Bright Lines

by Tanwi Nandini Islam

  “You’re mad.”

  He said nothing. She nuzzled under his underarm, and sniffed. “You’d do well to find a shower.”

  “Don’t be a negative parabola, girl,” he said, tugging the sides of Hashi’s mouth upward. “What else is wrong?”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “Nineteen seventy?” he asked, trying to jog her memory.

  “I don’t remember yesterday.”

  “The big test.”

  “Aha-ha,” she said, snapping her fingers. “You told me your paper is smiling—and—”

  “And you said, ‘It’s a parabola!’ Anwar mimicked a schoolgirl. “You were so easy.”

  “Easy?”

  “Easier. Come,” he said, pulling her on top of him.

  Hashi perched on him like a young bride, but then became very still, and cocked her head to the side. “Did you hear that? I felt the ground shake.” Just as soon as she had straddled him, she rolled off.

  “Don’t be crazy. This is Brooklyn. No fault lines. Not even a breeze on this muggy night.”

  “An intruder, then?”

  “The earth’s rotation would make you jumpy these days, woman.”

  “All right, all right. It’s nothing.”

  He felt a swelling of energy and climbed on top of her, letting himself sag onto her. Hashi waited underneath him, gripping his hipbones, whispering, “Unh, Allah,” until he’d given up. The moment had come; the moment had gone. He fell away from her, and stroked his flaccid cock on his side of the bed.

  Now he lay beside Hashi, arm going numb from the weight of her snoring head. He admired the strong cheekbones she’d inherited from her father. Anwar couldn’t imagine her life before he’d been a part of it; she’d been so young. He was the one man she’d ever had, and unbelievably enough, she was his first and last. He had loved Hawa before her, but that was innocent, imaginary, as Hawa regarded him as a boy, privileged and helpless. He remembered being smitten by Hashi—she was a beauty on university grounds, and Rezwan Anwar’s little sister. Rezwan would never let just anyone get near her. He’d chosen Anwar.

  He wiggled his arm out from under her. He fiddled in the nightstand drawer to take out his one-hitter, which he’d remembered to bring back from the apothecary. He’d take one puff and that was it, and by the time Hashi woke up in the morning she wouldn’t smell it anyway. He sparked the tip, and took a deep breath, waving the smoke away from Hashi’s nose. He puffed a couple of times more, then threw the pipe back into the drawer.

  He closed his eyes and squeezed his penis, trying to work up the heady lust he’d had for her when they’d first been married, but he couldn’t muster much more than a warm, enveloping feeling. He suspected people spent their entire lives to find this feeling of total surrender, but that he belonged to a whole other lot of selfish bastards who spent their lives trying to find the feeling he’d had this morning, the jolt straight from his heart to his loins when he’d seen Ramona Espinal. He closed his eyes and imagined her rump on the stoop, stroking himself until he was rigid.

  Ra-mo-na, he mouthed. To not say her name was almost as terrifying as saying it, and he let the rhythm of holding back rock him, back and forth. He wanted to sputter his juice all over those glorious breasts, just one more stroke—

  He felt a stirring next to him, and his eyes popped open, just as he felt himself about to come. He felt a pang of fear, pure and perfect, of being caught, of lusting after another woman, and the tide reversed itself, buried deep inside him, once again.

  He slid open the drawer of his side table. There was a little stash, something to nibble on. He found a Ziploc of majoun, a new batch, in which Rashaud had mixed up the recipe. His secret this time: Craisins and brown sugar. Anwar nibbled, a child tasting his first bit of sugar. Still, Hashi slept. He felt the dull ache in his balls subside, as the majoun settled into him.

  Rezwan’s head appeared as a shadow on the wall.

  “Rezu, hello.”

  Together, they recited a fragment of Surah al-A’raf, for the juncture between the garden and earth.

  We inspired Musa

  His thirsty people asked for water

  We said: “Strike the rock with thy staff”

  Water gushed from the springs.

  We offered them the shade of clouds

  Sent down to them manna and quails

  We said: Eat the good and plenty

  They rebelled / They did not harm us / They harmed their own souls.

