by Ayad Akhtar
It was morning recess and I couldn’t find him. After combing the playground—the kickball diamonds and tetherball posts—I found myself at the edge of the school grounds, where I noticed a group of boys gathered around a tree, cheering. Through an opening in the curtain that the boys’ backs formed, I spied Jason. He was leaned against the tree.
“Jason!” I shouted. He didn’t hear me.
As I made my way toward them, one of the boys stepped away from the tree, zipping himself up. Another stepped forward. The new boy pulled his pants down to his knees and began to pee. Someone moved and I saw Jason clearly. His hands were tied to the tree. And the boy was peeing on him.
“Jew! Jew! Jew! Jew!” they started jeering.
“You’re the one with the death wish!” one of them shouted.
“Stop it!” I yelled. I sprinted ahead, throwing myself at them. “Stop it! Stop it!”
Hands grabbed at my windbreaker, pulling it over my head. The boys shoved me back and forth between them, weak blows slapping against my back. I heard the hiss of the playground supervisor’s whistle, and everyone went scurrying off. I pulled the jacket from my head and saw Jason. He was crumpled against the tree, drenched in urine, weeping.
I went over and started to untie him. “Are you okay?” I asked.
He just shook his head. He wouldn’t even look up at me.
That afternoon, I was sent to the principal’s office to report the perpetrators. The boys were suspended, and I would become a pariah for weeks for having squealed for the sake of a Jew.
Jason’s parents would end up pulling him from school. I would never see him again.
The kawa tea came, wheeled in on a trolley by Najat and a couple of the other wives. Sonny rose as the women started serving. He made his apologies to Najat, shook hands with Father, then left—and without a word to Chatha. Amidst the ensuing (and uneasy) tinkle of stirring spoons and the slurping sips, the men’s discussion drifted back to the subject of Carter and Reagan. Chatha tried to provoke Father into picking up the discussion about Jews again. Father wasn’t interested. He kept to himself.
On the way out to the car that night, my parents got into an argument. Father was angry that Mother had made him come to the dinner. He got into the driver’s seat and slammed the door, and Mother—who didn’t want to have to sit next to him—made me sit in front. As we drove back through the continuing snowstorm, the car’s headlights rushing forward into the thick, insistent swirl of falling flakes, Father simmered in silence. He said nothing about the argument that had taken place among the men. Not to Mother. Not to me. And I sat next to him, worried.
I was worried that if what Chatha had said about Jews was right, then Jason’s troubles had only just begun…
8
Independence Day
When do the fireworks start?” Nathan asked Mother.
We were sitting in folding chairs at the edge of the local high school football field, one of the few points of local elevation, and thus a privileged perch from which to watch the municipal fireworks. We came every year with our Tupperware containers filled with Pakistani food and lassi, and this year Nathan had joined us as well.
“When it gets dark,” Father replied, taking a bite of a samosa. “What? You’ve never seen fireworks before?”
“I have, Naveed. I was just wondering. I mean, the sun’s already setting.”
“They’ll start when they start, Nate.”
“Fair enough.” Nathan looked in the direction of the goalpost, where Imran was playing with a new action figure Nathan had given him that evening back at the house. “I think he likes that figure I got him,” he said to Mina.
“Looks like it,” she replied with a high-pitched, singsong tone. She handed him a plastic plate heaped with white rice and ground beef curry. “You want some lassi, Nate?” she asked.
“Do I ever.”
Mina flashed him a wide grin.
I’d been noticing more and more that there was something different about Mina when Nathan was around, something stilted and performed. Something false. I couldn’t understand what it was about him that made her like this.
Mina held out a cup. Mother poured the yogurt drink into it, humming a tune to herself.
“What do you keep humming?” Mina asked.
“That song on the radio all day.”
“‘America the Beautiful,’” Nathan said.
“What?” Mother asked.
“It’s called ‘America the Beautiful.’ That’s what you’re humming.”
“I like it,” Mother said. Mina handed Nathan the lassi, then served another small plate of food and rose to her feet.
