When the Apricots Bloom

by Gina Wilkinson

“Alone? Why?”

  In the oven, chicken fat splattered and popped.

  “Abdul Amir needs some space right now,” said Abu Issa. “Let him be. There’s no need for you to get involved in men’s business.”

  Huda glanced through the window into the garden. Men’s business. What did that mean? Abdul Amir hunched over the picnic table, one bottle of beer in his hand, the others waiting to be drained. When he’d looked at her in the kitchen, his face had been slack with shock. Was it possible he’d learned of her plan? Had he turned her in to the mukhabarat?

  “I’m thirsty.” Abu Issa frowned. “Can you do me the favor of pouring some juice, with ice, then join us in the living room?”

  “Us?”

  “My partner is here,” he muttered darkly. “He’s in the living room, waiting for you.”

  Goose bumps prickled Huda’s skin. Was Abu Issa toying with her, with his request for cold juice? Did her husband intend to sit in the backyard and drink himself senseless, while the mukhabarat dragged his disloyal wife to Abu Ghraib? Her eyes swiveled to the knife on the chopping board. She thought of the gun that Abdul Amir kept under the bed. But in the end, she set two glasses of mango juice on a tray and followed Abu Issa into the living room.

  The Bolt Cutter paced the room with a rabid-dog gleam in his eyes. She laid the tray on the table, and he snatched up a glass in his fist. Huda stopped dead. The Bolt Cutter’s knuckles were scraped raw. Flecks of blood stained his shirt. Was this men’s business?

  “Have you spoken with Ally Wilson recently?” Abu Issa didn’t bother with his usual chitchat. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  “No.” Her answer came faster and louder than she intended.

  “Are you sure?”

  Huda battled the urge to run down the hall, out the door, and into the street. She prayed that Khalid would stay out late, that he wouldn’t come home to find a man with bloodied hands in his living room—or his mother vanished to the dungeons of Abu Ghraib.

  Abu Issa traded glances with the Bolt Cutter.

  “Sit down, sister.”

  Huda’s body refused to obey.

  “The chicken is burning!” she cried, and bolted out the door.

  She steeled herself for the thud of boots, for Abu Issa’s hand on her shoulder, for the Bolt Cutter to grab her by the throat. She flung open the back door and hurried across the patio.

  “What’s going on, Abdul Amir? Why are the mukhabarat here?”

  “Leave me alone.” He turned his back to her. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  He knows.

  “Why are they here?” She checked the kitchen window. “What’s happened?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Please, tell me.”

  Abdul Amir covered his eyes. His mouth contorted. A sob slipped out.

  “Go away,” he muttered. “I can’t bear to look at you.”

  Huda’s heart bucked like a train leaping the tracks. Had Abdul Amir turned her in? Why else would the Bolt Cutter be here, with bloodlust shining in his eyes?

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I truly am.”

  “You’re not as sorry as I am,” muttered Abdul Amir. “Please, I told you to leave me alone.”

  “Tell me you haven’t—”

  “Go, Huda.” His voice split like wood under an axe. “The mukhabarat want to talk to you.”

  * * *

  Abu Issa threw open the back door.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Huda backed away, head swiveling left to right. She eyed the path at the side of the house and asked herself, Can I outrun them?

  “I can’t do this.” Abdul Amir hung his head like a beaten dog. “How can I live with this on my conscience?”

  “What’s done is done.” Abu Issa frowned.

  “I should never have told you.”

  “We would have found out on our own, eventually.”

  The Bolt Cutter’s bovine face loomed in the kitchen window. Huda wondered, had he come to drag her away? Or would he kill her in her own backyard? Someone whimpered. A moment, later, she realized it was her.

  “I can’t look my wife in the face.” Abdul Amir clapped his hands to his eyes. “And God help me, what will I do if my son finds out? I can’t do this. I’m going to the coffee shop.”

  He stumbled toward the back door.

  “Don’t go, please.” Huda grabbed his elbow. “Please, don’t leave me.”

  He shook her off and pushed past Abu Issa into the kitchen. Through the window, Huda saw the Bolt Cutter turn and stomp after him. Moments later, the front door slammed. Abu Issa advanced across the patio.

