That Thing We Call a Heart

by Sheba Karim

She hadn’t even held hands with my father before she married him.

  Had she ever had an orgasm with Dad?

  Gross.

  “Why are you making that face?” my mother asked.

  There was an orange streak across her forehead from the henna. Tomorrow, when the sun hit her hair, you’d see sparks of red.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “Of the proposals you received, why did you choose Dad?”

  My mother picked up Big Muchli, gently stroking his back. “He was different.”

  “Please elaborate.”

  “Well, everyone else came to our house with their mother, or their khala. Your father came alone. Back then, he had a full head of curly hair, and these square-shaped glasses, they kept sliding down his nose. All the other ones were doctor, engineer, doctor, engineer. They said boring things. Your father was a mathematician, and he said funny things. He felt like a breath of fresh air. I remember my father asked him, ‘What are your intentions for the future?’ And your father said, ‘I’m afraid, given the vastness of the universe, my intentions for the future will have zero impact on what the future will actually be.’”

  I laughed. “God. That is so Dad.”

  “I know. My father didn’t know what to say, and I giggled behind my hands. And after he came to our house, he sent me a verse.”

  “He wrote you a verse?” I said.

  “Yes. I’d been wearing jasmine perfume, and I can’t remember all of it, but one line was, I guess you’d translate it, the scent of your jasmine has stirred new life into the desert of my heart.”

  “Dad noticed your perfume?” I said.

  “He did.”

  “False advertising,” I joked, and she chuckled.

  It was funny, but it was also her life, a husband who wouldn’t remember her birthday if I didn’t remind him every year. “Is that why jasmine is your favorite perfume?”

  “Yes,” my mother said, with this sweet, bashful smile that suddenly made her seem crimped-hair young.

  “But he’s . . . so in his own world. It’s not fair to you,” I said.

  “What is fair, Shabu?” she said. “Every day I try to help women who have so little, who were abused by their husbands, who are struggling to make a good life for their children. No one has a perfect life, but I have a dear husband, and you, my sweet miracle. Your father and I have good jobs, a good house.”

  Sometimes I wasn’t sure if my mother was more saintly or delusional. Her dear husband never did the dishes, never said thank you. Her sweet miracle led a double life.

  At the very least, my mother deserved a more considerate partner.

  “Dad loves you,” I said. “He told me himself, the other day.”

  “He said that?”

  “Yup.”

  “I thought you only talked about poetry.”

  “Sometimes we talk about other things.”

  “What things?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, the weather, donuts. Listen, should we see a movie next weekend?” I offered.

  “Yes, please,” my mother said, her face aglow. It took so little to please my mother that I almost felt embarrassed, like she should demand more in exchange for happiness. Except, given the nature of her family, that would only cause further disappointment.

  But if my father had once written a verse for my mother, surely he could do so again.

  Twenty-One

  “WHAT HAPPENED HERE?” I asked Jamie, gently touching the fresh cut on his hand. It intersected at an angle with his scar, forming a teepee shape above his wrist.

  “I was removing glass from a window.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “As a wise man once said, pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. Shit—that’s our exit. Hold on, MD,” he said as he swiftly crossed over three lanes, smoothly decelerating onto the exit ramp.

  The exit was for the town of Merritt. I didn’t know anything about it except that it was home to Merritt College, a small liberal arts college.

  “When are you going to tell me where we’re going? And why were you removing glass from a window?”

  “Patience, young Jedi,” he replied, turning right after a blue sign that read Merritt College est. 1894. He parked on the street, grabbed his khaki rucksack from the backseat, and came around to open my door, offering me his wounded hand.

  “Come,” he said.

  We entered campus, following a path that led to a leafy green quadrangle surrounded by an eclectic mix of architectural styles: ivy-covered brick, domed Grecian temple, modern steel and glass.

  “Have you been here before?” I spoke very quietly, even though there was no one in sight.

  “I came last year,” Jamie said. “To see a Mongolian throat-singing performance with Aunt Marianne.”

