Lifted by the Great Nothing: A Novel

by Karim Dimechkie

  Pour Mamita et Paíto,

  qui me donnent envie d’être courageux.

  I was sober and could have walked a chalk line,

  but it was pleasanter to stagger, so I swayed from

  side to side, singing in a language I had just invented.

  —Isaac Babel

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One: Summer Of 1996

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Part Two: 1996–2000

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Part Three: Summer Of 2000

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Part Four: Ten Years Later

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Acknowledgments

  A Note On The Author

  PROLOGUE

  Max’s father, Rasheed, loved baseball, burgers, and expressions like howdy and folks, which sounded more like Audi and fucks with his eternal Lebanese accent. When his father ordered the tree house to be built in their yard, he instructed the builders with great enthusiasm, “Okay, fucks, put the tree house in there now!” He clapped his hands once and pointed at the pines that faced their home.

  Max didn’t know what to do in the empty tree house. Imagine it as a ship? A prison? A hiding place? It was a small particleboard box on stilts with a tiny window, a circular opening in the floor, and a ladder. His father intended it to revolutionize his boyhood, laughing about how his son wouldn’t ever want to come back into the real house. So after it had arrived, Max nested up in there at least once a day out of duty. It was so well enveloped in the pines that hardly any sunlight made it through that little window. It stayed dark most of the day, like a hole suspended in the air. He invited a neighbor’s grandson up once, but since it felt like an empty attic, the boy came back down after a few minutes of pacing about. The boy’s lack of interest made the house more exclusively Max’s, and more dreadful. Alone again, he decided to set a trap at its entrance. He emptied a tube of toothpaste around the edges of the opening and waited for an intruder. Eventually he got hungry and went home, staining his slacks with the paste on the way down.

  When Rasheed came up there for the first time, he wore a khaki cap, a brown fanny pack, and his camera slung around his shoulder. He was a short man but still had to crouch to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. “Wow,” he said, once inside the barely lit space, “just, wow. This is fantastic.”

  “Yeah,” Max said, walking back and forth in the cramped house.

  “You can do many great things in here.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “If I had this as a boy, I would be too happy. Much too happy. Are you too happy?”

  Max took a moment to transfer all the sincerity he had into his answer. “Yes.”

  Rasheed looked proud, comforted that he’d made the right purchase, that he understood what his boy wanted. He began shooting Max with his camera, the flash filling the box like gunfire. “Right. Now pose like a great adventurer.”

  Max placed his hands on his hips and put his nose up in the air.

  “All right. Good. Now pose like a great thinker.”

  He posed like the great adventurer again, only with a variation in chin angle.

  “All right. Now, maybe, like a big caveman.”

  Here he rounded his posture into a crescent and thrust out his jaw. Rasheed laughed and hugged Max tightly enough to take the wind out of him. He opened his fanny pack and pulled out another gift for his son: a compass.

  By himself again, Max turned in a circle, watching the compass’s needle insist on north, which happened to be where their real house stood.

  PART ONE: SUMMER OF 1996

  ONE

  Five years before Max and Rasheed would never speak again, Rocket was still alive. A gray-and-white potato-shaped dog, and blind, she was eleven years old—a year younger than Max. She got out of the bed that lay next to his and wagged the back half of her body as she followed him into the kitchen. She bumped into the back of his legs when he stopped at the counter, waving her head and turning in circles. She smiled and panted: Hey, hey, hey, hey. Rasheed came in and told her what a pretty girl she was.

  Max had done all the cooking since he was about eight and took special pride in Sunday breakfasts. Today he prepared onion and shiitake mushroom scrambled eggs, chipotle-seasoned sweet potato fries, avocado slices, whole-grain toast, juice, coffee, and hot chocolate. He stood on a chair and leaned down on the electric orange press right as the doorbell rang. It was their neighbor, Mr. Yang.

