Behind the Curtain

by BETH KERY

  “Tahi isn’t my daughter. You are. And Nora and I are very close. We’ll show her the respect and the love she deserves.”

  Her mother turned away to shut a cupboard with a sharp bang. Laila stood there, fuming and helpless, understanding that not only the cabinet door but the conversation had been closed.

  She walked away from her mother, hiding tears of anger and desperation. Hating that she had to do it yet again, she texted Asher and told him she wouldn’t be able to meet him at the beach.

  • • •

  The next day, her father and uncles were due to arrive from Detroit in the late afternoon. Mamma decided to have Nora’s birthday celebration on the beach. Laila, Tahi and Zara got a long table ready, decorating it with the bright tablecloth, pretty lanterns and fresh flowers Laila and her mother had purchased yesterday in town.

  She grew increasingly anxious and discontent as the day progressed and she helped her mother in the kitchen, thinking of Asher waiting for her at the beach yesterday and how she’d had to disappoint him, ruminating about the questions she’d been asking herself over and over again about her life.

  Was Asher right? Should she be living her passion, instead of taking the safe path? Should she be studying music or poetry? Were her dreams about composing and even performing her songs the fantasies of a child? Or were they the potential of her true self, the poet in her . . . the artist?

  As one o’clock approached, she grew increasingly restless and short-tempered as she cooked with her mom. All she could think about was that she was missing her time with Asher again at their secret beach. What was he doing?

  As she was pulling an orange and almond cake out of the oven, she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She’d gotten a message. Somehow, she just knew it was from Asher. She almost dropped the cake.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Mamma demanded, coming up beside her. “You’ve been as jumpy as a nervous rabbit for days. There,” she said, taking the cake from her and setting it on the counter. “Should we do powdered sugar or icing for it?”

  “What? Oh, I don’t know, whatever you want,” Laila replied distractedly, removing the oven mitts and tossing them on the counter.

  “Where are you going?” her mother demanded when she started to walk out of the kitchen.

  “To the bathroom, is that okay, Mamma?” she seethed, exasperated.

  Her mom took off her oven mitts and approached her, a worried expression tightening her features. She touched Laila’s forehead with the back of her fingers.

  “Stop it. I’m not sick!” she said, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice. She stalked out of the kitchen, worried she’d say something else to further insult her mother in her frayed mood. Only when she was in the dim hallway did she pull her phone out of her pocket. Her throat ached when she saw the text was from Asher.

  Hey. I was just thinking about you.

  She typed rapidly.

  I was just thinking about you too. One o’clock. Her smiley face was to hide the way she was really feeling: miserable.

  Do you think you can get away tomorrow at one?

  I’m going to try. It’s just hard, with my dad and my uncles here, and it being my auntie’s birthday weekend and everything.

  There was a slight pause.

  I miss you, he wrote.

  She swallowed back the ache in her throat and typed.

  I miss you too.

  We only have one more week.

  His words had sent a spike of pain through her. Misery pressed hard against her heart, making it difficult for her to breathe for a few seconds. She wiped at the tear hastily before she started to type again.

  I’ll be there no matter—

  “Laila?”

  She spun around and saw her mother standing in the hallway.

  “Who are you texting to?” her mom asked, taking a step toward her, her eyes narrowed in curiosity.

  “No one,” she snapped, shoving the phone in her shorts pocket.

  “No one,” her mom said sarcastically. “You were texting awfully fast to no one.”

  “Leave me alone, Mamma. Stop spying on me. You’re driving me crazy,” she said in a burst of frustration. She lunged for the bathroom. She slammed the door in her mother’s face and locked it.

  “What’s gotten into you?” her mother shouted through the closed door. “What will your father say when I tell him you’ve accused me of spying?”

  Laila plopped down on the closed toilet seat and made a sound of pure frustration. “What will Baba say when I tell him you’re invading my privacy?” she shouted back.