  As we walked past the windowless, cubic engineering building, Jamie pulled me behind a long hedge.

  “What’s going on?” I whispered.

  The headlights of a campus security golf cart cutting through the quadrangle were my answer.

  “Jamie—”

  “Don’t worry. We’re almost there.”

  We took a right after the engineering cube, following another path that led us away from the quad, past an art studio building and algae-covered pond, ending in front of a gothic-style building with pointed windows, arched doorways, a steep roof, and a tall parapet. It was massive and foreboding, an Edgar Allan Poe poem come to life. Ivy crawled up its gray stone walls, and the doors and the first floor windows were boarded up. The cornerstone read RAVENWOOD HALL 1925.

  “What do you think of her?” Jamie asked.

  As I craned my neck to the top of the parapet, the pale yellow moon, half full, emerged from behind a cloud. “She’s beautiful.”

  “I first saw her last year when we came for the concert. Took my breath away—I had to come back and break in and meet her. They apparently boarded her up sometime in the nineties.”

  “You mean you’ve been inside?”

  With a grin, Jamie bent down and started running along the side of the building. I mimicked his actions, my heart racing from adrenaline and fear. This was crazy. We were daredevils, trespassers, spies on a reconnaissance mission. Behind the building was a fancy black metal fence; behind that, dark woods. The grass had been left untended, stringy weeds brushing against my calves.

  “Why don’t they restore Ravenwood Hall?” I said. “Are they just going to let her fall apart?”

  “Probably costs too much money to bring it up to code. They’ll have to do something one day, either fix her up or tear her down.”

  Poor Ravenwood Hall, shuttered and lonely and in limbo.

  Jamie put on a headlamp. Its light exposed bits of brick and glass, crushed cigarette packs and candy wrappers caught in the overgrowth. Right at my foot was a torn condom wrapper. “Should we say hello?” he said.

  “But how will we get inside?”

  He shone his light on a first floor window that had been freed of boards and glass.

  I gasped. “Is that how you got your cut?”

  “Yeah, I wanted to make sure we had easy access. Was here by three a.m., back to the house at four in time to bake.”

  “Did you even sleep last night?”

  “Barely. Ready to go in?”

  I swallowed. “I think so.”

  “Seize the time, Meribor. Now will never come again,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You can do this, Morning Dew. It’s easy.”

  But the bottom of the window was level with my chin. “How will we get up there?”

  “You see that?” Jamie pointed to a carved stone pipe sticking out of the building. “Put your foot on it, and you can hoist yourself up. I’ll help you.”

  Jamie offered me his hand, and I made a brave face. If he thought I could do it, I didn’t want to disappoint him. With Jamie guiding me, I placed my foot on the pipe and managed to hoist myself up, though at one
point Jamie had to assist, giving me a boost through the window.

  Inside, it was so dark I didn’t dare move until Jamie entered, jumping down from the windowsill with the grace of a cat burglar. He turned his head in both directions to illuminate the room, the chalkboard on the wall, the tall stacks of desks and chairs covered with stained sheets, cobwebs stretching from one sheet to the next.

  “This way,” Jamie said, heading for the door.

  “What’s out there?” I asked.

  “Classrooms and offices, some empty, some filled with furniture. There’s a library on the third floor, and you can climb from there to the top of the tower, but the stairs are rotting a little. My foot went through one of the steps last time.”

  “How many times have you been in here?”

  “This is my third.”

  Third time’s the charm, I thought, as he opened the door with one hand and reached for mine with the other.

  As we stepped into the hallway, something groaned. I clutched Jamie’s arm.

  “Creaky floorboard,” he assured me, but I didn’t ease my grip. It was nice to have an excuse to hold him so tight.

  Beyond the light of the headlamp, the hall disappeared into an endless dark. The floor below was scattered with bits of paper and debris. We passed a display case, and Jamie paused to show me the old class photos inside, rows of young men in black coats and slicked-back hair. One photo had fallen to the bottom of the case; three young men in high-waisted shorts and white T-shirts smiled up at us, round medals hanging from their necks.

