let him curse her out, as long as he told her how to fix things. She took a deep breath, stepped over a bed of dried dirt. Obeah man probably grew chives here, in the summer, spring onions, Cuban oregano, maybe even chado beni.
Trust a New England winter to make it look like nothing had been grown here in a long time.
The stone path wound between a couple of oak trees. Obeah man had a vast expanse of lawn back here, brown this time of year but still behaving itself. Gillian reached the back door, rapped on the glass window. Her last visit flashed before her—smell of garlic, sound of drums, the obeah man telling her, What’s this malevolent force that brought you to see me? Stupid Gillian, thinking it was Trevor interfering with her. Stupid, stupid Gillian, not having the presence of mind to ask how to negate it.
Still no obeah man. Gillian raised herself on her toes, peered inside. Big white box. She squinted—the refrigerator, this was the kitchen. Clean stove, clean sink, clean counter. Too clean.
It was almost as though no one lived here at all.
She pushed herself through the thick shrubbery— scratch, scratch against her hips—to look in the next window. Rubbed a fist against it, but no matter: the room was bare. Not a stick of furniture, not a wisp of clothing, not a chicken. The obeah man had packed up shop.
Who’d have thought him a damn coward? Obeah runs a little wild, and the man takes off. Gillian felt a certain grim satisfaction that she’d disrupted things all the way to Trinidad. Unless something more serious had hit the obeah man. Gillian intertwined her fingers so tightly, her nails left marks in the skin. No time to think about that. Tonight’s séance was only nine—no, eight and a half—hours away, and who knew how it would ricochet if Gillian didn’t neutralize the malevolent force? Mums, wading into Maracas Bay for an innocent swim, being tossed up on the rocks battered and bruised.
Gillian thrust her hands up into her hair. At least she’d discovered whose nasty personality was throwing interference into all her plans. Should have figured it out from the start. Nick. Lined with silver: his wristwatch, glinting in the dimly lit coffee shop. Smelling of soy sauce: “. . . something intimate at P.F. Chang’s.” Something black, crowing in his ear: that ever-present iPhone.
She took a deep breath. Sure enough, things were out of control. Trinidad slipped more and more miles past the equator every second that went by. She should never have gotten involved in the first place, should have left Trevor to rest peacefully in his watery grave, let her money lie buried too. Give up the regret, Gillian. Now wasn’t the time to stand around ruminating—now was the time to act. She peered into the empty house one last time. She was on her own.
How to get rid of Nick? Her eyes swept over the backyard. Pine cones, rolling in the wind. Bare stone path, empty flowerbeds. Leaning up against the house, the tools obeah man must have used to rake up the last of his herbs: rusty hoe; rake with missing prongs; and beside them, a pair of shiny hedge clippers.
Hedge clippers. Now that was an idea.
TWENTY-EIGHT
GILLIAN HAD sexy clothes. She’d had to ransack the bottom of her closet to find them, but they were there. A leather miniskirt in hot pink. A black bustier. Fishnet stockings. It was too cold to go out like that, so she added here and there. A fisherman’s sweater over the bustier, the heavy wool coat she’d stolen from her dad.
She stood in the corner of the motel lobby, eyes pinned to the wall. If she couldn’t see the motel clerk, he couldn’t see her either, right? She shifted the backpack over her shoulder, and the bottles inside clinked together. Goddamn Nick, where the hell was he? Only four hours till midnight. Make that three hours, fifty three minutes.
“Hey, Gillian,” said Nick. He had a smug grin on his face. I win. They’d see about that, wouldn’t they?
Gillian crossed her arms over her chest. She could handle Nick, the panty man, the mook. She twisted her head a little, taking in the chipped wall beside her, remembering that open bag in the supermarket, the thin stream of brown rice spilling out.
“We didn’t have to come here,” Nick was saying. One hand touched the wall, just above a bit of peeling paint. “I really think you’d like P.F. Chang’s, it’s my favorite Asian place. The fried duck dinner is out of this world.”
Of course this was the new, tamed Nick.
