“You’ll still be in Brooklyn, girl.”
“Will you come see me? You barely did this summer.”
“Your mom had me stressed. And your uncle. Dude has this weird gripe about you, but also talks about how gorgeous you turned out. He couldn’t stop grillin’ me about dating you.”
“You serious?”
“I’m here now.”
“You want to sit outside by the water?”
He yawned. “Sugar, I’m tired as twilight.”
“Why are you talking like an old man?”
“Happens when I get sleepy. I think I need to take a lil’ nap so I can drive you home.” He closed his eyes and smiled once more before passing out.
She waited five minutes before letting herself out the passenger’s side.
Charu walked over to a large rock and sat down. She watched the water crash below her feet. The bridge’s lights made the ripples appear like streaks of lightning. Each ephemeral pattern in the tide gave way to a new one and then another new one; she wondered if this was how Ella saw the world. Being over here made Charu realize how landlocked her own neighborhood was. Something about being next to the water, even if it was the dirtiest water in the U.S., made shit seem—bigger. Malik slept in the van, while here she was bursting with energy, ready to try again, or go back to the warehouse and dance with hip kids who thought she was drunk. She skipped a stone in the black water and imagined it made a thousand ripples. So good ol’ Aman had scared Malik from coming near her. Bastard.
Warmth spread through her crotch, and she stood up, her bottom numb from the rock.
“Fuck,” she said.
Blood was running down her thighs.
“Hey, sweetheart, need a ride somewhere?” yelled the youngest Hasid boy, suddenly, as if by doing so he’d earn points with his posse. It worked. They were all staring at Charu. The boy took a step closer, and she shook her head and walked over to the car. She opened the door and found Malik sleeping still. She fiddled with the glove compartment for a tissue to blot the blood, and sure enough, there was no tissue, but a school nurse’s yearly allotment of condoms. She looked around to see if anything else could be of use. Musical instruments and road maps and little scented tree fresheners. Malik’s clothes were crumpled on the floor of the passenger’s seat.
Take the pants or the jacket, she thought. The jacket was fitted and he wasn’t much bigger than she. It wouldn’t even cover her ass.
She took the pants.
She knew it was safer to walk up to Bedford and hail a yellow cab, but she wanted to walk along the waterfront for as long as possible. She decided to risk the hour’s walk.
* * *
Ella heard a single pair of tapping heels before she could make out the figure walking toward the stoop. She checked her watch; it was two a.m.
Under the orange glow of the streetlamp, Maya’s silhouette had the ominous aura of a mugger. As she came closer, Ella saw that she wasn’t wearing a hijab.
“You’re back alone?”
“She wanted to stay. And wait,” said Maya.
“You came back without her?”
“She insisted on staying.”
“So she’s with Malik?”
“Yes, of course she is. She’s grown.”
“He doesn’t give a shit about her.”
“Does anyone give a shit about anybody but themselves?”
“I see you’re not wearing the scarf,” said Ella. It was better to change the subject, for there was no way Maya would understand.
“If I’m going to break one rule—then why not all of them? Charu was just so intent on me wearing it, so—”
“She has a way of getting what she wants. Are you tired?”
“I am,” said Maya. “But I know you aren’t. So . . . ‘Salma Hiyuk’ bought a little something on her way home.” She pulled out a travel-size bottle of Malibu rum. “A taste of the islands, maybe?”
They sat on the stoop and took minuscule sips. Ella took the last drop and passed the bottle to Maya.
“It’s empty,” giggled Maya. “Lightweight, I am. I am that I am.” She leaned in toward Ella, until they were nose-to-nose. “Ella Anwar, you beautiful girl.” She pressed her lips against Ella’s, then let her tongue through. Ella gasped in Maya’s breath, a mix of rum and bubble gum.
She pushed Maya away. “I—I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“What is it, Ella?”
Ella said nothing. She just shook her head. If she knew, she’d run the other way.
