The Parking Lot Attendant

by Nafkote Tamirat

  “And I sentence him to jail for a year.”

  “No. Death.”

  This was from the woman, who didn’t need a lawyer because she said she didn’t.

  “What?”

  “Death. Put him to death.”

  “But surely this crime doesn’t warrant—”

  “If you don’t do it, I will.”

  Everyone knew she would. Probably with her teeth.

  The judge was beginning to sweat.

  “All right.”

  “In front of me.”

  “What?”

  “Kill him while I watch.”

  The judge fell off his chair. As in literally: he was sitting upright one minute and then was on the floor the next.

  “Ma’am … for a woman … to, to…”

  The woman stared. The judge summoned a flunky dressed in a khaki uniform (who may or may not have been an employee of the court, since at that time the cheapest form of dress was khaki attire) and whispered something to him. Within an hour, the man (who had spent the entire trial looking straight ahead, expressionless, having already accepted what he’d known from the start: that the minute he stopped, it was all over; redemption was in movement alone) was swinging from a tree near the courtroom. The woman calmly surveyed the scene, nodded once, twice, three times (a lady?) and then went home, where her children, having heard the tales about their mother, were frightened of her, a condition that would bleed into their children and those children’s children until the first of them finally left for America.

  This woman, concluded the speaker, was Ayale’s mother.

  * * *

  I was squinting into the direction I thought might be east, trying to decide if this qualified as full sunrise when the door behind me opened. I walked in, turned around, and saw my mother for the first time in twelve years. She had aged profoundly. I drew as close to her as I dared and opened my arms, which she neatly sidestepped to move to another door on the opposite side of the room.

  “You must be hungry,” she called.

  She returned with a loaf of bread and a knife.

  “Do you have any coffee?”

  She left and came back with a full pot.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I work here.”

  Her last words replayed in my mind.

  “You’re the voice on the loudspeaker.”

  “I didn’t think you’d remember my voice after so many years.”

  “I didn’t, either.”

  “Do you want sugar in your coffee?”

  “How long have you known that I was here?”

  “I told your father how to find us.”

  “What?”

  She sliced the bread. I’m tired of people not answering, forcing me to find responses to my own questions. Some might call this true knowledge, teaching someone how to fish as opposed to just handing over some mackerel, but I hate that expression and the process is exhausting.

  “Were you the one he was seeing on the weekends?”

  “I wasn’t there. I’d send things to a mailbox and he’d pick them up.”

  “The shirt? That was you?”

  “Yes!” She was pleased. “Did you like it?”

  “Why didn’t you ever come see me?”

  “There was never a good time. Did you like it? That’s one of my favorite colors.”

  “And yet you had plenty of time to send all that shit.”

  “Please don’t swear. Have some bread.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  She maintained her silence until I took a slice.

  “You’ve gotten so thin.”

  “Why am I here?”

  She took a visibly deep breath.

  “I have to go back a bit.”

  “Go right ahead. I’ve canceled my other appointments.”

  “Thank you.”

  Another breath. Her hairline was receding. Nothing should have led to this.

  “Around the time your father started to visit us—those horrible visits!—I was beginning to panic. We were living off an advance from the house-sitting job. I had nothing else lined up. I couldn’t take you to interviews, and I couldn’t afford babysitters; I only found that job because of the nice cashier at Star Market.”

  “Gloria.”

  I had forgotten her of the Technicolor braids.

  “It was stressful. You were too young then, but maybe now you can understand what a simultaneous lack of money and love can do to a person.”

  “I loved you.”

  “It wasn’t enough. Forgive me, but it wasn’t enough.”

  She left and came back with another cup. When she was done pouring coffee, she continued.

  “I don’t know how he heard of me, but one morning, Ayale was on our doorstep, all smiles and muffins. I invited him in. You were still asleep. We sat at the kitchen table, he introduced himself, then launched into how he’d heard that I was having some trouble and he wanted to help. I asked him why, and he said because all who are exiled must stick together.”

  “How poetic.”

  “He saved our lives. He gave me two hundred dollars and made me promise to come see him when we were back in Boston. I couldn’t wait that long. As soon as it seemed like your father was serious about returning, I took the first train back. I was fascinated by the man.”

  “Were you in love with him?”

  She looked at me and then swiftly away.

  “It was never a factor.”

  “Did he ever see me when I was a child?”

  “No, I don’t believe so.”

  “Did he ever hear my name?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Go on.”

  The more coffee I drank, the more drained I felt.

  “I went to the address he’d given me, which turned out to be a parking lot. He took me to lunch and, well, he just made so much sense. Why shouldn’t we change the world? He asked me about you, and I said that you were taken care of. In that case, he said, you can start right away. I began traveling around trying to spread word of our project, kind of like what Father was doing. Then he called me back to Boston. The test run was in full force, but they needed local governors; he asked if I was interested.”

  “So, let’s review: you came back to Boston. And still didn’t see me. In Boston. Where I lived.”

