Unbroken Threads

by Jennifer Klepper

  “Hi, Mikey. Can you help with the potatoes?”

  Looking at a son on the cusp of adolescence, who was game to help make dinner, Jessica could see shades of a younger Conor. Though Conor favored his father physically and Mikey his mom, they’d both had an infectious enthusiasm for life at Mikey’s age. Maybe Mikey’s enthusiasm would survive puberty.

  She gripped the cold gray of the rectangular potato cutter, with its stiff wires crisscrossing to make perfect squares. It was a Presto French Fry Cutter, to be exact—old, metal, and effective. And stolen. She smiled, remembering that trip in the eighties.

  “Watch and learn.” Jessica selected a potato, placed the Presto above it, and sliced through cleanly, creating twenty-five raw French fries. “Your turn.” She handed over the cutter. “Do you know where I got this, Mikey?”

  He shook his head while positioning the Presto above a potato carefully balanced on its end.

  She smiled slyly. “You know, I just might be the criminal ancestor you wished you had.”

  “Yeah, right.” He pushed down, pressing a little harder on the right than on the left, and the cutter went into the potato flesh at an angle before wedging itself in place midtuber.

  “You want to use equal pressure on each side,” Jessica suggested.

  He adjusted his hands to try to salvage the first batch of fries.

  “My dad took me and my brothers camping up in Minnesota one summer. I was probably ten.” God, she missed him. And Mikey had never even gotten a chance to meet him. She shook away a twinge of guilt.

  “Things aren’t too close out in the middle of the country, not like here on the East Coast. We drove maybe eight or nine hours to one of the ten thousand lakes. I can’t remember which one. We didn’t have electronics like you have now, so we passed the time counting train cars, playing license plate bingo, and seeing who could stuff the most cheese puffs in their mouth.” Jessica shuddered at that latter memory but still retained a small bit of pride that she had been the victor.

  “The pike were running thick that week. We caught a bucketful on our first day. My dad skilleted them over a fire, and we ate fish every day.” Thinking back on it, Jessica figured they most certainly did not have a fishing license. They had probably been fishing in a national park and could have gotten a pretty hefty fine. Maybe a healthy streak of petty criminality did run in the family.

  Mikey’s pile of fries grew slowly, the latest additions significantly straighter than the first. “I don’t like fish,” he said without losing focus.

  “You would like to eat fish that you just caught. Especially if my dad cooked it. But we didn’t just eat fish. We ate potatoes. You would have loved that. Lots and lots of potatoes.” She smiled at the memory of those piles of potatoes sliced up in precise columns using a Presto cutter, heated in oil on the skillet, and eaten with just a sprinkle of salt.

  “Well, maybe I’d eat them if there were a lot of potatoes,” Mikey conceded.

  “It was such a great trip. We climbed trees, caught frogs, made campfires every night.”

  While Mikey kept at the potatoes, Jessica reassembled the kitchen and fast-forwarded mentally from camping in Minnesota to finishing her first year of law school. She’d conquered the self-doubt from that first day of orientation and had the grades and a summer internship to prove it.

  She’d only had a few days between her last exam and the start of the internship, but she had promised her mom she would come home. She arrived, exhausted from finals and travel, to a mostly empty house. Her brother Kenny was busy with a wife and baby, and her younger brother, Jason, was working long hours at the ethanol plant, hoping to save up for college.

  Early on the day she had to leave, her dad took her to the pond outside of town. They didn’t catch anything, but the still of the morning, rippled only by the light splash of hook and bait hitting the water, almost made her want to stay forever. The fear she’d had in that moment of comfort and the risk of staying—of being stuck—haunted the beautiful memory.

  She studied the uncommonly focused Mikey. She didn’t even know if they owned any fishing poles.

  Mikey straightened up, visibly satisfied with the pile of raw fries in front of him. He set the cutter down. “So how exactly are you a criminal?”