“Here is fine,” said Gillian. Not much chance to get Nick drunk at P.F. Chang’s, thanks to American laws against underage drinking. Alone in a motel room with Nick and a bottle of rum—what if she couldn’t handle him? Stop. Nick was nothing more than a teenage boy with an attitude. “Pay for the room, and let’s go.”
“Okay,” said Nick. He leaned in toward her, hesitated, leaned in a little more, finally kissed her. The faint taste of Chinese fried rice lingered on her lips. Yuck. “You smell nice.”
“I had asparagus soup for lunch.”
“Right,” said Nick. “Love asparagus.” He collected the key and quicker than she would have thought, they were inside the room, the door shut tight, the walls closing in . . . no, it was just the musty-bathroom smell going to her head. Gillian slid the backpack off her shoulder and set it down. Clink, clink. On the other side of the double bed, Nick had snapped open his briefcase and retrieved a small radio. He held it in his hand, scanning channels. “I’ve got a subscription to XM,” he said. “Believe it or not, they have a—yes, here it is.” The low sultry sounds of the Baron calypso “Sweetness Is My Weakness” filled the room. “It’s a Caribbean station.” He pulled a candle out of the briefcase. “Island breeze. I thought it would remind you of home.”
“How . . . sweet,” she said. At home the music would be loud and throbbing, the boy brown and charming, the salt air inviting. She looked away. Was that what was up with Mums? A brown boy on a beach somewhere? If only Gillian could believe that.
If only the damn phone didn’t ring and ring every time she called her.
“You said you’d be bringing drinks,” said Nick. “Or if you want, if you forgot, I could—”
“No, I brought them.” Gillian unzipped her backpack, took out two bottles of Angusturo old oak rum and placed them on the cheap bedside table. She rummaged in the bag, past a pair of plastic cups, a few crumpled napkins, the folded white robe she’d borrowed from Kevin—there they were, a pack of cards. The cards thunked against a piece of heavy metal in the side pocket as she pulled them out.
“Any ice?” she asked. Without answering, Nick swept up the ice bucket and disappeared through the door. Gillian took the opportunity to fill the cups: his, from the bottle filled with pure rum, hers, from the bottle filled with colored water. Then she cracked open the cards.
She was shuffling when he came back in. Great way to hide nervous hands. What if this didn’t work, was one more thing that didn’t go according to plan? What if—
“Strip poker, is that it?”
“Not exactly,” said Gillian. “You know how to play All Fours?” He looked blank, of course, so she explained the rules.
“Three points if I take your jack,” he echoed when she was done. “And cheating is okay?”
“Blind men don’t play All Fours,” said Gillian. She moved on to scoring. “You win a hand, I take off a piece of clothing. I win, you drop my debt by a thousand dollars. I get you all the way to zero, we go home. You get me down to nothing, we don’t.” She held back the shudder. “Either way, we each take a sip
after we play a card.” Either way, she won. Three rounds of All Fours, he’d be passed out on the floor. And then . . . “If you forget to drink after you play, other person wins the hand.”
“Sounds like a great way to score to me,” he said, leering. Or maybe he was trying to look romantic. He took a sip of rum, managed to not make a face. “But do you mind if I inspect the cards?” Ten minutes poring over the cards—man, the mook was anal—and then they started to play.
“What happened to the old Nick, by the way?” Gillian asked as he shuffled like an expert. “Do-as-I-say-or-go-directly-to-jail Nick?”
He dealt six cards each, one at a time, American-style. “Sure you’re not afraid to play me?” He winked. “Or maybe you’re secretly hoping to lose?”
She looked down at her cards. Stupid mook—clubs was trump, and all he’d given her was a useless seven. She’d have to knock. “Asshole Nick?” she said. “Whatever happened to him?”
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe, underneath all my bluster, I just wanted to get to know you?”
Something wobbly in his voice made her look up. Was he kidding? Not kidding, his pockmarked face was serious. “All your money, couldn’t you find a dermatologist?”
