That Thing We Call a Heart

by Sheba Karim

  Farah was silent. I braced myself for further argument, but she said, “Please. I’m going to be a crazy old lady who grows a beard and lives with twenty cats.”

  “You hate cats.”

  “I won’t after I grow a beard.”

  “You’re going to meet someone awesome,” I assured her. “Who’ll love you and your beard.”

  Farah let out one of her gravely, raucous laughs. Every time I heard her laugh this way, my happiness quotient went up ten degrees.

  “Just be careful, okay?” she said, suddenly sober. “The heart is a precious thing.”

  It was a precious thing, and I was determined to offer it—vulnerable, ecstatic, madly whirling—to Jamie. As soon as he told me he liked me.

  There were nine days left for him to say it.

  And then there were eight.

  Then seven.

  Seven was nothing. Seven was one week.

  But I’d mapped it out; I would use some of my work/study money to visit Jamie in Madison over fall break, and he would come visit me, we would see each other once a month, and maybe next summer I could stay in Philly and he could be there, too. It was doable. All I needed was for him to agree, to say he liked me enough to not let this end.

  There were moments when I believed the words were imminent; like now, in the half-lit shack after a heavy hookup session, our bodies equally sweaty for once, his arms wrapped around me, my back against his chest, my head resting on the slope of his shoulder.

  I reached up to touch his cheek, and when he looked down at me he said, “Your eyes are shining.”

  Because you lit the lamp of my heart, I thought, but was too shy to say, so I willed him to say it instead. I held his gaze, smiled, hoped, waited.

  “What are you thinking, Morning Dew?” Jamie asked.

  Tell him, I thought. What do you have to lose?

  My pride, for one. And that thing we call a heart.

  “Nothing much,” I said. “You?”

  “I’m thinking about how nice it is to be here with you,” he said. “I am also thinking about those amazing donuts. Should we go get one once you’re done with work?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Great. Text me when you’re done and I’ll pick you up,” he said. “Should we ask your friend Farah?”

  “I think she’s busy,” I said.

  “Cool,” he said, and I was relieved he let it go. I was glad Farah had finally met him, but I wasn’t about to share any more of our dwindling time with her, or anyone.

  Eighteen

  “SHABNAM! JUST THE PERSON I was hoping to see!” Dino cried when we walked into Ye Olde. By now, I’d heard Dino say this line many times to many customers, but I also knew he always meant it. Even if the donuts weren’t so delicious, Dino’s effusive embrace of the world and all its varied inhabitants would have kept people coming.

  Dino smiled at Jamie. “You’ve brought a new friend.”

  “This is Jamie,” I said.

  Dino nodded, but before he could greet Jamie properly, more customers came in, so we placed our order and moved on.

  On the way to the jukebox to queue up some Radiohead. I passed the old Bosnian men, only three today, drinking coffee in small ceramic cups and playing cards. I knew they were less than thrilled about my approach, because they preferred Bosnian music or Frank Sinatra, but, as Dino’s regulars, we’d grown to tolerate each other’s musical tastes. The one with eyebrows bushier than my father’s even half smiled at me.

  “This place is like a cross between the Jetsons and Casablanca,” Jamie said as I slid onto the bench. “How do you not spend every day here?”

  “I think there was one week where I did come here every day,” I said.

  “Please, come every day,” Dino said, standing over us. His T-shirt displayed the golden eagle and blue crest of his favorite soccer team, Manchester City.

  “Did your team win?” I asked.

  He kissed his fingertips. “Did they win? But without Džeko, it’s not the same.”

  Dino glanced back at the register and sat down next to Jamie. He was starting to gray at the temples. You could tell, though, that he was one of those men who’d still be handsome at seventy.

  “Who’s Džeko?” Jamie asked.

  “Best Bosnian football player alive,” Dino replied.

  “You’re from Bosnia?” Jamie said.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “You’re so friendly, for an Eastern European,” Jamie said.

  I was worried Dino would be offended, but he chuckled. “And you? Where are you from?”