  Mr. Yang usually dropped by to bring them pears from his Asian pear tree, or to apologize about his son, Robby, though never in the same visit. Robby was his youngest child (eighteen) and had Down syndrome. Sometimes he came over naked, giggling, his chubby cheeks worm-pink, and when Rasheed or Max opened the door, he gave a long, drawn-out cry, “Hi!” and waved his hands over his head, as if celebrating his beauty from the top of a parade float. His happiness uplifted them. After admiring Robby’s excitement for a moment, Rasheed typically said something like, “Okay, Robby, okay, hello, yes, hello, you are a very nice boy to come see us, yes, that’s right,” and walked him home.

  Today, Mr. Yang hadn’t come about Robby or to bring pears. He wore a fine-looking gray suit in place of his usual gardening attire. Despite his handling soil and plants all day, he was an exceptionally clean man, one whose feet, Max imagined, might have smelled of candle wax and whose silvery white hair probably felt like bunny fur. But today there was more to him than his usual spotlessness.

  “Good morning, Mr. Boulos!” he said to Rasheed.

  “Ah, hello, Mr. Yang. How are you?”

  “I am so very well, Mr. Boulos! Today, I will have a sudden party and would like you to participate in it with us.” Max abandoned the kitchen and joined them at the door. Mr. Yang nodded to him and then acknowledged Rocket with a kind squint.

  Rasheed savored the phrase “a sudden party.”

  “Yes! For the camukra flower will bloom today, Mr. Boulos. It finally arrive to a bloom!” When he smiled, his cheeks lifted his huge glasses over his eyebrows.

  “Oh, Mr. Yang, that is very great news,” Rasheed said, and then turned to explain to Max that this camukra flower took fourteen years under Mr. Yang’s faultless care to blossom. Today it was scheduled to open and wilt in less than five minutes.

  Mr. Yang cut in to add that his great-grandfather had succeeded in this deed, though his grandfather and father had unfortunately failed. Now he, Mr. Yang, knew by some nature-defying calculation that his would come into flower today.

  Max’s father and Mr. Yang liked each other very much. With genuine excitement and warmth, they chatted about commonplace things like the weather, traffic jams, different ways to get to the Home Depot, lawn mowing, and the deliciousness of Asian pears and other fruit. Though they knew each other’s origins, they didn’t speak of them. Their accents brought so much attention to their foreignness in other social environments that they’d tacitly agreed to enjoy a simple, classic American neighborliness, forgetting that they ever came from somewhere else.

  Once Mr. Yang had violated this understanding, causing a strain between them for a short while. He’d stopped in to ask Rasheed how to
make hummus, which he’d read optimized the nourishment of a particular Chinese orchid he’d tried to cultivate before without success. Rasheed coldly told him he did not know.

  Mr. Yang said, “But where you are from, I think you eat this food very much.” He looked troubled by the possibility of having gotten his facts mixed up.

  Rasheed stared at his feet. “Yes, it is true. But I don’t eat hummus, I don’t enjoy hummus, and I don’t know how to make hummus.” This constituted one of the rare unsmiling moments between them. Mr. Yang regarded him awhile, unsure of the meaning of this secrecy. He eventually broke away with a shallow bow and walked home. Maybe he took Rasheed’s unwillingness to share his Middle Eastern know-how as a form of exclusion. Maybe Mr. Yang realized the disappointing boundaries in their friendship. Or maybe he thought Max’s father had secrets involving a dishonorable past linked to hummus.

  Max had no idea if his father knew how to make hummus, but he certainly never ate any with him. Rasheed had effaced his past so thoroughly that Max didn’t ever think to ask about it. Other than Rasheed’s generosity, accent, and a face that could pass for everything from Italian to Hispanic to Jewish to Arab, he veiled off access to Lebanon, a country Max couldn’t have located on a world map. His mother had died in that place long ago, that’s all he knew.

  But Rasheed hadn’t uprooted his ancestry entirely. Once, when quite drunk, he lapsed, confiding in Max, after a wearing day at the warehouse, that they would retire to the Country someday.

  “The Country?” Max asked.

