by Holly Rayner
“Wait,” I interrupt him. He looks up abruptly. “Before you go on,” I say, “you should know something. Something that you’re not going to find in the figures on that page.
“The people of New Hampstead are one hundred and fifty percent committed to that factory. They love it, like it’s…”
I stutter, trying to put the townspeople's energy into my words. I think of Marge, at the diner, and the way she called it “our factory.”
“They love it like it’s their own. They feel ownership over it, Father. They care about it deeply. They need it. They enjoy the work there—you should have seen how friendly and kind everyone was when we visited the production floor. On top of that, they’re incredibly hard workers.”
My father looks somewhat stunned by my outburst. “But, Jabir.” He points to the papers. “It’s all here in Hassan’s calculations. Keeping that factory open isn’t economically viable.”
“No,” I say. “It’s not. Not in the short term, and not in the condition that it’s in today. But with a few changes here and there, it’s going to make a very good investment in the long term. I’m saying, twenty, thirty years down the line. This factory could be one of our biggest assets in the U.S. We could hold corporate retreats there, in the future. Those workers could establish the company culture for all of our stateside ventures.”
My father removes his glasses, leans back in his seat, and crosses his arms over his chest. He squints his eyes at me. “You see?” he says. He’s still holding his glasses in one hand, and he shakes them at me a few times. “You see what you have in you? Natural ability, Jabir. You’re a visionary. It’s inside of you. You just have to let it out.”
I don’t know what to say to this, so I say nothing at all.
My father sits forward. “Okay,” he says. “I trust you, son. I trust your judgement, and New Hampstead stays open. Now, I want you to look at something. We have a production line in Illinois that produced thirty percent less this year than it did last. I want you to read this email, which the head of the plant sent to me this morning.”
And just like that, we’re talking about something else. Just like that, the plant is safe.
I feel pride in the pit of my stomach. It balloons up, into my chest. I’ve done it! I’ve saved the factory! Teresa’s father won’t be out of a job. Nor will her uncle, her cousin, or Marge’s husband, Jim. Derryl’s job is safe, and he’s going to be so happy to hear it, I’m sure.
I feel elated as I read over the email from another plant manager. After discussing it with my father, I settle into listening to his sales projections for the next five years. I sip my coffee happily, and my father seems to appreciate the comments that I offer as he talks.
“Something’s changed about you, Jabir,” my father says, several hours later. “I can’t quite put my finger on it. You’re more of a man.”
I feel myself bristle at this observation. “I’m thirty years old, Father. I’ve been an adult for years now.”
“Okay,” he says, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Some of the camaraderie I’ve sensed with him begins to dissipate. I feel defensive, and it comes out in my tone.
“I know I didn’t go to the right schools, like Hassan, or marry at twenty-five, like he did. I haven’t taken on as much responsibility in the company as he has, and I don’t have a son, as he does. But I’m doing things in my own way, Father, because I have to. That doesn’t make me less of man.”
“I know that, my son. I know. I just wanted you to know… I sense something different about you. That is all.”
Again, I’m left speechless. Should I thank him? Take offence? I barely have time to think about this before he speaks again. “You know, I became ruler when I was thirty-five years old. I’m now sixty-five. Soon, I’ll pass the throne on to one of you.”
And I’m sure Hassan will do an excellent job. I don’t say this aloud, but the thought fires through my head like a bullet out of a gun.
My father reaches across his desk, to a framed photograph.
It’s a picture of Hassan and I, running along the beach. Hassan is in the front, his little white button-down shirt fastened to the top and pulled tight across his chest by the wind, a look of intensity on his face. I’m trailing behind him, by blue shirt open, revealing by bare, skinny brown chest. My hair is whipped in the wind, and a goofy smile is plastered across my face.
“You were a very happy child,” my father says.
“Look at Hassan,” I say. “He’s so far ahead of me!” It’s true. He’s a good four feet in the lead.