  “Wisconsin,” Jamie answered. “America’s dairy land. Everyone’s friendly there.”

  “Wisconsin. Very nice. You’re in school?” Dino asked.

  “Yeah, at U. Wisconsin Madison.”

  “You get good grades?”

  “Uh . . . sort of,” Jamie said, slightly abashed.

  “You like football?”

  “Football like soccer? Not really.”

  “What car do you drive?”

  “Right now, an old Dodge minivan. She’s a beauty.”

  “Good shocks?”

  “Replaced them last summer.”

  Dino nodded approvingly. “What are you studying at school?”

  “I’m still undecided,” Jamie replied.

  “You have time,” Dino said. “But not too much time.”

  It was cute to see Dino turn all paternal and give my date the third degree, something my own father would never do.

  “Did you always want to be a donut maker, Dino?” I asked.

  “No, no. I wanted to be a football player, once upon a time,” Dino replied. “It was my dream. I wasn’t very good, but I had very stubborn ambition. Then, one day, my coach came to me and said, ‘Maybe you should switch to the javelin throw.’”

  “Ouch,” Jamie said, and we laughed.

  “It broke my heart, but he was right—I became a javelin throw champion!” Dino proclaimed.

  “A man of many talents,” I said. “By the way, Jamie’s a baker, too.”

  “Oh?” Dino said.

  “I help my aunt bake pies for Andromeda’s Pie Shack,” Jamie explained.

  “Ah, yes, the pie shack,” Dino said. “I’ve had those pies—excellent. The crust is so flaky, so light!”

  “I still haven’t tried one,” I confessed.

  “What?” Jamie exclaimed. “How can that be?”

  “I always mean to save one but there’s usually a line and I feel bad keeping one. I mean, the people in line are so excited.”

  “As they should be,” Jamie remarked.

  “So what’s the secret to your dough?” Dino inquired.

  “Aunt Marianne would say it’s because we sing as we’re rolling it,” Jamie said.

  Dino nodded. “I sometimes talk to the donuts when they’re done frying.”

  “What do you say?” I asked.

  “I ask, what would you like to be? Blueberry, chocolate cream, vanilla? If it’s morning, I say, Good morning!”

  We all laughed.

  “What time do you start your baking?” Jamie asked Dino. “My aunt and I start at five.”

  “Four, usually.”

  “Wow, that is really early,” I said.

  “There’s a saying in Bosnia,” Dino replied. “The man who gets up early is double lucky.”

  “So did you come here as genocide refugee?” Jamie asked him.

  I had no idea where that question came from, and I couldn’t believe how casually Jamie had said it. Meanwhile, Dino’s perpetual smile had vanished.

  “Yes,” Dino said. “I did.”

  “Cool,” Jaime said.

  Cool?

  “I read somewhere that they’re still digging up mass graves the size of soccer—football—fields,” Jamie said. “And that they had concentration camps. What was it like for you?”

  I had to intervene. “Dino needs to work,” I said.

  “It’s all right, Shabnam,” D
ino assured me. “Jamie isn’t the first one to ask me about this.” He folded his hands on the table and sat up very straight, as if what he was about to say demanded proper posture. “During the siege of Sarajevo, the Serbs cut off our supply of everything—water, food, fuel. The winters are cold there, we needed fire to stay warm, to cook food. We used what we could for fuel, wood floors, old shoes, chairs, and books, lots of books. We had no choice, it was either freeze and starve, or burn our books. We’d look at our books and think, which ones should we burn today? When I moved here, I went to many used bookstores, I bought many books, even ones I knew I wouldn’t read. I put up a wall of books in my house, a wall of books in this shop. I like to look at them and know I will never have to burn any of them, I will never have to choose.”

  “Wow,” Jamie said. “That’s fascinating. Did you know Shabnam’s uncle is also a genocide survivor?”

  For Chrissake.

  “Oh?” Dino said. I didn’t like seeing him so serious.

  “He was the lone survivor of this crazy train massacre,” Jamie continued. “Tell him, Morning Dew.”

  “I don’t feel like talking about it right now,” I said.

