As he ran his fingers lightly over a small nick left in the counter by one of the gunman’s bullets, the fear that had been stabbing at him ever since the attack suddenly rushed back in full force. His heart began to pummel furiously at his chest. It could have been his wife now lying there in that hospital bed, or even worse. He pictured Yazmina upstairs, where he had left her to sleep. Had Bashir Hadi not been able to put a stop to the madness, Ahmet might have never had the chance to hold her in his arms again, or to welcome their unborn son into the world. How close he had come to losing everything he loved, everything that mattered in his world. I told him to leave her alone, he thought as he replayed the conversations with Omar in his head. I told him that this is not the way our country works, that this is not the way things are done in our culture. If they had simply obeyed the rules, if they had honored the traditions, none of this would have ever happened. Of course, perhaps, as the authorities suggested, it wasn’t because of Omar and the girl that the coffeehouse had been targeted. The Taliban had claimed responsibility for the attack and the two who had died, just as they claimed responsibility for practically every incident involving foreigners in Kabul. But it could very well be true. Either way, Ahmet had failed to prevent it. He blamed himself.
The stack of empty coffee cups rattled as he banged his fist down onto the counter. Behind him came the sound of a throat being cleared. He turned to see Yazmina standing at the bottom of the staircase, one hand on the banister, the other resting on her bulging belly, now clearly visible beneath the big lightweight chador she wore over her clothes.
“Good morning, my husband.”
“Good morning to you as well.” He turned back around on the stool, the clock’s relentless pulse marking the silence between them.
“What are you doing?” she asked in a gentle voice.
“Thinking.”
Yazmina came and sat on the stool beside him and took his hand in hers. “Well, while you are thinking, perhaps you can think about driving me to the hospital on your way to the mosque today?”
Ahmet shook his head. “You were just at the hospital yesterday. I do not think it is necessary for you to go there again today.”
“But it is! Zara needs me.” She gave his hand a little squeeze, as if that would be enough to get him on her side. But Ahmet would have none of it.
“Isn’t her family there to watch over her?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the counter below.
“Yes, but she is still in a very bad condition. And she remains in grave danger.”
“What,” he responded in a voice full of scorn, “and it is you who will protect her from Faheem? I thought it was your friend Candace who was in charge, who had snapped her manicured fingers for a private room and a guard to appear at the hospital door.”
Yazmina withdrew her hand from his. “Yes, there is a guard there. But I still have a desire, a responsibility to help.”
“You must stay out of their business!” Ahmet turned to face his wife. “Being there is what brought us this trouble in the first place. We have no room for more trouble.”
Yazmina leaned away from him and straightened her back. “There is no need to shout. I am right here beside you.”
“And that is where you will stay.” Ahmet nodded firmly and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “There will be no more going back and forth to the hospital. You must stay home to tend to your duties as a good Islamic wife and mother.”
Yazmina’s green eyes narrowed into two angry dashes. “I am a good wife and mother,” she hissed, the indignation from his words causing the color to rise in her cheeks, “and also a good follower of Islam, one who cares about the fate of others, who believes in doing service for humanity. And I thought you were as well.” She turned her face to the ceiling and shook her head.
Ahmet slammed his two hands down on the counter. “I care about my family, not about some ridiculous girl who refuses to obey the rules.”
“You and your rules,” Yazmina shot back. “I ask you, where is it written that a man or woman cannot marry the one they love? We are here together, are we not?” she asked, her voice now soft and beseeching.
Ahmet turned away from her pleading eyes. “She should just run away. The family should take her and go back to where they are from.”
“But it is not her fault!” Yazmina grabbed his forearm with her hand, forcing his attention back upon her. “It’s Faheem who is responsible for all this.” She swept an arm across the empty room. “And you and I both know that running away will never work. He will find her no matter where she goes.” Yazmina let him go and began to yank at the scarf around her neck. “Now please, stop with all this nonsense, and let’s get going.”
Ahmet didn’t budge. “I told you that you are not to go to the hospital anymore.”
“Then I will take the bus,” she said, struggling to lift herself off of the stool.
“Or perhaps you should ask my mother to drive you,” he said with a snort.
“Well perhaps I should. At least she has the decency to act on her beliefs.”
Ahmet was tempted to run after his wife as she stormed out the coffeehouse door. But an unseen force kept him frozen in place, his body and mind both stuck in a pit of confusion. How was it that he had lost control of his family, his wife ignoring his demands, his mother bringing them such shame with her flouting of convention? And with the flash of a rifle, it seemed as though he had been robbed of control over their futures as well. How would he provide for them, and keep them safe from whatever dangers might come from a world so unsettled and unsure? He crossed his arms on the top of the wooden counter and lowered his head down to rest, exhausted by his own thoughts, and by the string of sleepless nights he’d endured ever since the attack. He quickly drifted off into a world no more easeful than the one he left, and it wasn’t until he heard the muezzin’s call that he woke.