“Where are you going?” Nathan asked.
“I’m going to get Imran to eat something.” She walked over to her son and sat down next to him. As soon as he saw the food, Imran started whining.
Mother stopped humming. “Not good,” she muttered as she watched Mina with her son. Imran was slapping at his mother’s arm, to bat the plate away. He finally upended it, the food spilling on the grass. She got up and made her way back to us, empty plate in hand.
“Bhaj? Can you give me a couple gulab jamuns?”
“That’s for dessert.”
“He said he’ll eat that. I just want him to eat something.”
“You should be firmer with him. He leads you around by the nose.”
Mina stiffened. “What do you suggest?” she asked coldly.
“Make him eat.” Mother made no move for the dessert bin.
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Mina replied, irritated. “Please just give me a few gulab jamuns.”
“You know where they are. Take them yourself.”
Mina stared at Mother, incredulous.
“I’ll get them for you, Meen,” Nathan offered, setting his plate down on the blanket. Mina ignored him as she kneeled and snatched the oblong container, tearing open the plastic lid and picking out two golden, syrupy balls.
She stood again and walked back over to her son.
“Always creating trouble, Muneer,” Father said as he chewed. “Let her bring up her own child.”
Mother turned to him, her eyebrows arched. “See those blondes over there?” She gestured at a group of girls in shorts playing Frisbee farther out on the field. “Why don’t you offer them some of your sage counsel? Maybe they’ll get you drunk in return? Hmm? Who knows, maybe you’ll even get lucky. You would like that, I’m sure.”
“That’s enough, Muneer,” Father said firmly.
Mother pursed her lips. She turned to Nathan now. “She’s creating a monster…”
Nathan didn’t reply. He smiled weakly, looking down at his plate.
When Mina returned, she took up a plate for herself, serving herself a small portion of rice and beef. No one spoke as she ate.
The aluminum joints of Father’s folding chair released with a groan as he rose. “Good food, ladies. As always,” he said as he walked off.
I watched to see if he was going to go over to the blondes. Instead, he went to the parking lot, where he pulled open our car trunk and stood there.
Mother watched Mina as she ate. Mina ignored her.
When Mina was done, she set her plate down. Mother reached out for the dessert bin, opened it, and pulled out a sticky gulab jamun ball, which she set down on Mina’s plate. Mina looked up, her gaze locking in with Mother’s. They stared at each other for a moment, their expressions completely blank…
And then they burst out laughing.
“You can be such a pain, bhaj, you know that?”
“You’re not the first to say it,” Mother said with a smile.
“I don’t think you’re a pain, Muneer,” Nathan added, clearly relieved.
“You don’t know me that well, Nathan. Just wait. You’ll find out.”
He laughed. Then he looked over at Imran. “I’m gonna go check up on him,” Nathan said, rising, his plate of unfinished food in hand.
He walked over to the goalpost and sat dow
n beside Imran. As Nathan tried to get the boy to eat, Imran marched his action figure through Nathan’s food. Nathan watched, seeming amused, and soon enough they were playing together, each taking turns at marching the figure across Nathan’s plate.
I looked over at the parking lot again. Father was still standing there, staring down into the open trunk. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing there. All at once, he slammed it shut.
“We had fun,” Nathan said as he plopped back into his chair. “I even got him to eat a little.”
“Eat what?” Mina asked, looking surprised, her eyes filled with tenderness. “You were playing with the food.”
“Well, I guess that’s what he wanted to do before eating it.”
It was true. Imran was sitting quietly by the goalpost, discreetly eating with his fingers from the plate Nathan had left behind.
Now Father was crossing the lawn back toward us. Mother eyed him suspiciously as he took a seat again. “Muneer, can I have some gulab jamun?”
She handed him the Tupperware bin.
“People forget he’s just a kid,” Nathan said, addressing no one in particular. “He’s been through a lot. All things considered, I think he’s doing pretty darn well.”