  “Don’t worry,” Dino said. “No need to tell. I’m sure every genocide is different, and every genocide is the same.”

  He stood up, and I was relieved by the return of his trademark broad smile.

  “Time to make the donuts,” he said. “Very good to meet you, Jamie. Please come again soon.”

  “For sure,” Jamie said.

  If Dino had been offended, he was too kind to show it.

  “Damn, they had to burn books,” Jamie said. “You ever read Fahrenheit 451? They memorized—”

  “Jamie, can we get out of here?”

  “What’s up? You okay?”

  I shook my head.

  “All right, but I have to hit the restroom. Meet you outside?”

  I paced the parking lot, becoming more furious with each step. I wished I could call Farah and bitch about what Jamie had said, but I didn’t want her thinking badly of him.

  When Jamie came out I led him behind the shop, where the Dumpsters were. “What the hell was that?” I cried.

  “What the hell was what?” Jamie replied.

  “Why did you ask Dino about the Bosnian genocide?”

  Jamie pushed back his hair, his brow knitting together. “I was curious. He didn’t seem upset by it—why are you?”

  “Just because he didn’t say anything doesn’t mean he wasn’t upset! Maybe people who’ve lived through a genocide don’t want to talk about it! Would you go up to some old Jewish lady at a bagel shop and be like, ‘Hey, how was the Holocaust for you?’”

  “Maybe sometimes people do want to talk about it. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, right? Didn’t your uncle talk to you about it?” Jamie pointed out.

  If I’d understood how long the life span of my Partition lie would be, how it would keep flaring up again like a case of herpes, I would never have told it.

  “My great-uncle. And that’s another thing—why did you have to bring him up?”

  “I figured Dino would be interested, since they have something in common.”

  “Something in common? It’s not like they’re both fond of horse racing, or . . . pedigree poodles! And maybe I wanted to keep that story about my great-uncle private.”

  “Oh,” Jamie said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Obviously!” Seeing Jamie penitent was dampening my fury, but something else was bothering me.

  “MD? What is it?”

  “I don’t know.” But as soon as I said this, I realized what it was; the way Jamie had brought up my great-uncle, like, here’s an interesting tidbit about Shabnam. It was that a lot of what he found interesting about me wasn’t really me, or at least, not all of me. Not even close.

  I took a deep breath. “I feel like the things that interest you about me are Partition and biryani and Urdu poetry! Which is really ironic because I didn’t live through Partition, and I can’t cook biryani, and as of a month ago I knew jack about Urdu poetry! Sometimes I don’t know if . . . if you even see me.”

  Jamie started making shushing sounds, cupping my sniffing face in his hands.

  “Look at me,” he said. “I’m standing right here in front of you, and I see you. I see you, Morning Dew.”

  Somewhere between the first “see” and the second, I’d started crying.

  “Hey, hey.” Jamie wiped my tears with his thumbs, kissed the top of my head. “Don’t cry, my beautiful girl. Don’t ever cry.”

  He called me his girl. It was the first time he’d ever claimed me. My sad tears turned happy.

  Funny, how everything could turn on a pronoun.

  “How about this,” Jamie said, rubbing my back. “Aunt Marianne’s gone to the city tonight, and you’re a pie wallah who hasn’t tried the pie. Why don’t you come over to her house and I’ll bake you one?”

  A house. A house meant couches. A house meant beds. A house meant space to roll around.

  A house was incredibly exciting and utterly terrifying.

  One week left.

  “I would love that,” I said.

  Nineteen

  “BRACE YOURSELF,” JAMIE SAID as he opened the front door, though nothing could have prepared me for the dramatic entrance into Aunt Marianne’s house. Hundreds of African masks decorated both walls of the long, high-ceilinged entry hall, their expressions covering the range of human emotion, from joy to rage to sorrow to grief.

  I paused in front of an entire floor-to-ceiling section of giraffe masks.

  “Aunt Marianne’s favorite animal,” Jamie explained.

  “Did I take a wrong turn and end up backstage at The Lion King?” I said.

