by Paula Jolin
Parchesi and Uno. The Friday nights of her childhood. “And Forty-One?”
“And Forty-One.”
“And Baba and I can drum to ‘Ya Habibi’ while you and Mariam sing?”
“You can drum, we’ll sing.”
Aliya nodded her head, a kind of jerk—funny, because back in Syria, that gesture would pass for no. But as she kept reminding everyone, she was in America.
GILLIAN TAPPED her foot in the inner sanctuary of her father’s office. Would he ever get off the phone? Thanks to Aliya’s cryptic text, now she had to go and pick up the bucket of blood, in some dark alley in the center of town. That girl had better show tonight. Gillian didn’t have patience for her “I don’t know if we’re doing the right thing,” and this from the girl who’d started it all.
Her father had the radio on low, but since he never more than grunted into the phone, she heard every word of the evening news. Conversations with people who’d left the southern coasts of Florida due to too many hurricanes. Should have put her in a serious frame of mind, but all she could think about was how much she hated this place, where they kept the heat on low and stashed the welcome mat in the bathroom. Stupid lack of carpet. Stupid paneled walls. Stupid framed pictures of every stupid building Dad had ever designed.
And stupid, stupid phone. Every time she came in here, he had it pressed to his ear, his head bent over stacks of building plans. Why was she still so surprised? Only time he ever spoke to her was to press those dotish Red Sox tickets on her. Trini to the bone? More like Trini to the first layer of skin. Trinis took their cricket seriously, but they didn’t watch grown men scratch and spit on a baseball diamond.
She scrunched her tangled hair between her fingers; braids were coming out. She couldn’t quite picture tonight, the darkness of the state forest, lit by nothing but the moon, the cold wind whipping around her head—good Lord, maybe Aliya had the right idea: at home, in your bedroom, in clear reach of a dozen woolly blankets. Whose idea was the forest trek anyway? Oh, right, Miya’s. Do it on the spot where Trevor died. Miya said that. They were taking advice about obeah from a Japanese girl?
Of course the obeah man had slammed the door in her face when she went back to see him. Later, he’d slammed it in Aliya’s face, which freaked her out.
IndieArabGirl: how’d he know who I was???
Trini_in_Exile: nah, he think obeah doesn’t work for white people
IndieArabGirl: I’m not white!!!
Trini_in_Exile: yuh lookin’ white to he
How much longer was her dad going to make her wait? The hurricane people were going off air, weather experts warning that there could still be surprises, even with only two weeks left in the season. Thank God Trinidad was too far south for hurricanes. Perfect weather, cheerful people, place like paradise. “That wraps up the hour,” said the announcer. Be there by eight, Aliya had told her, and she’d still have to find a place to park.
“Dad,” she said. He didn’t lift his head. “Dad!”
He raised his forefinger, waved it around a little.
“Dad? I’ve got to go now.”
He was writing something. Good idea. Gillian took a piece of notepaper from the pad on the edge of his desk, grabbed a pen. Going out with my friends, won’t be home till late, maybe sleep at Miya’s. She tapped the edge of the pen against her palm. Would be worth it to add a curse that would make him give her five minutes of his time, if only she knew the words. Of course, the man would have to actually read her note for that to work.
He took the paper, scanned it rapidly. As she turned to leave, he gave her a halfhearted princess wave and mouthed something, maybe “Who’s Miya?” maybe “Have fun.”
If only Mums were here! She’d dress up in black and paint herself with bluing and be the first one dancing around the fire, asking Trevor what the hell he was doing, plunging over the side of a cliff before the world was finished with him. He’d pay tribute to her Trini spunk, her Trini spirit . . .
Was that what she was expecting? Trevor to appear in a cloud of fire and brimstone, shouting the words to “Bacchanal Lady” as they all wined to the soca music?
Gillian shifted her shoulder bag. Damn thing was heavy, what with the two cans of lighter fluid. She passed through the hallway, shoes clicking on tile, and tripped down the stairs—literally. Her knees buckled and the shoulder bag fell, its contents careening across the floor.
An omen?
No time to take it on. She scrambled, shoved everything in the bag, then got the hell out of there.