  After she and her dad had gotten back from fishing that morning and he’d gone to get her suitcase, she’d spied the Presto in the kitchen and pocketed it. Maybe she’d known then she wouldn’t be coming back. It had never seemed like a conscious decision not to return. Exams then law review then multinational closings then babies—there was always something that kept her from going back. Mikey held the Presto in his hand. He couldn’t possibly understand the crime.

  “Oh, you know, we caught all those fish without a fishing license. And we ate way more than a license would have let us keep anyway.”

  “That’s your story? Are you kidding me? We are so boring.”

  Jessica playfully knocked him in the shoulder. “It’s a federal violation! I can’t go back in time and become a bank robber. So sorry.”

  He set the Presto on the counter. “Am I all done? Can I go? My science project is due tomorrow.”

  She let him head upstairs after extracting a promise that he would be back down when dinner was ready. But she felt a pang of devastation at the prospect of a day when he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, be there because he had his own life, and she would turn into her mother, pining for his return.

  Jessica took the Presto to the sink, wiped each crisscrossed wire free of potato remnants, then dried it with an old towel. After she moved some tongs and a garlic crusher, the Presto fit perfectly in the drawer next to the sink, where she could find it whenever she needed it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Jessica’s phone lit up.

  Danny: Turn on CNN now.

  Cricket: OMG! R u watching news?

  Danny: Are you seeing this?

  Conor: Mom - check on Amina.

  Jessica clicked on the TV.

  The onscreen images were familiar, a bad kind of familiar. Police in riot gear, holding a line. A row of people with their hands in the air, walking past a Starbucks and a Bank of America building. A man and woman holding each other silently. Debris on a desolate street lined with palm trees and abandoned shopping bags. People—some first responders, some not—on their knees, bent over bodies with unseen faces. Men, women, and children walking slowly, splattered with blood, eyes vacant. A White House spokesperson announcing that the president would have a statement in minutes.

  The crawl at the bottom of the screen told the story succinctly. “Explosions rock California shopping mall and financial center. Scores dead.”

  Please don’t be Muslims. I’m sure it was Muslims. She was the worst. Wait for the evidence.

  September 11, Katrina, and the 2004 tsunami had taught Jessica that she lacked the self-control to avoid the news stream that would soon engulf the airwaves and rage about this tragedy for days or weeks to come. Adrenaline had already taken hold, her heart palpably making that known. Wait for the evidence.

  Jessica clicked through the channels to see who had the latest news. It became clear that a lot of people weren’t waiting for the evidence.

  “This is what happens when you have open borders and welcome so-called refugees.” Click.

  “This has all the hallmarks of an Islamic extremist attack: Targeting symbols of the West. Targeting innocent populations. Using suicide bombers.” Click.

  “Our current administration is to blame for these attacks by not being forceful enough in its opposition to terrorist groups. If we were doing more to take them out overseas, they wouldn’t have the resources to commit acts like this here at home.” Click.

  “The terrorists are simply responding to our own intervention in the region.” Click.

  “The first thing we need to do is close the borders and block further immigration from the region.” Click. Mute.

  Jessica hopped online. Themes and memes w
ith “#KeepThemOut” and “#LoveNotHate” had already flooded social media. It was a helpless feeling to watch people in despair on television and know there was nothing one could do to ease their suffering or bring back their dead. Merlot didn’t work to solve society’s problems, but she doubted hashtags would, either.

  Jessica left the TV on, with the audio off, and busied herself around the house. A dark emptiness grew in her gut as she caught headline updates on the screen.

  Wipe down the kitchen cabinets. “Forty-three dead and forty-nine wounded.”

  Fold the laundry and pay the bills. “Unexploded suicide vest found. Separate attack apparently abandoned.”

  Dust the ceiling fans. “Terror group claims credit for coordinated attacks.”

  Jessica was rearranging the framed photos on the mantel when she heard the front door close. She switched off the TV.

  Cricket flew into the family room, wide-eyed, dropping her backpack at her feet. “Did you hear the news? You didn’t respond.”