“Let’s go inside.”
“You can sleep on the bed.” A consolation.
“The floor is fine.”
* * *
111 Cambridge Place was dark and silent by the time Charu came home. She crept through the sliding glass door, unaware of her uncle awake in the living room.
11
The next morning, Anwar decided to help Hashi with laundry (both professional and personal). Inspired by Bic Gnarls’s cavalier husbanding, he diligently separated the white towels from the rest of the load. In the pile of clothes was a windbreaker that she’d given to him more than twenty years ago as a thirtieth birthday gift. As many complaints as she has about me, thought Anwar, stretching the value of things is not one of them. As Hashi measured softener, he nuzzled her and pulled her against his burgeoning hard-on. Something about doing the laundry was—sexy.
“You often wish for a husband to whisper petit riens in your ears, na?” He felt the urge to slurp her ear.
“My god, Anwar!” Hashi lifted her shoulder to her ear to wipe away the wetness.
“I was a merely giving you a kiss.”
“That is not a kiss! It is a shame!”
“Oh, forget it.”
“Arré, Anwar. Don’t be upset now. I’m just surprised you’re helping at all. I’ve been surprised. Last week, the girls came to help me with laundry at the end of a long day. It’s been a while since a sensible child like Maya has come to our home, na?”
“She is here often, it seems.”
“The girl offered to help me fold the pile of towels. I refused her offer, of course. What good it does to have faith in the home. Aman mentioned her father is Sallah S., the alternate imam at the Fulton Street masjid—do you know him?”
“I don’t know him personally. But his home is right above our shop.”
“Well, he should be proud of his girl. Our own—they are a different matter. Charu appeared ill, but said she was just tired and hot.”
“Perhaps we should get an air conditioner.”
“I thought you did not believe in air-conditioning.”
“I do not. We have to be careful about the electricity bill.”
The wrinkles that corresponded to any mention of Charu’s name appeared on Hashi’s forehead. “Could she be pregnant?” She shook her head into her knees.
“I do not think she and Malik are an item anymore.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I saw the boy a while back—”
“I thought he worked for Aman now—”
“He does. He is a nice boy and stopped by to say hello.”
“Why do you suspect they are no longer together? He has decided he’s too good for her?”
“At first you say you would rather die than see them together and now you are offended?”
“Do I burn for my daughter’s sins, her missteps? For my lack as a mother?”
“These are the questions, my love, thieves in the night, which steal our sleep,” said Anwar. He kissed her fingertips, nails torn from running them through sudsy hair. “Now, tell me something to make me smile. I have heard enough misery to last me a while.”
“Well, you may find this quite interesting.” Hashi laughed.
“Before you begin, I want
to tell you, your smile is the loveliest smile of all,” Anwar said, giggling. “Tonight, I will help you with dinner.”
“Oh? What is the special occasion? Laundry and dinner?”
“I am inspired by Mr. Bic Gnarls.”
“Bic Gnarls? The barber?”
“Yes. He’s a very helpful husband.”
“So I hear. We must have him and Mauve over for dinner soon. Save your helpfulness for another day. I ordered a pizza.”
“From the Three Luigis?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know that two are Italian Luigis? The third is Alvaro, a Mexican.”
“Do you want to hear my story or not?” asked Hashi.
“Yes, of course.”
“Then please, no more interruptions. It is annoying.”
“Chup chup,” said Anwar, miming a zipper across his lips.
“So, your friend Rashaud Persaud came to see me a few weeks ago wearing those baggy pants, stinking up the place with his fake designer cologne, like all these boys nowadays. But today, he came in and said, ‘Miss Hashi, I wan’ you to do your magic!’” Hashi mimicked Rashaud’s voice.
Anwar laughed and clapped his hands. Her imitation was perfect.
