by Sheba Karim
She lit the cigarette, crossing her legs as she blew the smoke behind one shoulder. “You’ll fall in love again, sweetheart.”
“Thanks. You’re very elegant,” I told her.
“Don’t I know it. All this takes work,” Enya said, her costume-jeweled hand gesturing from head to toe.
Umar came outside, drenched in sweat. “There you are! I lost one of my tits on the dance—oh, wow,” he exclaimed, looking admiringly at Enya.
“This is Enya Buttocks,” I said.
“I saw you dancing,” Enya told him. “You were good enough to eat.”
Umar blushed.
Constance Lee Cumming appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Enya!” he cried. “You’re up.”
“Showtime.” Enya stood up, fluffing her curls, pausing to tell Umar, “Next time tie a bunch of rice in a knee-high stocking and stuff your bra with that,” before sashaying away.
“Thanks!” Umar replied, taking her place on the rocking chair.
“Are you okay?” he asked me.
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah. I had the best time dancing. I didn’t even know I could dance like that.”
“Well, now Ghaz knows, and she’ll keep asking for it.”
Umar frowned, picking at his lips. “Everyone’s wearing so much glitter I feel like I keep eating it. Tomorrow morning, my shit is going to sparkle.”
I laughed.
“Do you think only Tabitha Generous can dance like this?” he continued.
“You’re the same person underneath the makeup and clothes.”
“I can’t stay hidden forever, Mars. I gotta dance. I gotta live.”
“You will,” I assured him. “You are. Come on, let’s go see Enya’s show.”
Enya Buttocks had both hands on the fireplace mantel, her back to the cheering audience as she gyrated her hips almost to the floor, then shifted sideways, tossing her head back and kicking one leg into the air before flipping around to face us, legs spread widely, lip-synching to a song about a homeless woman and launching into a dance routine. Ghaz watched from on top of Jug’s shoulders, his hands massaging her thighs as she drummed her palms against the ceiling and hollered with the audience.
When Enya cried, “Conga line!” we quickly got into formation. As we danced out the front door, another queen, her enormous cleavage spilling out of her fur-trimmed dress, handed out balloons. Our merry, ballooned conga line danced down the middle of Forty-Second Street, singing the song’s refrain with the wholehearted enthusiasm of the drunk and young.
La da dee la dee da
In front of me, Umar was doing an ass-shake, and I was laughing so hard I was worried I’d run out of breath.
As we danced our way back down the block, a cop car, its lights flashing, came to a stop outside the party house. Umar pulled out of line, alarmed.
“We gotta go,” he said.
“Relax,” Ghaz said. “They’ll probably tell them to turn the music down.”
“There’s alcohol and we’re underage. I’m leaving,” he insisted.
“We can go to my place,” Jug offered.
“Ah, we can’t,” Ghaz said. “We have to be up and out tomorrow; we have an important meeting in Ashburn, Virginia. I had so much fun, Jug.”
“Me, too,” he murmured.
As they locked lips, I realized Umar had already taken off. I tapped Ghaz’s shoulder and pointed at Umar disappearing around the corner. I’d never seen him accelerate so quickly.
“Bye!” Ghaz told Jug, blowing him one last kiss.
We chased Umar down Spruce Street, until he finally stopped in front of a Wawa, then doubled over and lay down on the sidewalk, his hairy legs splayed as much as his skirt would allow, his balloon still in his hand.
“I’m going to die,” he gasped.
Ghaz kneeled next to him, resting her palm on his forehead. “Inhale sloooowly, exhale even slooooower. You really need to start playing tennis again.”
“I’d still kick your ass,” he said.
“Looks like someone’s recovered,” she said, giving him a gentle poke in the side.
He sighed, rubbing his feet. “My gladiator sandals are giving me blisters. And when the conga line broke up, someone grabbed my ass.”
“It’s not easy, being a woman,” I said.
“What was that song we were dancing to?” Ghaz asked, humming the refrain.
I googled it. “‘Gypsy Woman’ by Crystal Waters. It came out in 1991.”