  She remained calm.

  “I understand your anger.”

  “Were you the one who kept calling?”

  She nodded.

  “I would wait until the others were asleep. Ayale gave me your number.”

  “Why did he choose you?”

  “He said he had a good feeling about it. The rest of the Danga had already been selected, but it was all men. He felt it would be better to have at least one female representative.”

  Her tone didn’t match the sudden redness of her face, the shaking of her hands. She laughed, a cutting and cut-off sound.

  “No other woman would have said yes. I had nothing to lose; I had no one else.”

  “What about me? You had me.”

  “When I complained that this hadn’t been in the job description, I couldn’t take it anymore, that monster tried to convince me that without my personal … attentions, there would be a bloodbath, too much unrelieved tension. I asked him if continual rape was the only solution he could envision. He said he felt that was the wrong word to use. I said I would leave. He asked me how I planned on doing that. Then he said: You are where you are because I put you there; you will stay until I put you somewhere else.”

  I tried to hug her but, when she withdrew, took her hands instead.

  “When your father told me how close you and Ayale were becoming, I threatened to shoot him if he didn’t drag you two apart. True to form, he failed.”

  “You can’t force anyone to do anything.”

  “How comforting.”

  “Why am I here?”

  Changing the subject is a key maneuver to learn, take it from me
.

  She touched me for the first time, her right hand on my shoulder. Her eyes were the same shape as mine.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  I had already lit a cigarette.

  “Didn’t we outlaw that?”

  “Just answer me. And don’t get my father into trouble for the cigarettes—that’s my fault, too.”

  “I thought things would be fine after you left for college, but I’d underestimated Ayale. Once the idea got into everyone’s head that it was you who had turned him in and forced him to flee, I knew you’d never be safe if you stayed in America. He has an enormous network of spies and contacts. They would have killed you.”

  She checked to see that I was conscious before she continued.

  “You needed to disappear. I spoke to Father, and he spread the rumor that you and your father were always meant to move here. The police, Ayale’s premature departure from Boston—it was all part of the plan. If someone didn’t understand, it was because they weren’t meant to.”

  “I can tell that you’re very proud of yourself.”

  “I’m sorry. This is a lot.”

  “Oh no, I get this all the time. I thought you were going to tell me something crazy.”

  “Please sit down.”

  “My father told me a year. Can we go after a year?”

  She didn’t have to speak; her face told me how stupid I was, to not know that I was trapped.

  “Out of curiosity, was this why I was asked to come this morning?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  I lay down across the floor, forehead smashed into the frigid concrete.

  “Tell me.”

  She took one of her deep breaths.

  “Perhaps you’ve noticed a few additions to our community.”

  “Ye-e-e-s.”

  I dragged out the word to prolong the time before her next sentence.

  “We—the Danga—have been meeting with these men. We thought they might be here to prepare us for Ayale’s arrival or our evacuation.”

  My heart dropped to my feet and then careened back up again.

  “Is he here?”

  She shook her head.

  “They’ve been sent by him. It seems that he’s decided to launch events a bit differently.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Financially, we’re finished. The men are here to help us move.”

  “So wait—we’re going? He won?”

  Her discomfort was palpable.

  “The land isn’t in our hands yet, but if we stay, we run the risk of losing our investors, once they see how hopeless our position is. I don’t know where we’re going. All I know is that the Danga won’t be in charge anymore; Ayale will take over.”

  Despite myself, my spirits surged, which didn’t go unnoticed.

  “There are caveats,” she cautioned. “Conditions.”

  “I know what a caveat is.”

  “You and your father will not be coming with us.”

  “What do you even—”

  “Ayale feels that you are both completely ill-prepared for the mission.”

  “So what does he expect us to do? Where are we supposed to go?” I was sitting upright now.

  Her eyes had roamed to a point slightly to the right of me. She cleared her throat.

  “Well?”

  “Your father can do as he wants, but you’re now an active danger.”

  Her eyes were brimming over.

  “What’s going to happen to me?”

  She knelt and brought her hands up as if to cup my face, but then thought better of it.

  “You are to be put to death in two weeks’ time.”

  Her perfume smelled famous.

  “I’m still your daughter! You could convince them!”

  I went quiet when I thought about what it might take to persuade the men of the Danga.

  “I’ve already tried. I volunteered to escort you to whatever location he chose, but he wouldn’t have it.”

  She stood back up, adjusting invisible things on her knees.

  “The Danga only let you in because I begged and everyone thought it was what Ayale wanted.”

  I considered this.

  “What will happen to you? Does he know that you and Father helped us?”

  This time she looked me directly in the eyes.

  “I hope not.”

  “But if he does?”

  “You don’t need me to tell you; you’re a big girl.”

  I collapsed onto the floor, eyes trained on the ceiling, not sure how to find my cigarettes from this position.

  “It’ll be a firing squad. Compulsory attendance for everyone.”

