A Sister to Honor

by Lucy Ferriss

  “Hi, Pearl,” Lissy said with forced nonchalance. Snakes made her skin crawl. “Could you put her back? Hi, Afia.”

  “She is not permitted,” said Afia, glancing nervously at the door. With her head scarf draped across her neck, her hair fell in dark waves over her shoulders.

  “And you got her past the nurses—?”

  “In my girlfriend’s big-ass handbag,” said Gus, stretching his arm over the plastic bin until the snake slithered off and wound itself into a knot in the corner.

  Afia snapped a yellow lid onto the cage and lifted it by its handle. “Gus says Pearl must be handled,” she explained as she tucked it into a green leather shoulder bag that looked, as far as Lissy could tell, custom-made for transporting a snake cage. “I cannot do it. In my country, snakes are dangerous.”

  “Some might say they are here, too,” said Lissy. “Can I borrow you for a little bit?”

  “Borrow me?” Afia frowned.

  “I mean, can we talk about something? I’ll make you some tea. At my house.”

  “But why—”

  “Just for a little while. Okay with you, Gus?”

  Gus sighed. Lissy watched his eyes travel quickly down Afia’s body. “You have to go soon anyhow,” he said. “Last bus to Northampton at four.”

  “Hey, I’ll drive her to Northampton,” Lissy said, seeing an opportunity. “It’s just an hour.”

  “I will have to take Pearl back,” Afia said.

  “Let me get a last peek at her, then.” Gus pushed himself up the inclined bed. “And a hug from you,” he added to Afia.

  The girl blushed and glanced sidelong at Lissy. “I’ll be by the nursing station,” Lissy said. “They let you out tomorrow, right?” she added to Gus. But he was already unzipping the green leather bag, and he merely nodded.

  The halls were plastered with hearts and Cupids. At the nursing station Lissy found Gus’s mother, peppering the staff with questions about Gus’s discharge. Ellen Schneider was a Smith alum, the daughter of a state senator, a figure of sorts in the Berkshires. But though she lived just the other side of Pittsfield, Lissy had seen her at no more than a half dozen games in three years. “You say he should get on crutches as soon as possible,” Ellen was saying. “But it’s winter out! What if he slips? And he can sleep downstairs in the study, but there’s a step down to the bathroom. Oh hi, Coach.” She pushed back her streaked hair and shook Lissy’s hand briefly, her fingers small and cool. “Can you believe insurance won’t cover another day here? He broke five vertebrae, for God’s sake!”

  “Two,” countered a weary nurse. “We’ll be sending a physical therapist.”

  Ellen pulled Lissy into the hallway, out of the nurses’ earshot. “Can you do something about this?” she asked.

  Raising her brows, Lissy caught a look from the nurse over at the station. It was funny, how parents believed in her power. Ellen Schneider no longer saw her as a woman, or a faculty member, or even an administrator. She was Coach, and Coach called the shots. “I don’t have any jurisdiction here, I’m afraid.”

  Afia emerged, her scarf secured, the leather handbag tucked under her arm. “Get that thing away from me,” Ellen whispered.

  Afia looked frightened. “Gus says tomorrow you will start to feed her.”

  “I will throw food into the cage, yes. I’ll fill that water bottle since it’s outside. But no reptiles ride in my car or live in my home.”

  “That’s a good reason,” said Lissy, “to get Gus mobile as soon as you can. Meanwhile, Afia and I have a rendezvous.”

  “Rendezvous?” The girl looked wary, as if she were about to step back. Lissy took her elbow and steered her away from Ellen Schneider and the nurses.

  “You’ll see,” she said. “It’ll be okay.”

  A cool wind was blowing outside, harbinger of a return to winter. As they bundled into Lissy’s car, she thought she caught sight of Shahid pushing out from the revolving doors of the hospital. “Isn’t that—” she started to say. But Afia was busy settling the snake cage on the car floor, and the man Lissy had mistaken for Shahid headed for a blue Hyundai and not Shahid’s beat-up red Civic. As they pulled out of the lot, the Hyundai stayed behind them for a while, and in the rearview Lissy saw her error; this guy was taller than Shahid, with a cropped beard, and dark glasses despite the gray day. When he turned the other way at the top of Winter Drive, she let out her breath. Ethan’s paranoia had come into her head, turning her favorite player into a stalker. She knew him better than that.

