Unbroken Threads

by Jennifer Klepper

  He tilted his head and smiled condescendingly. “Hon, I know Rosalie has sucked you into her world and its tunnel vision on immigration. And I agree it’s different with a lot of the immigrants who are already here. Those”—he motioned toward Jessica as if she were surrounded by immigrants—“unaccompanied minors, for instance, that IAP is working with. I’m pretty sure we don’t need to worry about them.”

  Jessica searched Danny’s bay-blue eyes. She could have heard those same words come out of her mouth not so long ago. “We have to trust the process, I guess.”

  “You don’t know the things I know. As closely as Binnacle has worked with the Defense Department and some of our international customers, I know the threats out there. These people want to take us down. We can tighten the system and try to stay a step ahead, but you can’t outwit people who feel they have nothing to lose and everything to gain in the afterlife. All it takes is one coming in.”

  “You’re right. We know different things.” Such as the fact that more Muslims than non-Muslims have been killed by extremists.

  He nodded as if she had agreed with him. “There’s too much at stake to risk ourselves. Good thing you’re working with kids.”

  Jessica opened her mouth to respond then shut it. Did I tell him that? She supposed she had prior to meeting Amina. Since IAP was so heavily involved with the kids, she’d assumed that would be her assignment. But she hadn’t lied about anything. In the interest of marital harmony, she decided it was best not to say anything now. Who knew what Danny would say if she told him she was representing one of “them.”

  She motioned toward the oven. “The pasta will be done in twenty-five minutes. I shouldn’t be too late.”

  Danny folded his paper. “Be careful, hon.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “You’re sure you don’t want a ride home?” This routine was getting old, but Jessica had to ask, especially since the meeting had gone long. Afterward, she and Amina had lingered to go over some outreach materials that Rosalie was hoping Amina would translate into Arabic ahead of the refugees’ arrival.

  Amina shook her head.

  “If you say so. But you can’t stop me from walking you to the bus stop. It’s over by the parking lot, right?” She felt as if she were talking to Conor.

  Dark eyes rolled ever so slightly, confirming that Amina was indeed a stand-in for Conor at that moment, but she didn’t protest. Jessica knew that even the stolid Syrian recognized the neighborhood was dicey at night.

  Amina wrapped a thin woolen cape around herself and led the way out of the IAP offices.

  The evening was cold but clear, and the crispness of the late-fall air complemented the bright pinpoints of light in the sky above. Craning her head upward, Jessica could make out Orion, though the city lights drowned out many of the lesser constellations that had graced the endless skies of her childhood.

  The sidewalks were quiet, and the commuters were home by now. Jessica winced at the exhaust from a passing delivery truck and watched the red lights as the truck turned at the next intersection.

  Nighttime quiet without nature was still jarring to Jessica, even after all these years. Quiet nights back home meant that the farm animals were asleep. Darkness hid the crops, while the absence of the sun exposed the universe above. Quiet nights in the city hid unknowns and exposed little.

  Amina walked silently next to her as they neared the bus stop just around the corner.

  “Well, what do we have here?” The low voice carried as though it were part of the urban darkness, but its mock joviality seemed to cloak something sinister.

  Jessica’s heart skipped a beat as she saw three men in heavy jackets approaching from the corner. The one in the middle, the most imposing of the three, had his coat collar flipped up against the chill. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and displayed his palms. “I was talking to you.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Jessica could see Amina stand taller. Jessica held eye contact with the man in the middle, attempting to size up his intention. The women could turn around and head back to the offices, but she didn’t want to give these guys the pleasure of seeing her display fear. Plus, she wouldn’t be able to see them if they were behind her.

  The men stopped a few yards in front of the women, and the one in the middle stretched his arms out just enough to create a wall for his friends to form next to him and show he was the one in charge. The one on the right flicked a cigarette down by his side. The ugly smell of cheap tobacco drifted unimpeded downwind to the women.

  Amina and Jessica stopped, instinctively closing the gap between themselves. Jessica wasted a second, pondering this reflex, wondering if the instinct was to make themselves seem more imposing by becoming a single, larger target. She then took a second to assess their surroundings, hoping a car or human would appear on the desolate street. Amina’s hand moved to rest on her bag. Jessica couldn’t remember who had been in the office when they’d left.

  “Looks like a Mooslum whore to me,” said the man on the left. The smallest of the three, he wore pants so long he’d had to roll them up at the bottom. He sniffed at Jessica. “And a sand-nigger lover.” The last words felt like a slap to Jessica, but Amina didn’t flinch.

  The man in charge stepped forward slowly, the rest of his wall moving as one with him. He still held his palms facing out, as if to assure the women that these three thugs stalking toward them on a dark street while referring to them in derogatory, sexually charged terms meant no harm.

  Jessica felt her senses heighten. Her instincts were not deceived by the gesture. The men must have been able to hear her heartbeat or at least see the thumping in her chest. She exhaled in an attempt to press her ribcage against the galloping muscle, to slow it before it exploded. She couldn’t see the building on her left, but she could almost feel it, sensing the brick barrier only a couple of feet away from her.

  The orange tip of the cigarette pulsated as the man on the right flicked it. The men still stood more than an arm’s length away.

