Time Zero

by Carolyn Cohagan

  “That’s okay,” she says, but I can see she was disappointed.

  “Was your mom upset about it?”

  She smiles and shakes her head.

  “Liar,” I say.

  She giggles. “She was mad. But your mother came over this morning with leftover cakes and told us all about it, so Mom’s completely forgiven her, of course.”

  We lie there in silence. How many more times will we get to hang out like this? All at once, it feels as if my childhood has gone by much too fast. I’ve spent so many bored hours in this apartment, staring out the window or up at the ceiling, longing for my life to begin, and now, what I wouldn’t give for a few more years of that boredom.

  After a while, Sekena says, “I can’t believe you were exposed in front of all those men! So humiliating.” When I don’t say anything, she adds, “But I suppose . . . Damon Asher got to see something he liked!” She grins, raising an eyebrow.

  I turn my head away from her and finally give voice to what’s been haunting me since last night. “Mother did it on purpose.”

  “Did what?”

  “Set my cloak on fire.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense—”

  “She didn’t do it herself. She had Dekker knock a candle onto me.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “She wanted the suitors to see me without my cloak.”

  Sekena shakes her head. “Your mother has done some rotten things, Mina, but that’s crazy.” She props herself up, considering it more. “She’d never commit such a horrible sin.”

  “When we got upstairs, there was a girl waiting for me with a salve all prepared.”

  Sekena’s eyes get huge. In a nervous voice, she says, “Did your father know?”

  The question kept me up half the night. “I don’t know. I can’t remember seeing him.” In my mind, I see the faces of Damon, Juda, Dekker, and my mother, and that’s it. Maybe Mother got him out of the room before it happened.

  “What are you going to do?” Sekena asks.

  “What can I do? It’s over.” As usual, my mother has gotten exactly what she wanted, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  “You have to get married and get out of this apartment,” Sekena says, as if she’s a doctor prescribing the perfect remedy.

  “Why does that have to be the only way to leave?” I ask, knowing that it’s a useless question. “I wish I could live with Nana.”

  “Your mother told us about her. I’m really sorry.”

  “Thanks.” Deeper depression sets in. “I’m not allowed to go see her. I made Mother angry yesterday.”

  Looking back at the ceiling, Sekena says, “Whatever you did, don’t you think a burned back makes you even?”

  I smile. “I like the way you think, Miss Husk.”

  She smiles back.

  I wish I could tell Sekena about the Primer, explain why I got in so much trouble. When we were little, I told her everything, from what I had for breakfast to what I thought Paradise looked like. But as we grew older, I found it harder and harder to share my secrets. I could tell her about Mother and about the candle, because Sekena already thinks my mother is doomed to burn in the fiery pits of Hell. And she’s probably right. But I can’t tell Sekena things about me that would make her worry about my soul. I can’t tell her that sometimes I wonder whether God really exists, or that sometimes I’m not sure that I want a family. I certainly can’t tell her that Nana taught me to read. Not only would she be terrified for my soul, she would fear constantly for my physical safety. Sekena is the kind of person who stays up at night praying for people she doesn’t even know who are imprisoned in the Tunnel.

  I miss being able to tell her everything. I would love to be able to tell her about Juda and the market yesterday.

  I gasp as I realize that I’m supposed to meet him today at noon.

  “What is it?” Sekena asks.

  “Nothing. My back stings.”

  I wonder if he’ll even be there after everything that happened last night. I hate the idea of his standing there, waiting, thinking that I don’t want to see him. But, at the same time, I realize that I hate the idea of his not showing up even more. . . .

  “So, what does he look like? Is he short? Tall?” Sekena says.

  “Who?” I ask, wondering if she’s somehow reading my mind.

  “Damon Asher, dummy.”

  Trying not to show my relief, I say, “Um, tall, I guess.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And male.”

  She pinches me and I laugh, but I can’t sustain the jovial mood for long. I say somberly, “I don’t want to marry him.”

  “Who wouldn’t want to marry one of the richest men in town?”