  Jamie laughed. “Come,” he said.

  I followed him to the hallway’s end. Ahead was a wooden staircase, a lovely deep red Persian carpet running down it; to the right, a bathroom; to the left, a sleek, massive kitchen that could have been featured in a modern design magazine—marble counters; a large, butcher-block table in the center; gleaming stainless steel appliances, including a double oven; and, most notably after all those masks, not a single decorative item, not even a magnet on the fridge.

  “So this is where the magic happens,” I said.

  “You got it,” he replied. “I’ll get the dough—go check out the living room.”

  Three broad steps led from the kitchen to the sunken living room, its visual cacophony echoing that of the hallway, except this room spanned the globe instead of one continent—a marble replica of the Taj Mahal, Indian miniatures in wrought silver frames, bamboo flutes and Peruvian blankets, bronze Buddha statues and more Persian rugs and Chinese landscape paintings and bright tapestries woven with geometric designs, Mexican tiled tables.

  “What do you think of the house?” Jamie called out from the kitchen.

  “Stupendous,” I said.

  “Stupendous,” Jamie repeated. “That’s a good word.”

  The living room’s enormous windows looked onto an expansive, slightly wild backyard, where a pair of bluebirds fed at an umbrella-shaped feeder. Bordering the backyard was forest so thick that you’d never guess you were in suburban New Jersey, that the mall was only fifteen minutes away, the turnpike even closer.

  “Has she been to all these places?” I asked.

  “Some. A lot are gifts from her ex-lovers.”

  She must have slept with half the UN, I thought.

  I examined a bronze ewer on the bookshelf. It looked ancient, like if I rubbed it thrice, a jinni might actually appear. What would my three wishes be? Jamie and I, together, in love. A million dollars. My parents, happy. Farah and I, 100 percent cool again.

  That was four.

  Jamie touched my shoulder, and I jumped. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. The dough has to warm up a bit. Should we have some wine?”

  Wine. The only alcoholic beverages I’d ever consumed were crappy beer and Jell-O
shots. Wine was high-class, luxurious.

  Like Dom Perignon. I’d forgotten I’d tried that, too.

  “I’d love some,” I said, trying not to sound too eager.

  He squatted in front of the barrel wine rack in the corner. “Hmmmm. How about a Malbec?”

  I had no idea what Malbec was. “Perfect,” I said.

  Jamie sprinted to the kitchen, returned with two glasses, and proceeded to open the bottle with the Swiss Army knife in his back pocket. It was sexy to watch him maneuver the cork out, almost as sexy as watching him drive stick shift. If we were stranded somewhere, in the heat of the Sahara, in the midst of dense jungle, Jamie would surely know what to do.

  I could follow him anywhere.

  “Let’s drink out on the deck,” he said.

  We sipped wine outside, listening to the rustle of leaves and a choir of birds. As I relaxed into the setting and my beverage, I regretted having been so upset at Jamie. Sure, he’d been a little inappropriate, but he had meant well. He was still good and kind, and I still loved him.

  I decided Malbec was my favorite drink.

  “How far back do those woods go?” I asked.

  “Not too far. It’s a small state park. I run the trails sometimes. There’s a nice old oak I like to climb, gives you a great view of the reservoir.”

  “I’ve never climbed a tree,” I confessed.

  “What? Oh, right—you’re scared of heights.”

  I doubted I’d have climbed one even if I weren’t.

  “We should climb a tree one day.”

  I was tempted to ask for an exact date, like maybe the Saturday of Penn’s fall break.

  Jamie nudged my foot, and I nudged his back.

  “I should go check on the dough,” he said.

  We went back inside and he grabbed his phone. “Any music preference?” he said. “Radiohead?”

  “You choose,” I told him.

  “Shuffle,” he declared.

  A minute later, a man’s deep, raspy voice filled the room, the sound so crisp and clean I sat up on the leather sofa and blurted, “Wow!”

  “The whole house is wired with Bose speakers. Aunt Marianne once dated a sound engineer,” Jamie explained.