  “We’re just heading home, guys.” Jessica couldn’t tell if these were drunk, belligerent guys or simply belligerent guys. It didn’t matter. She kept her face calm, even threw in the hint of a smile, in hopes of staunching any escalation.

  “We’ll decide where you’re heading,” the one in charge said.

  Jessica followed his gaze toward Amina. Her stillness seemed almost practiced, betraying no fear or emotion.

  “We’d like to have a word with your, um, your friend here.” He gestured toward Amina, his eyes darkening.

  There was no time to defuse the situation. Jessica pivoted to the right. They would be safer out in the street. But the middle one dropped his outstretched left arm, and the man on the right closed in to block their escape, backing both women up toward the brick wall.

  Flick.

  “So, what’s under that, uh, that—” The middle one disdainfully flapped his hand toward Amina’s head.

  “Hijab,” Amina said drily.

  The little man on the left was starting to get twitchy. “Don’t speak your Ay-rab around here, bitch! Why don’t you go back to your cave in the desert?”

  The one in charge stilled the twitchy one with a glance. “I think we need to show them what we do to terrorists here in America.”

  The three men moved close enough that Jessica could smell the beer on their breath. Her heartbeat filled her ears, accompanied by the whoosh of the blood violently coursing through her veins.

  The one in charge leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “We fuck them up.” He had his eyes on Jessica, as though trying to decide if the white American was culpable as well.

  Flick. Out of the corner of her eye, Jessica saw the orange glow catapulting toward the street, pinpoints of tiny embers trailing, before hitting the ground and going dark.

  Jessica’s head hit the brick wall hard enough that the sound of the impact was more startling than the bolt of pain. Only one of the men—the middle on
e—had pushed her. The other two flanked Amina, and Jessica couldn’t see them through the flash of pain and the bulk of the man pinning her to the wall. But she could hear hissed Arabic coming from the struggling woman to her left.

  Then she heard the sound of a car, no, a truck. A door opened, and the three men spun around and ran. Jessica turned to her left to find Amina clutching her bag with one hand and tightening her scarf with the other. Black strands of hair were out of place, strewn around her face.

  A man in a food-service uniform stepped down from the cab of the truck, seemingly torn between chasing the three men and checking on the women. But the men were gone already.

  Jessica wanted to grab the truck driver and hug him out of gratitude, fear, and relief, but something about the way Amina held her composure made Jessica feel weak for even considering it. Instead, she reached up to check the back of her head, wincing as her fingers discovered the point at which it had struck the wall. A goose egg swelling with hot blood resisted her touch.

  “You ladies okay?” As the man got near and his eyes focused in on Amina, he flinched. “I’m going to call 911.” He took out his phone.

  “No.” Amina’s command offered no compromise.

  The man froze.

  Jessica placed her hand on Amina’s arm. “Amina, we need to call the police to report this.”

  Amina pulled away. “No. We will not contact the police.” The finality of her statement seemed abrupt and unconsidered. But the vulnerability that flashed across her face paused Jessica’s impulse to call in the heaviest government force available.

  She took Amina aside. “Why? We need to report this. It’s—”

  “No police.” Amina grasped Jessica’s arm. “Promise me.”

  Jessica searched Amina’s face, ignoring the distraction of the stray hairs caught in the breeze. Then Amina’s fears revealed themselves. Assad, the Mukhabarat, an economics professor tortured, a pending asylum case. Even if Amina were comfortable dealing with law enforcement in the US—and she might not have been after her experiences at home—there was still the consideration of not wanting to draw more attention to herself while she pursued permanent residency in the country.

  Jessica might have disagreed with that assessment, but she wasn’t the one with so much at stake. Turning back to the man from the truck, Jessica thanked him and spoke with a confidence she didn’t feel. “We’re fine. There’s no need to call the police. They’re gone. We didn’t even really get a good look at them.”

  “If you say so.” He looked off in the direction the three men had run then back at the women. “But let me walk you to your car.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jessica jerked awake, her every muscle contracted as if ready for impact. The numbers on the clock glowed red in the darkness. It was only 4:13 a.m. She could feel Danny breathing steadily behind her and relaxed slightly.

  He’d been asleep already when she’d arrived home after dropping Amina off at the Darbi home. She hadn’t wanted to wake him, nor had she wanted to talk, so she’d whispered goodnights when he stirred mid-dream. But just because she wasn’t talking about what had happened didn’t mean it wasn’t replaying in her mind.

  Maybe she could convince herself that three drunk assholes had just said some mean things to two women on the street, and that was it. Maybe it was best to move on and forget about it rather than make a big deal of it. She didn’t know the half of what Amina and her family had been through. Maybe this seemed like nothing to Amina. Maybe getting the police involved really would have been worse in some way.

  Sure, she could aspire to convince herself of that, but her body screamed otherwise. Adrenaline had her in self-defense mode even while she was safe at home, in bed with a man so comfortable in his security that he could sleep through the monstrous pounding of Jessica’s heart. She rolled over and looked at her husband. Even in his sleep, Danny moved to embrace her as she burrowed her head into his chest.