  “I did, Cricket, and please tell me why you were on your phone in the middle of the school day.” In-school texting was a minor infraction but something over which she had at least a little control.

  “Well... we were... on break, and I thought it was important?”

  Jessica could see the wheels turning in Cricket’s head, reprogramming herself to remember that maybe she shouldn’t have been sending text messages to her mother from school.

  “I thought the school made you keep your phones in your lockers, but considering I got more than one text”—Jessica glared at Conor and Mikey, who were lurking in the doorway, to confirm to them that Conor wasn’t off the hook and Mikey had better be paying attention—“I’ll assume the school made an exception today.”

  Conor stepped into the room. “So, Mom, did you talk to Amina?”

  “Not yet. Are you worried about something?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. Shouldn’t we be worried? I mean, the attacks were by Islamic extremists. She’s Muslim. I don’t know. It just seemed like something you would do.”

  “We don’t know for certain it was Islamic extremists.” Three faces with eyebrows raised stared back at Jessica. “Okay, someone has claimed responsibility. I get it. But this just happened, and it’s important that you guys learn that you have to wait for the evidence. Don’t jump to conclusions. The way media works anymore, it’s all about who can post the headline, rather than the truth, first. Please don’t fall into that trap.”

  The three murmured their possibly sincere agreement and left for their respective study bunkers.

  Jessica couldn’t disagree with Conor’s thinking that she should contact Amina. She needed to think through how this might affect the asylum case. It really shouldn’t, but there was bound to be blowback against local Muslims. She pulled out her phone.

  The call to Amina’s cell number went straight to voice mail. She sent a text instead. Can you meet with me tomorrow?

  Jessica lingered to see if Amina started to type. There was no response. But she knew Amina didn’t use her phone while she was working.

  THE KITCHEN COUNTER commanded Jessica’s attention, daring her to find space to prepare dinner. She’d recently tried some cupboard reshuffling to accommodate Oma’s and Oma Bee’s kitchenware and assortments from the boxes, but she’d ended up with cabinet doors that barely closed and a countertop cluttered with random platters and small appliances. With fewer opportunities for family dinner anymore, maybe it didn’t matter if the kitchen was a disaster.

  She moved a slow cooker and a stack of salad plates to the table so she could chop vegetables. People still needed to eat.

  Gracie started barking and ran toward the front door. Danny’s footsteps then a jingle of keys hitting the table soon followed.

  “Hi, Danny. Does chicken and roasted veggies sound okay for dinner?” Jessica didn’t look up from the squash, not expecting much of a reply. The space between them had thawed a bit, but it was still icy.

  Papers rustled as Danny rifled through his bag. “Do you remember Damien? You met him at the gala.”

  Jessica confirmed, relieved at the possibility of conversation about something other than terror attacks, any conversation, really. Then she remembered Damien... from California.

  “Oh no.” She spun, holding the knife in her right hand. “Did he know anyone who was there?”

  “He doesn’t know yet. His family is okay, but things are crazy there right now, and he’s still trying to get in touch with friends and former colleagues.” Danny seemed distracted, searching for something in his bag.

  “It’s so scary. Sometimes I wonder why it doesn’t happen more often, especially when you see how easy it seems. I tried to call—” Jessica clamped her mouth shut.

  “Call who? Amina?” Whatever Danny had been searching for lost all importance now. He scrutinized her, eyes challenging and unwavering.

  Jessica averted her own eyes, turning back toward the counter. “Yes, Amina. I’m sure this upsets her as much as us.” She resumed her slicing.

  “You think so?” He didn’t sound convinced. “I don’t want you meeting up with her anymore except at the IAP offices. You shouldn’t even have to do that. Can’t you do it all by phone?”

  “You ‘don’t want me to’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what you think. You shouldn’t be out walking with her in the street. You shouldn’t be meeting with her at coffee shops.”

  Jessica set the knife down and turned slowly. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t know what some wacko is going to do in the name of ’Murica when he sees a Muslim walking down the street right now. I’d rather not have you become collateral damage or even the target when that happens. I don’t know exactly what happened that night in Baltimore, but it may be that you won’t get off so easy if it happens again.”

