“Can’t answer it, can you?” Albert snorted. “Don’t worry, most folks can’t. They trust her, love her, the eyes, the smile, the voice. Everyone has the one passion for Grandma. Me, it’s the way she loves children. They’re our lifeblood, Puppy. Grandma knows we make the future every moment. Pure faith and love, Puppy. In ourselves. In our destiny.”
Cheng smiled; Puppy would’ve needed a microscope to find the warmth. “You’re engaged to some singer, right?”
“Dara Dinton. She’s very talented.”
Cheng waved him off. “So Commissioner Kenuda says. He has great plans for Dara. You jealous of her success?”
“Not at all.”
“Because you love her?”
Puppy smiled as vaguely as he could muster.
Cheng patted his hand and, with a sigh, took a bite of the corned beef sandwich, grunting approval and sending the waiter away. He nudged aside the plate, gesturing for Puppy to eat his hot dog before it got cold.
“If I tell you Grandma needs your help, can you do it on pure faith and love?”
Puppy chewed very carefully and nodded.
“Are you sure?”
He swallowed. “Can I ask what it is?”
Cheng laughed loudly, this time for real.
• • • •
ZELDA KILLED MORE time. She did a lot of that lately. Stopping for coffee, stopping to pee, stopping to eat, stopping to poop. It was like her body was in feces-urine overdrive disposal to give her mind a chance to think without any distractions.
Katrina had been wonderful, insisting she come in late, leave early, stare off into space in the office. Don’t worry about work. I know what you can do. Mr. Saul knows what you can do. Everyone is supportive. We love you, Zelda.
FORGIVENESS.
She stared without blinking at Grandma’s huge smiling face looking down from the billboard on Webster Avenue.
FORGIVENESS.
Purple letters against a white background. No children. Just her, one on one. Code for serious; everyone understood that.
FORGIVENESS.
For what? Would you forgive me for murder, Grandma? Killing a future scientist or doctor or dancer or who knows, soldier someday? Little Diego or Little Pablo or Little A’ndy or Little Bari or Little Canseeka or Little Dru or Little I Don’t Remember Your Name, heck, Grandma, I would’ve liked to have ridden a bike but my mother the slut was a murderer. If only she had courage I could’ve grown up in a real house with real parents and real love.
Zelda clenched her groin at Grandma, eventually finding the rows of two-story houses off 164th Street. The door of Ruby’s was slightly ajar. Zelda admired a few dresses hanging on hooks in the waiting area. Size eight. Size ten. No size twelves anymore, she panicked.
“Yes?” Beth stepped out, quickly losing her cold stare.
“Hi. I’m Zelda. Puppy’s friend.”
“I know. You were here with that entertainer.” She made a face and bent over a pile of receipts on the desk. “What’s your last name?”
“Jones. But the order’s for Lopez…I mean, Dinton.”
Beth waited until Zelda was sure.
“Dara Dinton.”
Beth returned with a large box, which she started opening.
“I trust you.”
“Don’t.” She held up each of the four low-cut shimmering dresses in gold, black, blue and gold.
“They’re the bahm diggity,” Zelda said, carefully stroking the soft black material. “You do nice work.”
Beth blushed and nodded.
“Wish I could wear these,” Zelda said.
“Why not? You’d look great.”
Zelda rolled her eyes.
“I have your size in the gold and black.”
“No, you don’t, I looked.”
Beth scowled at the treacherous dress rack. “I can find something similar. I’ve got a gorgeous purple…”
“Hey, you already made the sale.” More embarrassed than she understood, Zelda tucked the box under her arm and hurried out, going a block before Beth grabbed her at the corner.
“You forgot your receipt.” She shoved the slip into Zelda’s coat pocket and stormed away.
“Sorry. Come on, I said I’m sorry,” she said to the retreating Beth. Zelda pursued and caught up a block away, tugging on Beth’s sleeve.
She whirled. “That was a shitty thing to say.”
“You’re right.”
