Time Zero

by Carolyn Cohagan

  There’s a gentle knock on the door, and before I have a chance to say anything, I’m shocked to see it opening. I was sure I locked it. A figure slips inside, and I stop breathing. It’s Juda! He puts his finger to his lips, and I nod, understanding everything. He didn’t escape at all—he hid inside the apartment! He crosses over to me and then, without undressing, he steps into the hot water, sitting down across from me. I giggle, because it’s like bathing with Sekena when we were toddlers. He giggles, too. And then he gets very serious, staring at me, and I remember I’m naked. And I want him to stop looking, but also I don’t. Goose bumps run down my body. He leans forward—

  “Mina? Mina, your food is getting cold!” Mrs. Asher yells outside the door.

  I jerk awake. How long have I been in the tub? I blush at my thoughts of Juda and then remember I’m mad at him. “I’ll be right there!”

  I quickly use the perfumed soap lying in the dish, and the shampoo next to it (both Relics). I rinse and then, pulling the plug, let the glorious hot water drain away. I carefully climb out and dry myself with the towel. The gray dress I’ve been wearing is truly disgusting. I dread putting it back on.

  It’s only now that I see a fresh cloak hanging on the back of the bathroom door. It’s purple, the color appropriate for a single girl. That was thoughtful. Either that or Mrs. Asher doesn’t want to be near the stink of my dress.

  I happily grab the cloak and slide it over my naked body. I’ve never worn one this way, but it’s actually quite comfortable.

  I leave the bathroom and head for the dining room, which I remember having seen across from the living room where I sat with Mrs. Asher.

  Mrs. Asher motions to the table, where my dinner is, and I sit, grabbing the fork and knife. I’m about to dig in, when I think better of it and look at her, making sure I’m allowed to eat.

  She gives me a small nod and a smile, seeming pleased that I looked to her for permission.

  I eat quickly and with desperation, and although I want to inhale the entire plate of food, my stomach seems smaller. I actually feel full after three little potatoes and a quarter of the lamb. But I want to save the rest of the food in case Mrs. Asher changes her mind about letting me out.

  I point to the living room. “Mrs. Asher, what is that white sculpture?”

  She turns to look, and I quickly stick two potatoes in my left pocket.

  “Which one, dear?”

  I look, and of course there are at least three white sculptures in the living room. “The one on the right.”

  “That’s by a pre-Dividing artist named Sharun. He was brilliant.”

  I decide there are more useful things than potatoes on the table.

  “And what about the one on the left?” I point back at the living room.

  She looks over again. Deciding the knife is too close to her, I grab the fork from the other side of my plate and quickly shove it into my pocket.

  “That’s a knockoff Sharun. But who can tell?” She turns back, saying, “Are you finished?”

  I nod, praying she won’t notice the missing fork. But she has something else on her mind. “Mina, you’re going to do something for me today.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes.” Reaching into the sleeve of her dress, she pulls out a folded envelope. “You’re going to read this letter for me.”

  “But Mr. Asher—”

  “Is not here. He and Damon are out searching for Juda.”

  Juda is still free. He hasn’t told on me.

  She examines the letter with suspicion and disdain. “My husband has kept this letter in his desk for many years, and I would like to know what it says.” She sees my reluctance. “My son believes the best way to get the truth about Juda out of you is to starve you until you talk. If you’d like to eat again anytime soon, you’ll read this to me now.”

  She slides the letter across the living room table until it’s within my reach. I stare at it, wondering whether this is some sort of trap. She has fooled me before. Perhaps if I read this letter, Mr. Asher, or Captain Memon himself, will jump out of the kitchen and announce my execution.

  Mrs. Asher clenches her jaw, her breathing unsteady, while her right hand taps on her thigh. She’s worried that she herself is going to get caught.

  It’s not a trap.

  Wiping my hands on a napkin, I take the letter carefully out of an old, crinkled envelope. I begin to read out loud:

  My dearest Max,

  My brother Mal has been kind enough to write down my words for this letter, but do not worry—he is entirely trustworthy. I want you to know that I have thought long and hard about your offer, but I’m sorry, I cannot accept. I do not wish to be the second wife in your household. I do not believe I have the correct temperament to share a husband with another woman. I shall raise our son here in my family’s home, and he will have the guidance of his grandfather and uncles, and he will know his father was a man of honor. I think of you often, with much love and respect.