  By the time they pulled into Lissy’s driveway and saw Shahid’s Civic, Afia’s quiet good humor had diminished to an unreadable meekness. She asked quietly if she might bring the snake cage indoors so it wouldn’t get cold. “So long as we don’t let little Pearl out,” said Lissy. She led the way inside. Her players knew she kept the Winter Drive house unlocked, and until he went home this year, Shahid had spent winter and spring breaks here. Already, as she kicked off her snow boots, she smelled the Darjeeling he liked to brew for himself.

  “Coach,” he said as they entered the main room. He uncoiled from the couch. He looked tired. “You said four o’clock.”

  “Sorry to make you wait,” Lissy said. She heard Afia in the hallway, setting down the leather bag with the cage and hanging her coat; she shucked her boots before she entered the main room.

  “Asalaam aleikum, Shahid lala,” she said.

  “Wa aleikum salaam. What’s my sister doing here?” he asked Lissy.

  “I picked her up from the hospital.” From the fridge Lissy pulled a V-8. She considered a quick spike of vodka but resisted. “I thought you two should talk.”

  “We have talked,” said Shahid.

  “I thought we three should talk, then.”

  “Coach, this is my sister.” Shahid went over to where Afia was lowering herself gingerly into one of the two Danish armchairs in the living room. Her scarf was neatly arranged, her sleeves tugged down to her wrists. Scattered on the floor were the pieces of another Dora puzzle. Stepping over them, Shahid circled the chair. Lissy had seen menace in him many times before, but only on the court. The girl looked straight ahead, not at her brother. Quickly Lissy moved to the other armchair. She offered Afia tea, but Afia shook her head. “This is my sister,” Shahid repeated, “and with due respect, Coach, I know what is best for her. You do not.”

  “Shahid, sit down.” Lissy kept authority in her voice. Shahid returned to the couch, sipped tea. His face was a storm. “I hear you’re borrowing money from Carlos.”

  “Just for a couple of days. I’m expecting a wire.”

  “And you’ve been pushing Afran. To take over at number one, if you have to be gone?”

  He shrugged. He did not look at her.

  “It’s good of you to hit with someone who wants the extra practice,” Lissy went on, “but coaching isn’t your job.”

  “I’m sorry, Coach.” He lifted his dark eyes, bloodshot, the lids sagging. “I overstepped. But this has nothing to do with my sister and me.”

  “When you’re preoccupied with her, it does.” Lissy sipped the V-8, missed the vodka. “And she has rights, you know, Shahid. If she wants to date someone—even your roommate—”

  “Miss Hayes, stop.” Afia sat way forward in her chair, her palms pressed together in a plea. “My brother loves me,” she said. Her voice was strained, breathy. “He is a good brother. You act as you do,” she said, turning to Shahid, “because you must. I know that. And I must love Gus.”

  Afia stood. As she took a place on the couch next to her brother, the scarf fell away a bit, exposing her glossy hair. Shahid leaned back against a cushion and regarded her. When she took his hand he flinched, but he didn’t draw it away.

  “You know what Baba says,” he told her softly. “It is a disease.”

  She smiled ruefully. “I am ill, then.”

 
Shahid said something in Pashto, and Afia nodded. He said more, and as he pressed his case her head drooped on her neck like a flower wilting on its stem. Finally she raised her head and answered him in English. “It is not Gus you need to stop,” she said. “It is me. I am not controllable, Shahid. Kill me if you must and leave me here. But I will be no good to Zardad.”

  “Whoa whoa whoa,” said Lissy. “What do you mean, you’re no good? You are good, Afia. Look, falling in love is not a crime.”

  “It is for us,” said Afia.

  “No, it is not. It is not a crime,” Shahid corrected his sister. “Not when the man is approved. Not when it hurts no one. But now.” He looked with soft eyes on Afia and then waved his hand uselessly, as if at a stream of gnats. “She is ruined. Her life is over. And worse besides. You know that.” He continued in rapid Pashto to his sister, who began, silently, to weep. “Unless she goes back. She must agree.”