Mina gazed at him, a crease cutting deeply across her forehead. She looked like she was going to cry.
“You okay, Meen?” Nathan asked gently.
She lowered her head, nodding. She sniffled once, rubbed her nose. And then, suddenly, she was smiling. It was odd. “I just remembered that thing you told me yesterday, Nate…,” she said, chuckling to herself. The same fake singsong tone was back.
I looked at Nathan. His half smile looked fake to me as well.
“What thing?” he asked.
“About Emerson? Having a headache? Remember?”
“That?”
“It was good,” she said, sitting up in her chair and sniffling again. “Tell it again. Naveed will like it.”
“Like what?” Father asked, eager.
“Nathan’s joke.”
“Nathan has a joke?” Father bit off a piece of his dessert with his question. His eyes had a watery, unfocused look. And his words had a light—but unmistakable—lisp.
He glanced at me, feeling my gaze.
Nathan continued: “Well, I was just telling Mina yesterday that there’s this writer named Emerson…”
“A writer?” Father interrupted, still chewing. “And you’re calling this a joke? I hate it already.”
“Well, you didn’t let me finish.”
“I’m not stopping you…But after an opening like that, I don’t have high hopes.”
“Okay,” Nathan began. “So there was this writer who once said: ‘Why is it a man can’t sit down to think in this country without someone asking him if he’s got a headache?’”
There was a pause as we waited for the rest.
Mina laughed. Nathan didn’t go on. I was confused.
“And?” Father asked.
“That’s it. ‘Why can’t a man sit down to think without someone asking if he has a headache?’ That’s the joke.”
Mother smiled, releasing breath, as if trying to get a laugh going.
Father wore a blank stare. “You call that a joke?”
“Well, I wouldn’t necessarily have called it a joke per se,” Nathan said, turning to Mina, “though I understand, Meen, why you called it one.”
“Nate,” Father said. “That’s not a joke. Period.”
“Naveed,” Mother interrupted, with a hint of a censoring tone.
“What?” Father whined, like a boy bristling at his mother’s reprimand. “She said Nate had a joke I was going to like. I just want to hear something funny! I want to laugh! Is that a crime?”
Mother looked away. “Drunk, as usual,” she mumbled.
Father turned to Nathan. “I thought at least you might have a good Polack joke or something. Everyone has one of those…”
“You have Polack jokes, Naveed?” Nathan asked with disbelief.
“I have Sikh jokes. Pretty much the same thing.”
“Really?”
Mother explained: “For Punjabis, Sikhs are like what Polish people are here. Everybody makes fun of them.”
“Well, as a matter of fact,” Nathan said, “I do have a good Polish joke.”
“You do?” Mina asked. She didn’t sound pleased.
“I don’t know about good,” Father interjected. His eyes were brimming with glee. “After the last one, I’ll be the judge of that.”
Nathan nodded. “So did you ever hear about the Polack who studied for five days?”
Father stared at his colleague, deadpan. Nathan glanced at Mina—who was clearly annoyed—then back at Father. “He was scheduled to take a urine test.”
“Now that’s a joke!” Father roared. He laughed and laughed, his eyes filling with water.
Mina shook her head.
“What is it, Meen?” Nathan asked.
Before Mina could reply, Father started in keenly: “Here’s a good one about Sikhs. There’s a job interview for a detective’s position, and three guys show up. A Jew, a Roman, and a Sikh. The chief decides he’s going to ask his candidates one question, the same question, and make his decision based on their answers. So, one by one they’re called into the chief’s office. First the Jew comes, and the chief asks him to sit down. ‘Who killed Jesus Christ?’ The Jew answers: ‘The Romans killed him.’ The chief says ‘Thank you.’ When the Jew leaves, the Roman comes in, and the chief asks him the same question: ‘Who killed Jesus Christ?’ The Roman says ‘The Jews killed him.’ ‘Thank you,’ says the chief. Finally, the Sikh comes in, and the chief asks him the same question. But instead of answering right away, the Sikh asks, ‘Chief, do you think I could have some time to think about it?’ The chief tells him that’s fine, that he should get back to him with an answer by tomorrow. When the Sikh goes home that night, his wife asks him how the interview went. ‘Great, honey,’ he tells her. ‘I got the job, and I’m already investigating a murder!’”