“Do you know why Hassan works so hard?” My father leaves the picture facing me, and folds his hands in front of him. I study the picture, and shake my head.
“Because,” my father says, “he was afraid of being left behind. He had to work hard, whereas you could just…be you. People adored you. You didn’t need to work to impress anyone, Jabir. Hassan did.”
I swallow. It’s all there, in the picture: Hassan’s studious, determined face. My carefree smile. Why did I never see it before?
I tear my eyes away from the picture, and look at my father. “What are you saying?” I ask.
“I know that you think your brother is going to inherit the throne. You’ve gotten used to him coming in first. But I’m saying don’t be so sure that your brother is in line for the role. I suspect that you have it in you to be more of a leader than you have been, over the past ten years. Speaking with you today has only reinforced that suspicion.”
Now I know that he’s praising me. For once, he’s not criticizing my decisions, or my lack of effort. He’s paying me a sincere compliment, and it feels so good.
“Thank you.” I bow my head slightly, paying him respect.
“Now,” he says, sorting through the stack of papers before him. “Why don’t you take all of this data from New Hampstead, and come up with a budget proposal?” He lifts some papers and passes them my way. “Give them the good news first thing next week, once you’ve come up with an investment plan. I’m sure they’re anxious to hear more from us.”
With the papers in hand, I head back to my room to rest; the jet-lag is starting to kick in. I lie down in bed, but sleep won’t come.
I get up, and search through my desk until I find what I’m looking for: A sheet of blank paper, and a drawing pencil. It’s not charcoal, but I know that I’ll be able to smudge it, and I’m eager to practice the technique.
I step out onto the balcony and look out over my city.
Sitting with my back against the palace walls, the paper laid across a hardcover book in my lap, I start to sketch. It’s almost as if I can hear Teresa’s voice in my ear, giving me little hints about how to move the graphite so that it creates shadows and forms.
I wish that she was right here, beside me.
I pause and put the pencil down, a realization hitting me. I miss her. I really, really miss her. Not only that, but I miss her town, too.
Chapter 10
Teresa
“Sweet Teresa! What are you doin’ here, sugar-pie? Don’t you usually go to your folks for dinner on Sundays?” Marge sets a menu down before me and then reaches into her apron for a napkin-wrapped bundle of silverware.
“Mom called a few hours ago. She’s got a migraine and couldn’t cook. So, not tonight.”
“Your poor mamma and those headaches of hers! You tell her I said hello when you see her, all right?”
“I will.”
“Did you just get out from work?”
“Yep.” I glance over the menu quickly, as if tonight I might get something other than my usual. After all, Marge did bring it over. I’m barely reading, though, because I know what I’m going to have.
“I heard the factory boys went to the inn today, before the Abdullah brothers had the chance to scoot out of town.”
“They didn’t exactly ‘scoot out of town’” I say, a little testier than I mean to. “I think they stayed longer than they planned on, anyways.” I feel like it’
s up to me to defend Jabir and Hassan. Is Marge implying that they were trying to sneak out of town unnoticed?
“Well, I’m glad they caught them. I had no idea those brothers were thinkin’ about shutting down the factory. Did you hear?”
“Jabir and Hassan are doing their jobs,” I say. “They want to make sure that the factory isn’t losing money.”
“Tsk. All those business owners care about is money these days. No heart.”
“I think they have heart,” I say. I set down my menu. “I think they’re very nice people.”
Marge sees that I’m done looking over the menu. She takes out her notepad, as if my order will be a complicated one. “Well, you did seem to get on well with that boy… The one you were spending so much time with.”
“Jabir,” I say softly.
“Right. And he did seem like a real sweetheart when he was here. It’s just… Oh, you know me. I get protective of that factory sometimes. And what would Jim and I do if the plant was to close down?”
I know that Marge’s husband, Jim, has worked at the factory since it opened. I remind myself to be nice; she’s just scared, that’s all. I look around the diner. “You always have this,” I say.
