Pray for the Girl

by Joseph Souza

  I grab a wrinkled copy of the Standard, Fawn Grove’s weekly newspaper, and begin to flip through it. There are lots of ads and feel-good stories about townspeople trying to make Fawn Grove a better place. But then I stop and fold the paper in half. There’s a photo of five high school students receiving awards for exceptional community service. Removing my sunglasses, I stare at the girl standing in the middle of the pack. She’s wearing a hijab, and there’s the faint hint of a smile over her face. I recognize her immediately.

  Nasreen.

  14

  AFTER PURCHASING TWO POUNDS OF COFFEE, I MAKE MY WAY OUT OF the shop and drive over to the Afghani market where Nasreen works. It’s bustling with activity this morning. Groups of middle-aged women dressed head to toe in burqas stroll up and down the aisles. Once again I notice that I’m the only American-born person in here. My previous enthusiasm for this place has now been displaced by a sense of fear. Did I put the girl’s life in jeopardy by meeting with her? And did she violate some religious code by speaking to us? I walk conspicuously through the narrow grocery aisles, gazing at the various produce while trying to see if Nasreen is on duty. A young man in his twenties kneels on the floor and stocks cans along the bottom shelf. It’s a Saturday morning. Shouldn’t she be here by now?

  Two women in full burqas glance suspiciously at me as I pass, no doubt because I’m dressed provocatively according to their strict standards. I stand out in this market in more ways than one. A wave of anxiety passes over me when I see their dark eyes glaring at me from the end of the aisle. An angry-looking butcher with a thick mustache hacks away at a carcass behind the meat counter, the chopping sounds vibrating through my bones. He stops briefly to see what the fuss is all about before shouting out something. A row of goat heads gaze at me on the counter through lifeless, glassy eyes. The sight of them nearly makes me sick. I pull out the crumpled newspaper and hold it up to him, and he mumbles something unintelligible before waving me away with his bloody knife.

  I spot the manager. Was he the man I saw shouting at Nasreen in the parking lot? I ask the man at the cash register if Nasreen is working this afternoon, but he merely lowers his eyes and shakes his head.

  I feel terrible about coming here the other day. Had I caused her to lose her job? I pray I didn’t put the girl in harm’s way. Maybe it’s nothing, but I can’t shake the sinking feeling that something bad has happened to her. If someone has taken the time and effort to warn me off this case, I can’t imagine what they might do to a young school girl caught between two disparate cultures.

  I realize I’m wasting my time here. These people won’t tell me where Nasreen lives or where I can find her. I drive up to the housing project where most of the immigrants have settled. I don’t quite understand why I’m doing this or what it will accomplish, but I need to make an effort. The main road leads up and into the Blueberry Hill development. After parking, I walk up the narrow street until I arrive at the first row of drab townhouses. There’s not a soul in sight. Behind the windows I see eyes peering down at me from behind curtains.

  My trusty boning knife presses against my thigh. It feels strange to walk alone on these quiet streets, all eyes on me, feeling oddly like a second-class citizen. It doesn’t feel as if I’m in Fawn Grove anymore but in some strange foreign land. I know that I’m not supposed to be here, and that it’s dangerous and risky, but this is my town; the place where I grew up and played. Besides, someone has to learn something about the dead girl before the case goes cold.

  I climb the nearest set of stairs and ring the doorbell. These homes have been poorly built and are breaking down under the weight of their shoddy construction. Shingles splinter apart, and the wood around the window frames looks as if dry rot has begun to set in. I ring the doorbell and wait for someone to answer. A minute passes before the door opens and a pair of eyes appears between slits of black fabric.

  “Do you know where I can find this girl?” I ask, holding up the photo of Nasreen.

  The woman snaps at me before slamming the door shut. Across the street, I see a tall man and a woman wearing a hijab walking toward me. Gripping the photo, I leap down the stairs, holding the picture up for them to see. The man’s eyes widen and a vile expression forms over his face. Before I can show him the photograph, he starts shouting at me and waving his arms in a threatening manner. The man turns to the women and gestures furiously for her to get in the car parked alongside us.

  “Could you please help me? I’m looking for this girl,” I say.

  “You don’t belong here,” he shouts in a thick accent. “You dishonor us by coming here dressed like whore.”

  The force of his insult stuns me. “I can go anywhere I please in this town. Now just tell me where the girl is and I’ll leave.”

  “You’re a disgrace. An infidel.” He steps toward me and spits at my feet. “Leave before you get hurt.”

  “I’m not leaving until I find her.”

  “In my country, they would kill you for talking to me like this.”

  “I guess we’re not in your country now, are we?” I grip the handle of the knife in my pocket.

  “This won’t be your country for long.” He laughs and steps toward me. “Soon we will outnumber you and you’ll live under our rules.”