“Haaaaah!” Nathan exclaimed, letting loose a hearty, vigorous laugh. Mother laughed as well. Father chuckled, enjoying the success of his joke, at least with the two of them. I wasn’t laughing—I didn’t understand the joke—and neither was Mina. She wore a dour look, her mood completely transformed. She was looking at Nathan like she didn’t recognize him.
“The Jews didn’t kill Christ, Naveed,” Mina said sternly.
“It’s a joke,” Father said.
Mina offered a dismissive shrug. Nathan’s cheeks were ruddy from laughter. “I’m not so sure about that, Meen,” he said sweetly. “Supposedly, we did have a chance to save him and we didn’t. We asked for Barabbas instead. Though I’m not sure that amounts to us having killed the man.”
“Barabbas?” Mina asked, an edge in her voice. “I don’t know who that is.”
“He was the other prisoner. Pontius Pilate asked the Jews which one they wanted to free. And they chose Barabbas. And that meant Jesus was the one who got crucified.”
Mina clearly had no idea what he was talking about.
“More food, anyone?” Mother asked. Nobody responded.
Nathan turned to Father. “But as far as the criminal investigation goes, Naveed, I think my kinsman was right on that count. The Romans are definitely the ones who did the deed.”
“For the record,” Mina stated sharply, “Hazrat Isa never died. The whole thing is a misunderstanding.”
“Isa?” Nathan asked.
“That’s what we call Jesus. I thought you would know that by now.”
“He never died? What do you mean?” It looked to me like Nathan thought she was joking.
I felt a scarlet blush—it was anger—push to my face.
“When Hazrat Isa was in the prison cell,” Mina continued, her voice charged, “before they were going to take him to be crucified, he prayed to Allah to spare him. And when the guard came to fetch him, he found no one in the cell. Isa w
as gone. Saved by Allah.”
Nathan turned to Father, perplexed.
Father shrugged. He looked out at the field, where Imran was now chasing fireflies by the bleachers.
Mina glared at both of them. “Allah answered Isa’s prayer and took him up to heaven directly. And when the guard came out to tell the others that Isa was gone, they seized him. Because the guard now looked exactly like Isa: Allah transformed the guard’s face so the others would mistake him for Isa.”
She had told me a much longer version of this tale during one of our story hours, complete with Isa’s dialogue with Allah, in which Isa—in his holding cell—pleaded with our Lord to spare him the pain of death.
“That’s why he has to come back,” Mina said confidently.
“Who has to come back?” Nathan asked, incredulous.
“Who do you think?” Mina was indignant. The hint of violence in her replies had me rapt. “Isa…or Jesus, as you call him. He has to come back because he hasn’t died. He has to come and live a normal human life. To complete his life and die like a normal person. And when he comes back, he will be a Muslim. And his death will mark the beginning of the end of the world.”
Nathan stared at her, speechless. “You believe that?”
“No more than you believe Jesus died on the cross,” she spit back at him.
“Well, I don’t know that I believe that.”
“So what do you believe?! Do you believe anything?!?”
Around us, heads turned to look. Nathan’s face was blank with shock.
“When are they going to start this thing?” Mother said, looking up at the black-brown sky. Nobody answered. She pulled open a garbage bag and started dumping things inside.
“Religion, my friends,” Father said as he stood, taking up a pair of plastic cups before Mother could throw them out, “is a topic for fools. And this conversation is the living proof.”
Father got up and walked off to join Imran by the bleachers.
“I don’t see what you’re so upset about, Meen,” Nathan finally said.
I was staring at him now, noticing the pallor of his creamy, lightly freckled skin.
“I don’t know about all this,” she muttered.