The Milk of Birds

by Sylvia Whitman

  I walk the longer way to the washing place to avoid Halima’s area. Adeeba calls it Halima’s court. They say her husband had been head of his village. People still flatter her. Perhaps they believe that one day she will win them favors again. Yet I pity her. Walida told me, “When they chop down the tree, the fall is harder for the monkey than the ant.”

  Halima is jealous that the khawaja have given Adeeba a job and that Saida Julie has chosen ruined girls like me to receive gifts from American sisters.

  When I return, I notice four eyes in the shadows. A little boy and a girl. She is small but old in her eyes. Older than Meriem but younger than Saha.

  “What are your names?” I ask.

  They do not answer but melt away in the dark.

  Dear Nawra,

  I was done in by Umar. Mom says there’s probably more sadness around you than we can even imagine.

  “Nawra’s a survivor,” Mom says. “Somehow she’s hanging on to what makes life worth living.”

  You’re always asking if I’m strong, Nawra, but really it’s you. Even if I’m watching a movie and the bad guys start messing with kids, I turn it off. I don’t really like any movie with a lot of guns and guys getting their brains blown out, but I tell myself they’re just actors and the blood’s ketchup. Put a kid in there, though, and I freak. In real life I can barely handle rug burn.

  Last fall when I was taking Wally to the park—Walter Clay, the little boy I babysit for all the time—he started running toward the swings and tripped. It happened fast, but later I relived it again and again in slow motion, the rubber tip of Wally’s sneaker snagging bumpy pavement, his body going forward, then down hard, left knee first, then both hands, right shoulder, cheek, head. He was silent, and my heart stopped. Turns out he just had the breath knocked out of him. Everything I practiced in Red Cross babysitter class kicked in, though. I pulled out Mrs. Clay’s cell phone and tied Wally’s sweatshirt around his bloody left knee and hugged him while he bawled. He got eight stitches. Later Mrs. Clay said I handled it really well, but I was shaky all week and had to force myself to look when she changed the bandage. Wally wanted to show off where the doctor had sewn him up.

  He still likes me to run my finger over the scar. I tell him that superheroes have scars all over. That’s why they wear those funny suits, so no one can see all their old wounds.

  If he died and I had to wrap up his little body in his Thomas the Tank Engine sleeping bag . . . How can you stand it?

  Maybe I shouldn’t ask. Tell me to shut up; I won’t be offended. But sometimes it helps to talk about stuff. When Dad moved out, my mom used to tuck us in and then call her old college roommates. I wish she’d call me sometimes instead.

  I may sound like a wimp, but my friends say I’m a good listener. Last summer a counselor at science camp was flirting with Emily, but in a sleazy way. She tried to tell an older counselor, but you know what this girl said? “You’re lucky boys look at you that way!”

  “Just because you’re a geek doesn’t mean you have to settle for a creep!” I told Emily. She knows “geek” is teasing. We finally figured out that she should tell the director, and he must have handled it, because the guy didn’t bother Emily again.

  In lit class we were just talking about a character who shared a confidence, which is an old-fashioned word, but I like it. It means that someone trusts you enough to let you near their hurt or fear or whatever is deep inside. They confide in you, and they’re confident you won’t go blabbing and stomping on what feels so fragile to them. I’m Emily’s confidante. Will you let me be yours? Your sadness isn’t a burden for me. I feel kind of honored when you tell me stuff.

  More later.

  Nawra

  JUNE 2008

  I search for the brother and sister. So many new have come to the camp. Even if I put my hands over my ears, I hear their animals’ rough breathing, as if they are dragging stones over stones. The united countries of the world give us oil, salt, beans, flour, even a little sugar, but nothing for the animals.

  When I gather firewood, I tie a handful of grass in the end of my tobe and drop it later by a donkey. Is this a kindness or a cruelty? Only death truly brings an end to their suffering.

  I search and ask, and at last an old woman points me to a shelter, which is empty. She knows of the children. Zeinab and Hassan. They live with a man—their uncle, the woman thinks. Every day the children go with him to the market. She has heard he buys sheep and goats from people as they arrive at the camp, before they know the animals’ worth. He butchers the animals and sells the meat.