  Rezwan’s expression was harsh. You’ve not tended your garden. You left Ella to it, and it is ridden with pests; it is infested with aphids. You’ve received manna from the gods, aphid shit—honeydew, manna, miracle food of those travel-weary Israelites. No, my friend, you’ve not dealt with any of your problems. You are a thief, a drug addict, coveting women other than my sister—what is my child to learn from you?

  “You aren’t here,” said Anwar, shaking his head. “I must spend time with your sister now.”

  He shook Hashi and she swatted his hand away.

  “My love, get up, get up, let’s go outside.”

  “Whaaaat is outside?” Hashi moaned.

  “The world, fresh air, people, everything,” said Anwar. “It is Saturday night.”

  “In the thirty years I’ve known you, have you ever felt deprived of Saturday night?”

  “No. But tonight I do. Let’s go to the veranda.”

  He slid the door open and the quiet of their home met the never-truly-still neighborhood. There were no stars. Hashi shivered next him, kept her eyes closed. No matter; he appreciated her warmth. He’d long ago discovered that she’d never be a true partner of his thoughts, his romanticism, these moments of being one with whatever was out there. Anwar opened his ears to the marvels of dawn. He heard a faint crunching, a desperate rustling of something very small—it sounded like someone was unwrapping a lozenge. Were the aphids eating away at his plants right under his nose? He listened closer and the continuing hollow sound tickled a rage—a curious feeling—inside him. The gall, the absolute gall of these devils! “I’ll kill you all!” he feebly shouted into the air, raising his fist. The rustling continued, stopped, continued.

  “Anwar, are you mad?” Hashi said, lifting her head off his shoulder. “You’ll wake the neighbors!”

  “Arré, Hashi, shhh, shoono.”

  Hashi widened her eyes, as if to say, Yes, you loon, what in the hell do you want me to hear?

  Rezwan’s head rushed through their embrace. Anwar flinched, but Hashi did not see her brother. Rezwan’s grayed skin and hair appeared silver in moonlight, giving him a spritely mien. He dipped down low, down to the garden, no longer visible. With an upward whoosh, his head appeared again, this time a blue creature sitting perched on his nose.

  “Anwar, dekho, dekho, projapoti!” Hashi exclaimed, pointing at the butterfly sailing in front of them.

  “Arré, Hashi,” Anwar croaked. Rezwan swept back downward, up and down, and up again, until Anwar’s head was spinning, too.

  Rezwan mouthed:

  We sent plagues, signs / a people steeped in arrogance

  A people steeped in sin.

  “Stop, ya,” Anwar whispered. “Please stop.”

  “Ay, Khoda,” Hashi yelled. “Anwar, dekho!”

  Rezwan brought back another blue butterfly, then a cerulean bevy of butterflies hovered in the sky. Anwar gripped the deck railing and looked down at the garden. An indiscernible figure crept through the garden. Had Rezwan been reunited with his body?

  —A wailing from down below—

  Hashi tore herself away from him and ran back inside. She’d gone mad with fear, Anwar worried, trying to rush after her, clanking down the stairwell, attempting to catch her before she hurt herself. Speedy for her years, she hurtled out the back door and tackled the figure into the ground. Anwa
r doubled over, cupping his knees. Ah, it is Charu, he thought, chest heaving, relieved, and Ella and Maya. Too out of breath to stop Hashi from bringing down the garden hose—the only object she could find—onto Charu’s face.

  * * *

  “Take Maya home. She cannot be here.”

  Hashi spat the words, as Anwar and Ella pulled her off of Charu. Maya ran into Ella’s bedroom, collected her things in minutes.

  “Just wait, wait. You can leave tomorrow morning,” Ella pleaded.

  “No, I’m going to leave now.”

  “You’re going back to your parents’ house?”

  “Not yet. I need to think.”

  Ella followed Maya onto Cambridge Place, and they walked in silence on the sidewalk. The slabs of slate had been weathered over the decades, smooth enough to walk barefoot all the way to Fulton Street. Streetlamps guided them, as did the occasional taxi whizzing by.

  “Turn right,” Maya said.