  “Goes back to Pakistan.” Lissy was incredulous. “You mean after she graduates. Or gets her medical degree.”

  “I do not. I mean tomorrow night.”

  “What? Afia, is this what you were expecting?” She turned to the girl. But Afia’s face was tucked downward, studying the weave of the sofa cushion. She turned back to Shahid. “You’re going to put her on a plane,” she said, “in the middle of her sophomore year, to go marry some guy she doesn’t give two hoots about.”

  “It is our custom, Coach. It is the family—”

  “Give up her whole education. Give up the love—well, we don’t know if it’s the love of her life, but—”

  “Exactly.” Shahid sat forward. He gulped his tea. “We don’t know. You don’t know. You give us that talk about honor, Coach. Every year I listen to it. But not once do I hear you mention the honor of a family. The honor that is a woman’s duty.”

  “I don’t agree.” Afia sat erect. She let the scarf drop to her shoulders. “This duty. I do not accept it now. I am not a dirty girl. I am not a blackened woman. But you win,” she said to Shahid. She finished in Pashto, talking quickly to her brother, her hands moving in the air. Then she turned back to Lissy. “I have said to him,” she explained, “I do not know where this third photo, it comes from. I do not find it on Internet.”

  “What third photo?”

  “Pictures of her,” said Shahid, “with—with Gus. They are . . . objectionable.”

  “To my family,” Afia said, “who now may . . .” She looked down at her nails, scraped at an invisible bit of dirt. “Punish me,” she whispered.

  “So don’t go to your family!” said Lissy. “Why would you send her home?” she said to Shahid. “Is it the money? Because she could get a job here, Smith has scholarship funds—”

  “It is not the money,” Afia interrupted. “It is what will happen. To my sisters. To my mother. My father’s business. I am angry with Shahid. But Shahid is right.”

  Shahid sat forward. He took both his sister’s hands in his. Slowly, as if they each might break, they wrapped their arms around each other. Shahid whispered in Pashto, and Afia answered. If Lissy hadn’t heard the English words they had just pronounced, she’d have thought they were comforting each other for something that was past, that was being grieved. Lissy felt flummoxed. Here she had meant to negotiate a problem, to steer Shahid to see how stupidly jealous he was acting. Now brother and sister were embracing over some insane notion of dignity that would send the girl packing. Lissy felt awful. She wished Ethan were here; she had lost her bearings. She stood, stepped into the kitchen, and tipped a healthy shot of vodka into the can of V-8. When she came back, Shahid had stood up.

  “Tomorrow we go to the airport,” he said.

  “I must go back to Northampton first,” said Afia. She looked up at him, supplicating. “To see my professors. To thank them.”

  “Get your stuff, then. I’ll take you.”

  Miserable, Afia shook her head. She wiped tears from her cheeks. “I don’t want you to take me, Shahid,” she said. “Please.”

  He sighed. He held his breath. He looked at Lissy, a familiar look from all his matches: Coach, help me out here. She reminded herself she loved this kid. She loved his intensity, his dedication, his grace, his loyalty. But her throat squeezed closed. Finally he said to Afia, “Then you’ll have to stay here in Devon,” he said. “We must leave tomorrow.”

  “She said she would take me,” said Afia, gazing at her own feet.

  “She?”

  “Me,” said Lissy. “I said I would. And I will, Shahid. You and your sister have made your decision. That I think it’s wrong isn’t here or there.”

  “It’s not your responsibility, Coach.” He looked around the room, as if he had lost something. “And don’t you have Chloe?”

  “She’s with her dad. She’s fine.”

  “Please, Shahid lala.” Afia touched her brother’s chest, then moved away. “I will be ready tomorrow. Three P.M.” She stepped into the hallway, pulled her coat from the rack. When she reappeared in the sitting room she had her boots on, her bag over her shoulder. “Coach Hayes?” she said stiffly.

  “So you don’t even want me to drive you home?” Shahid asked, a catch in his voice.

  “We will fight, Shahid lala. And I honor you. I am done fighting you.”

  Shahid took a step toward her. She held up a hand, stopping him. He turned again to Lissy. “You are taking her straight to Northampton?” he asked. “You are sure?”