“I don’t give a crap if you buy clothes from me. If anyone buys clothes from me. I’ll wear them all myself. But it’s outrageous to accuse me of only caring about money as a businessperson. I won’t be insulted like that.”
Zelda grinned. “Guess I’m not the only one having a bad month.”
Beth softened. “Guess not.”
“Do I need to apologize again?”
“Not this time.” Beth gave her a long look. “Which direction are you going?”
Zelda frowned. “None really.”
They walked in silence along 164th Street past Diego’s apartment, her fourth time on this block in the past few days. Diego’s sister had left her squared notes asking if she’d heard from him, which Zelda ignored, figuring it was better for his family to think she’s a jerk then have to lie in person.
At least tonight Zelda didn’t go inside the building and sit by his door eating a sandwich and finishing off a bottle of wine, hoping that asshole Black Top agent was wrong.
Zelda barely kept up with Beth’s quick pace and sudden stops, as if the dressmaker were unsure whether she wanted to ditch her or not. They waited for a light as another billboard drifted down from a stealth ‘copter and secured itself on an enormous stand across the street. FORGIVENESS wrapped itself around Grandma’s head like an obedient snake; even after thirty-plus years, people still murmured wonderingly at such tricks.
Except for Beth, who sneered and darted forward through the bumper to bumper traffic. She jumped onto a couple hoods, ignoring the drivers’ shouts while waiting for Zelda to clumsily cross.
“Pretty good,” Zelda said between labored breaths.
Beth shrugged. “I don’t get much exercise all day.”
“I used to be three hoods.”
The woman smiled faintly. “My best was five.”
“Puppy once did six.”
“Figures,” Beth said dryly. The women smiled tentatively. “I go home for lunch sometimes.”
Zelda studied the greenish cake sitting perfectly centered in the chipped blue and white plate. Beth’s kitchen was just like her parents, warm with cooking smells, redolent with cleaning fluids. Except this one had love.
“You know what that is?” Beth laid down a small fork.
Zelda didn’t want to guess.
“Crushed parsley and honey. It’s good for the baby’s digestion.”
She didn’t bother asking how Beth knew; women just did. Zelda took a bite, managing a weak smile. “Wonderful.”
“No, it tastes awful. The honey gets worse every year. And the parsley was pathetic. But it’s healthy for my son and especially good for a pregnancy. How far along are you?”
“Eight weeks.”
Beth glanced at her left hand, but Zelda shook her head.
“And please, Puppy doesn’t know.”
“He’s the father?” Beth’s eyes bulged.
Zelda hadn’t laughed that loud since her last night with Diego. “No, just a friend. Who I still haven’t told.”
“I worried about telling my husband. So many fears about the future.”
“Oh yeah.”
Beth smiled sympathetically and held up an empty palm. Alone?
Zelda nodded.
Beth gestured at her head and heart, raising her shoulders.
What can I do? Zelda fought tears, shrugging. “What’d you do about your fears?”
“What makes you think they’re gone?” Beth dumped the disgusting parsley cake in the trash and served a thick piece of SC apple pie.
“Then what’d you
do?” Zelda asked between grateful bites.
Beth hesitated, slowly crossing herself.
Zelda pulled apart her lips. Helps?
The woman nodded cautiously, touching her mouth and pressing her fingertips against Zelda’s chest. Join me.
Zelda jumped up, red-faced. “I should be going.”
Beth frowned. “Don’t do it.”
Zelda trembled. “What?”
“What you’re thinking of.”
“I’m thinking of more pie.” She laughed limply. “Maybe some ice cream. Bottle of wine. Thanks for your hospitality.”
Beth grabbed her arm with strong supple fingers. “The hell what Grandma thinks. Care what He who created her thinks.”
“If the He who created her cared, this wouldn’t have happened. Or are you going to give me a lot of crap about free choice? I’m a painter. I read a lot about old artists, struggling with their humanity and your God.”
“Your God, too.” Beth tightened her grip. “Your baby’s God.”
She wrenched free. “It’s not my baby. It’s Grandma’s baby.”