29
Bear groaned as Sunny flopped over onto her back and gave him a shove toward his side of the mattress. The room was dark and chilly. She pulled the covers up to her chin and stared at the ceiling. She didn’t even want to know what time it was, how many hours she’d been lying awake. She was still a bit reluctant to shut her eyes, worried that the images of the devastation on the coffeehouse patio that had plagued her all week would return. For nights, all she had dreamed about were the blood-spattered pebbles, the broken furniture, the nicks from the bullets freckling the walls and doors, the customers injured and scared. Not one of them would ever pass through those gates again. And, if Candace was right, neither might she.
On top of it all, Candace would be leaving in the morning. Sunny was so tempted to go as well, to just hop on that ferry as it chugged away from the shore and kiss this place goodbye. So what was stopping her? What, really, did this island hold for her? She took a silent inventory: a half of a house she didn’t really want. A half of a crumbling barn, a half of an old shed, a half of a ton of grapes that would turn into a barrel of wine that, in all probability, nobody in their right mind would want to drink. And, of course, let’s not forget the whole dog and whole cat.
But there was even more she’d been left with. There was Layla, for one. It was true that she needed a home, for now. And what about Kat? She had been spending so many nights on Sunny’s couch lately that it felt as though she had practically moved in. And how could she bring herself to abandon the girl without a job, especially after convincing her to leave the one she had to come to the island? And while she was at it, what about Joe and Sky, and those grapes on the hill growing fatter and riper by the day? Was she going to be the one to jeopardize their dreams of having their very own harvest, as iffy as it might be?
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to concentrate on something soothing, a pleasant scene or a comforting memory. Jack’s strong arms around her body, his cool skin against her bare back, the feel of his calm, even breath whispering across the base of her neck. How many nights had she spent in this bed summoning up that dream? But n
ow, thinking about Jack made her think about the house, which made her think about Joe and Sky and Layla and Kat, which made her think about Rick and the dilemma she was in, which made her bolt upright and curse Jack out loud for getting her into this mess in the first place.
Now Sunny was wide awake. Getting up and out of bed appeared to be the only option, so she padded into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. As she flipped on the light, Sangiovese appeared at her side, rubbing up against the plaid flannel pajama bottoms she’d swiped from Jack. Maybe Joe had the right idea, she thought as she waited for the kettle to boil. Maybe she didn’t need to commit to staying on Twimbly Island forever. What she really needed was to buy herself some time, to buy them all a little time. And Candace might have had a point. It wasn’t all that bad here, as long as you knew you’d be leaving someday. She’d stick it out through the harvest. She’d find a way to convince Rick to either buy or sell, and in the meantime she’d shut him up with that “good faith” money the asshole was asking for. But she wasn’t about to take Joe’s money. She’d figure out a way to do it on her own. She was Sunny Tedder, and she was going to make this happen. Somehow. And then she would decide where to go.
“Shit!” Out in the hallway Candace was pale and makeup-less in her yellow silk pajamas, hopping up and down on one bare foot while rubbing the other with her two hands. “I needed a blanket. You call this summer? It’s colder than my poor lonely hoo-ha in here.” The door of the linen closet was open, and a grey metal box lay on its side on the floor next to Candace. “Damn thing fell off the shelf and onto my foot.”
Sunny bent down to retrieve the offending object, a strongbox, just like the ones they’d make change from at a carnival or a street fair. As she lifted it from the floor the top swung back on its hinges, causing everything inside to scatter across the hallway. Typical Jack, she thought as she tried to brush the cat away from the mess. So trusting, he never even bothered to buy a damn lock for his lockbox. She and Candace knelt down together without a word to clean it all up. There didn’t seem to be much of value—a few afghani bills and coins, a checkbook in a leather case, an expired driver’s license, a yellowed ID card, some old bank records. But when Sunny glanced at a wrinkled piece of paper she’d managed to wrestle from under Sangiovese’s paw she had to stop for a second. She scooted back on her rear and leaned up against the wall, smoothed out the creases and read the words to herself again.
“What?” Candace asked, pulling a blue blanket down from the shelf and wrapping herself up tightly in it. “What’s that?”
“Listen to this.” Sunny read out loud, “I, Rick Stark, hereby acknowledge the receipt of $325,000 from Jack Scott for the purchase of my existing share of Screaming Peacock Vineyards, and all property included. Jack Scott is to be the sole owner of said property. The official transfer of deed will occur at Twimbly Bank at the earliest convenience of the two parties involved.” Sunny let the paper fall to her lap. “Huh.”
“That’s all you have to say? Huh?” Candace asked, plopping down beside her friend. “Rick’s signature is right here, in black and white.” She grabbed the agreement from Sunny’s lap and shook it in her face. “This was signed and dated last year, before Jack died. It was all going to be made official when Jack got back to the island. And he didn’t.”
“And?”
“Don’t you see, Sunny? The place is all Jack’s!”
“You mean it’s all mine?”
“Well duh, of course that’s what I mean.” She rolled up the paper and swatted Sunny on the head.
Sunny snatched it back from her friend and crammed it into the pocket of her pajamas. “The guy’s been playing me, Candace. What a dirtbag! Lying through those big old shiny teeth.” Sunny could feel her nails dig into the flesh of her own palms. “He just sat there, with a straight face, telling me Jack would have wanted this, Jack would have done that, you should do this, blah blah blah. Why did I ever even listen to that guy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I knew something was wrong. I should have trusted my gut.”