“I GOT TAKEOUT from the Chinese place on St. Pete’s—I got you mu shu pork.”
Mom swept in, dropped the greasy paper bags on the kitchen table. Miya bit her lip. Why was Mom always so sure she knew exactly what she’d like?
“Oh,” said Mom, looking up, taking in Miya’s leather jacket, the bag over her shoulder. “You’re going out. Now I’ll end up stuffing myself like a pig.”
Of course, the mu shu did smell fabulous. That place on St. Pete’s never stinted on the garlic. “I’m a little early,” she said. “I could have some.”
“Great.” Mom crossed the room, rummaged in the cupboards, found some china plates with little roses circling the edges. She came back and started dishing out dinner. “So, big date with Rodney tonight?”
The games people play. Rodney had never met her mother, never been to her house, never even called her— their relationship was all about texting, as in: U bussy? want 2 come over? something biiiig to show u.
But Mom liked to think Miya was having that innocent teenage experience, and Miya was happy to invent the details: how Rodney held her hand when he took her to the theater, bought her popcorn and loaded it up with smuggled Parmesan cheese, sat through Twilight without yawning once.
“Actually, I’m going out with the girls tonight.”
Mom looked up. How strange it was to see a face that was so much her own, and so much not. Same black eyes, but narrower; same flat cheekbones, but higher. Same bright red lipstick and careful eyeliner. “The girls?” Miya couldn’t tell if she was pleased or not. “You and Rodney aren’t having difficulties, are you?”
The problem’s not Rodney, it’s his girlfriend. She expects to have him Friday nights until eleven. “I’m into a new guy,” Miya said. To her surprise, an image of Luke—Luke again?—rose up in her mind. How silly. Luke. Not her type at all. “But not tonight. I thought it would be fun to have a night out with the girls for once. Do a little dancing.”
“Dancing? Are you trying out this new crunk dance?” Mom’s eyes lit up. She was always first in line for the latest craze. She’d been a mean karaoke singer in college—she’d even met Miya’s father at a karaoke bar. Salsa dancing, that had been her line for seeing so much of Mr. Sanders. We both need a partner, and his wife, she’s too embarrassed to dance in public, poor thing. Busy being embarrassed herself, Miya never called her on it. Not until it was too late.
“I’m not sure where we’re going yet,” said Miya.
Why couldn’t she tell Mom the truth? I couldn’t keep my mouth shut at the last party I went to—and now I’m going to the forest to try to appease a boy’s spirit, or at least my own. Or just not say anything, like so many other girls? Stomp out in silence and not answer her cell, then come home high and defiant.
She wanted Mom to love her, that was why. She’d never understood why Mom didn’t post her 100% s on the refrigerator, why she left the HONOR STUDENT bumper sticker on the counter instead of slapping it on the back of the car. Until the day Miya came home early—trust Mom not to see the half-day notice on the school calendar—and overheard her in the study. “But she’s such a geek, Perry. And the thing is, she doesn’t have to be. No glasses, no acne, nice slim figure. She could be beautiful. But that short hair, and she never puts gel in it. And those clothes!” A male voice mumbled, said something to make Mom laugh. “Of course not,” she told him. “Boys never call, except to ask about homework. She’ll be one of those girls who goes
to the prom alone, wait and see. I’ll be so ashamed.”
Miya could hear it now, that ashamed, even though her mother was saying something quite different: “. . . you’re going to love it, Miya-chan. The last time you went dancing, you were about five years old, and you had on a tutu. It’s so much fun, the lights sparkling on your face, and the crowd. Sometimes I worry about you, you’re so inhibited.” Yes, Mom, you know me so well. “But when you get out on the floor, you’ll lose all that, you’ll see. But oh, you’re not dressed for it! Maybe you want to change.”
“It’s, uh, girls’ night out,” said Miya, looking down at her black jeans. “We’re going to help get each other ready, borrow clothes, give makeovers . . . you know, girly stuff.”
She put down her fork and pushed back from the table, even though she was only half-done. “I should get going,” she said. She climbed the stairs, brushed her teeth without taking off her jacket, checked her makeup in the mirror. When she came back down, her mother was already clearing the table.