  With sincerest affection,

  Rose

  After I finish the letter, I continue to stare at the page. I don’t want to look up.

  I don’t know any man who has more than one wife. Only the wealthiest of men can afford to, and although the Book condones the practice, the Prophet never did, so most people look down on it. I can only imagine Mother’s reaction if Father tried to add a new wife to our household—Mother would claw the woman’s eyes out.

  The letter I’m holding is proof that not only did Mr. Asher invite a woman to be his second wife, but he fathered a child with her. I wish more than anything I’d refused to read it.

  Her voice surprisingly calm, Mrs. Asher says, “Give it back to me,” reaching out her hand.

  I pass her the letter, noticing that the blood has drained from her face. Rising, she crosses to my side of the table and yanks me up from my seat.

  “But you told me to read it!” I say, my voice becoming loud and defensive as she digs her fingers into my arm and pulls me back toward the guest room.

  “Please,” I say. “Don’t make me go back in there.”

  We reach the open doorway. She shoves me inside so hard that I trip, falling on my knee. I cry out as she shuts and locks the door. Sitting on the floor, I hold my leg, knee throbbing. “Let me out!” I holler. “The Prophet can see you!” I scream more loudly. “God can see you!” But it’s no use. If the Prophet can see us, She has decided to do nothing.

  FIFTEEN

  I’M SURPRISED WHEN THERE’S A KNOCK ON MY door less than an hour later. “Come in,” I say, doubting I can be heard through the ebony door. Mr. Asher appears. “Peace,” he says, averting his eyes.

  Responding, “Peace,” I fetch my veil.

  “Why don’t you join us for a bite to eat?” he says, not unpleasantly. He gestures toward the dining room.

  Confused, I walk out of the room. I am barefoot and naked under my cloak, since Mrs. Asher never returned my gray dress and shoes. Mr. Asher follows me, and when I reach the dining room, I see that Damon and Mrs. Asher are already seated and waiting.

  Damon, not acknowledging my presence, looks irritated.

  Mrs. Asher, veil-free since she’s only with family, wears a tight smile. She says, “You must be starving after your long day in your room.”

  She doesn’t want me to mention the lamb and potatoes. She doesn’t want the men to know about the letter. Her piercing eyes don’t leave me for a moment.

  “Yes, I’m famished,” I say, knowing that her secret could incriminate me as well.

  Mr. Asher claps his hands together. “Then let’s eat!” He takes his place at the head of the table, whips his napkin onto his lap, and smiles at Ray, who scampers off to the kitchen.

  Within no time, Ray has returned with a stew that smells like heaven. As Ray spoons the meat and vegetables into his bowl, Mr. Asher says, “I have explained to Damon, Mina, that starvation is a barbaric tactic and is no way to obtain information. It weakens only the mind, not the r
esolve.”

  Next to me, Damon snorts in derision.

  After Ray has filled Mr. Asher’s and Damon’s bowls, he tends to Mrs. Asher. Then he stands over me and scoops large chunks of beef and vegetables into the bowl in front of me.

  Mr. Asher thanks God and the Prophet for the bounty of food and for Their grace, which allows his family to continue to prosper.

  As the others begin to eat, I pinch the bottom of my veil and pull the fabric away from my face, allowing just enough space for me to pass the spoon up to my mouth. I dislike eating with the veil on, but the broth is salty and delicious and easier to eat than the lamb I had earlier.

  Mr. Asher keeps speaking. “No, starvation is not the way. Captain Memon agrees with me. I spoke to him today, in fact.”

  I stop slurping the stew.

  Using his knife to tear into a large piece of beef, he continues to talk. “He said there was a much simpler way to go about these things. And once he explained, I felt very foolish for not having thought of it myself.” Chuckling a bit, as if at his own shortcomings, he takes from his pocket what looks like a piece of silver pipe. He places it on the table and then goes back to concentrating on his dinner.