“I closed my eyes and let the visions come. And I tell you—I never know what I will see. Rashaud has these very diminutive features—high cheekbones, bow-shaped lips—and I saw him as a girl, a blond girl, in my mind. I said to him—I didn’t want anyone to hear, in case he became embarrassed—‘Rashaud, I am seeing a girl. Is this what you see?’ Rashaud stared at me, solemnly, and took my hand into his own manicured one. And then he said, ‘Yes, Hashi, that’s wha’ I want. Wha’ I see every day.’”
“What are you saying? Rashaud Persaud is a cross-dresser?” Anwar asked, incredulous.
“Well . . . yes,” Hashi said.
“He asked to look like a woman? He is a very sweet fellow,” Anwar said. “But I admit the ways of the young are lost to me. Yes, I suppose without a mother, you mother yourself. . . .” Anwar paused. It was amazing, how she had understood exactly what Rashaud needed in that moment. Her whole business was built around manifesting people’s desire to be their best, most attractive selves. It was interesting to him that he never thought of his wife as a scientist. But now he felt he understood something. Hashi’s chosen discipline, psychology, and her chosen path, beauty and cosmetics, were experimentations in uncovering a person’s true nature. He couldn’t deny that. Anwar was impressed with her openness, her skill at coaxing Rashad’s hidden self outward. While Anwar fancied himself a liberal, once upon a time—a radical—with issues of sex, he was rather sensitive.
“Anwar, he is his own person. I give people what they wish. And he was looking beautiful.”
“As are you.” He tickled her chin.
“Come, let’s go. Pee-jah will be here any minute.”
They made their way upstairs after folding the laundry, holding hands. From the vestibule they heard laughter in the living room. Aman’s guffaw resonated loudest of all.
“Seems that man can’t watch enough television,” said Hashi.
“He finds comfort in reruns.”
“You know, last night, I asked him to turn the volume down, and I swear that as I went back to the bedroom, he turned the volume all the way up, before turning it down.”
“He doesn’t like women’s authority.”
“He comes by the salon on days he doesn’t have work.”
“What?” Anwar was incredulous; this was not something that he or the girls ever did.
“He’s . . . critical. And to think how much I complain about you, but you never say anything like him. He finds the roundabout way to say everything: ‘Is this in need of some salt? I think so!’ Or—‘I just love my soda flat and sweet!’”
As they stepped into the living room, Anwar heard his brother:
“Pluck these gray hairs from my chin, Charu Ma.”
His brother lay sprawled on the couch; the girls and Maya sat on the carpet, arranged about him like temple devotees. He lazily twirled a ringlet of Charu’s hair around his finger. She swatted his hand away, as she hated any sort of affectionate petting of her hair.
“Don’t do that. We’re trying to watch this,” said Charu, shushing her uncle with a finger to her lips.
“Where exactly did you go last night, Charu?” asked Aman.
“What are you talking about?” She scowled and looked to Ella, widening her eyes.
“What is going on?” asked Anwar.
“Just watching this idiot program on television,” said Aman. “How’s the day?” When Aman, Anwar, and Hashi spoke, often they switched between English and Bangla, depending on how much they wanted the girls tuned in.
Hashi seemed unsure how to address his unseemly request of Charu. Aman had said it in a tone so banal, as if it were an ordinary request, and Anwar supposed it was not that lewd—he was their uncle, after all, and it was the simple request of a saddened man; Anwar could imagine asking the same of his daughter. Well, not in that voice. And, she’s not his daughter. Why had Aman asked Charu where she’d been? An odd thing to say. Quite odd. They’d had dinner and the girls had just been in their rooms. Right? His brother’s presence in their home was whittling away at him. Aman appeared normal, and on the outside he was, undoubtedly, a beautiful man. Full-lipped and round-cheeked, like the black-and-white Bengali cinema actors of their youth—Uttam Kumar and the like. But no one knew his brother quite as he did.
And now, Anwar wanted him to leave.
“Women are a mystery. I’ll never understand,” said Aman, pointing to the television. “Stupid shows will make you lose focus, girls. Now, let’s have some lunch.”