“Have a good time, Miya-chan,” she said. “I knew I should have bought you that little black dress the other day.”
Miya filled her high heeled boots with feet, then took the time to lace them up before saying, “Ja ne, okaa-san.” She never spoke Japanese to her mother. But it seemed right, this time, to say good-bye in a language that couldn’t be misconstrued.
Then she headed into the night, on the lookout for whatever adventure awaited her in the heart-of-darkness forest.
SIXTEEN
ALIYA PUT ON her warmest flannel pajamas and crawled under the covers. She didn’t take out the picture of Trevor that she’d hidden inside the pillowcase, the one she kissed before she went to sleep every night, and she didn’t whisper to God to forgive him his sins. That was over. Her whole sleeping-with-the-enemy thing, well, she’d been out of her mind, but now she was back.
By God, it felt good to be home.
She’d called Sami and told him to keep an eye out for Gillian. He sputtered, as expected, but she added, “This is it, the last strange thing I’ll ever ask of you, could you just do it?” and he gave a strangled okay.
Was it any surprise that Aliya won every game she played that night? “You’re on fire,” said Mariam, as Aliya collected the Uno cards after her third victory. “Can we play something else now? What about Mexican Train Dominoes?”
But Aliya had won that too. She settled down under the covers. That’s what she’d think about while she tried to fall asleep, the surprise on Mariam’s face when she had to count the pips on a dozen dominoes. Or maybe she’d remember the rousing “Ya Habibi” they’d ended with, she and Baba and Nabile drumming the different rhythms on the edge of the table, Mama and Mariam singing along. It was too soon to meditate on the glory of God, but she’d get there. Maybe she’d even wear hijab. She’d start slowly, one day a week, Saturday, maybe, when they went out of town. If only she didn’t look so gaunt and ugly, if only it didn’t highlight the elephant-like nose in the middle of her face . . .
Whooo. Aliwhooo.
What was that? Outside, must be, some kind of owl. Ridiculous to think that it was calling her. Even more ridiculous to think that it wasn’t an owl at all, but some kind of spirit, raised by Gillian and Miya. Trevor’s spirit.
Stop it. She’d said she was never going to think about him again, right? Never. That’s what dead meant: gone, done, finished. Not coming back. And if Gillian and Miya thought different, well, they had no idea what they were doing, no idea. Old Aunt’s words echoed in her head: Midnight exactly, burrowed deep in the darkest woods; that’s the best place to talk to the jinn.
Aliwhoooo.
She sat up in bed. This was crazy, she was acting possessed. What was it Gillian had said? You don’t show and I swear I’ll come break your window, Aliya, drag you to the bacchanal by your hair . . . That was Gillian though, bluster, bluster, no bite. No way she was out there in the dark, calling Aliya’s name.
Just like there was no way Aliya was going to the forest. Trevor was gone. He wasn’t going to remember that he loved her, wasn’t going to tell her what he’d been playing at, with his lies and his redheads. And hadn’t she had a lovely time tonight, playing Uno and Parcheesi and Forty-One and Dominoes? She had. Eating cake and poking fun at Mariam for being so married and happy, she was growing fat. But every night couldn’t be Parcheesi night, could it?
Ever play Parcheesi? she’d asked Trevor, in those long ago, living days.
I’ve played strip Parcheesi, he told her, grabbing her on the couch, tickling her. She let herself enjoy it for one single second before she wrestled herself away, tried to escape, scrambled, was caught and loved again.
She was out of bed and turning on the lights, opening the closet door. Crazy. It made no sense that she was here, rifling through her clothes, snatching a pair of black jeans, a black sweater. It was far too late for—
But it wasn’t. It was only quarter past eleven.
Now she was pulling on her socks, her black boots. Shoving her dark brown hair into a ponytail. Ridiculous. It wasn’t like she could take the car. Suppose Mama got up, looked out the window, saw it was missing? Life as Aliya knew it would come to an end.
Of course, it already had, hadn’t it?
Mama wouldn’t wake up, anyway. Baba, that was the concern. Mama slept like a zombie ever since she got that prescription for Ambien last week. But Baba might well wake up, reach out for the glass of water on his nightstand—
Now that was an idea. Dissolve an Ambien in that water, problem solved.