  The minutes ticked by in slow motion. She feared closing her eyes and seeing the men again in her dreams, where she had no control over what they might do. She couldn’t keep events from replaying while she was awake, but she could freeze-frame them, questioning each word she’d spoken and every move she’d made—from not calling the police to not turning back to walking out of the office alone to taking Amina’s case in the first place to not telling Danny.

  She should tell Danny. Wake him up right now and tell him. He would hold her and tell her she was safe, that he would protect her. Or he would be angry she hadn’t told him about Amina.

  He would—and in this, she had no doubt—insist she call the police. And she had promised Amina she wouldn’t.

  There would be no more sleep tonight, and the men in her head, the noise in her head, needed to be tamed. All of it was just more disorder, more disarray in what, not so long ago, had been a well-ordered life. She slid out of bed.

  “We have an iron? What else have you been keeping from me?” Danny looked deadpan at Jessica, who stood behind an ironing board, next to a growing pile of freshly pressed napkins and tablecloths.

  She muted the TV news that had been distracting her from replaying the night over and over.

  Danny nodded approvingly at the coffee maker. “Now that’s what I like to see.” The sole early riser in the family, Danny was usually in charge of the coffee. “Why are you up so early? And why the, uh...” He waved his hand at the linens.

  She shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Is everything okay? I don’t even know what time you came in last night.”

  “I’m fine. The meeting went late.” On the TV, images of a refugee camp in Turkey replaced the sports results on the screen.

  Danny’s eyes followed hers. “Oh, that’s right. You were talking about the refugees. So, they really are going to resettle some in Maryland?” He shook his head. “I still think it’s a bad idea.”

  Jessica nodded noncommittally, the bump on her head pulsating in response, inviting trouble. She flicked off the TV.

  Danny laced up his running shoes. “I’m going for a quick run, then I’ve got to get out of here. You all set with everything?”

  She realized she hadn’t made eye contact with him yet this morning. She forced a smile and did so now, hoping he couldn’t see the still-untamed chaos behind her eyes. “All set. Thanks.”

  By the time Danny had exercised and showered, Jessica had finished the ironing, made the kids’ lunches, and pushed the old trunk on a blanket from the parlor to the back door.

  Danny poured himself a to-go cup of coffee and grabbed his laptop bag. “What’s with the trunk?”

  “Thought I’d take it out to the shed and do some work on it.” Her greatest arsenal for managing chaos lay in the shed, and even if all it accomplished was distraction, it would be better than the ruminations that threatened her sanity.

  “Ah, that’s why the ironing. It’s all coming together now. Great idea, hon. Glad you have a new project. It’s been a while since you’ve been out there. Let me help you get it to the shed.” He started to set down his things.

  “No.” The “no” had come out more sharply than she’d intended. “I’ve got it. I don’t need any help. My project, right?” She mockingly flexed her biceps.

  Danny adjusted his laptop bag over his shoulder. “You know, every time someone comes into my office for the first time, they comment on that table. I love telling them that you made it. Lawyer-wife turned PTA president slash DIY-er. What’s the inspiration this time? Extra time now that Conor is driving?”

  “I guess. Yeah.” He was close. Extra time would mean more opportunities for events to replay in her mind, and that was the last thing she wanted.

  Danny’s phone buzzed. “Shit. I don’t have extra time. I gotta go, but I’ll be home early tonight. Have a great day.” He pecked her on the lips and was gone.

  Jessica’s body started to relax from the façade she’d been presenting, but the sound of feet on the stairs pulled eve
rything taut again.

  The kids whirlwinded through the kitchen, as usual. Ever since Conor had replaced Jessica on morning driving duty, she’d felt bittersweet about it. Extra time for herself didn’t quite make up for the lost time with her kids. But today she was relieved she didn’t have to be in the car with them.

  She felt separated from the action—from herself, even—as she watched the blur of a familiar morning passing before her. Her curly-haired boy spilled Lucky Charms and milk from his plastic container yet again on his way out the door. Her freckle-faced girl checked her lunch to see if Mom had packed it correctly. And her sixteen-year-old driver sullenly chastised the others for running late, which they weren’t, but why deviate from the morning routine?

  As the front door slammed, Jessica sensed the rumbling of an oncoming rush of emotions. The fear, anger, anxiety, and guilt all wanted to take advantage of the empty house and attack. She fought back. Focusing intently on the trunk, Jessica shoved her phone in her back pocket, propped open the back door, and braced herself.

  Reaching to the right and the left, Jessica could just get her hands into the cracked leather handles on either side of the trunk. She tested their strength and felt the leather strain but hold against the weight as she lifted. The cold metal pressed against her upper arms.

  Even empty, the trunk was heavy, built to withstand time, travel, and abuse. Sensing the tension in her own legs as she lifted the heavy piece, Jessica welcomed the stress on her muscles. Steadying the trunk, she swiveled her body toward the back door, using the fronts of her thighs to stabilize the bulky piece as she waddled sideways through the doorway. It should have been a perfect fit. But a bent metal hinge on the back of the trunk proved otherwise and made itself known by scratching straight across the doorframe. The ruler-straight gouge was oddly mesmerizing.