“Old-school,” Umar said. He cleared his throat. “I need to hydrate, stat.”
I bought some Vitaminwater, and when I returned Umar and Ghaz were seated on the sidewalk, their backs against the window of Wawa. We drank our waters in silence, Ghaz and I leaning our heads on Umar’s shoulders. It was nice to be outside, catch our breath, even if it was on hard cement.
“Well, that was a rollicking good time,” I said.
“What?” Ghaz replied.
“Never mind. Why didn’t you go home with Jug?”
She shrugged. “I really liked him, but I didn’t feel like hooking up hardcore. Plus, can you imagine doing the walk of shame like this?”
We laughed.
Ghaz grabbed Umar, giving him a noogie on the head as he squealed. “And why have you been hiding those moves from us? You were amazing! You brought down the house!”
“Something was different about me tonight,” Umar agreed.
“Oh, it was indeed, Tabitha Generous,” she said.
“Those had to be pot brownies,” I said. “My body was on its own trip, and I demonstrated a few of Doug’s silly dance moves to a complete stranger named Enya Buttocks.”
“But those brownies tasted so good,” Umar said.
“That’s because they had so many chocolate chips,” I said.
“That’s probably why they had so many chocolate chips,” Ghaz deduced. “Should I ask Emory to find out?”
“No,” I said. “It’s better not to know. Then there’s more possibility.”
“You’re right,” Ghaz agreed. “Because maybe it wasn’t pot brownies. Maybe it was something else.”
“What?” we asked in unison.
She grinned. “The road trip effect.”
We hailed a taxi, singing la da dee la dee da all the way.
Later, as we lay in darkness in our roach motel, I said, “You know what Doug told me once? Out in space, there are these two suns orbiting around each other, except they’re spinning faster and faster and coming closer and closer. In a few years, they’re going to crash into each other, and the explosion will be so intense we’ll be able to see it from earth with our naked eyes. And from that explosion, a new star will be born, and it will be the brightest star in the sky.”
“Mmmm,” Ghaz said, rolling onto her side.
Umar started to snore.
It was weird, to think in the far reaches of the universe, two suns drew closer and closer in a cosmic dance of love, while down here some people tried to get as far away from one another as possible. My father from us, me from Doug, Ghaz from her parents. Then there was Umar, sometimes running away from his sexuality, sometimes running to it. And now me, chasing after my father. All three of us in flux, our friendship serving as an emotional anchor. If any of this ended in an explosion, I hoped it would be one that made us burn brighter, stronger than before.
Sixteen
“ONLY TEN MILES to Mera Lund House!” Umar sang.
He was referring to the Maryland House. Mera Lund means “my dick” in Punjabi. Though his wordplay was completely juvenile, it gave him such delight that Ghaz and I couldn’t help but smile.
But when we entered the bright, airy food court, Umar’s excitement quickly dissipated. “There’s no more Roy Rogers.”
“Roy Rogers? Are you kidding me?” Ghaz said.
“I love Roy Rogers. That’s why I wanted to come to Mera Lund in the first place.”
“You love anything that’s fried in a vat,” I reminded him.
He sighed. “I guess I’ll get some Wendy’s.”
I got a table, and when they returned with their trays of spicy chicken sandwiches and Frostys, Umar’s forehead creased with concern. “You really aren’t eating anything?” he said. He was like an auntie in that way, always wanting to make sure people ate.
“She’s nervous about meeting Sanjeev Uncle,” Ghaz explained. “She probably didn’t even sleep last night.”
I actually slept really well, though I suspected this was due to the alleged pot brownies.
Umar waved his fries at me. “You have to eat something.”
I accepted a fry to appease him.
“So how long do you think Jug’s hair was?” Ghaz asked. “Like, down to his butt?”
“Are you sad you didn’t find out?” Umar said.
“Nah. A lot of times the promise of something is better than the actual experience. Like, when you leave it at a kiss, the sex could have been anything—soft, sweet, hardcore, kinky. But if you actually do it, then that’s it. You know. But I did show him a photo of the billboard.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He said, ‘Wow! What did your parents say?’”