  I stare at the silver pipe, broth threatening to surge back up my throat, as I realize that it’s one of the Tasers that the Matrons use.

  Mr. Asher doesn’t say another word. He leaves the tube sitting next to his hand as he continues to eat.

  Mrs. Asher doesn’t look up. Damon says, “Even if Mina confesses, Juda still has to be punished. He hit me!”

  “Yes, Damon,” Mr. Asher answers. “We’ve heard all about your suffering. But if Juda was manipulated, then we might try to find it in our hearts to forgive him—”

  “I don’t care if the Prophet showed up in his bedroom closet! He struck me, Father, and the punishment is death.”

  Without warning, Mr. Asher stands up and roars, “You will not blaspheme in this house! And you will not dare to pronounce judgment and sentencing where it is not your place! Do you understand?”

  Damon slumps, motionless, like he’s been hit over the head with a chair a second time.

  “Max, what’s the matter with you?” Mrs. Asher says. “He was assaulted and he wants justice! Nothing more.”

  Mr. Asher starts to lecture her about the importance of a trial when it comes to the death penalty. I listen to them talking, but it’s as if I’m underwater and the three of them are hovering above me, still able to breathe air. I’m drowning in my own fear, knowing that at any second they’ll stop talking and Mr. Asher will hold that silver Taser rod against my flesh.

  I have to do something. I was willing to do everything in my power to make this marriage happen, to save Father’s job, but I won’t just sit here obediently and wait to be tortured.

  But I have nothing. No means of escape. My mind kicks and thrashes under the water, grasping for the tiniest bubble of hope.

  And then I have it.

  “Mr. Asher,” I say, almost in a whisper. I’m still so dehydrated, speaking with any volume takes great effort. “MR. ASHER,” I repeat, more loudly, cutting off his conversation with his wife.

  “How dare you interrupt me!” he says. His hand reaches for the Taser, and I know my time has run out.

  “Why don’t you tell us about Rose?” I say.

  Mrs. Asher’s head snaps around to face me, her eyes blazing fire.

  Mr. Asher’s eyes go blank, as if he’s trying to connect two words from separate languages. But then he becomes irate. “What do you . . . How dare you . . . What is this child talking about?”

  Mrs. Asher looks away from him, trying to remain composed, but her face turns puce and the tiny lines around her mouth and eyes grow hard. It’s like watching a piece of pottery bake and then crack.

  Gaping at both of them, Damon says, “What’s going on? Who the hell is Rose?”

  “No one!” says Mr. Asher, his anger becoming defensive.

  But Mrs. Asher turns to Damon and, in a low, hateful voice, says, “Your father’s lover.”

  “What?” Damon looks at his father, amazed.

  Mr. Asher examines me with loathing and rage. “What does SHE know about it?”

  “Who cares?” Mrs. Asher says, leaning forward, raising her voice. “You’re the liar. Not her. Maybe we should use this on you!” She snatches the Taser rod from his hand and starts waving it in his face.

  Mr. Asher grits his teeth. “Give it to me, Gabriella. It’s not a plaything.”

  “That seems to be what you know about, Max. Playthings!”

  Mr. Asher says to Damon, barking like a soldier, “GET THE ROD FROM YOUR MOTHER.”

  Jumping up, Damon is around the table in seconds. He grabs his mother’s hand, forcing the wand from her grip in no time.

  “Take Mina back to her room,” Mr. Asher tells him.

  “But, Father—”

  “Now!”

  I stand, not wanting to be yanked from my seat ever again. Damon says, “Let’s go,” heading toward my room. I follow, and we’re in the hallway when we hear the sound of a plate smashing. Then Mrs. Asher yells, “If you were going to treat me like shit, you should have left me living in shit.”

  I smile underneath my veil. Grabbing my wrist, Damon says, “What have you done?” His grip grows stronger. “Why did you mention that woman?”

  I say nothing. Releasing my wrist, he slaps me across the face. The pain of it is shocking.

  The force of the blow has unsnapped my veil, and I hold the fabric up against my eyes, not wanting him to see the tears forming.