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “Oh . . . is it Ben?” her mother asked, her tone completely altering from being angry to excited. “Is that who you’re texting with?”

  “Mamma,” Laila growled. “That’s none of your business.”

  “It’s entirely my business. I’m the one who asked him here, aren’t I?” her mom said, her voice sounding calmer now. Smugger. “Listen, don’t tell your father about Ben and his mother’s visit a few days ago until I get a chance to talk to him about it tonight. I’m going to invite Ben back this Sunday. I’m sure your father will like him as much as we did. But don’t mention it to Ben until I smooth the path with your father.”

  Laila rolled her eyes. She couldn’t believe this. She wanted to scream until her throat was raw.

  “Don’t be too long, now,” her mother said amiably, as though they hadn’t just been shouting at each other. “I need you to make some cookie dough.”

  • • •

  That night, after helping clean up following the birthday party, Laila walked down the terrace stairs of their cottage. She made out a large shadow relaxing on the steps in the darkness and paused.

  “Have things been busy at the shop, Baba?” she asked quietly, sitting down next to her father. Her dad, Anass Barek, was one of her favorite people in the world. He worked so hard for them at his collision and glass repair shop, putting in long, grueling hours both during the week and on weekends. Yet he’d never failed to attend even one of Laila’s volleyball games or concerts when she was in school.

  “It’s an especially nice summer. Lots of people are traveling. That means more wrecks. The shop is packed.” He glanced over at her. From the lights glowing through the kitchen window, she was able to make out his small, amused smile. “Your mamma has been telling me about this young man she invited over. Ben, isn’t it?”

  “Ben Khairi.”

  “Is he nice?”

  “Sure, he’s nice,” Laila said, failing to keep the frustration out of her voice. “But Mamma is making a much bigger deal out of him than she should. I don’t like Ben that way, Baba. And I don’t like having someone thrown at me either. You should have seen the way Mamma and Ben’s mom were watching us like hawks that night at dinner. I felt like we were the meal instead of the mrouzia.”

  Her father chuckled. “Your mother just gets a little carried away sometimes, that’s all. She just wants you to be happy. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to her about it.”

  “Really?” Laila asked hopefully. “Can you make it so she doesn’t ask Ben over again? It made me so uncomfortable.”

  He nodded. “I’ll take care of it with her. But are you sure you don’t want to give him another chance?”

  “Another chance at what? I’m nineteen years old. I’m not looking to get married,” she insisted.

  Her dad put up his hands in a surrender gesture. “Okay, okay. No one says you’re going to get married tomorrow. These things take time. I’m just saying, a young man like that: he sounds decent. He might be worth keeping on the hook.”

  “Why, because he’s got a good job as a CPA? Because he’s Moroccan? Do you really believe that, Baba?”

  “Ah, probably not,” her dad said after a moment, waving his hand. “Y
ou’re right. You’ll know when the right one comes along.”

  She hesitated for a moment, listening to the rhythmic sound of the surf breaking on the beach. She’d never really trod on this ground with her father before.

  “Baba? How do you know he’ll be Moroccan? The right one, I mean?”

  “Marriage is a tricky, lifetime business,” he said thoughtfully after a pause. “It’s hard enough to make a successful one when the man and the woman have so much in common. Without shared values and culture, it gets difficult. And it’s not fair to the children of the marriage, because that strife is passed on to them. Now, I’m not saying that every Moroccan male out there is good enough for my Laila. Far from it,” he said with a smile in his voice. “I’m just saying this Ben sounds like the type that’ll provide a good, solid life for his family someday.”

  “Like you have for us with the shop?” Laila asked softly.

  “My family is everything to me. It wasn’t just my duty to provide. It was my joy, little girl.”

  She gave him a quick kiss on his cheek. “And you have done it so well. Thank you.” He smiled and patted her hand fondly.

  “Baba? Remember when you and Ami Reda were thinking about starting that business together, custom-building those luxury sports cars?” He made a sound to the affirmative. “Do you ever regret not doing it?”