“Did you tell him?”
“Did I need to? Anyway, let’s talk about you.” Ghaz set her tray to the side and folded her hands. “Tell us, Mariam, what are your thoughts on meeting your uncle today?”
“I’m nervous.”
“And what do you hope to accomplish?”
“Learn something about my father. Maybe gain some insight into myself.”
“Hmmmm . . . you mean as to why you bailed on such a kind man as Doug?” Ghaz pushed imaginary glasses up her nose. “You know, it could have something to do with your mother, too. She never had another serious relationship, so you don’t have anything to emulate, plus maybe you’ve internalized her reluctance to fall in love again. Thank you, that’ll be two hundred dollars.” She picked up a fry and dropped it onto her tray.
“Oooh, fry drop,” Umar said.
“So, am I right?” she asked me.
Ghaz had no issue trying to force our hearts bare while keeping hers veiled. She’d give us the occasional glimpse—some Moroccan guy who’d broken her heart, a terrible thing her mother had once said, that she’d tried out bulimia in high school but was luckily really bad at making herself throw up—but the conversation, if you could call it that, would always end with her insisting all was “cool.” Ghaz was both unabashedly open and fiercely guarded. She’d inform us immediately of the size and consistency of a pimple she’d found on her ass, but not if she was hurting.
“Well, everything you said makes sense,” I agreed. “Now how about we turn the tables and play psychologist on you?”
Ghaz made a face. “That wouldn’t be any fun.”
Umar stood up. “I have to take a big Frosty dump.”
“I love it when you talk sexy,” Ghaz quipped.
Umar belched. “Meet you guys at the car?”
“Can you please change the station?” Ghaz asked.
We were listening to an NPR piece on how carbon emissions were contributing to rising nutritional deficiencies in many developing countries.
“I happen to find this interesting,” I said.
“It’s depressing,” she replied.
“You can’t avoid things because they’re depressing,” I argued. “Especially things that—”
“Hey, look to our left,” Ghaz said. “Salafis!”
By that she meant ultraconservative Muslims. I glanced over. The father had a long beard and a white skullcap, and the wife was in a black niqab, only her eyes showing. There were two nerdy kids in the back, watching a movie.
“At least my parents aren’t like that,” she said. “They probably would have killed me by now.”
“You know,” Umar said, “my dad went over to this Salafi type guy’s house for dinner, and they served the food on the floor because they said Prophet Muhammad used to eat on the ground so it’s sunna.”
“God. Did the guy get to work by camel, too?” Ghaz asked.
“Ha. Then the guy said something about how ISIS is doing bad things but some of their goals are good, and my dad got the hell out. I hadn’t seen him so depressed in a while, and then he kind of stayed depressed. ISIS and Islamophobia are turning him into a big pessimist. The only thing that really cheers him up these days is his work, and his grandkids. He’s way more playful with them than he ever was with us.”
“Do you think it’s true what your dad told you?” Ghaz asked Umar. “That’s there’s an FBI mole in every masjid?”
“Of course it’s true. Probably more than one. And not only in the masjid. Didn’t you hear about that thing a few years back, when the NYPD was spying on Muslim communities? They sent spies to infiltrate the Muslim Students Association at NYU and Columbia and even colleges out of state, like Yale and UPenn. One of the spies went on an MSA whitewater rafting trip.”
Ghaz laughed. “Dude, who was the FBI mole on the MSA whitewater rafting trip? The quiet one taking notes in the back of the bus? Or was he like, ‘Pass the s’mores, and hey, anyone want to build a bomb with me? Let’s see some hands.’”
“You joke, but who knows?” Umar said. He took the civil liberties issue pretty seriously, given the stories his father told him about things that had happened to members of the masjid. He and my mother had even had a few conversations about it.
But Ghaz and Umar loved to push each other’s buttons.
“Do you think the FBI has tapped our car?” she exclaimed. “Hey, FBI, CIA, NSA, if you’re listening, no reason to be concerned! We’re just three crazy Muslims, up to no good!”