  “I’m not going to be worried about that.”

  “Well, you should. On the radio on the way home... people are out for blood in a way I’ve never heard before. Plus, to be fair, you don’t even really know Amina.”

  “Here we go again. Come on, Danny, you’ve met her. She is not a suicide bomber.”

  He rubbed his temples. “No. I have no idea. Nor do you. Be honest with yourself, Jessica. Even if she’s not a potential threat, she knows and lives with others from that area. Don’t forget that I’m still hoping to work with the Department of Defense, despite losing that last contract. The skunkworks project Damien’s working on might give us a new opening. Though that ship may have sailed.”

  “I’m less worried about Amina’s risk to us than the possibility that this attack will make it harder for her to get asylum.”

  “So, wait, according to what I heard on the news, a Muslim woman walks into a crowded food court in California and blows herself up with a bomb filled with shrapnel in order to cause as much carnage as possible. And your concern is that now some stranger won’t get a free ticket into our country.”

  “That’s not what I said. And it’s not a ‘free ticket.’ And who knows if what you heard is true?”

  The air hung thick, Danny’s words piercing through with laser precision. “I don’t think I’m being unreasonable to say that you—we—all need to be vigilant. Can you deny that?”

  Jessica couldn’t bring herself to deny it, but she didn’t want to admit that.

  Danny continued. “And can you deny that you do not, and cannot, truly know that Amina and her family here have no inclinations toward terrorism? That you’ve never even wondered about it?”

  Who’s the lawyer here?

  She left his questions hanging in the space between them that had grown so heavy. No answer she could give would satisfy both of them.

  JESSICA awoke with a start. Darkness engulfed the bedroom, and tiny pellets of sleet sprayed at the window. Danny faced away from her, his breathing slow and steady. He was oblivious to the vivid images just now burned into Jessica’s mind.

 
; A dark sidewalk. A cigarette flicked into the street. Two open hands clenching into fists. Memories of that night had invaded her dreams before, causing her to wake to a familiar heaviness on her chest. But this time, as her dream-self had turned toward dream-Amina, she saw the Syrian staring at her with eyes that seemed to bore into her soul. Those eyes saw weakness. They saw inadequacy. They shone with the knowledge that the Syrian was the stronger of the two.

  Jessica pulled the covers up to her chin and rolled over into a fetal position, wrapping the blanket tight to hold in her limbs. She stared out the sleet-shot window into the darkness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  AMINA

  Amina waved at a lost-looking Jessica from her table by the Jobs section of the library. She probably didn’t need to wave to get her attention. The scarf could do that, but sometimes she forgot, though the past few days had been a solid reminder. The furtive glances were not as furtive, and strangers added inches, feet, and sometimes an entire street between them and her. She didn’t feel the same sense of wariness or fear from the patrons in the Enoch Pratt. But that wasn’t why she was here.

  Jessica joined her at the table. “This place puts my local library to shame. I’ve never been.” She pulled her notebook out of her bag and scanned the room before pulling her chair closer to the table. “How are you doing?” she asked, her face tense with concern.

  Fayiz had been worried there might be a drop in business after the attacks earlier in the week, but traffic had been steady. Out in public, the silent slights and occasional comments might have increased, but there had been nothing violent. “We are doing well. It was such a tragedy.”

  Squeaky wheels interrupted the quiet conversation as a librarian pushed a book cart past the table.

  Jessica fiddled with her pen. She didn’t have a coffee in her hand today. “I spoke with Rosalie this morning, and there are whisperings about possibly putting a temporary moratorium on processing asylum claims of people coming from—” The pen stopped moving until Jessica seemed to overcome the invisible force that had stopped her mid-sentence. “From Muslim countries. Even if this doesn’t happen and they don’t freeze claims, we know that the USCIS review is going to be more intense than ever, considering what just happened in California.”