  We talk of food for a moment. The ration is less now than in the winter months. Many grumble that hunger is the fault of the newcomers, but I do not say this. “Better a meal of vegetables where there is love than a fatted ox where there is hatred,” I say.

  She nods. The khawaja blame the bandits who stop and steal the trucks. Sometimes the bandits steal the drivers, too, or beat or kill them, the ones who cannot run away.

  “He who is not ashamed does what he wants,” she says.

  When I return to our shelter, Adeeba is not happy. “Why do you look for trouble?” she says.

  She thinks Hassan and Zeinab are like the other children, trying to snatch her pen. Now she sleeps with it beneath her back.

  In Umm Jamila, it was possible to hold something private, but not here, where we live as jumbled as trinkets in a trader’s sack. Once I hid from Meriem a doll I was making. With the knife I carried when following the sheep, I carved the body from acacia wood. From the animals I gathered wool for the hair. Whenever I came back to the village, I hid the doll in a hole under a rock. How Meriem clapped when I surprised her on the Eid!

  I did not think in those days of the feeling of the doll, alone in her dark hole. I carry her in my mind now, and would not bury her again.

  • • •

  Two days pass before Zeinab and Hassan return to our fire. I beckon them.

  “You should be shooing them away,” Adeeba says.

  The children move not forward but closer together.

  “A book needs a reader as much as a writer,” I say.

  “This dictionary is for me!” she says.

  “What is a dictionary?” Hassan asks. He speaks loudly, but not rudely, to cross the distance. He has clear eyes with lashes like a camel’s that brush his cheeks.

  Zeinab shushes him. Adeeba studies K. C.’s letter.

  “You are a teacher,” I remind her.

  “Of health,” Adeeba says. “Go wash your hands, children.”

  “Tolerance is the master of good manners,” I say.

  Still the children do not move, and Adeeba does not speak. Finally she says, “A dictionary is a hearth for words. It is where they gather to tell their stories.”

  She looks up at the children. “Sometimes a dictionary speaks in one language,” she says. “There each word recites its family history and reveals its character.

  “A word has a twin in every country, so a second kind of dictionary introduces them. They shake hands and say their names in two languages.”

  Hassan nods. Looking at Zeinab, I pat the ground beside me.

  As the children sit, I glance at my mother, but I cannot tell what she is thinking. When we lie on our mats, it is different. Sometimes in the night I cannot sleep for the pounding of my mother’s silence.

  “Which dictionary are you making?” Hassan asks.

  The embers hiss as we wait for Adeeba to answer. Zeinab leans against my side, as my sisters used to do. I feel happy and sad layered like the air after a rain, warm and cool. With my fingers I start tugging apart the snarls in her hair.

  I reach past my mother for the brush I bought with K. C.’s gift. Zeinab’s hair has matted like roots of grass below the ground. In Umm Jamila I never saw such a mess—even on an animal. Once someone said that my father’s sheep always looked dressed for a wedding, and I was pleased at the notice. The herd complained less than Meriem, who used to carry on a
t the slightest pull.

  Zeinab does not flinch.

  “Someone needs to do this every day,” I say. Already I am thinking that when K. C.’s next gift comes, inshallah, I will buy this child a brush.

  “My uncle does not know how to brush hair,” Zeinab whispers.

  Adeeba says to Hassan, “I am making the second kind of dictionary. I take a word in English and search for its Arabic sister.”

  “I will make the first kind then,” Hassan says, “where the word reveals its character.”

  Adeeba looks up. “Can you write?” she asks.

  “No,” Hassan says.

  Adeeba snorts.

  “You can teach me,” Hassan says to Adeeba. “Tata Nawra said you are a teacher.”

  Adeeba turns to me, and her eyes carry spears.

  Dear Nawra,

  Here it’s June, and I’m still reading your April letter. I wish I could fill up your jugs with clean water from our faucet. God knows we waste so much water—so much everything—here. My brother, Todd, takes these hour-long showers that steam up the whole upstairs. Mom calls him the Human Humidifier.