  I heard a high-pitched screech.

  “What was that?”

  “Barn owl,” Jamie said. “He lives up in the tower, I think.”

  We walked a few more steps, and Jamie announced, “We have arrived.” He rotated his head to the right to reveal a vaulted ceiling, two sets of grand double doors. He pushed open one of these doors, saying, “After you, Morning Dew.”

  The room was carpeted, sloped. Rows and rows of red cushioned chairs led to what looked like a stage, with drawn curtains. “Is this a theater?” I asked.

  “Affirmative,” Jamie said.

  As we walked toward the stage, I felt like we were being watched by an audience of ghosts who’d been suspended in a dark, timeless intermission. If there were ghosts, I thought, surely they’d be happy to have some entertainment.

  We climbed the stairs to the stage and Jamie instructed me to wait, disappearing behind the velvet curtains. Without his light, I could barely see. I remained very still, listening to Jamie’s movements, my heart pounding in the pitch black.

  The curtains slowly opened, particles of dust invading my nostrils. The stage had been set, lit by a circle of red candles in small jars. Inside the circle were an unzipped sleeping bag, a Peruvian blanket, and two small silk pillows I recognized from Marianne’s den, a bouquet of daisies resting on top.

  The scene took my breath away.

  Tell me is this even real

  The curtains came to a halt. Jamie stepped out, switched off his lamp.

  This was real.

  “I swept the stage this morning,” he said. “It’s better now, but I hope you’re not allergic to dust. I brought some allergy medicine, in case.”

  He’d even thought to bring allergy medicine. So practical, and so romantic. “I’m not.”

  “Good. Well, welcome to the Theater of Dreams, as I call it.”

  Jamie and I entered the candlelit circle, sitting across from each other on the blanket.

  I picked up the daisies, smelled them. “Where are these from?”

  “Our field,” he answered, and it took me a second to realize he meant the field next to the shack. He set out speakers and his phone. Its screen read No Service, which prompted me to check my own. I didn’t have service, either.

  We couldn’t contact anyone and no one knew where we were. I had to get out of here in a timely fashion, to make sure my mother didn’t call Farah. She’d be pissed if she had to lie to her. Plus Farah was such a crappy liar.

  “I made a Radiohead playlist in your honor. And I figured we’d be hungry, so I brought dinner,” he said, laying out two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a pack of almonds, two apples, and M&M’s. “I was thinking of picking up Indian, but I didn’t have the time. Plus this is more portable.”

  “This is great,” I said.

  “Ah—last but not least.” He pulled a bottle of wine out of his backpack. “A bottle of Malbec.”

  Malbec forever and ever.

  He opened the wine with his Swiss Army knife, measuredly pouring it into two plastic cups. “Oh, by the way,” he said as he handed me one, “I also brought a bucket and put it backstage, in case you need to relieve yourself.”

  I made a note not to drink too much, as there was no way I was going to pee into a bucket backstage where Jamie would be able to hear.

  “Cheers,” Jamie said, holding up his sandwich. “To Ravenwood Hall.”

  “To Ravenwood Hall.”

  We toasted with our PB&Js and took a bite.

  Delicious. “What kind of jam is this?” I asked.

  “Marianne’s friend makes homemade blackberry preserves.”

  Blackberry, blackberry, blackberry. I remembered my father’s first letter, how he said Plato believed that everything on earth was a mere shadow of its perfect form, which would mean this PB&J sandwich was a mere shadow of the perfect PB&J sandwich that existed elsewhere, except that couldn’t be true, because what made the PB&J perfect was not only its taste but the fact that Jamie had made it, that we were eating it here, together, in this Theater of Dreams, before an audience of ghosts. It was the experience of the form that made it perfect.

  I felt very profound. Love really suited me.

  “I know PB&J doesn’t hold a candle to biryani,” he apologized.

  “No! This PB&J is perfect,” I insisted.

  “Good.” He’d already finished and moved on to the M&M’s. As perfect as the PB&J was, I had too many butterflies to eat more than two bites. Wine, on the other hand, went well with butterflies.