Zelda ran down the steps and into the cold night.
• • • •
CLARY SETTLED ONTO a stool at the far end of the counter, longingly peering at the sweet foods beneath the plastic covers as if she could eat them just by imagining. She could probably steal some. All the Americans were looking at the face on the television.
The famous Grandma. Two days in America and she meets Grandma. She was very old. And not a Crusader. Yellow. An Asian. She didn’t look so mean, someone who would burn children in ovens and make stew of their hearts. Like a switch turned on her brain, Clary hummed the song all the children in Allah Land were taught, Abuela esta Muerta. It reassured her in a strange way.
Nothing else did.
The trees were very sad, along with the animals. Strange animals who she sometimes saw through. Ghost animals. And the towns. There weren’t many. America was supposed to be full of big cities where the Devil had parties, but she’d only seen little places. Now she hadn’t looked too carefully, being afraid. Maybe the big cities were hidden. They had lost the war. Maybe they had moved the cities further away from the Allahs. Sad wilted trees and ghost animals and sometimes a car. The people well, they seemed stupido. She could steal anything easily. She stole some socks and an extra t-shirt from a clothes line. The candy and band aids, of course. The money from the motel and the woman’s shoes and sweater and scarf. Like it was okay for children to steal.
The Americans were very surprised by what Grandma was saying. They stared like they thought their eyes and ears were lying, and then suddenly they started cheering. A few men slapped each other and Clary grabbed a fork in case there was a fight, but they just hugged and kissed. Maricon, she sneered in disgust. Another man waved his red cap with a B on the front and danced with a woman whose underwear showed. Clary needed underwear but didn’t know how she could steal that woman’s.
As Grandma kept talking in this very soft kind way, the Americans got quieter. They didn’t seem so happy anymore, like someone was telling them it was time for bed. Clary understood a couple words. Islam. Muslims. They gasped and made upset faces, like the Allahs did if the food was cold or you didn’t swallow the mucus from their penises. Maybe this wasn’t a safe place. She hadn’t found a safe place yet. She’d slept in the sad forest last night and today kept hidden in the woods along the road.
She’d seen a sign, New York, 100 miles. The address in her pocket said New York, Bronx, but she figured that was pretty close.
She was so hungry. Clary pocketed a donut from the plastic dome and finished the glass of water in one gulp when Grandma’s face disappeared. People mumbled, unsure how to act. Grandma had only talked for about five minutes but she seemed to say a lot.
A waitress tossed a menu down. “You eating?”
Her tone wasn’t mean, just curious; Clary could be anyone except who she was. She had tried talking yesterday at that tiny store. Simple Spanish even the idiota Allahs understood. I am hungry, how much. But the man behind the counter made a nasty face like the Spanish hurt his ears and asked, “You an American?” Well no, idiota, if I’m American I would speak English. She tried again and he came around and kept saying “American, American?” She got so mad she pulled down the scarf and he saw the scar and turned away. Since she was too horrible to look at, she was able to steal candy and skipped out the door making up a song about ugly men with little penises.
This waitress peered at the bandage on her cheek, but only cared whether Clary was eating.
Act like you belong, Clary decided, scrambling back onto the stool and confidently studying the foreign menu. A lot of the pictures looked good. She pointed at a hamburger and the waitress asked something. Clary nodded slowly. She’d taken a lot of money from el motel.
Two of the American men sat down to her left, talking about Grandma and Allahs. They were confused. They seemed half happy and half mad.
“What do you think?” The fat one suddenly asked her. “Is forgiveness the way?”
She shrugged. Shrugging worked with people. Usually they only wanted to be the ones talking.
“Kid’s probably as confused as us,” his fatter friend said. “Baseball good, Camels bad.”
“Not anymore,” his amigo said.
The waitress put down the biggest hamburger she’d ever seen along with potatoes and a soda. Clary waited politely until the men started their sandwiches.
“Manners, nice,” the fat man said. “Bon appetite.” He held up his plate. “Eat while we can.”