  When they arrived at the masjid, Ella realized that it must be time for morning prayer, Maya’s prayer. There was a short, squat man wearing a fez and long kurta top, his beard white as Santa’s, gossiping with a trio of young men. Ella couldn’t quite recognize them in the predawn light. Are they the same boys from this afternoon at the apothecary? Maya nodded salaam, and led Ella to a small prayer room. The place was covered with plush Turkish carpets and a stickered wall of a hundred hologram Allahs.

  “This is it,” said Maya. “Head covers.” She pointed to a cardboard box brimming with multicolored fabrics. She took a plain black hijab, and tied it around Ella’s head.

  “I don’t actually know what to do. . . .”

  “Just follow my motions. Think about whatever you want,” said Maya. “You can’t talk out loud. Men can, though.” She started on her feet, bent over her knees with a flat back, then sat down on her rug.

  Ella had never been inside a prayer house before. Anytime Hashi had tried to get them to go as a family, Anwar had, for as long as she could remember, refused to attend. He would stay home or cite work duties, and Ella stayed behind with him. Charu, on the other hand, went along with her mother, even attended Arabic school, which was where she’d met Maya.

  Ella had a terrible headache. Perhaps it was the rum. She hadn’t had any water all night. She peeled her glasses off, and the glittering wall of Allah decals twinkled under fluorescent lighting, waxing and waning rainbow shapes. Some of the words appeared to be swimming. There were two other women—both older than Hashi—praying in the room with them. Women their age were shielded from the lustful eyes of young men, thought Ella. The man and three boys who lingered outside now stood at the head of the room, muttering aloud, permitted by scripture.

  Ella tried to copy Maya’s position and movements: arms folded across chest, flat back, bend over and squat. Rest. Repeat. Maya’s demeanor had shifted since they arrived at the masjid. She was different from the ham-eating, bike-riding spider-woman-jumpsuit-wearing girl Ella had come to know this summer. She remembered Maya’s father’s sly, scary presence. He was a person who could get anyone to do what he wanted—sort of like Charu, but for the purposes of obtaining more power.

  Pray. For the souls of my mother and father. For my aunt and uncle. For my garden. For Charu. For Maya. I will do anything. Ella finished a good ten minutes before Maya, even after repeating her short litany.

  Maya said, “Sorry I took so long. That’s the part—”

  “You ask for stuff.”

  They chuckled. There seemed to be no space for laughter in here. “What will you do at home?”

  “Take care of Mema. The boys. Figure out how to go to school.”

  “What about your father?”

  “My father’s busy these days. Too busy to get into my business. Don’t worry. Anyway, maybe now you’ll sleep.” Maya pulled Ella into her arms, pressing every bit of her body against her. “I’ll talk to you so soon, Ella Anwar.”

  “I leave for school so soon. In three weeks,” said Ella. Her voice felt tight, her mouth dry. She’d never heard herself so—desperate. “Never mind.”

  “Maybe I’ll get a dorm room invite? Maybe you’ll get one.”

  Somehow, Ella knew that she wouldn’t.

  15

  Anwar’s Apothecary was closed on Sundays. But this Sunday, Anwar wanted to run from the tremendous tension that had taken over his home. Since her indiscretions last night, Charu was under house arrest until she left for college. Though Ella had offended Hashi, she was an adult, and so, beyond her scope. Hashi had cried herself to sleep and somehow willed herself awake at seven o’clock in the morning for the day’s wedding party. Anwar agreed to buy her maxi pads, just for an excuse to leave the house.

  The church crowd was out and about on the streets. Anwar admired their accoutrements and commitment to the higher power on Sundays, his favorite day to sleep. He had not spoken to his brother in a month. Aman ignored Hashi’s peace-offering phone calls. Anwar knew his brother, an extraordinary grudge holder, would never again respond to Hashi as he had before, and would not call her back unless he needed something.

  Anwar was going to make the peace today. He would walk to his brother’s establishment, called Kings Pharmacy, which Aman claimed was for the borough, but Anwar knew it was a matter of ego. It was a place he hated; he had worked in one on Long Island for a decade. Dredging up the old memories in that nasty basement did nothing to assuage today’s stress, so Anwar pushed his own grudges out of his mind. Yes, he would go to Kings. Another bonus: not having to pay for maxi pads.