  I rose and silently closed the door behind myself as she wept. It turns out that it’s quite a simple thing, leaving: no wonder all the adults I know keep doing it, without a backward glance.

  * * *

  As soon as my father arrived home that night, I started talking and didn’t stop until it felt as though all the words I knew had been sucked out. To his credit, he listened to everything, with no interruptions. When he asked to hear the story again, he was just as attentive. When I’d finished, he stared at the wall behind me. We smoked awhile before I spoke.

  “After we arrived on the island, did you still communicate with her?”

  “No. That was one of her stipulations.”

  “What were the others?”

  “I couldn’t tell you or anyone that I knew her. I had to accept any subsequent decision the Danga made regarding us, with the understanding that she wouldn’t intercede. You shouldn’t have left her like that.”

  “I know.”

  Quiet again, until he cleared his throat.

  “This might be a stupid question but … how do you feel?”

  “Not real. I don’t believe any of this is going to happen.”

  “Maybe it doesn’t have to.”

  “I don’t think you’re really grasping the concept of a death sentence.”

  “You won’t want to hear this, but your mother’s been trying to save you from the moment you came back into her life. She brought you here. She just gave you two weeks’ advance notice; when has the Danga ever given fair warning? Do you think anyone will do the same for her if he decides to get rid of her?”

  I stared at him, and he nodded.

  “I’d bet money that she’s almost died for your sake on more than one occasion.”

  I remembered how small she’d looked, how I’d left her to cry alone, and knew that the break inside me was for forever. He tried to smile.

  “You’ll have to head out early, when it’s still dark. I’ll steal as much food as I can for you, and I’ll draw you a map to the phone I used when I got here. It’s a long walk, so you’ll have to move fast before you get too hungry. There are plenty of tourists around that area. I remember them, all wearing those long shorts; find someone who can help you.”

  “They’ll just kill me sooner.”

  “Leave it to me.” He pointed to my bed. “Now get some sleep.”

  I rolled in, relishing the prospect of hours of unconsciousness in the face of imminent freefall. Suddenly, he wrapped his arms around my prone body.

  “I know you don’t think much of us as parents, and maybe it’s in the nature of being a teenager to think that no one has suffered as greatly as you, but you’re right, we’ve been lousy as lousy can be. Still, I want you to remember that while we weren’t there for a lot of small things, we really have been trying to make up for it with the big things. Will you remember that?” I nodded into my pillow. “Good.”

  He released me, and I heard the sound of his feet on the floor, approaching his own bed. When I woke up the next morning, the sun was high, and he was nowhere in sight.

  * * *

  My father arrived home an hour ago with two bananas and four slices of bread for my meager store. He tells me to get ready to leave tonight; I will know when. Before I go to bed I hug him, something I haven’t done in years
. He smiles and playfully tugs my hair. I assume that his plan includes his escape as well as mine, perhaps the two of us acting as decoys for each other. This makes sense so long as I don’t think too hard about it.

  I wake up in the middle of the night because I hear a crash. By the time I light a candle, my father’s body, strung up from the strongest beam of the ceiling, has already ceased to struggle. The stool falling when he kicked it away was what had roused me. I run outside and scream until the others begin to arrive, the first being our nearest neighbor, who joins me in my shrill alarm when she sees what has happened. It seems like only seconds before the house is filled with bodies, shrieking, and melting candle wax. I had already slung my bag onto my back when I released the first cry and I’d slept in my regular clothes, both facts thankfully concealed by the dark. As the mayhem skyrockets, I slip around back, in the direction indicated on my father’s map. I run so fast that it’s only upon colliding with a tree that I realize I haven’t stopped crying since I first opened my eyes.

  All I want to do is crumple and sleep until my wretched breathing goes away, but as self-indulgent as I am, even I can’t justify wasting the embarrassment of life bestowed upon me by my parents. I’ve been advancing at the same rate all morning, stopping only when my tears obscure my vision and I must blot them away. They are of sadness but also fury. I feel invincible, which, it turns out, is a horrible thing to feel: I have never been less human.

  The more of B______ I see, the more I’m struck by its outstanding beauty. I wish that my father and I had taken vacations together. Even my mother and I stayed by the ocean once, in a house that wasn’t our own, which is kind of like a hotel.

  I sometimes wish I’d never met Ayale, but more often I think that meeting him was the first real thing that happened in my life. Perhaps I’m growing up, but the process is killing me.

  * * *

  All throughout the last month, I wanted my father to wake up in the middle of the night. I thought it would help me feel less lonely. I tried to will him awake. I once pushed him. Nothing worked. His snores seemed to increase in volume and frequency, keeping me awake even longer.

  I’m smoking now and hoping that someone will either see my smoke and give me food or see it and shoot me. I’m exhausted, I’m starving, I ate a rotten banana and it’s giving me terrible daydreams and breath, I miss my father, I want someone to save me, I want someone to tell me where to go and what to do and I will do it, I will do it with the pleasure of not thinking.