  I know that sometimes you can’t do anything but be with someone. My friend Chloe has an older brother who cuts himself. ON PURPOSE. It is so weird. He always wears long basketball shorts and pants, so nobody noticed for the longest time. Then one day Chloe spotted blood on the toilet seat, and she and her mom traced it to Nathan. He was carving a maze on his thigh. I think maybe he wanted somebody to see it, so that’s a good sign, right? Of course his parents flipped, and now the whole family goes to a counselor. I’m the only one in my class who knows about Nathan, and I haven’t told anyone, except my mom, which Chloe said was okay. Keeping this from Emily is hard, though.

  I wish Emily and Chloe liked each other more. Emily thinks Chloe’s a snob, but if she knew the whole story, she might change her mind. Chloe’s family is really rich—they’ve got a ski house AND a beach house AND a housekeeper, so even though her mom works, there aren’t piles of laundry all over the living room. People are always telling her, “Ooh, I wish I could have a balcony off my bedroom.” They don’t realize that Chloe’s dad has locked all the doors and windows on the second and third floors, ’cause he’s scared Nathan might jump.

  When I think of you and Nathan, I’d rather be you.

  Easy for me to say, right? Actually, at the moment I’d rather be me. Tomorrow is the last day of school! Good-bye, earth science and writing samples and the locker I have to thump shut with my fist! Adios, Hardston Middle! Hello, Washington-Jefferson-Lincoln-Lee High!

  That’s right—the principal just called Mom, and we have to go in for a meeting. I failed the writing part of the SOLs, and math of course, and we don’t know history and social studies or science yet, but Mom promised I’d retake them after I go to summer school.

  Again.

  Mrs. Clay is as disappointed as I am because she’s having a baby in August, and she was counting on me as a full-time mother’s helper, and now I can work only afternoons.

  “As long as it doesn’t interfere with your homework,” Mom says.

  Summer and homework—it’s like ice cream with lima beans on top. Dad thinks Mom’s a homework Nazi, especially when I could be making money. I get very little sympathy from Emily, who’s all excited because she’s going to live in a college dorm for three weeks as part of this special summer camp where they make shampoo from scratch and reinvent the United Nations and whatever else you do when you’re gifted and talented instead of brainless and clueless.

  Meanwhile I have two weeks when I don’t have to worry about equations or run-on sentences or anything except which kind of jam to spread on my toast. Tomorrow Dad is driving me and Emily to the really good mall, and we’re going to look for more cool stationery!

  Plus, I’m going to spend a lot of time with Wally, probably most of it in his neighborhood pool. All the pregnant women come out of hiding in the summer. I try not to stare at them in their bathing suits, but their bodies are so cool. Mrs. Clay lets me feel her stomach. The first time I was shocked: I was expecting squishy, like fat, but it was hard as a bowling ball! Sometimes when the baby’s kicking, you can see her tiny feet under the skin. Unless the sonogram missed something, Wally’s going to have a little sister. I call her Abby Whompback because at this rate she’s going to be a great soccer player.

  I can’t wait to have kids. Of course when I say that, my mom always says, “You can wait—you better wait!”

  She doesn’t have to worry. I don’t even have a boyfriend. Do you—did you, before? Is it okay to talk about all this, Nawra? I don’t want to burden you with my happiness.

  Love, K. C.

  Nawra

  JULY 2008

  Tonight Hassan brings a square of paper.

  “Where did you get that?” Adeeba asks.

  “From the clinic,” he says.

  Adeeba takes the paper and turns it over. It is white, with only a little printing on the top on one side. “Did you steal this?” she asks.

  “Stealing is haram,” Hassan says. “One with plastic fingers gave it to me.”

  “What were you doing with the nurse?” Adeeba demands. “If you are sick, you must stay away from Tata Nawra.”

  Adeeba guards me as I once did my goats.

  Hassan says, “The khawaja said any child who does not have a card must go to the clinic. A van came from many miles with a special medicine to keep away the disease of the dots.”