  He passed a new store on Atlantic Avenue, On the Silk Road, which housed a collection of renowned silks: charmeuse, dupioni, shantung, crepe de chine. He paused in front of the large glass storefront to take in the bolts of fabric that lined the shelves like brilliantly colored Japanese scrolls. It would be nice to get Charu some of this stuff. Poor thing would lock herself in her room with her sewing machine for company. Inside the shop, a pair of elderly women negotiated the price of a royal purple swath of cloth. As he turned around, a jaunty West African fellow in matching lime green linen shirt and pants knocked Anwar down with a gigantic baton of fabric.

  “I’m sorry, man, I didn’t see you,” said the man, offering Anwar his hand.

  Anwar stood up and said, “I will take the entire roll, please.” He reached into his pocket for his wallet—no cash. The sole credit card in the damned thing was under Aman’s name. Anwar cursed his habit of stuffing credit cards into his pants pocket rather than his wallet. He was given a ten-dollar liability discount. Using the bolt as a makeshift cane, Anwar went on his way.

  Atlantic Avenue’s steady rush of cars accompanied him as he neared his brother’s pharmacy. Anwar let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. This place sickened him. Gratuitous air-conditioning. Advertisements galore: L’Oréal! Plan B! Rogaine! SpongeBob pencil kits! Radio: the nauseating buzz of today’s generation! In the back of store, the pharmacy reeked of that oppressive Aman smell, the lingering smell of a flushed toilet. For god’s sake, man. Burn some Nag Champa and do us all a favor.

  “What brings you around?” Aman said, without bothering to look up from his New York Times crossword. He sat at the pharmacy counter, while a young Indian woman pharmacist filled a prescription beside him.

  “Oh, I need to pick up some antiseptic cream and perhaps a shaving razor, and, eh—some womanly items for Hashi,” said Anwar.

  “Hashi’s little errand boy, huh? Go get your things and Rinku will ring you up. That’s funny, isn’t it? Rinku ring you up? Ha!” Aman turned up the radio and turned back to his crossword.

  The woman named Rinku nodded. She widened her eyes, so that only Anwar could see. It was a look that people who’d spent enough time with Aman could understand.

  Aisle 5 had Advil and other analgesics. Last night had done him in; he was paying for running down the stairs to the ba
ckyard. He admitted perhaps he was used to being a slender man who was terribly out of shape. He headed over to the bacterial ointments and creams aisle. He made an Anwar’s Apothecary Cocoa Butter Scar Away, which lightened scars. Yet when it came to healing his daughter’s face, he wanted that Neosporin.

  Right after she had hit Charu, Anwar saw Hashi’s face grimace with immediate regret.

  From out of nowhere, Ella tore Hashi off before any real damage had been done. Besides the bruise on her jowl, Charu had minor scratches on her cheeks, some self-inflicted from clawing her way out of the swarm of butterflies. She’d survive, but Anwar was sure she was just as shocked as he. They’d never raised a hand to their children—once or twice a bottom had been smacked when they were toddlers, sure, but nothing as far as using an object. A garden hose, at that! What shocked him was Hashi’s full control of herself in the garden. There was no manic, crazed beatdown. Hashi had been resolute and aware. She held the hose across Charu’s throat and snarled, “Never lie to me again.” Charu gagged under the pressure. Anwar heard Hashi’s thought: Fuck with me, child, and I will beat the life out of you. Anwar stood there, paralyzed and a little high.

  He was surprised to see that Ella and the girl Maya fled right after Hashi’s outburst. Hashi’s look was similar to the one Sallah S. had given him and Ella yesterday. Her disgust for their children was palpable.

  * * *

  In Aisle 6, land of diapers for infants, women, and the elderly, Anwar saw his tenant, Ramona Espinal.

  He tapped her shoulder and said, “Boo.”

  “Oh!” she yelped. “Anwar, you scared me!”

  “I am in this aisle to buy . . . sundries for Hashi.”

  Ramona chuckled. “You’re a good husband.”

  “I hope we did not disturb you this morning.”

  “I wasn’t home. Late shift at the hospital.” She tapped a box against the palm of her hand. “Well, I’ve got what I was looking for. I should get some sleep. I have to be at work at ten o’clock tonight.”