by Lucy Ferriss
When Julie had stepped away, Afran pulled out his wallet. “Here’s my cousin,” he said. He pulled out a scattering of tiny photos and pushed one across the booth. The girl was squinting into the sun. Plump cheeks made her look very young, but her mouth was a straight line, giving away nothing. Afia had never looked like this. In the photos from holiday gatherings, in the photos on the Internet, she was always beaming. But Baba had wanted a picture, last month. Had they taken one? Had they given it to Zardad’s family? He remembered Afia’s sorrowful eyes, looking up at him while she waited to serve the tea to Zardad’s people. He found his hand shaking. He pushed the tiny square back across the table. He had been looking at a dead girl.
“Very sad,” he managed to say.
“Sad, nothing,” said Afran vehemently. “It is sick and a crime, and nothing I can do about it. So don’t lecture me, man.”
“I’m not—” Shahid started to say. But an exclamation from behind his right shoulder cut him off.
“Oh my God,” the voice cried, “it’s the boys!”
Shahid turned. Standing by the booth were Margot and Evie, both starters on the women’s team. “Hi,” he said. Margot had her arm across Evie’s shoulders. Lesbian, he thought, and his scrotum tightened uncomfortably. Afran tucked his photos away. The girls slid into the booth, Margot on Afran’s side and Evie on Shahid’s. Smelling their perfume, glimpsing Evie’s cleavage, Shahid felt confusion like smoke, draining his energy. After they’d chatted for ten minutes—they’d crushed St. Lawrence too, wasn’t Coach Hayes the best; were the guys ready for the Trinity match—he lifted his jacket from the back of the booth. “I gotta study,” he said. “I’m behind on two papers.”
“C’mon, man,” Afran said. “Party’s just starting.”
“Shahid’s a scholar-athlete,” said Margot. “Not like you.”
“Party after the Trinity match, though,” said Evie.
“Sure,” said Shahid, though he couldn’t even think that far.
“Your sister going to the match?” Margot asked.
“Not anymore,” said Evie. She elbowed her friend.
Shahid stood and shrugged on the jacket. Everything they said was irritating. “I don’t know if she is or not. She’d have to take the bus from Northampton.”
“Gus’d give her a ride,” said Evie, “if she’d let him.” Then she flinched. Margot had kicked her. Slowly, a dread in his stomach, Shahid turned back. Resting his knuckles on the table, he leaned forward.
“Gus Schneider?” he said slowly.
“Uh, yeah.” Evie glanced quickly at Margot, then back.
“Why,” he went on, “would Gus give my sister a ride?”
“We gotta go,” said Afran. “Sorry, ladies.” He rose. He started to pull Shahid away. With one shove, Shahid put him back in his seat.
“What are you saying about my sister?” he asked Evie.
“Look, I’m sorry.” Evie was averting her eyes. Her chestnut hair caught the light. “Sensitive brother,” she added in an undertone. She bent her head toward Margot’s. Nervously the girls giggled.
“I asked you a question,” said Shahid.
The waitress came over. “Is there a problem?” she asked, directing herself to Afran.
“Thanks, Julie,” said Afran. “We’re fine. Come on, Shahid.” He rose again.
Shahid leaned closer, on his elbows now. He stared at the girls until they met his eyes. “Gus would give my sister a ride,” he said as quietly as he could manage, each word feeling to him like the lash of a whip, “from Smith.”
“Look, dude, she broke up with him, okay?” Evie said. Her lips pulled back from her teeth, and her voice took on the whine he’d heard from American girls when they were on the phone with their parents. “It was like some secret romance, but he’s pretty upset so he spilled. I mean, he was really good to her, and—”
“You don’t have to explain, Evie,” Margot said. She grasped her friend’s hand and pulled her from the booth. “We just stopped by to say hi.” She held up a hand, like a stop sign. “No harm, no foul, okay?” she said.
That red hair. Of course. Gus. Gus Schneider. A Jew. “A fucking Jew,” Shahid muttered when the girls had tripped away, shaking their heads. “A lying, betraying, goddamn son of a whore, shit-licking, filthy—”
“It’s okay, okay, we’re leaving,” he heard Afran say, and Shahid realized he’d started to shout, and in Pashto. The manager was striding their way. Diners stared in alarm.