  “Measles,” Adeeba says.

  “The khawaja said if we did not take the medicine, we would burn with fever and our eyes would scream in the light,” Hassan says. “I told my uncle.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He does not like the khawaja because they interfere in the market. But I am a believer,” Hassan says, “and the believer is trustful of others.”

  “Who told you that?” Adeeba asks.

  “My father,” Hassan says.

  Zeinab shivers by my side.

  Adeeba studies him. “Did the shot hurt?” she asks.

  “Yes,” Hassan says, “but I did not cry. Zeinab did, a little. All the babies were crying. Many cried as they got near the table, but I was glad.”

  “Why?” Adeeba asks.

  “The needle was fast and interesting, so I preferred it to the line, which was slow and boring. Do you know they carry the medicine in blue chests, to keep it cold?”

  “Who told you?” Adeeba asks.

  “I asked,” Hassan says. “When the khawaja opened a chest, they moved very fast.”

  “A woman fell to the ground,” Zeinab whispers.

  “She was not dead,” Hassan says. “Just too hot.”

  “They should have put her in a chest,” I say.

  “The medicine was more important,” Hassan says.

  “You are a good reporter,” Adeeba says. “Maybe when you grow up, you will write for a newspaper.” She holds her words. “But it is safer to be a farmer.”

  I say, “There you are mistaken, my friend.”

  I look to my mother, but she is not with us. In body, yes, but memories plug her ears.

  “You must go,” Adeeba says to the children.

  “How can I be a reporter if I cannot write words?” Hassan asks.

  “Even a reporter cannot write in the dark!” Adeeba says.

  • • •

  Now every evening while I brush Zeinab’s hair, Hassan writes beside Adeeba. With a stick she writes a word in the sand and he copies it, first large, then smaller and smaller. At first she did this to buy quiet to do her own work. She did not look at Hassan’s writing until he finished, and many times she erased it and made him copy the word again.

  “He does not give up!” she said one night. She will not admit it, but she has come to care for his learning. The student makes the teacher.

  Zeinab and I have sticks too. But we are slower than Hassan.

  Hassan and Zeinab want to sleep in our shelter, but I send th
em back to their uncle. “Whoever lives to know his father knows the wisdom of his grandfather. Go sleep beside your uncle. Adeeba and I are mud stuck on the feet,” I remind them, “but we will not become shoes. Each relative to his relative.”

  Yet I am not sure I believe these sayings anymore. Whoever has a back will not be kicked in his stomach. The ax has fallen on many parents, and many backs have been broken. Often the children have no one at all.

  In the dark, I am kicked in the stomach.

  In the dark, I hear my father say it does not matter, for I am spoiled meat.

  As my mother’s silence pounds, I wonder how we will ever return to Umm Jamila.

  In the name of God, the Merciful and Compassionate

  30 July 2008

  Dear K. C.,

  Peace be upon you. How are you? Are you strong? And your mother? We say: He who has a mother around does not worry. And your father’s family? How is Emily? A friend is God’s gift.

  And how are you, my sister? We ask because that is politeness, and the first answer is always, “Thanks, God, whatever our condition.” But sometimes people will answer with a smile or with a sigh, and if you ask again, you will hear a story. I am eager to hear your stories, K. C.

  I am praying for your success in school. A stumble improves the pace, we say, for after a misstep a horse chooses its way more carefully. You will think me silly, but I am talking to your picture. Here we do not speak much of beauty because such talk can attract the evil eye. But I will say that where you see weakness and condemn it, I see a lion beneath your clothes.

  And how is your health? I do not think sickness comes to a great country like America, but we are human beings, and all power and strength belong to God. Here the khawaja blame bugs. They say that if we put a drop of water under a special glass, we will see bugs swimming. I am learning this from Adeeba, who has a job now as a teacher of women and young children in the camp.

  Sometimes Adeeba gets short of temper with her students. It is true—write! What does she know? the women say. They forget that when you point one finger at another person, four others are pointing back in your direction.