  I roll my eyes. She sounds just like our mothers. How can she not understand?

  “Sekena . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t you ever want more?”

  “More what?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Peace, Mina,” says Dekker, walking into my room. “How’s—” He stops in his tracks when he sees Sekena and immediately turns his body around, staring at the floor. “Forgive me. I didn’t know you had female company.”

  Sekena jumps up, grabbing her cloak and veil. She looks mortified as she throws the cloak over her clothes and snaps the veil into place. “Forgive me, Dek—Brother Clark. I was just leaving.”

  “No! Don’t go,” I plead, annoyed that Dekker is chasing her away.

  “I need to get home for breakfast anyway.” She’s about to slip out the doorway, when she turns to me and, in a stern tone, says, “Remember, Mina, you already have more.”

  Then she scoots past Dekker and is gone.

  “How do you feel?” Dekker says.

  “How do you think?” I say, icily.

  He walks in and looks at my back, and I hate how exposed I am. “Don’t touch me,” I say.

  “I’m not. Jeez.” He leans in closer, grimacing. “It looks like raw chicken.”

  “Can you leave, please?” I ask.

  “I’m about to go back to the Lyceum.”

  “Good.”

  He straightens up. “Before I left, I wanted to say . . .” He looks at the floor, and I wait for him to finish the sentence. Then he stares out the window, as if he’s suddenly seen the most fascinating view.

  “Maybe you wanted to say you’re sorry? For setting me on fire?” My temper is short today.

  “It was an accident,” he says, defenses rising.

  “Was it?” I say, glowering at him, daring him to tell me the truth.

  Mother asked him to do it, and he obeyed her blindly, like he always does. But I’m enraged that he can’t take responsibility for it now.

  His fingers pick at a loose thread on the side of his tunic as he wavers between truth and pride. He takes a deep breath, beginning again. “I wanted to say that I didn’t want—”

  Mother walks into the room. “Time to change your dressing.”

  Dekker looks at her, relief on his face. Turning back to me, he says, “May God offer you a speedy recovery and an auspicious outcome for your Offering. Peace, Mina.” Then he walks out the door.

  “Did you say goodbye to your brother?” Mother asks, sitting on the edge of the bed. “He won’t be home again for quite some time.”

  “I don’t know how I’ll survive,” I say.

  “Dekker’s going to be a great and powerful man one day. You should show him respect,” she says, moving right over my sarcasm.

  I’m in no mood to argue with her about Dekker.

  She begins to change the dressing on my back, which is just a square of plastic wrap that’s been stuck over the honey. She’s gentle as she pulls off the old one, but it stings as if she’s peeling off skin. She wads the plastic up into a tight little ball, throws it into the trash can, and then begins to apply a fresh layer of honey to the burn. The smell makes me sick.

  She tries to make small talk with me, but I’m
not listening. She’s midsentence, saying something about Auntie Kilya, when I interrupt her, asking, “Where did you get the money for the food?”

  “What food?” she asks innocently, concentrating on my burn, but I know she knows exactly what I’m talking about.

  “For the reception. And the Convene girl. How did you pay Katla?”

  “That little thief. I’m missing two silver forks.”

  Katla cleaned all day, made me presentable, served food, took care of guests, and then nursed me into the night. I’m sure she didn’t touch Mother’s silverware, but I wish she’d stolen the whole drawerful. “Answer the question, Mother.”

  “I don’t like your tone,” she says, a warning in her voice. The Bell sounds from the street, temporarily muffling the rumble of the buses and taxis. Mother is skipping prayers to nurse me. After several minutes, she sighs, saying, “I’ve been putting rations aside.”

  “So, you were stealing from Father?”

  She stops reapplying honey and smiles. “Hardly. I just started a little ‘investment’ fund.” When I don’t smile back, she adds, “Don’t be self-righteous, Mina. My mother did it for me, and you’ll do it for your children.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask him for the rations?”