“Let go of me!” he yelled when Afran had him out of the restaurant.
“Hey, I’m your friend, dude, I’m just trying—”
“Did you know this?”
“No. In Allah’s eyes, man, I had no idea.”
“How long? How long!”
“I don’t know. I told you, I didn’t know they were an item. Gus, you know, he’s mostly into his pets. I’d seen him with your sister, but I didn’t—”
“You saw them?”
“Not saw them as in, like, saw them. I mean, they were talking. I didn’t think anything.”
“I have to kill him. Do you understand that? I have to destroy the guy! He was my roommate, for fuck’s sake. My sister is engaged.”
“I didn’t know that, man. I’m as shocked as you are. But listen. Just listen to me. Are you listening?”
Afran was holding both of Shahid’s forearms, now. Shahid’s jacket was unzipped. The cold air whistled through to his chest. His hair still felt wet, next to his scalp. Fury raged through and exhausted him. He nodded.
“Don’t do anything. Not tonight. Give this a little time. They broke up already. Maybe it was never anything.”
“It was something,” Shahid managed to say. His tongue felt thick. “There are pictures. That one you showed me. I didn’t know it was him. I didn’t want to think—”
“Let me talk to him.”
“No!” Shahid yanked his arms away. “Don’t you tell him a goddamn thing, Afran. You hear me? I’ll take care of this my own way. He doesn’t need a warning.”
“But those girls might—”
“Let them. But not you. You don’t betray me.” He pulled his keys from his pocket and started toward his car. Afran followed.
“Okay,” Afran said. “My lips are sealed. But you don’t do anything tonight. Is that a deal? We’ll talk in the morning.”
As Shahid turned to his friend, his eyes burned. “It’s a deal,” he managed to say. Then he was in his car and turning it in a wide U through the parking lot and out onto the state highway. He sped the three miles to the campus, the radio blaring ghetto rap to drown out his thoughts, before he realized that he’d left Afran standing in the parking lot. He tore back, but the lot was empty, his friend gone. He checked his mobile: nothing. For a long moment he put his head back, the radio silent, and shut his eyes. Then he shifted into first and made his way again to campus, haltingly this time, driving like an old man. All settled. Nothing was settled. All was chaos.
When he’d parked the car he pulled out his mobile. He punched in Afia’s number. Then he stared at the tiny screen, seeing again the picture that had bloomed forth on Afran’s iPhone, Gus Schneider hoisting Afia onto his shoulders in the orchard, her legs parting to grip his neck. She’d broken up with him, the girls had said, but what did that matter, when she had lied to Shahid’s face, lied all fall, sneaked around like her filthy friend Lema, betrayed everything she loved for her appetite? No, he wouldn’t call her. He wouldn’t be lied to again.
In his dorm room his laptop awaited. The screen swirled with color, a school of fish ready for feeding. He flicked it off. He tried, and failed, to pray. He opened his mobile again. There was Schneider’s number, keyed into his contacts list. But call the guy? For what? To hear him, too, saying they’d broken up, saying there was never anything, when the picture showed what he’d done? To make him conf
ess how he’d seduced Afia, how he’d parted those legs with his stubby hands? To threaten him, the betrayer, the cocksucker, as his buttocks rose and fell over the body he was violating, the body with its cushiony breasts, its wide V of pelvic bone plunging to the dark triangle . . .
He was on the bed now, clothes stripped off in the overheated room, eyes shut, picturing it, torturing himself. The cleft between the breasts, the salty taste under the fullness. Only they weren’t Afia’s breasts, which he’d never seen; they were Evie’s breasts, in the V-neck sweater she’d worn at Bertucci’s. Then they were Valerie’s breasts, Valerie from last spring, and his hand was on himself now, her pale body against the sheets, the slight fat of the belly. Girls, how they wanted it. How consequences meant nothing to them. How they touched you and drew you in, how their breasts shook when you thrust. Faster and faster his hand moved. He was almost there, almost, almost, seeing Evie’s breasts, how she wanted it, when his mobile rang, but he wouldn’t stop, no, he would come into those breasts, that cleft for his cock, and she wanted it, they all did, and finally he came.