  “No. It would have been a very risky business, starting a niche company like that.”

  “It was a wonderful dream. And you and Ami Reda are so talented when it comes to building cars.”

  “Family is forever. Dreams come and go. And they don’t put food on the table either.”

  Laila gave an uncomfortable laugh. For a moment, she just stared out at the lake, her mind whirring with thoughts, that horrible friction building in her. Something occurred to her.

  “You said I’d know when the right one comes along. Did you? Know it when Mamma came along?”

  “Oh yes,” he said without hesitation.

  “Right away? Really?”

  “Really.”

  “That must have been some first meeting,” Laila said, grinning despite her chaotic mood. “What did Mamma say that blew you away so completely?”

  “Oh, it’s not what she said. It’s what she sang,” her father said, his teeth flashing as he smiled. “The first time I ever saw your mamma, she was singing. And I was a goner.”

  • • •

  Later that night, Zara fell asleep faster than either Laila or Tahi. Their beach picnic had been delicious but filling—not to mention eternal, as far as Laila was concerned.

  Her conversation with her father had been unexpected and so sweet in some ways, but it had only added to her volatility. Part of her felt as if she’d been fooling him. She was becoming someone different than her father thought she was as they conversed together on those steps. The fact that he didn’t seem to recognize she was any different, when she felt it so acutely, only increased her agitation. She was going to explode through her own skin. Or escape. One of the two.

  Tahi stared at her disbelievingly when Laila stood from her sleeping bag at eleven thirty and quickly began to change out of her sleeping clothes into a simple white button-down sundress.

  “What the heck do you think you’re doing?” Tahi asked quietly, clearly stunned.

  “I’m going over to Asher’s,” Laila said, shoving her sleepwear into her pillowcase.

  “What? How are you going to get there?” Tahi demanded, scrambling up onto her knees.

  Laila walked over to Zara’s purse and reached in. She held up Zara’s car keys. Tahi’s eyes grew to the size of saucers.

  “You’re as crazy as Zara is,” Tahi declared. Laila shoved the keys into her own purse. “You don’t seem crazy, though,” Tahi amended. “You seem dead serious. Laila, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just—” Her voice broke. She knew she looked calm on the outside, but inside, she was about to break. “I have to see Asher. I can’t take this anymore.”

  “I’m coming with you, then,” Tahi whispered, standing.

  “No,” Laila said, gagging. Her mouth filled with saliva. “Oh God.”

  “Laila—”

  She flew past Tahi and silently opened the screen porch door. She wasn’t sure how she got to the edge of the lake, but suddenly she was retching, and the contents of their huge feast were going into the waves.

  A miserable moment later, she realized Tahi was standing next to her, her hand on her back, the surf washing across their ankles.

  “Are you sure you’re not pregnant?”

  Laila heard the fear in her cousin’s voice. The wave of anxious nausea had passed completely. She felt hollow. Cleansed. Her head had cleared. Everything about the star-filled, sultry summer night seemed sharp and luminous. She turned and hugged her cousin.

  “I’m not pregnant. Don’t worry. It’s just this . . . this friction inside me. I feel better now,” she said next to Tahi’s soft hair.

  Tahi leaned back. “You’re not used to breaking the rules, that’s the problem. You were always the good one. Are you still going to Asher’s?”

  Laila nodded.

  “And you’re sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Tahi asked.

  “You need to be here to explain that I’m okay, and that I took Zara’s car, in case Zara wakes up, or someone else finds out I’m gone. I don’t want people to worry. Can you do that for me?”

  For a few seconds, Tahi didn’t answer. Laila found herself wondering what her cousin saw on her—Laila’s—face. Then Tahi took her hand and urged her out of the surf.

  “Let’s go get you cleaned up. There’s some mouthwash in the bathroom off the porch.”

  Laila squeezed her hand. “Thanks, Tahi.”