  “Men can’t see into the future like we can. Your father would only have seen the immediate cost of the cheese, whereas I can see that marrying Damon Asher would be like acquiring a dairy farm.” She taps my nose with her finger, winking.

  Suddenly all the anger I’ve been repressing rushes up like a bad breakfast. “Looking into the future? Is that what you were doing when you set me on fire?”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” she says, almost purring.

  She’s proud! She thinks she did a clever thing. I close my eyes and say, “I hate you.” The words are out before I have time to think about them, but they feel more true at that moment than anything I’ve ever said.

  I open my eyes, bracing myself for her slap. I’m lying there, back exposed, a layer of skin missing. She could hurt me in terrible ways right now.

  She doesn’t move. Still smiling, she leans over and picks up a pair of scissors from the floor. She stares at the long, sharp blades, seeming to study her reflection in them. Then she picks up a long roll of plastic on a tube, pulling out a few feet and cutting off a square. She puts down the scissors, and I understand that she has made a new dressing for my back.

  She speaks in a low, calm voice as she applies it. “I hated my mother, too, you know. It wasn’t until I had my own children that I finally understood what she sacrificed for us. It’s okay for you to hate me now, because I’m keeping you safe. With Damon Asher, you won’t starve; you won’t be raped on the street and forced to marry a stranger; you won’t be forced to sell your body. The Ashers are powerful, and they will protect you. And that’s all that matters to me.” She stands to go.

  “All that matters to you is the money, so you can brag to Auntie Sersa.”

  “Careful, Mina. I’ve put up with your insolence today because you’re in pain. Don’t push me.”

  “What if it had burned my face? Then no one would want me.”

  Her voice rises. “Then you could join the beggars in the market! Is that what you would prefer?”

  “I want to be alone,” I say. This conversation has not gone as I planned. Now she’s angry and will never agree to let me see Nana.

  She goes to the door. “I’ll be back in a few hours to check on you, but it looks good. I don’t think there’s going to be a scar.”

  We stare at each other. I look at her face, which seems a little sad and yet irritatingly confident.

  “I don’t agree,” I say.

  SEVEN

  THE NEXT DAY, MY BACK FEELS GOOD ENOUGH for me to stand up and walk around, but I hole up in my room anyway. Annoyingly, when Father gets home from work, I’m expected to come down for dinner.

  I sit with my parents, chewing but not tasting the food, wondering how quickly I can return to my room.

  Father, chin raised, announces, “I have news.”

  “The Ashers. They made an offer!” Mother says.

  “That is not my news,” he says, beaming in a way I rarely see.

  “A raise?” she says, trying to be coy, but I can hear the longing.

  “No.” Seeing that she’s out of guesses, he says in an academic tone, “I’m being presented with an award.”

  “That’s wonderful!” I say, happy for the first time in days. “Congratulations!”

  Father spent over a decade designing a water plant that’s powered by algae. The most amazing part is that the algae live off old sewage water, so not only is the dirty water recycled, but the waste itself also powers the plant.

  Mother never wants to acknowledge this, especially at mealtime. I’ve heard her tell my aunties that Father is working on “very important fuel development for Uncle Ruho,” and I always wish I could add, Yes, Auntie Sersa, the fuel comes from algae, and the algae feed on our turds! I can’t even imagine the smack I’d get for that.

  “What kind of award?” I ask.

  “Significant Contribution to the Community,” Father says.

  “I’m happy for you, Father,” I say.

  “Mina, do you know what they say when I walk around the East Side?”

  Bracing myself for a joke, I say, “No. What?”

  “They say, Mr. Clark, water great guy!”

  I roll my eyes but laugh anyway.

  Not laughing, Mother says, “Who’s giving you this award, dear?”

  “Jordan Loudz.”

  Dropping her fork with a clang on her plate, Mother says, “That’s inappropriate.”

  “I don’t see why,” Father says.

  “What will people say if you start associating with Convenes?”