He let his head drop back. His hand swiped at the mess on his belly. In a minute, when the throbbing ceased, he would get up and wash himself. The mobile had gone silent but then gave a chirp, a message for him. With his unsticky hand he reached for the thing and checked the call.
The orgasm washing over him shrank to a sour trickle, then dried up. The call came from Nasirabad, from his home. His father—who in three years had never picked up a phone to make the costly connection, who had last put his hand on Shahid’s shoulder to declare how he trusted him to watch over his sister—had something important to say to his son.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Monday after Lissy conferred with Shahid about lineups, he came to practice glowering. The next day, he was absent. He didn’t return her calls. The other guys worked their games, preparing for the Trinity match, and didn’t ask about their number one player. Lissy’s nerves were jangling. Shahid had been on top of his game, keen for the challenge of revamping the team. It had to be something personal getting at him. It had to be his sister.
“He say anything to you?” Lissy asked Afran.
Afran shrugged evasively. “He’s had papers to write.”
“Don’t you take Poli Sci with him?” she asked Gus, who appeared faithfully at every practice and was improving in tiny increments.
“That’s right, Coach.” Gus was bouncing a squash ball on his racquet, his eyes flicking up and down. She wondered. Had he seen Shahid’s sister? Did he know the girl was engaged? He gave no sign, and she couldn’t think of a way to ask. She’d never said anything to him about the moment she’d witnessed in the squash center. Sometimes players confided in her about their romances—certainly on the girls’ team they did—but Gus kept his own counsel.
“So was he in class?” she persisted.
“I didn’t notice, Coach. It’s a big class.”
The same with the others. They hadn’t seen Shahid, or they’d caught sight of him but he was busy, going off to study. He’d been working on his car, Carlos said. But Shahid had broken a major rule: shirking practice without calling the coach or informing any of his fellow players. While the guys ran drills, Lissy brooded. They were evasive, not because they didn’t like Shahid or because they were hiding stuff from her—she felt certain of that. They were confused, as she was. Shahid was their glue, their light, the wind at their backs. And they’d rather be seen as secretive than clueless about a teammate, especially one they all depended on.
Next day, again, no Shahid. Only a few days remained before the match with Trinity, the best squad in the country right then, the only one ahead of Harvard. Jamil plopped down on the bleacher beside Lissy after he’d finished a punishing series of setups and volleys with Chander. Even his dreadlocks sported beads of sweat. “Coach’s head be in the clouds,” he said.
“Sorry, Jamil. You looked good out there. Getting that wrist action.”
“We going down to Trinity.”
“They’re the best. We’ll give ’em a run.”
“You playing Shahid?”
“Doubt it. He’s missed practice all week.”
Jamil nodded soberly. “We got to get him back for the big one, though.” Looking at him—his walnut skin, aquiline nose, the dimple in his right cheek, details the likes of which she came to memorize for each player—she raised her eyebrows. “Harvard,” he said.
Lissy chuckled drily. “Let’s get past Trinity first.”
“Without Shahid—”
“Either way.”
“Man’s doing a lot of sufferation, me think.”
Lissy’s eyes flicked to the others on court, then back to Jamil. “Are you, like, delegated to persuade me to let him play, Jamil?”
He put up his hands, the long pale fingers. “Ease up, Coach. I be on your side.”
Was there another side? she wanted to ask. Instead she rose; paced the courts; harangued Chander on his footwork.
February was in full stride, with its thawings and freezings. The roads were sloppy, icy at night, a fresh coat expected to fall and then melt by the weekend. At breakfast the next morning, after cutting the crusts off Chloe’s toast—spoiling her, Ethan thought, but Lissy had never liked crusts when she was a girl—Lissy said, “If Don Shears weren’t breathing down my neck, I’d cut Shahid slack. But there’s Trinity in two days. Harvard next week. Not even Shahid can go up against Harvard without practice.”