  “What did Abdul Amir tell you?”

  “Nothing.” Huda sidled toward the side of the house. “Nothing at all.”

  “You’re a bad liar,” he said. “My partner will bring your husband back. We don’t want Abdul Amir opening his mouth about any of this.”

  “Please, Abu Issa, I—”

  “Your husband should have been more vigilant. This problem could have been nipped in the bud.”

  “It’s not Abdul Amir’s fault.” Huda took another step toward the path of concrete slabs.

  “I expected more from you, Huda.”

  “Please, don’t let the Bolt Cutter hurt him.”

  “Bolt Cutter? That’s what you call my partner?” Abu Issa laughed sourly. “I suppose it suits him.”

  Huda trembled. “I’m sorry.”

  “That damn fool is out of control.” Abu Issa raked his hands across his scalp. “I hope he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

  He stabbed his finger at her.

  “Don’t go anywhere. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be back.”

  Abu Issa spun on his heel, returned indoors, and disappeared past the kitchen window. Huda doubled over, breath coming in hard, hot gulps. She wanted to collapse on the soft green grass, but a voice inside her yelled, Go, now, before the mukhabarat come back!

  Huda raced inside, snatched the tea canister from the pantry, and pried it open. Precious dollars and dinar spilled onto the counter. Huda ran to Khalid’s bedroom and hauled his backpack from the closet. As she stuffed the cash in the bag, doubts rushed at her. Should she leave Khalid with his father? Should she take the money and flee to Basra? Deep inside, she knew it was pointless. Wherever she went, the mukhabarat would hunt her down.

  “What the hell?” Abdul Amir’s bulk filled the doorway. He stared at the rolls of cash in her hand and the backpack on the bed.

  “What is this? Are you leaving me? Are you taking Khalid?”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” A spike of pain made Huda clutch her chest. “But it’s not safe for Khalid here. The Bolt Cutter sat on our couch tonight, drinking our juice without washing the blood from his hands. Khalid can’t be around this. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I can barely look at you.” Abdul Amir’s face contorted as he stepped through the door.

  “Please . . .” Every muscle in Huda’s body tensed. “Don’t—”

  “An innocent man is dead, and it’s my fault.”

  Huda couldn’t breathe. She shook her head, but his words still didn’t make sense.

  “I told the mukhabarat about that driver, Hatim, ferrying Ally around.” Abdul Amir slumped on the edge of the bed. “Abu Issa asked me to ride with them and point Hatim out. When they found him, they threw him in the back of their car. I thought they’d take him for questioning.” He covered his face with his hands. “The Bolt Cutter got out of control.”

  Huda’s mind replayed the Bolt Cutter’s raw knuckles, the fresh blood on his shirt.

  “Hatim’s dead?”

  “It was the Bolt Cutter’s doing. Abu Issa wasn’t happy about it. Extra paperwork, he said. He ordered me not to say anything, said it’d be bad for public morale.” Abdul Amir tried to laugh, but it morphed into a sob. “I don’t blame you for wanting to leave. And you’re right, Khalid should go too. Take him with you to Basra, or back to your village
, before the mukhabarat poison him too.”

  “So you didn’t turn me in?”

  Abdul Amir raised his red-veined eyes.

  “Why would I do that?”

  Huda battled to stay calm, while inside her everything whirled and spun.

  “Why would I turn you in, Huda?”

  “I thought the mukhabarat might be angry with me, about Ally traveling around unmonitored with Hatim. Abu Issa already said he was disappointed in me.” The rolls of cash in her hand turned damp with sweat. “Where is Abu Issa, anyway? He left to find you and the Bolt Cutter. Did you see him?”

  “They’re waiting outside. I told them I needed to get my keys.” Abdul Amir buried his face in his hands again. “They want me to go to the coffee shop and find out if people are talking about Hatim’s death. They want to know if anyone is complaining.”

  “You better go,” said Huda. “Don’t let them get suspicious. Keep them away from here so I have time to pack . . . for Basra.”

  Another lie. Huda could hardly remember what honesty felt like.