Marge looks around her, too. There’s barely anyone in the place. Sundays are a day for family, and the only people at Marge’s are a few single men sitting up at the circular bar in the middle of the room. Tables and booths sit clean and empty.
“This,” she says. “Is a labor of love, honey—not one that can provide a living, as much as I don’t like to admit it. I use this money to feed the horses, and Jim brings in the rest. Now, enough of that. What’s your heart’s desire for a good, filling Sunday dinner?” She draws out the word “filling” so I’m sure not to miss it. Oh, she’s starting in already.
“I’ll have my usual,” I say.
“Really? You sure? That’s all?”
I nod.
“Want me to throw some meatballs and sauce in there? Or a slab of roast beef?”
“Nope. Thank you.”
She heaves a sigh. “All right, if you say so, sweetheart. Though I don’t know how you sustain yourself on rabbit food.”
She’s shaking her head as she departs, having written nothing on her pad. I’m in my regular booth, and as I sit back and let my eyes wander around the place, I can’t help but remember how fun it was when Jabir was in the booth across from me. I’m deep in a daydream about him when Marge brings out my food, just five minutes later.
I bite into the same sandwich that I’ve been ordering since I was a little kid: cucumber, American cheese, and little fine shreds of lettuce on white pita bread. I’m not a vegetarian, but something about the meal strikes my taste-buds’ fancy.
Maybe it’s because it reminds me of being a kid. Back then, I used to order the sandwich as it was on the menu, and it was filled to the brim with sliced turkey. Something about the turkey cuts made my little-kid food alarms go off—I think it was the skin around the edges. I’d always peel the turkey off of the sandwich and reassemble the whole thing.
Nowadays, Marge just brings it out without the meat, and charges me just three dollars for it. What a deal!
I polish it off and pay my bill. The drive home is uneventful, and soon I’m pulling into the driveway in front of the cottage. The moon is nearly full, and the pine-tree-edged indigo sky is like a bowl full of diamonds.
I make my way inside. The table’s still set from the night before. The bird tapestry has a few crumbs and brownish-red stew splashes on it, but the dahlias are perfect and fresh.
I start to tidy up, throwing the tapestry into my laundry hamper, wiping down the table, and scrubbing out the stew pot which I left to soak that morning.
Soon, it’s nearly bedtime. I wander into the bedroom, and turn on my bedside light. Something on my nightstand catches my eye. It’s Jabir’s ring! The one he showed me on the first night that we met. I pick it up and take a closer look. There’s the soaring eagle, his family crest.
I can’t help it. I close my eyes and hold the ring to my chest. I repeat the wish I’ve been thinking all day, as if the ring were a genie lamp imbued with secret powers: I wish he was here. I wish he was here. I wish he was here.
I squeeze my eyes tightly closed, trying to focus on my fond memories of him instead of the pain that I’ve been pushing out of mind all day—he’s gone.
When I open my eyes, of course, the room is empty.
I’m tempted to slip the ring on my finger, so that I can feel closer to Jabir. The fear of losing it, however, makes me set it back on the nightstand. It’ll be safer there.
I sit on the bed, which only makes more memories come flooding back to me.
When I close my eyes again, I see Jabir’s face in my mind’s eye. I can see his bright eyes, his narrow nose, and his full lips. I can see his strong jaw, and the curve of his cheek. I can imagine the way he looks, when he stares into my eyes, listening as I speak. I see his lips curl, wrapping into a smile and then bursting as he laughs.
I reach for my sketchbook off of a nearby shelf, and then curl up on the bed, a stub of charcoal in hand. When I begin to sketch, I imagine that he’s right next to me, and I feel almost like I can hear what he would be saying.
The week passes. Each night, I add a little bit to my sketch. It helps me remember him without submitting to the sadness of his absence, which is always threatening to consume me.
As I move the charcoal across the page, I’m able to focus my attention on him. I let myself remember all that was good between us. I polish his cheek, fill in his dimple. I add in a bit of hair here, or there, remembering the way it was always a bit wild and mussed up, as if he just stepped off of a windy beach.