“So you must be real disoriented,” muttered Ella.
“We ordered pizza,” said Hashi. She had a baffled expression on her face, trying to understand what was going on.
“Perfect,” Aman said. He snapped his fingers, as if something had just occurred to him. He turned to Maya. “I saw your father, child, at Friday afternoon prayer.”
“Don’t call us ‘child,’” said Charu. “It’s obnoxious.”
“Well, if you behave like that, then how can you blame me?”
“Now, Aman, please,” said Anwar, holding up his hand. “No need for that. Charu, don’t talk to your uncle like that.”
“My father?” asked Maya.
“Yes, he is very concerned for you,” continue Aman. “Says you haven’t been home in weeks.”
“How is that any of your business?” demanded Charu.
“Her father made it my business when he mentioned it.”
“Exactly, brother, what do you mean?” asked Anwar, surprised by Charu’s reaction.
“Do not talk to me that way, child,” said Aman to Charu. “I am not your father.”
“Don’t. Call. Me. Child.”
“Well, excuse me, she cannot speak that way to me either,” said Anwar.
“I told Sallah S. today at Friday prayer that his daughter has taken to sleeping in our home, which is to explain to him that she is not lost, she is here,” said Aman, smiling, as if he were talking to a group of children. “Your father misses you very much, Maya. I told him I would walk you home this evening.”
“I . . .” started Maya. She turned to Hashi, then Anwar. “My father won’t let me work, or go to college. So, Ella and Charu have let me stay here.” She said the words plainly, staring at her hands, realizing the conversation had to do with her. Anwar tried to imagine Charu at home past high school. Would all the growing she had to do be away from home? This was the case for all teens, as it had been for him, and for Hashi. He felt somehow he should not let Maya go. But this was a family matter, a family other than theirs—was it improper to let the girl stay?
“Maya, you are welcome in our home, but do you think
you should see your father?” said Hashi.
“No, Mrs. Saleem, I don’t,” said Maya. Still she did not look up.
“Ma, please,” said Charu. “She’s eighteen. It’s just a month until school starts. She’s saving up money every day. She’s good at saving money; she’s not like me.”
Hashi looked at Anwar, who hesitated for a moment.
“Imagine how we’d miss you, darling,” said Anwar, wagging his finger.
“It’s not the same.”
Maya said, “Charu, please, no worries. Your parents have been generous. I should leave.”
“How did you know she was here, Aman?” asked Ella. Anwar noticed her tone, cold and pointed. “Did you come into my room?”
Aman dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “In family, all business is an open matter.”
“My room is not.”
“Well, I’ll walk you over there—” said Aman.
“No!” Maya said. She covered her mouth, as if to apologize.
“She’s not leaving,” said Charu. “We—we can’t let her lose all her money. He’ll take her money.”
“You girls are absurd.” Aman shook his head.
“Maya, is there any way I can talk to your father? Vouch for you?” asked Hashi, seeing the girl’s distress.
“No.”
“Hashi, I don’t understand how a mother could allow another woman’s child—” started Aman.
“You do not have children. And Maya is eighteen. She’s not a child.”
“Her father is concerned for her—have you no concern for that? I told him I would attend to this matter. I’ll walk her home after we eat.”
“We are going to eat, and we’re going to relax. It’s Sunday, my one damn day off!” Hashi spat. “I will pack two slices for you before you leave, Aman Bhai.”
“Before I leave? Excuse me?”
“Now, you listen to me. These girls have grown up here all their lives, before this house was anything, when it was no better than trash, when people loitered on the streets with nothing good to do. Let the girls be without a sad old man looking over their shoulder—is that too much to ask? And if that is such a mystery, and you can’t understand it, then perhaps you can understand why you have failed as a husband. And you should not stay here! Anwar is too nice to say this, but I cannot do it a night more.”
Bright Lines Page 11