The tall man craned his neck at Clary, who’d already eaten half her burger and was considering ordering another.
“Where you from, girl?”
She poured more ketchup on the potatoes. Acting deaf also worked.
“Let her be.”
“Just asking.”
She ate quicker.
A man in a blue uniform put both his hands on their shoulders. “I thought you boys were on diets?”
They all laughed about that. Clary felt the policeman staring. She turned with very calm eyes and smiled.
“Hello,” she said her only English word.
“Hello,” he answered pleasantly, watching her eat. “Bundled up nicely.” He motioned to Clary’s many layers of clothes.
Clary barely chewed the last of the burger, wiped her mouth and grabbed the check.
“Where’s your parents?”
She shrugged and the policeman lost his smile.
“Parents? Mommy and Daddy?”
She looked into his cow face and smiled. “Muerte.”
Clary hurried to the cashier by the door, feeling the policeman staring.
“Be sixteen fifty, honey.”
Clary looked helpless.
“Sixteen fifty.”
Clary flung a twenty dollar bill on the counter, not waiting for the woman to tell her it was right. She ran back into the woods, making sure she was going in the direction of New York, Bronx.
The Blue Shirt finished thumbing through his notebook. “Was the bandage on that girl’s right cheek?”
His friends nodded and the cop raced out the door.
• • • •
JALAK ANGRILY SPILLED the bag of pistachios onto the counter and began counting. Blasted thief in the souq had his hand on the scale. Can’t trust anyone in this filthy place. She let her anger intensify and spill into an assault on the fatty lamb. We should’ve stayed in Cairo. They would’ve rebuilt eventually; at least that was home. Not this shithole. Resettlement, no money down, come and reclaim our ancestral lands stolen by the Crusaders.
The house was probably built by our ancestors in the fifteenth century, she grunted, flinging a grizzled piece of lamb into the sink. If her husband would only fix things but where is he? Disappears every day and leaves me to face the shame. That’s what happened, Jalak suddenly decided. The pistachio thief salesman knew who she was. The butcher knew who she was, a family
, a whose son lived in the Martyrs Home because of an unsuitable parent.
They were fortunate not to be beheaded like the perverts and tossed into the sea, Jalak trembled.
“Are you home?” Jalak shouted at Abdul, walking up the staircase.
“No, I’m a ghost.”
Big mouth. No respect, like his father.
“And do your homework.”
The soccer ball bounced up the steps.
“Without the ball.” She stood at the bottom waiting, arms folded. Abdul kicked the ball over her head, running into his room and locking the door before she could catch him. “Stay there and do your homework,” Jalak yelled into the keyhole before returning to the kitchen to exact revenge on the washed potatoes in the sink.
A bearded man in a frayed black hood peered through the window. Jalak gasped and pointed the long knife.
“Get out of here,” she shouted.
“Apologies…”
“I said get out…”
“What’re you doing, woman?” Mustafa rushed in, smelling of fish from a short trip with tourists. He bowed over the sink. “Allah have my head for my wife.”
Abdullah chuckled. “I have two wives. I understand. May I?”
Mustafa shoved Jalak aside and frantically opened the back door.
“You’re not letting a bum into my house…”
As Mustafa started explaining, Abdullah tossed him a warning glance.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, my woman. My feet are too dirty for your floors and my breath is filled with a stench that would mar that wondrous meal you’re cooking.”
Jalak wasn’t sure what to say, so she allowed anger to talk. “That’s right.” To Azhar, she said contemptuously, “Go talk to your beggar friend on the street.”
As they walked down the driveway, Azhar tried apologizing profusely, but Abdullah would have none of it.
“She’s a perceptive woman. Would you want her letting in someone dressed like this?”
“Your wisdom.” Azhar respectfully lowered his head.
“Common sense in a marriage is difficult.” The Son led Azhar a few blocks away. Mustafa was surprised that they didn’t get into a car, but instead sat on a bench near the sea. Azhar shifted slightly away, reddening.
“My odors,” he apologized.
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