  “Yes, Lubnān.” The metallic glint in Rasheed’s eye promised some kind of paradise. He told Max he would stop working and they would go—by the Mediterranean, under the sun, between mountains, in the bustling city of Beirut—when the people could be trusted again. But the idea of being surrounded by people who had only recently become trustworthy terrified Max. In fact, living anywhere but on Marion Street, in this unexceptional town of Clarence, New Jersey, seemed like a self-destructive undertaking. Why start over when you’ve built something so secure and knowable here?

  Max never thought to ask why his father went by Reed instead of his given name, Rasheed, nor did he think to ask why they never ate Lebanese food, or why he’d never heard his father utter a word of Arabic, or anything about old Lebanese friends or family or religion or politics; nothing about his personal history at all.

  When someone did ask Rasheed where he came from, he’d say, “I’m American.” If they insisted, he said his ancestors came from just about everywhere. If they insisted further, he told them his relatives last resided in the Near East, and then deftly changed the subject.

  When he informed Max about the retirement plan back to the Country, he stressed the importance of never telling anyone about the journey. “When we are in America we are Americans,” he said. People who wore their nationalities on T-shirts and hats were idiots. He explained he would not be defined by some faraway place. We were individuals, not countries. Besides, people couldn’t understand Lebanon.

  Over time, and thanks to a joyful nude visit from Robby, Mr. Yang dropped the hummus tensions and came back over with pears and sincere small talk.

  “Please, Mr. Boulos,” he said now, “I invite you all to come see it bloom.”

  “Now?” Max asked, looking back at his breakfast, already beginning to mourn the eggs that were getting cold.

  “Yes. It is now. I have many people in my home now. I call them early this morning after the flower move and I calculate when it will happen.” He laughed, and his shoulders popped up and down.

  “Yes. We will come,” Rasheed said triumphantly.

  “You know it will happen now, really?” Max said.

  Mr. Yang looked at his wristwatch. “Normally, sometime between ten forty-five A.M. and eleven forty-five A.M. exactly.”

  That’s incredible, Max thought.

  “Wow,” said Rasheed. He looked at his watch too. “That begins in under nine minutes. We’re coming over shortly.”

  Mr. Yang rubbed his hands together. “Okay, good, see you.”

  “W-w-w-we’ll head right over,” Max echoed as the door closed. Rasheed clucked his tongue at him in disapproval. Max didn’t actually have a stutter. He put it on because a handsome Doberman-faced boy named Danny Danesh had one. He associated it with Danny’s success. Danny Danesh didn’t technically have a speech impediment either; he stumbled over his consonants when angry or overly excited by his own jokes. He had everything going for him—class clown, most daring prankster, best drawer—and was a miraculous feat of athleticism and cool. He only had one good arm. The other was a short chicken wing with four rubbery nubs sprouting in different directions. And still he was the best basketball player in the middle school. He dribbled with large side-to-side movements with that single long trunk of an arm, crossing his opponents and dashing past them. Juking quicker and jumping higher than anyone, he consistently got to rebounds first, one-handedly tapping the ball up in the air, like a sea lion with a beach ball, until he managed to bring it down to his chest and dribble again. He had a wicked long-range shot too.

  Max had been imitating Danny’s trademark stutter from time to time at home, but his father remained unimpressed. The times Rasheed had seen Danny Danesh when he came to pick Max up from school, he’d guffawed at the boy. He disliked hotshots and said Danny looked like a hoodrat. But Max didn’t believe his father knew what a hoodrat was; he’d also heard him use the term to describe their neighbor, Mrs. Waltzen, an ancient woman who stuffed their mailbox with pamphlets about the word of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

  At the Yangs’ it smelled of sauna wood, rosewater, and mothballs. They had a greenhouse roof that covered half of their kitchen and all of the adjoining living room, filled with hundreds of extraterrestrial-looking plants and bright flowers. Max was wearing gray sweatpants and an oversize beige T-shirt, and his father sported jean shorts and a white tank top. Vines of hair spiraled up Rasheed’s neck and across his back, accumulating into a little black fire on each shoulder. He was proud of his hairiness. When they swam at the Y, he sometimes floated on his back and announced to his own submerged chest, “It is like a burned omelet!” and laughed, turning his head from side to side to see who enjoyed his very funny comment.