Aliya. What are you thinking? You’re going to drug your own father? You must be crazy.
Yes. She was.
Take off those boots, climb back into the bed, she ordered herself. Pull the covers up over your head and think about something lovely: next year, your first day of college, moving into the dorm, your new best friend-slash-roommate, with the black hair and the flashing black eyes and the island accent. Yuh finally reached! she says.
Aliya found herself tiptoeing down the hall, entering the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet. The bottle of Ambien was in her hand, then the small white pill was in her palm. Surely this was illegal?
And dancing around a fire in the middle of the state park as they tried to shake a dead boy out of Paradise—they had a town permit for that one, right?
She paused outside her parents’ door. Aliwhooo echoed inside her head. This one last night, and then she’d move on. She promised. Absolutely.
She twisted the doorknob.
TWENTY-TWO MINUTES later, Aliya slammed the car door and ran down the embankment, tripping over clumps of dirt on the way. Firelight flickered below her, to the right of the swampy side of the lake. A hunk of rusting metal rose up out of the dark water. Swallow hard, blink, blink. Don’t remember Trevor, driving her home, drumming his fingers on the dashboard. I’d die before I’d let anything happen to Mitsu.
And so he had.
“Where the hell have you been?” asked Gillian as Aliya dashed onstage. Backdrop: enormous, ominous trees, stretching in all directions, swaying just enough with the breeze to block out the moon. Center stage: Gillian, bent over, fingers wrapped tight around a metal shovel, digging a pit. Stage right: Miya, emerging from the first line of trees, carrying a rock between her two hands. Lighting: three wooden Tiki torches on sticks, set up in a triangle around the pit. Sound effects: wind blowing leaves and twigs about, the howl of some animal. Scratch-and-sniff smell effects: manure, urine, the feral scent of forest.
“How can I help?”
“We thought you weren’t coming,” said Miya, staggering into the circle of light.
“We knew she was coming,” said Gillian. She straightened up, dug the tip of the shovel into the ground. “I would have licked her down if she didn’t.”
“Sorry, had to sneak out.” Aliya held out her hand. “You done? My great-aunt told me the jinn are afraid of metal— we don’t want it anywhere near this place.”
Gillian passed the shovel over. “You’re going to need it to unpack the shit first.”
“I thought you were going to do the shit? I’m blood, remember—”
“Come on.” Miya’s voice cut through the rustling wind, the hooting owl, the squabble. “It’s almost midnight.”
Seven seconds, six seconds, five, four, three, two, one. Dressed in black, arms and legs carefully covered, Miya drizzled the bucket of urine into the shallow pit. They watched while the urine foamed, puddled, seeped into the hard forest floor.
Aliya looked across at Gillian’s face, staring down. She rubbed her lips together, lips Trevor had once traced with his forefinger. Then she took firm hold of the shovel and began transferring shit to pit, scoop by scoop. The black clumps sunk and spread with each scoop. Aliya threw the shovel as far as she could—not very far, because it was heavy and hit a tree anyway. Time to find a jinn, get him to pass the message to Trevor. Great-aunt Reem again: Don’t forget to thank the jinn for their gifts.
“Ya jinni, tusaidani ma hatha al hedaiya.” God willing, the jinn would make out her poor Arabic.
Gillian crossed the flat land between herself and the bucket of blood, balanced between the roots of a tree. When she brought it back, she was dragging it, not paying attention to the drops that spilled over the top, the red streams dripping down the side, soaking into the white paper pasted there: Al-Ansari Halal Meat.
“Only obeah can reveal the truth I seek,” sang Gillian as she tilted the bucket toward the pit and a stream of blood flowed away. She waited until the stained-red metal bottom was nearly empty. “Only obeah provides the hope I need.” She threw the bucket over by the shovel and held out her hand. Miya passed her an envelope. Gillian tried to lift the flap but it stuck, so she tore it. She used her thumb and forefinger, carefully, delicately, tweezing out the hairs Miya had found in Trevor’s room. Leaning over, she dropped them, one by one, on top of the body fluids.