  * * *

  Huda laid the phone back in its cradle. She wondered, had the mukhabarat been listening in? Rania was no fool. She used the code they’d agreed on to set their departure time. She sounded cool and collected—at least she would have to a stranger monitoring the line. But Huda had recognized the treble of sorrow in her voice.

  “Who were you talking to?” Khalid dumped his school bag by the kitchen counter. “You sounded sort of upset.”

  “Upset? Not at all. I was organizing a trip to Lake Habbaniyah.” Huda knew that some lies were best hidden in plain view. And if anything went wrong, if they had to abandon their plan, they could swim in the lake’s warm waters, wash the falsehood away, and turn it into truth. “If I sounded stressed on the phone, it’s because this trip is last-minute. We need to plan a few things.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Mrs. Wilson, my old friend Rania Mansour, and her daughter, Hanan. And you too, my dear. Would you like a day off school?”

  “A day off school?” Khalid punched the air. “Lake Habbaniyah, here I come.”

  He dug his lunch box from his bag.

  “I thought Lake Habbaniyah had shut down? Bakr’s cousin went there a couple of years ago. He said it was like a ghost town.”

  “It’s true, the tourist resort is closed. But that means there’ll be plenty of quiet beaches for us to enjoy. Now go wash your hands.” Huda struggled to keep her voice even. “There’s roast chicken and eggplant fritters for dinner.”

  “We’re not waiting for Dad?”

  “He went to the coffee shop. I expect he’ll be home late.”

  Khalid peered into her face. His green eyes narrowed.

  “Your mascara is all smudged. You look like a raccoon. Have you two been arguing again?”

  “No, not at all.” Huda wiped her finger under her lids. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Is Dad coming to Lake Habbaniyah?”

  “I wish he was, but he has other things to do here. Important things.” Huda busied herself with the oven while Khalid washed his hands in the sink.

  “Is that cardamom chicken, Mom? That’s my favorite, you know.”

  “I know very well, my darling.” Huda ladled a slice of eggplant onto his dinner plate. “I wanted to cook a special dinner for you.”

  “Where’s your plate, Mom?”

  “I’m not feeling hungry. But, please, sit down and get started before it gets cold.”

  Huda’s lip quivered. She’d wanted so badly for them all to share a family meal together, to enjoy a few old jokes, and pretend that the moment would last forever. Instead, she hid her face from her son and bumbled about the kitchen, sick to her stomach.

  She couldn’t stop thinking of the taxi driver. Was Hatim’s wife already washing his body and wrapping it in a shroud? Or was she in her kitchen, same as Huda, trying to keep her husband’s dinner warm, telling herself he must have stopped to play a game of backgammon on the way home? She pictured the woman at the dinner table, listening to the tick of the clock on her wall.

  Khalid sliced into his chicken.

  “You’re the best cook ever, Mom.”

  Huda smothered a sob and fled out the back door. In the garden, cicadas buzzed. Their cry cycled up and down, up and down, like a pulsing heart. Huda glanced through the kitchen window as Khalid bit into a slice of eggplant. What would he do when he learned the trip to Lake Habbaniyah was a ruse? Would he welcome a chance at freedom? Or, like his father, would he rather die than leave Iraq?

  The waxy leaves of the orange tree scraped against the fence. On the horizon, the flames of al-Dora speared the gray evening. Huda tried to take a deep breath but her chest was tight as a drum. She knew she should go inside and finish packing but she couldn’t leave the garden. She wiped her eyes and wondered, Would this be the last time she’d smell the apricot trees’ perfume?

  CHAPTER 27

  Ally slumped over her desk. For the tenth time since she returned from the riverside, she pulled out her mother’s postcards and thought about tearing them up. Ally knew it wasn’t a good idea, but she removed Yusra’s photo from her bag anyway.

  The young nurse smiled at her. It was obvious from Yusra’s straight-up stare, she would have struggled every day to still her tongue. Same as Ally’s mother. With a shiver, she remembered Miriam Pachachi’s warning, Two can keep a secret only when one of them is dead.

  Ally wiped a tear away and wondered, could guilt have caused her mother’s cancer? Did shame multiply inside her cells? Did she lie in that darkened bedroom and pop pills to kill the pain, or was it to keep the memories at bay, until the woman who wrote the postcards was thoroughly erased?