  Jordan Loudz would be the leader of the Convenes, if they were allowed to have a leader. I guess I’d call him . . . their spokesperson. Father’s water plant was built on East 14th and services the whole Lower East Side. The Convenes no longer have to haul horse carts full of filtered water from the West Side. Women don’t have to carry huge, heavy buckets on their heads back to their homes. Taps carry a constant flow, as they do in our home (as Deservers, we get our water from the Inwood Hill Holy Spring, at the northernmost tip of the island). I’m not surprised the Convenes want to give Father an award. Convene women have stopped him in the streets to give him gifts of fruit and bread as a show of gratitude.

  “Convenes are good enough to serve our food and wash our dishes,” he says to Mother, “but not to speak to. Is that it?”

  “They’re rising up, Zai. You can’t believe what I hear. They call us ‘cockroaches’ and ‘a virus.’ Disgusting things.”

  “If everyone’s going to act like you, then we deserve it.”

  I’m shocked to hear Father speak to her this way. He’s the head of our household because he’s the man, but he doesn’t cross Mother often. She stares at him, open-mouthed. Standing, she says, “If I’m so abhorrent, then perhaps I should eat in the kitchen.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, exhausted by the conversation.

  Pouting, she grabs her plate and leaves the table.

  “I have other news,” he says.

  She doesn’t stop, determined to make him work for her forgiveness.

  Wiggling his eyebrows at me, he announces grandly, “Mina has had two marriage offers. One from the Planders and one”—he pauses dramatically—“from the Ashers.”

  “Ooooohhhhhhhhoooohh!” Mother squeals, spinning around so quickly that her fork and knife fly off the plate. I stop eating, my spirits plunging.

  He adds, “I’ve turned them both down, of course.”

  I wish I could take this as a sign of hope, but it’s customary for a girl’s parents to say no to a marriage offer at least twice, to prove that their daughter is of great value.

  “Oh, Zai, what was the Ashers’ offer?” Mother asks, prancing back to the table.


  “Four hundred thousand BTUs, variable sources.”

  Mother frowns. “I thought it would be better.”

  “It’s a first offer. The second one will be better, and the third better still. Don’t fret.”

  “And what did you say to Mr. Plander?” Mother asks.

  “I haven’t turned him down, yet,” Father says. “We’ll get a better price if there’s a bidding war.”

  “Of course we will,” Mother says, her face glowing with pride. “What wonderful news! God is kind.”

  “God is kind,” Father echoes.

  “But I don’t want to marry Damon,” I say, and Mother’s head whips toward me.

  “We’ve already discussed this,” she warns.

  “What’s the problem?” Father asks.

  “The problem?” I say. “You met him. He’s rude and spoiled.” I know Mother won’t listen, that she can’t see what I see. Surely my father can understand. “You know I’m right.”

  Father sits back, making a triangle with his index fingers and thumbs and placing it on his belly.

  Mother jumps in. “Zai, ignore her. Is Damon an Apostate? A murderer? A thief?”

  “For all you know, he could be,” I say. “You don’t know anything about him.”

  Screeching so that every apartment on our floor must hear, she says, “He’s from one of the best families on the island! You can’t make one claim of substance against him!”

  Father asks earnestly, “Do you think we’d give you to just anybody?”

  “After meeting Damon Asher, yes. Yes, I think you would,” I say, leaning back and crossing my arms in front of me.

  Mother slams her fist on the table. “Mina Clark!” she yells, but Father holds a hand up to her.

  “Mina,” he says calmly, “you’ve always been strong-willed, but I can’t have you speaking to your mother this way.” I open my mouth to speak again but then think better of it. His face is very serious, and I see none of the humor or light that I’m used to. “Damon may not be your first choice for a husband . . .” He sees my dark face and adds, “Or even your second, but it’s common to be anxious about your parents’ choice for you. It’s part of growing up. You’re not old enough to understand everything that goes into our decision. But you are old enough to understand that Damon’s father is my superior, and to refuse this offer of marriage would be a terrible insult. Do I need to explain to you what would happen to this family if I were to lose my job?”