“Have you seen his sister?”
She shook her head. “Whatever’s happening with her and Gus, I’m probably best not knowing about it.”
Ethan looked up from the sandwich he was fixing. He often scheduled patients during lunch hour, when they could break free from their jobs, and he ate on the fly. “You could send Shahid to counseling.”
“To you? Not sure I could stay out of it. This is my number one we’re talking about.”
He smiled, his glasses reflecting the light. “I’m the one who keeps you out of it. But he doesn’t have to see me. Send him to the counseling center. Sounds like a young man with stuff on his mind.”
It was a misty morning. Outside, Chloe’s latest snow creature was losing weight, its fallen scarf a wet tangle. Lissy lifted her to kiss its frozen mouth good-bye, and then they left for day care. She made it through a morning coaches’ meeting with an extra cup of coffee. By noon students were slipping and sliding their way into the building for PE classes. The entrance hall carpet was soggy. Three calls to Shahid’s cell, meanwhile, had gone unanswered. Putting off lunch, Lissy keyed herself into the women’s faculty locker room in hope that a workout would lift her spirits. From the crisp blouse and slacks she wore to the office—male A.D.s, she’d noticed, got by in tracksuits—she changed to cycling shorts and a T-shirt in need of a wash.
The workout room wasn’t a fitness center yet, but it did the trick. A half dozen stationary bikes and ellipticals, a couple of rowing machines, a full set of Life Fitness stations, a mirrored corner for free weights. One of the first things Lissy had done as A.D. was to silence the Top 40 radio station that used to blare here. Sure enough, students now came in with their iPods and earbuds, and the faculty, like Lissy, appreciated the relative silence, the sound of straps sliding over heavy metal rollers and lungs expanding. With the new fitness center they would add tiny TVs to the treadmills and bikes, but that noise, too, would pass through the earbuds.
Two of Lissy’s female players, Liza and Margot, were already on the ellipticals. She waved to them. Some administrators refused to visit the run-down facility; Don Shears, she knew, had joined the local health club rather than let students see him in exercise shorts. But Lissy liked breaking through the barriers, and she didn’t mind having students, especially the girls, see a middle-aged woman staying in shape. “Some guys on the team were looking for you,” Liza said as she set her resista
nce higher.
“They’ll figure out I’m here,” Lissy said.
Normally she started with aerobic work, but this time she began with weights. In their heft she could feel the power of her muscles. Free weights first, to work on breathing and balance. Take her mind off the absence of Shahid, the pressure from Don to beat Harvard in eight days. Bench press, hammer grip. Tricep extension. She breathed and counted. As she turned to the leg press, she spotted Afran and Carlos, weaving between the bikes. They’d probably tried her office first, and this was their next stop. She waved with a fifteen-pound dumbbell, then frowned when she saw the looks on their faces.
“Got a sec, Coach?” Carlos asked.
“Always,” said Lissy, her standard response. Setting down the weights, she wiped her face with her towel. “You find Shahid?” she asked. “Did you talk to him?”
“It’s not Shahid,” said Afran.
“It’s Gus,” said Carlos.
“Gus?” Lissy frowned. Gus had been at practice yesterday, working hard as always. “What’s wrong with Gus?”
“He’s at Berkshire Med Center,” said Carlos.
“Christ.” She pictured a fistfight, a broken jaw. “Not one of those football guys,” she began, though what she was picturing was Shahid, seeing what she’d seen that afternoon in the corridor, Shahid breaking Gus’s nose.
“He had an accident,” said Afran. “With his car.”
With the news that no one else was involved came a hidden rush of relief. “Where? In this lousy weather? Is he hurt?”
A dumb question, she realized. Gus was in the hospital; they had just told her.
“Broke his leg, apparently, and a couple of vertebrae,” said Carlos.
“Was anyone else—”
“No. On the road to Northampton. His brakes, like, gave out.”
“Well, he shouldn’t have been driving in this crap. Have you seen him?”
“We just came from there,” said Afran. “They put him on a bunch of pain meds, he’s pretty out of it.”