“Yep.”
“Taking advantage of a good man’s good will, after he is dead and buried.” Sunny kicked the hardwood floor with the back of her bare heel.
“Well,” Candace added after a beat, “maybe not quite so buried.” She reached for the small, square cardboard box that sat on the floor of the closet. “Is this what I think it is?”
Sunny nodded absent-mindedly.
Candace cradled the box in her lap and gave it three little pats. Now Sunny was paying attention, her eyes moving back and forth between Candace’s face and the box, the box and Candace’s face.
Candace lowered her own gaze to her lap. “He tried to screw us, Jack. What are you going to do about it, huh?” She jiggled her thighs a little. “You just gonna sit there?”
Sunny’s mouth dropped open.
“Big help you are, Jack-in-the-box,” Candace continued. Sunny reached for the box but Candace wasn’t through. “Whatever happened to Jack-be-nimble, Jack-be-quick, huh?”
Now Sunny couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, you’re doing jack squat just sitting there in that box,” she added. “Can’t you see we need a little assistance around here?”
Now the two of them were giggling like schoolgirls, and it wasn’t long before Sunny felt a tear slipping from her eye. But for once, it was the good kind, the kind that comes from the relief of letting go.
“Well now, we don’t need Jack to help us, Sunny. We’re not going to let old Rick get away with this,” said Candace, her southern attitude and the accent that went along with it taking over. “That man doesn’t seem to know who he’s messing with, does he? I’ll just bet he’s never tangled with a couple of down-home girls before, cause I’m sure they don’t make them up here like they do over in Arkansas or in ole Missouri.” She folded her arms across her chest and gave a sharp little nod.
Seeing Candace like this made Sunny crack up even more, and it felt good. It was as if being with her friend had opened a pressure valve that had been sealed shut for months. Above all she loved to hear her laugh, the same laugh that had let Sunny know, back in Kabul, that deep down, behind the bluster and glitz of Candace’s la-di-da exterior, there was another Candace, one who was a lot more like Sunny and the girls she knew growing up back home than anyone would ever guess.
They laughed so long it got to the point where she didn’t even know what they were laughing at anymore. “Shhh, shhh, we’re gonna wake the girls.” Sunny managed between giggles. “They need their sleep.”
Finally they wore themselves out. Candace yawned. But to Sunny, sitting there on the cold wood floor with her best friend, in their pajamas as the early morning light began to peek through the living room shutters, sleep was the last thing in the world she wanted. For the first time in ages, she was excited for it to be tomorrow.
30
The white sack was lifted with care from the back of the battered SUV and hoisted onto the shoulders of the six bearded men, each one wearing a mask of sorrow beneath the pakol on his head. Zara’s father led the way, his heavy eyes cast downward toward the scrubby soil below. The group snaked through the field of graves, stepping gingerly around each jagged slab of rock that stood as the only sign of a body below, until they reached the hole that had been prepared for their grievous load.
They came to a halt and, without a word spoken, the two men in the back began to lower their end of the shrouded figure into the ground, as if the act were a dance they had done many times before. The pair in front followed, until the motionless form was completely prone, at rest atop a bed of gravel and dirt. Bismillah, they softly chanted. In the name of Allah and in the faith of the Messenger of Allah.
Halajan stood in silence well behind the rest of the small circle of mourners, trying to remain confident that she was in no danger of being recognized beneath the white shalwaar kameez and turban she wore to pass as a man. She had been determined to attend the burial, to witness it
for herself and to report back to Yazmina the details of the ritual in which only men were allowed to take part. From her location, she watched through a thick-framed pair of Rashif’s old eyeglasses as two of the men positioned the covered shape onto its right side, against the wall of the grave, to face the qiblah in Mecca. Then Zara’s father reached down to undo the ties at the head and the foot of the shroud, which he did as if he were performing a delicate surgery. As he stood to allow the others to place a thin piece of wood on top of the lifeless figure—to prohibit dirt from falling directly on the body when the grave was filled with earth—Halajan noticed a heave of his shoulders. Yet still the man remained silent, as did everyone else around her. There would be no crying, none of the wailing she had seen in some of the western movies Sunny had rented to show at the coffeehouse. Here in the Kabul cemetery, the only sounds to be heard were the birds in the sky, and the occasional airplane heading south to India. Death was a serious matter.
She closed her eyes for just one moment, to accept the comfort of the early afternoon sun on her wrinkled face, and by the time she opened them the men in Zara’s family were already scooping up dirt from the ground and tossing it into the grave. Three handfuls each, according to the tradition. Within minutes, the rest of the hole had been filled with sand, and the burial complete. For it was important to put a body to rest quickly, to allow the soul to lie in peace.
The mourners stood by the grave to make dua to the deceased. Halajan imagined that namaaz jenaaza had been performed earlier, as normally the funeral prayer would take place in the women’s section of the mosque, after the midday prayer.
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