  • • •

  Eric, Jimmy, Rudy and Asher went over to Chauncy’s at around ten. The local dive was packed. Asher got nauseated from the loud music, the warm beer, the increasingly drunk crowd . . . and listening to Eric talk. He sank lower and lower into a black mood. All he could think about was how Laila was only a few miles away, but she might as well be in a different universe.

  They got home around eleven thirty and went out to the pool deck. They’d only been there for two minutes when Eric got a message on his phone and read it. That smug smile Asher despised spread on his mouth. Eric got up and walked inside.

  “Who is she?” Asher asked bluntly a half hour later when Eric rejoined them. They had a fire going in the pit. Asher suspected it was his dark mood lending to the effect, but the firelight made his cousin’s face look a little demonic.

  Eric started at the question but quickly got hold of himself. He grabbed his glass of Scotch and nonchalantly took a sip. “She who?”

  “Whoever you’ve been slinking off to have phone sex with for the past few days.”

  “Asher’s right,” Jimmy said. “You’ve been sneaking off to powwow with someone on the phone a hell of a lot. And it’s not Zara, since Zara has been there a few times when you did it.”

  “Fuck you. Get your own life, Rothschild.” He shook his head in disgust and noticed Rudy’s glare. “What’s wrong with you tools? What do you think? I’m going to marry Zara Barek, give my mom and dad the priceless gift of a few little African grandkids—”

  Asher lunged up from his chair, causing Eric to flinch back and spill Scotch on his shirt.

  “What did I tell you, you smug motherfucker—”

  Jimmy caught Asher at the shoulders.

  “Stop it. Get a hold of yourself, Ash,” Jimmy demanded. But Asher was furiously focused on Eric’s perfect face. He craved the feeling of sinking his knuckles into it. The prospect of violence would help him focus on something else tonight. But distraction aside, it would feel fucking fantastic to wipe that smug look off Eric’s face.

  He jerked out of Jimmy’s hold, fist and ja
w clenched, and lunged again. This time, both Rudy and Jimmy caught him. Eric flew up from his chair.

  “I didn’t say anything about your precious Laila. I was joking . . . joking about her cousin. I don’t get you, Asher. Your father gave you this vacation to have a summer fling before you start the grind. From what I know about Clark, your dad expected you to bag not just one, but quite a few babes. Any other summer, that’s exactly what you would have done. Since when did you become such a self-righteous son of a bitch?”

  Asher strained in the hold, his teeth bared. He started to drag Rudy and Jimmy with him.

  “Get out of here, Eric,” Rudy shouted with effort. “I mean it, man. He’s going to kill you. And if he doesn’t, I just might.”

  Eric gave them all a superior, disgusted look. “Like you’d ever stand a chance.” He turned and sauntered away, but his pace picked up as he reached the terrace doors.

  “Pretty Boy is in an awful hurry all of a sudden,” Rudy observed after Eric had slammed shut the screen door behind him.

  “Let go of me, damn it,” Asher grated out, sick of inching along the deck with his friends hanging on him. As soon as they loosened their hold, he lunged toward the doors.

  “Asher—”

  “Just let him go,” Jimmy said.

  Eric was already long gone when he got inside, probably pulling away in his Aston Martin or in his room with the door barricaded to keep Asher out. Jimmy’s weary, exasperated tone echoed in Asher’s ears as he took the stairs two at a time. His friend sensed Asher’s wound-up state. Jimmy knew there was nothing that could be done or said that would calm him down.

  Once he got to his room, he searched for his cell phone in his pocket. Maybe Laila had texted. If not, he’d call her.

  He cursed when he realized he must have left his phone in the pool changing room earlier. He jogged back down the stairs, making a beeline for the pool house.

  “Have either of you seen my phone?” he asked Jimmy and Rudy after he’d searched the changing room and come up empty-handed. Both guys shook their heads. Maybe it had slipped out of his pocket. They helped him look around on the lounge chairs and terrace.