  Like her mother, Ally had come to Baghdad dreaming of the possibilities under its enormous blue sky. Now, Huda was under the mukhabarat’s boot. Khalid would end up in the fedayeen. Hanan could be raped and killed. Ally couldn’t stop thinking about Rania’s description of the wild dogs that Uday kept in a cage.

  She put the postcards and photos away, crept to the bathroom, and splashed water on her face. She drank a glass of tepid water then lay down with sliced cucumbers on her eyes, while anger and guilt and fear galloped through her chest.

  After the cucumber grew warm and floppy, Ally forced herself to get up and put a pot of water on the stove. She checked that she still had potatoes in the pantry, and cheese, butter, and green beans in the fridge for dinner, then lay down with a second round of sliced cucumber.

  When the locks on the front door squealed, she didn’t move.

  “I’m home,” Tom called.

  “I’ve got a migraine coming on,” she called from the darkened bedroom. “There’s some dinner for you on the stove. I’ve taken a couple of ibuprofen. I’m going to try and get some sleep.”

  “Sorry, babe.” He ambled to her bedside, bent down, and kissed her cheek. “I’ll try not to wake you when I come to bed.”

  “Thanks,” mumbled Ally. She wanted to scooch aside, pull him under the covers with her, and whisper everything she’d learned in his ear. But she knew he’d never agree to her smuggling Khalid and Hanan out of Iraq. Much less in an embassy vehicle. But what else could she do? Abandon Khalid? Leave Hanan to Uday? Look away while the regime destroyed more lives—just like it did with Yusra?

  In forty-eight hours this will all be over, she told herself. She’ll be safely in Jordan, where her secrets posed no threat to anyone, not her, not Rania and Huda, not Tom either. She rested her arm across her eyes to conceal her pink, mottled lids, and counted the seconds until he left for the kitchen.

  In the morning, Ally pretended to sleep through Tom’s alarm. She didn’t want him looking in her eyes. If they were windows to the soul, surely he’d notice hers curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth, and gnawing its fingernails down to the quick. Once she was sure he was gone, she packed a small suitcase, then spent the rest of the day in front of the mirror, rehearsing li
es, over and over again, until Tom returned from work once more.

  “I’m in the bedroom,” called Ally. She tucked the battered manila envelope into her suitcase and zipped it shut. “I’m doing some packing.”

  “You’re packing?” Tom kissed her on the cheek and dumped his briefcase next to the bed.

  Ally poked her head inside the wardrobe and rifled among her dresses. She’d already chosen her clothes, but suddenly she wasn’t sure she could go through with her story. She repeated her lies so many times, the words had lost all meaning.

  “I’m going to take up your suggestion, well, sort of . . .” Her laugh sounded so fake in her ears she was amazed that Tom didn’t notice. She shoved her coats to one side. “I thought I’d take a little trip to Jordan. I’m overdue for some R and R. And maybe, to make you happy, I’ll check out some apartments while I’m there.”

  “You will?” said Tom. “That’s great. When do you want to go?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “So soon? I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “I talked to Huda already. She’s got it all organized. The driver, the exit permit, and everything else. You don’t need to worry about anything. You’re busy enough.”

  He slipped his arm around her waist and turned her about.

  “I’m never too busy for you.”

  “Yeah, right.” Ally faked another laugh.

  “I’m glad to see you feeling better.” He smoothed a strand of hair away from her face. “I was sure that migraine was going to keep you in bed for at least another day or two. No offense, but you looked pretty horrendous last night.”

  “Thank you, love.” She patted his cheek. “You have such a charming way with words.”

  Tom shifted Ally’s suitcase off the bed and removed his shoes.

  “Come here.” He smiled slyly, and patted the mattress beside him. “You must be exhausted from all the packing.” He reached for her hand and pulled her toward the bed. “Lie down, relax, with me.”

  “Relax?” Ally straddled his legs and pushed him backwards onto the mattress. “Is that what you’re calling it now?”

  “I’ll call it anything you want.”

  He pulled her toward him, but she slipped out of his arms, rolled away, and clambered to her feet. She wished she could hide in bed with Tom, close her eyes, and forget about the world outside.