  Lissy’s smile, when she put her arm on Shahid’s shoulder, was shaky. It was almost five. They had to stop by Gus’s place, to return the snake and pick up Afia’s clothes, but she didn’t want to say Gus’s name at that moment, when everything felt so out of kilter. Nothing about these siblings made sense. And so she lied. “Without passing go or collecting two hundred dollars,” she said. “Now finish your tea, and leave the porch light on for Chloe and her dad.”

  • • •

  Already the sky was indigo, darkening to black, no moon. Quickly, before they pulled out of the driveway, Lissy sent Ethan a text message: GTG to Northampton. May not get back for dinner. Give Chlo extra squeeze for me. Afia hardly spoke as they drove back up to the main road and through the town. Lissy let the silence grow. Plenty of time to talk on the road to Northampton. Plenty of time to remind the girl that she was in America, she had options. Time, too, to figure how best to get Shahid back to his old self, to the player who could stride onto the court and beat Harvard. The wind still blew, with stray flakes of wet snow slapping the windshield. The roads would be icing up.

  “You sure you don’t want to stay here?” Lissy asked as they pulled into the drive by Gus’s garage.

  “No. I would see Gus again. I cannot do that. I cannot say good-bye. To my professors, yes. My roommate. But not . . . not Gus.”

  Afia had freed the snake cage from the dark handbag and set it on the floor. Now she lifted it by its handle and hoisted the green bag and her own purse with her free hand. “Here, let me help,” Lissy said. Leaving the engine running and the headlights on to light their way, she stepped into slush that was beginning to crisp at the edges. “I’ll unlock the door. Give me the key.”

  “In my pocket,” Afia said. Lissy dug the key out, on a keychain with a rabbit’s foot, and went ahead of the girl down the soggy path. A calico cat appeared from a row of bushes and rubbed against her leg. “They are not supposed to be out,” said Afia as another cat, blond and annoyed, shaking its ears against the drifting snow, trotted around the side of the garage.

  “We’ll get them in, then. C’mon, kitty kitty,” said Lissy. She fit the key into the lock of the old door, its paint more peeled than sticking. A narrow set of windows afforded her a glimpse of Gus’s den, where a blue light shone on the far side over a home aquarium. The place would reek of animals, she figured. Gus usually carried just a whiff of his hobby with him, no matter how much he sweated on the court
or showered after.

  She pushed the door open and flicked on an overhead light. She caught a glimpse of the room—secondhand furniture, stacks of books, throw rugs over oil stains on the concrete, a bouquet of tired flowers on the blocks-and-board coffee table, another cage in the corner, a litter box. Then her sense of smell kicked in. No, this smell wasn’t right. It wasn’t a smell of cats or amphibians or urine, it wasn’t mold or sweat. It was a more rotten stench. Fertilizer. And something burning, something sulfuric.

  She turned to Afia, whose eyes when they met hers went wide with alarm. Without explaining it even to herself, without even naming the thing she suddenly knew was there, Lissy grabbed the girl’s arm. “Get out of here!” she said.

  She yanked Afia from the door, the plastic cage rattling in her arms. Together they slipped on the walkway. Afia fell to her knees. Lissy grabbed the cage and hauled her up. The car was far, far away. They could not run fast enough.

  When the blast came, she thought the word: bomb. The word seemed to propel her through the air and onto a wet pile of snow by the bushes. Her head slammed hard onto a chunk of ice. When she lifted it, the garage behind them was lit red from the inside. The door lay on the walkway. The cage she’d been holding lay scattered, in shards. She thought she saw a moving slither of white against the wet snow, and then it was gone. Smoke billowed out, a heavy ash.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Afia kept moving, moving. You had to keep moving. That was what the survivors had done in the Peshawar bazaar. You stayed and the second blast came, or the snipers. Smoke everywhere; behind her, large things crashed and splintered. Fire, behind the smoke, in the cold air. She kept moving. From the far side of the path came Coach Hayes’s weak cry: “Afia!” She crab-walked that way, stumbled over something large—the door, cracked in two—went down on her knees. She reached the car door, the passenger side. Her hand as it pulled the handle was gray with ash. Back out by the street, neighbors’ lights were blinking on.