His back straightened, his face went still. “I see a dermatologist regularly. Thanks for the advice. Did you ever think of going to a speech therapist?” What the hell had she been thinking? Antagonizing the crazy man with the red hot temper was brilliant strategy? Damn nerves, made her come out with exactly what was in her head. Even if he was a jackass . .. nothing wrong with frank, but there she’d verged on cruel. She should apologize. Except that old Nick rolled away, and the new, creepy Nick said, “There are some things that money can’t buy.” He turned up the ten of hearts. “Suit you this time?” He played the queen, took a sip of rum.
“Really?” She cleared her throat, sorted her cards. Slapped down the ace, took a sip of cold water, pretended to wince. “I think money can pretty much buy anything.” Except protection from obeah.
Final round, he won with the jack. “Pay up, Caribbean Queen,” he said.
“You pay up—I got low and game.” He took a long sip of rum, playing pirate. Another. He drank the plastic cup in one long gulp, refilled again. Maybe this would go even faster than she’d thought. “Down to nine thousand bucks.”
He shuffled, dealt again. “I’m going to win this game, Gillian—go on, raise your eyebrows, see if I care. I get what I want.” She picked up her cards. Two aces, one ten—that was better.
Nick hadn’t even looked at his cards yet. He tapped his fingers on the table, said, “Whenever I want something, Gillian, I start by acting like it’s true. That’s the only way I know to make it real. Whatever it takes: money, imagination, hard work. You do that, you believe it enough, it’ll happen.”
You’re crazy, she wanted to say. She wanted to storm out of the room, out of the motel, out of this crazy scheme. Only the thought of Miya, opening her arms to obeah—a twisted, mind-of-its-own obeah that might, even now, be smashing Mums against the sharpest rocks—kept her still. “Drink,” she told him.
He drank. Over the next hour, she lost her wool coat, her shoes, her fisherman’s sweater, even her fishnets. He lost five thousand dollars. Finally his speech began to slur, he dropped six cards on the floor, his head dipped, and he held it in his two hands. “Think I’ll just take a wee nap,” he told her. “Lie down beside me?”
“Sure,” she said. She pushed the covers over, helped him to the pillow. Then she made it to the backpack before he started to snore.
Side pocket. She unzipped it, reached inside, felt the cold steel against the palm of her hand. Was she really going to do this? Miya’s voice echoed in her ear: There’s something that’s blocking me. Mums: Someone’s put maljo on me. Something, someone. Obeah man: What’s this malevolent force that brought you to see me? Lined with silver, smelling of soy sauce, something black crowing in his ear. Nick. It had to be.
She pulled out the electric razor and plugged it in. Remembered Father Michael thundering in the pulpit about Samson and Delilah: But even that wasn’t enough for she! She had to take the very root of the man’s power, she take he hair! Left him helpless as a babe. Remembered being six years old, listening to Nana give Auntie Ruby licks for cutting the baby’s hair too soon.
Gillian turned on the razor and began to shave Nick’s head.
TWENTY-NINE
ALIYA WALKED UP the driveway slowly, Mariam’s car to her right. She’d been sneaking off after school every day, all week, and Mariam had never once thought to check the football field or the back roads or the bus. She hadn’t come crying to Mama, either, until today.
Looked like Aliya’s free ride was over.
What would they take away this time? Her five minutes’ peace before dinner? Her shoes? They did that in Cairo long ago, made it illegal to cobble women’s shoes because barefoot women would have to stay home.
She paused on the doorstep, the metal handle cold between her fingers. Suppose they put her under armed guard instead of lock and key. Asked Mariam to sleep in her room. How would she sneak out to join Gillian and Miya? Maybe she should turn around, head to Trevor’s now? But something seemed to draw her inside, some sort of organic magnet pulling her to the scene of parental meltdown.
Through the door, down the hall, into the living room. She was met by brilliant smiles, laughter. “Here she is now,” said Mama in Arabic. “Aliya? How was your day at school? We sent Mariam to meet you, but she must have just missed you.”
“Uh . . .” said Aliya. Mama crossed the room and instead of two tight slaps, kissed her on both cheeks. “Miss Levitt kept me. The lab, those centrifuges, what a mess.” Taqiyya, the cursed wrong-headed Shia called it. When you lied to save your life.