  “Tell me!” he says, growing impatient.

  “No!” I say, matching his tone. I re-snap the veil. Then I smooth my hair, like Mother does when she’s regaining her composure.

  “I want to know what’s going on,” he says, holding up the Taser.

  Before he can grab me, I turn and run toward my room.

  I get there first, but he catches the door before I can shut it and walks in after me. He happily shuts the door behind us. There’s nowhere left for me to go.

  “How did you know about the name Rose?” he asks in a voice that is mockingly sweet, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. He approaches fast and sticks the silver rod straight into my side.

  The sound is like fifty matches sparking at once, and the shock that runs through me is worse than any pain I’ve ever experienced—as if my muscles have been stripped of skin and are being stung by wasps. As I convulse, my teeth seem to shove up into the soft tissue of my brain. Then my legs go out from under me, leaving me crumpled on the floor.

  Damon is laughing. “That was amazing. Wow!”

  After a few seconds, my convulsions stop. The pain felt like it was going to kill me, but now it’s just a nausea filling every pore.

  Grinning down at me, he says, “I think you should probably tell me everything now about Rose, about Juda, and anything else you feel like talking about. Because I could do this all night.”

  “Yes . . . yes . . . anything,” I say, trying to buy some time. I need to get upright. “It was a letter. . . . Your mother . . . made me read her a letter . . . about your father.” Taking a few deep breaths, I pull myself into a crouching position.

  “What? What do you mean? You mean you can—”

  “I can read.” I stand up slowly while he absorbs the information.

  He looks me up and down. “I can’t believe how close I came to marrying you,” he says, as if a bad taste has entered his mouth. “Father was about to bind me to an Apostate!” He raises the Taser again.

  “I have the letter. If you want to see it.” I put my hand in my pocket.

  “Give it to me,” he says, leaning forward with anticipation.

  I whip the fork out of my pocket, lift it as high above my head as I can, and then ram it down into his shoulder.

  He screeches in pain.

  Grabbing the Taser rod he’s dropped to the floor, I look up to see him pry the fork out of his skin, blood dri
pping down his arm.

  I spin the silver tube in my hand, frantically searching for the ON switch. Spotting a small button at the base, I press it and feel the rod vibrate.

  “You Saitch! I’LL RIP YOUR THROAT OUT!”

  He lunges for me, and I stick the Taser straight into his crotch.

  He freezes, his face a solid mask of rage. His body starts to flail, like he’s a fish that’s been dumped from its bowl. Still, I hold the Taser to him. Drool runs down his mouth.

  Then his enormous body hits the floor with a thud.

  He lies there, shuddering, tears running down his cheeks. Several seconds go by, but he doesn’t regain the use of his limbs. I’ve hurt him much worse than he hurt me.

  Maybe I should feel sorry for him. The Prophet would want me to recognize that he’s just as human as I am and to offer him forgiveness. But I cannot. Even in stunned pain, his face is hateful.

  I lean over him and whisper, “You’re a liar. And you’re half the man that Juda is. I know it. Your father knows it. And you act like a miserable git because you know it.”

  He can’t respond. He can only whimper. His whole body is curled in on itself, his eyes glazing over like they’re covered in wax.

  Placing the Taser in my pocket, I rush to the bedroom door and open it carefully. No one’s in the hallway. I walk quickly but softly to the foyer, and I can hear that the Ashers are still fighting in the dining room. They haven’t heard anything above their own yelling.

  I’m reaching for the front door, when suddenly it swings open, almost knocking me down. The door guard is as surprised to see me as I am to see him. His eyes go wide. I look down and see blood on my hand and cloak.

  Heat surges through my veins as I prepare to be restrained, but then a lie spills from my lips: “Mrs. Asher has stabbed her husband. He needs help.”

  Looking appalled, the guard runs toward the shouting in the dining room.

  I run out the door and sprint down the hall, spotting an exit. I barrel through it and down the stairs, when I remember—I’m on the thirty-third floor! I can’t possibly run down the whole stairwell before the Ashers realize I’m gone.