Umar frowned. “That’s not funny. This stuff is serious.”
“I agree,” I said, moving quickly to dispel any potential tension. “That was neither funny, nor accurate, as I am half Muslim and half Hindu and not really either.”
“Mars the mutt!” Ghaz said. “I mean, the only proper Muslim in this car is Umar, and he loves cock.”
I tensed, wondering if Umar was going to flow or blow.
“Mera Lund!” Umar cried, and we burst out laughing.
Seventeen
ASHBURN, VIRGINIA, IS VERY CLOSE to Dulles Airport. The closer we came to our destination, the less we spoke, listening instead to the roar of jet engines and the Australian-accented Google Maps voice announcing directions. As we entered my uncle’s gated community, Ghaz attempted to lighten the mood.
“So,” she began, “it appears Sanjeev Sharma has achieved the desi immigrant dream. Those gates keep the riffraff out—the only black people living here are like a middle-class version of the Obamas! Here to our right is the fancy clubhouse, where you can host your big desi functions. And here is a man-made lake with a spurting fountain, a sure sign that you have arrived. And look at the paved path around the lake—perfect for those auntie and uncle evening walks, where you walk at your usual pace but move your elbows quickly and call it exercise. And the houses—such nice exteriors, two stories, attached garage, sure to impress your visiting relatives. Look, there is an auntie walking her dog. A lot of desis live here, but they are the assimilated kind—not the ‘too much coconut oil in the hair, going around smelling like curry’ kind, you know what I mean? What—not even one laugh?”
“Ha-ha,” Umar said.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” I said.
“You can still back out you know,” Ghaz reminded me.
I shook my head. “We’ve come too far. If I leave now I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Those are some pretty nice tennis courts,” Umar noted.
“We should have a code word,” Ghaz suggested. “In case it doesn’t go well and you need to leave.”
“Like what?” I said.
“How about ‘Enya Buttocks’?”
Umar and I looked at her quizzically. “That was a joke!” she exclaimed. “Man, I’ve never seen you two so serious. Mars, I understand, but Umar?”
“This is a momentous occasion,” he replied.
“Tabitha,” I said.
“What?” Umar said.
“If I need to get the hell out, I’ll say, ‘Tabitha.’ That’s the code word.”
“Your destination is on the right,” announced Aussie Google Maps.
We exited the car, stretched our limbs. Even though it felt morally dubious, I had instructed that we all dress in the kind of conservative, preppy attire that would garner auntie and uncle approval, because I wanted my uncle to have a good impression of my friends and me. Umar had chosen navy pants, a white polo shirt, expensive leather oxfords with no socks, and his navy butterfly scarf, the longer end thrown over his shoulder. He looked like a handsome desi metrosexual New England prep student. Ghaz was in a simple, deep purple dress. Though knee-length, she insisted it was modest enough because most Hindu families even let their daughters wear shorts. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup except lip gloss. I was wearing black pants and a striped button-down shirt, the same outfit I’d worn to most of my internship interviews.
The small American flag attached to my uncle’s mailbox was crooked. As Umar paused to fix it, I reached for Ghaz’s arm to steady myself. My mother didn’t even know I was here. This could all go horribly wrong.
“It’s going to be okay,” Ghaz assured me, resting her hand over mine. “And if it’s not, Tabitha’s the word.”
I nodded.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s do this.”
As I rang the bell, I overheard Umar reciting bismillah under his breath. A woman who I assumed was my uncle’s wife opened the door and greeted us with a nervous smile. Her dark brown hair was unevenly streaked with gray, her sunken eyes heavily rimmed with kohl. She was wearing a cotton shalwar kameez and gold bangles. Her red bindi seemed too small for her broad forehead.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Mariam.”
“Yes,” she said, toying with her bangles. “I’m Usha, Sanjeev’s wife. Please, come in. I’ll get Sanjeev.”
The house was spotless, the hardwood floor so shiny and perilously slick that as we removed our shoes I was glad none of us were wearing socks. At the base of the curving staircase was a large, painted statue of the elephant god Ganesh playing a sitar.