“No matter,” said Mama, still with that miracle smile. She looked younger than usual, maybe because her mouth wasn’t set in a grim frown, her voice mumbling about ungrateful daughters. Or maybe it was her reddened cheeks, her blue dress, the bright paisley scarf on her head. Back up. What was Mama doing with a scarf in the house?
Then she moved back, and the others in the room, standing up, came into focus. Baba, still smelling of halal pepperoni as he climbed out of the chair in front of her. Mariam and her husband, Nabile. And a tall man Aliya didn’t know, with dark hair and dark eyes, wearing a pressed suit. Pale blue, like he’d fast-forwarded out of the seventies.
“Aliya,” said Mariam, beaming. “This is Rashid, my husband’s very best friend from university. Rashid, meet the very beautiful, very talented, very charming, Aliya al-Najjar.”
THEY RUSHED THROUGH their salaam aleikums and into a complicated discussion of Damascus neighborhoods. Rashid came from someplace called Jobar, which, judging by the frown on Baba’s face, wasn’t exactly the Syrian Upper West Side. Nabile kept jumping in with comments like, “Amazing, all the way from Jobar-boy to doctor of medicine in the United States. What resolve he must have, what tenacity, what intelligence.”
Rashid ignored all that. “I know other people look down on Jobar, and it is a poor neighborhood, hajji. And I won’t hide it that my father worked in a machine shop.” That’s what Aliya thought he said, anyway; she had no idea what a machine shop was. “But our neighborhood was full of good people, pious, kind, religious people. I hope I can be a credit to them.”
Aliya couldn’t help admiring his loyalty. One of the things she had liked most about Trevor, after all, was that way he said hi to everybody, how he never shortchanged one person to please someone else. Like the time he was late meeting her because he’d been helping Mal jump her car. Don’t be mad, he said. So sorry you had to stand out in the rain. She wasn’t mad. She didn’t even mind being wet, especially when he let down her hair, dried it with a towel, and the electricity crackled between them . . .
“Aliya?” It was Mama. “What do you think?”
“Oh, sorry,” she said. She cleared her throat, turned to Rashid, sitting next to her. Smi
le. “My Arabic, very bad.”
Mariam swept in before Mama could swat. “Oh, she’s being modest, so you won’t be embarrassed when you speak English. Don’t worry, her Arabic is excellent, her accent just, you know, a little too formal, from all those years of Qur’an school.”
Aliya met Mariam’s eyes. They were a long way from Qur’an school, weren’t they? The days when Mariam used to scribble stories in a notebook while the teacher droned on. Aliya would kick her under the table, pay attention, even as she giggled.
“That’s okay,” said Rashid, switching to English. “I was speaking of religion, and admiring how you’ve managed to keep your religion in America, where people are angry at the Muslims.” His eyes swept over Aliya, and she expected him to say something about her jeans, her tight pink shirt. Her mother would be sure to, after all this was over. “Of course, I know it can’t be easy, in secondary school, but Mariam was telling me about college, about MSA.”
“The Muslim Students Association,” said Mariam, as though Aliya didn’t know. “Lots of girls feel comfortable enough to start wearing a scarf when they see other girls doing it, when they get to college.”
“Uh-huh,” said Aliya. “Sure.”
“They want to before that, but they don’t have the, well, it’s so difficult, the way kids make fun of you.”
Aliya thought: Maybe I should hand her a frying pan inscribed with ALIYA WILL WEAR A SCARF IF YOU MARRY HER, and then she can hit him over the head with it. Or how about this one: ALIYA WILL TURN OUT LIKE ME? Out loud she said, “That’s not true, not really. My friend Sherine’s been wearing a scarf since ninth grade, and she gets funny looks in the street sometimes, but the kids from school are protective. We were at McDonald’s once, after school, when some middle-school kids started calling her a ninja. Three football players ran them off. Afterward, one of the cheerleaders said, ‘How would they feel if someone wrapped them up in a burka? It’s the same thing as trying to take yours off.’” That was Glimmer Collins, two years ago.