  “Over my dead body!” I step forward and brace myself for whatever’s coming.

  He shoves me. The insult of his hands on my body sends a shock wave through my system. I recall all the bullying I put up with when I was a kid and couldn’t properly defend myself. It’s partly why I fled Fawn Grove and joined the army. I figured that at least I could defend my country if not myself. Then they sent me to medic school, and I ended up saving soldiers’ lives. Not all of them, but enough to justify my service. I didn’t spend all those years defending this country’s freedoms only to return home and be discriminated against because of my gender. Or because I’m an American citizen in my own country, a lone voice standing up for a dead Afghani girl, like the Afghani girl from my past.

  I take out the knife and grip the wooden handle. The man steps forward and tries to push me a second time, but I surprise him by stepping out of the way. This pisses him off, and he rushes toward me. I turn slightly and throw a fist filled with boning knife into his face. He falls backward and onto the pavement, crying out in pain. I crouch next to him as he cups his bloody nose. Indignant, I slip the blade into his nostril until I get his full attention.

  “Don’t you ever put your hands on me again.”

  He mutters something as I hold the photo up to his hate-filled eyes.

  “Now tell me where the girl lives.”

  His stares up at me in defiance. “I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew.”

  “Nasreen. The girl who works at the Afghani market.”

  “Go and find her yourself.”

  I lift the blade higher until he whimpers.

  “Where does she live?”

  He stares at the photo for a few seconds before laughing. “You stupid whore. You know nothing about my people. We answer only to Allah.”

  “If you ever put your hands on me again, I’ll make sure you get to meet Allah sooner than later.”

  “Do you realize what might happen to her now? Because of you?” He laughs. “You better pray for the girl.”

  I retreat down the road, keeping my eyes on him as he stands. The sting of being called a whore reverberates in my head. No one’s ever called me that name before. I turn and hobble toward my truck as fast as possible. Glancing back, I see that a group of boys have gathered at the top of the hill. They’re shouting in their foreign tongue and waving their arms in a threatening manner.

  Rocks begin to pepper my feet. A pebble smacks against my back and takes my breath away. I jump into the truck just as a rock bounces off the hood. Another crash-lands in the bed of the pickup. I do a U-turn and speed down the hill just as a spidery crack appears along the rear window.

  What the hell was I thinking by coming here? What a stupi
d and dangerous thing to do. I accelerate until I’m completely off Blueberry Hill. My back hurts, and I’m trying desperately not to break down in tears. By the time I pull into my sister’s driveway, I’m sobbing hysterically.

  I’d served in a region of the world where women were treated as inferiors and expected to be obedient to men. To confront a Muslim man in that way is to trap him into a corner and humiliate him. I’m all for tolerance, but how far must we go to honor the customs and traditions that these immigrants have brought with them? Where do our rights conflict? There’s no way I’m letting any man put his hands on me and treat me in such a disrespectful way. Or call me a whore. I hope I’ve taught him a lesson he’ll not soon forget. The shock of this encounter furthers my resolve to find out who killed that poor kid. I only hope I didn’t put Nasreen’s life in jeopardy.

  * * *

  I call Dalton and ask if he’ll meet me somewhere.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “Not entirely, which is why I need to speak with you.”

  “Did something happen?”

  I debate whether to tell him what transpired.

  “Lucy? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. I may have done something stupid.”

  “Have you been speeding through town again?” He laughs.

  “I went looking for the girl on Blueberry Hill, and one of the Afghani men put his hands on me.”

  “Jesus! Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you crazy? You should have never gone up to Mecca all by yourself.”

  “You’re right, I shouldn’t have.”

  “If you’re thinking about pressing charges, you can pretty much forget it. None of those people will testify against him.”

  “I have no plans to press charges,” I say. “But he might consider pressing charges against me.”

  “For what?”

  “He put his hands on me, so I defended myself. That was a mistake he’ll not soon forget.”

  “Damn it, Lucy, you need to get a grip on yourself. You’re not in New York City anymore.”

  “I went up there to find out where the girl lives, but no one would talk to me.”

  “Of course they wouldn’t. Now you know how I feel. Pretty frustrating, isn’t it?”

  It pains me to realize that he was right all along.

  “Just because she wasn’t at work these last two days doesn’t mean she went missing. We’ll find her. Then we’ll work at getting to the bottom of this murder.”

  “Do you think we can sit down and talk?”

  “Would you consider having dinner with me tonight?”

  I debate this for a moment, wondering how far I’ll go to get answers. “Dinner will work.”

  “How about I pick you up around seven?”

  “Sure,” I say, wondering if I’ll come to regret having dinner with Dalton.