  I took a sip of Malbec. “Didn’t you say you were arrested for trespassing? You think that would have scared you into not doing it again.”

  “Only once. I got off with community service. My stepdad was friends with the judge.”

  “You should be careful,” I admonished.

  “Oh, I’m a lot more careful now. What about you, Morning Dew? You ever been reckless?”

  “Apart from this?” I shook my head. “Not really. Well, smoking pot in the mall parking lot was pretty reckless, I guess.”

  “Yeah. But that was some good ganja.” He lay down on his side, propped up on his elbow. His shadow flickered on the back wall of the stage, long, lean, larger than life. “She’s something else, your friend Farah.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you ever thought about wearing a scarf?” he asked.

  “Me? No.”

  “How come?”

  “Not all Muslim women wear the headscarf. And I don’t even know if I would call myself Muslim. I don’t really think about Islam that much.”

  “What about Sufism, Allah as the beloved? You seem pretty into that.”

  “That’s mysticism. That’s not what you hear when you attend the masjid—the mosque,” I said. “I don’t know if I believe in organized religion. My father definitely doesn’t. My mother wants to go on Hajj. She has to go with a close male relative, except her father is dead and she has no sons, but she’ll never go with my dad because she’s worried that as soon as they got to Saudi Arabia he’d start running his mouth and be executed for blasphemy.”

  “What’s Hajj?”

  “The pilgrimage to Mecca every Muslim is supposed to do at least once,” I explained.

  “Oh, right. Has Farah done it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Will you?”

  “I don’t know.” I lay down next to him, hoping this would prompt him to kiss me.

&nbs
p; “Almost forgot—I made a Radiohead playlist,” Jamie exclaimed, flipping onto his stomach. As he figured out the music, I finished the wine, thinking I’d never able to drink Malbec again without remembering him, this night, this place.

  Radiohead’s “Packt Like Sardines in a Crushd Tin Box” started to play, and Jamie kissed me at last, a kiss that started out soft and sweet and tender and became increasingly urgent, wanting, like the harder we kissed the better to quench the thirst of a hundred thousand waits, of all those long, lonely desert nights.

  When “Let Down” started to play, Jamie paused to whisper, “Our song.”

  We were naked except for our underwear, Jamie’s mouth on my breasts. The song slowed, then built to a crescendo, and when it hit its peak, I had goose bumps again, because Thom Yorke’s voice seemed to encapsulate all of our longing and passion, and the music was inside us and around us, carrying us, holding us, stoking our fire.

  The audience of ghosts rose from their seats, whirling in ecstasy to the soft slide of Jamie’s lips, the desirous heat of his breath, his body moving against mine, the dance of the rose and the nightingale, the moth and the flame, the lover and the beloved, united at last.

  I love you so much so much so much

  “Morning Dew?” Jamie raised himself on his arms, looking down, his erection teasing my belly button. “Are you all right?”

  The song was ending, and it had all been so wonderfully intense that I’d suddenly started crying.

  “I’m . . .” What word could do justice to this experience? “Perfect.”

  I couldn’t stop the tears. Jamie smiled, touched his forehead to mine, and embraced me.

  “House of Cards” started to play.

  We closed our eyes, let the haunting ballad wash over us.

  I don’t want to be your friend, I just want to be your lover . . .

  As the song faded, I realized something was strange.

  Jamie was completely still.

  He’d fallen asleep.

  Easing myself out of his embrace, I placed my hand on the face of his heart. I ran my fingers along his cheek, his neck, his chest, peeked beneath his boxers. I bent down and kissed his fresh wound, claiming it as mine. As I caressed his old wounds, some so small and faded that you could only see them up close, with the gaze of a lover, I thought of the artist who’d once kneeled before his naked body like I was and drawn a map of his scars. Surely they had hooked up after, on the floor of an art studio, surrounded by canvas and brushes and mounds of sculpting clay waiting to be born. Jamie may have posed for her, but he had bled for me. He had brought me to a Theater of Dreams.