I work tirelessly on his eyes, trying to recreate all of the depth and sparkle that I saw there.
It’s impossible, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.
Each night, when I finish sketching, I prop the picture up on my nightstand. It’s comforting to look at his smile before I fall asleep. Along with the ring, the picture turns my nightstand into a kind of altar.
On Sunday, my parents once again cancel dinner. This time it’s because of a leak in the upstairs bathroom sink, which caused my father to have to turn our kitchen into a construction zone. They promise that the mess will be cleaned up by the next day, so on Monday after work at the inn, I arrive at my parents’ house.
Walking into the kitchen, I tilt my chin up and examine the evidence of the hole that was in the ceiling. It’s a foot-wide circle, roughly patched up and plastered over.
“We’ll need to sand it down, apply more plaster, and then paint the whole ceiling,” my father says, ticking off the to-do list one finger at a time.
“You should have seen it, honey,” my mom says, from her position in front of the stove. “The sheetrock was so waterlogged, all your father had to do was tap it with a broomstick and the whole thing just fell apart!” She pulls a casserole dish from the oven. Steam slithers from under the tinfoil, and it smells delicious—distinctively like macaroni and cheese.
“Is that Nana’s mac?” I ask eagerly.
My mom nods. I lick my lips.
“So what I did,” my dad says, gesturing back to the hole, “was I fixed the leak— it wasn’t anything major, not a big deal. The tough part was patching up this hole. I had to get your uncle over here, and—”
“Oh, Frank. Teresa doesn’t want to hear about that. Tell her your good news!”
My father turns away from the ceiling. There’s a smile on his face. “Got a call from Dalai today, over at the factory. Well, I didn’t personally,” he laughs. “The plant manager did. You know Marty Jacobs? He was promoted after—”
“What did they say?” I cut him off, feeling adrenaline spike through me. I can tell, from my father’s face, that the news is good. I feel like jumping into the air with happiness, but my feet stay planted on the ground. I need to hear it from him first.
“The factory’s going to sta
y open. They’re going to—”
He stops speaking as I stepping into the air and then fling my arms around him and give him a hug. He picks me up and swings me around, just like he used to do when I was a kid. When he sets me down, I swear I see a tear in one corner of his eye. He wipes it away before I can be sure. “I can’t tell you how relieved I was—no, everybody was, really.”
My mom has stopped her usual bustling activity long enough to beam over at my father. “Tell her what else!” she prompts.
My dad sniffles, so subtly that I barely catch it, but I do. He’s trying not to cry tears of joy. “They’re going to buy up the old Johnson logging building. The one that used to be part of your grandfather’s timber operation. This fellow from the Abdullah family—I know you met him when they were here, Jabir, his name is—says that Canarra wants to turn it into employee housing. Studio, one-bedroom, and two-bedroom apartments.”
“That’s fantastic!” I say, my heart beating faster at the mention of Jabir’s name.
I feel my mother’s eyes on me. “Dawn mentioned that you and this man, Jabir, spent some time together at the inn. I heard it from Marge, too, and then Pete said he bought you…flowers?”
My dad’s looking at me too.
I feel strangely uncomfortable. It’s not that I think my parents would disapprove of Jabir, it’s just that it seems pointless to try to explain what was happening between us because, well, he’s now who-knows-how-many thousands of miles away.
I try to keep my voice light. “I showed him around town a bit. I think he really appreciated it. Him and his brother were really nice people.”
My mom purses her lips, as if she knows there’s more to the story, but my father is satisfied with my answer.
“Yes! That’s what Marty said. He said that they were very stand-up guys. Had a lot of integrity and humility, not stuck up or anything.”
“Not at all,” I agree. I slip into my seat at the kitchen table, and reach for a pistachio from a bowl my mom’s set out. “So, apartments, hmm? Who will live in them?” I crack the nut, thinking over the implications of the business move.