  A wall of about twenty Asian men and women surrounded a flower sitting on a stool. They turned to briefly register Max and his father’s arrival.

  Rasheed called out, “Audi, fucks.” Though such moments embarrassed Max, it never occurred to him to correct his father. Rasheed was a fixed entity, an unchanging, finished, permanent person, and the thought of teaching him anything was as unthinkable as training a turtle to sing. Turtles cannot sing and fathers cannot change. Neither fact demands alteration.

  The men wore gray or navy suits and the women bright floral-patterned dresses and a lot of powder on their faces. Standing out two heads taller than everyone was Max’s basketball coach: Coach Tim. Max went up to him and received a low five.

  “Getting a little shaggy there, Maxie,” Coach said, tussling Max’s thick bowl of black hair. Max’s eyelashes, long and womanly as a camel’s, twitched his bangs when he blinked. Tim grabbed Rasheed’s hand like an old war buddy, and with a lot of emotion, said, “What’s ragin’, Cajun?” and the two of them cantered off to whisper intensely in the corner.

  They were a funny pair, Coach Tim and Rasheed—Tim, a broad-shouldered, reddish, balding man who hardly ever took off his San Antonio Spurs cap (in homage to where he’d lived most of his life); and Rasheed, a five-foot-five paunch-bellied man with twiggy arms, a scimitar of a nose, a weak chin, brown eyes that looked like little coffee beans, a hairline that started a quarter of the way down his forehead, and an easy laugh. Rasheed watched a lot of baseball with Tim at the house but never remembered the games. He didn’t know the players’ names or what cities teams came from or even who’d won. Max knew that baseball was like gazing at a bonfire for his father, a wonderfully tranquil and warm time to get drawn
into the flickering light, and dream. Anytime this favorite American sport of his came up in conversation, he got a faraway look in his eye and said, “Yes. There is a beautiful game.”

  Since Tim’s wife had left him four years earlier, Rasheed spent a lot of time at his house. They drank over there frequently—to lift Tim’s spirits, as Rasheed put it. Max wasn’t invited to these therapy sessions.

  Max noticed a pretty Asian girl, maybe eleven years old, peeking around a woman’s shoulder. The girl was slipped inside a rich orange dress, lips painted a dazzling gloss. She took one shimmering step toward him, showing her whole body now. She stood with the composure of a magazine model, had a mod haircut and pearl earrings. A little woman. Her beauty stunned him into extreme self-consciousness. He felt spotlit, exposed, and maybe insufficient. She kept a bronze leather purse taut on her shoulder, and had tight, brilliant black eyes. Such captivating eyes made him insecure about his own. His were far too big for his face. Though adults often complimented him on how pretty they were, he’d hated them ever since a boy in his class accused him of looking like a Chihuahua. When he remembered to, he’d let his heavy lids close three-quarters of the way to make them appear smaller, peering at people through the narrow slits he left open. Teachers would often ask if he was sick or sleepy.

  Tim and Rasheed laughed loudly about something, and when Max looked back to see where the little woman had gone, she was right in front of him.

  “Hello,” she said, flickering her mascaraed eyes.

  “Hi.” He swayed back and forth, sea-legged, relaxing his lids, impatiently waiting for something else to come out of his mouth.

  “You look tired. You need sugar.” She reached into her purse and offered him a giant wrapped cube of Chinese candy. He thanked her by bowing his head, overplaying some gentleman’s role he’d just now invented. He blushed as he tried to work the wrapper off the candy. Picking it open took all his concentration. She giggled and said, “Here,” bringing out another from her purse and quickly unwrapping it with her tiny polished nails. The giant cube was apricot colored. While Max put that one in his mouth and nodded to express how good it tasted, she began unpeeling the one he’d been holding. She smiled at his chewing like a mother watching her infant eat.