  * * *

  Wendy is sitting at the table and reading a magazine when I walk inside. It’s one of those splashy celebrity magazines that give the reader “the inside scoop.” She looks up at me as I close the door. By the expression on her face, I can tell she’s been worrying.

  “Oh my God, Lucy. You look terrible. Are you okay?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Sit down, and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  “Tea sounds nice right about now.”

  Wendy wheels herself to the counter, fills the kettle with water, and heats it up on the stovetop. She pushes a button on her electronic chair and elevates the seat so that she can reach the cups and tea bags. She places one in each mug and then returns to the table. Once the kettle boils, she pours hot water into the cups and places one in front of me.

  “You seem upset,” she says.

  “I’ve gotten involved in something I probably shouldn’t have by looking into this girl’s death.”

  She laughs. “You go away all these years and now you want to be a member of the Fawn Grove Police Department and solve murders.”

  “I must admit, I have become a bit obsessed with this case.”

  “Why in the world would you care about any of that when you have your own issues to care about? Let the police do their job.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

  “You should be working on healing yourself and spending time with your family instead of worrying about all this crazy nonsense.”

  “Maybe it’s because I saw with my own eyes how badly women were treated over in Afghanistan.”

  “And by finding this girl’s murderer you think you can make up for that? Solve all the world’s problems?”

  “No, I’m not that deluded.”

  “Then what’s wrong with you?”

  “Something happened to me over there, Wendy, and it affected me.”

  “Of course something happened to you. You lost both of your legs.”

  “No, something else. Two things actually. The last one happened the day before that roadside bombing.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “Maybe at some point, thanks, but not now.”

  “You have two prosthetic legs to show for your service to this country.” She places both hands down on the arms of her wheelchair. “At least you don’t have to ride around in one of these all day.”

  “I’m sorry about your illness.”

  “And for no other reason than MS strikes people randomly and at will.” She leans over the table and massages my hand sympathetically. “You know I’m always here for you.”

  “I know. And I’m here for you too.” I place my free hand over hers. “Thank you, sis.”

  “You’re welcome. For your own good, you should just walk away from that girl’s death and leave it for the police.”

  “If only I could.”

  “This town is changing, and folks here are afraid for their futures. The mill has cut way down, and people have lost jobs and hope. Alcohol and drug use is rampant among our youth, and now we have this influx of immigrants to deal with.”

  “There’s a young girl who works at that Afghani market. I think she might be in trouble because of me.”

  “Why?”

  “I was talking to her about the girl’s murder when her boss came out and started yelling at her. Maybe he thought she was ratting out her neighbors.”

  “So why do you think she’s in trouble?”

  “Because I can’t find her, and no one at the store will tell me where she lives.”

  “You have to understand, Lucy. These people don’t open up to outsiders, especially after the anti-immigrant rally held here a few months ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “It got ugly. Rabble-rousers from outside of town showed up just to stir things up. It’s no wonder these immigrants don’t feel welcome here. They’re constantly being attacked and vilified.” She sips her tea.

  “It’s human nature to circle the wagons.”

  “If you’re so concerned about the girl, why don’t you go tell the police what you know?”

  “I’m meeting with Dalton tonight.”

  “Dalton?” She laughs. “You do know that he was one of the loudest protesters that day?”

  “Yeah, someone told me he was involved.”

  “When the mayor heard about his involvement in AFA, he said it was a conflict of interest. The town suspended him without pay and ordered him to take sensitivity classes, and to not take part in any more demonstrations.”

  “Do you trust Dalton?”

  “It’s not whether I trust him. The question is, do you?”

  “Should I have reason not to?”

  “You grew up with him. You know what he’s capable of doing. And from what I remember, you weren’t one of his biggest fans.”

  “That was a long time ago when we were young and stupid. People change, Wendy.”

  “I certainly hope you’re right, but I’m not so sure with this guy.”

  “There’s another thing I shoul
d tell you.” I look down and realize that I haven’t touched my tea. “Someone left a threatening message for me yesterday.”

  “Dear God! Where? Do you have any idea who left it?”

  “No. They scrawled it on the windshield of the pickup, warning me to stop digging around in the girl’s death.”

  “I’m really starting to worry about you. You need to step away from all this.”

  “I wish I could.” I walk over and place my tea in the sink. “But that message they left pisses me off even more, and now I feel compelled to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Then, please be careful. Promise me you will?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  “I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you after all these years of our living apart.”

  “Don’t worry, sis,” I say more confidently. “I can protect myself.”

  “Brynn tells me you cooked at The Galaxy yesterday.”

  “I did, and it was a total waste of time. Nadia’s father refuses to take any of my advice.”

  “An accomplished chef like you is out of her league working in that dump.”

  “I was trying to teach him to be a better cook. He could turn that diner around if he only listened to me.”

  “Why waste the time and energy? The Galaxy’s reputation has been going down the toilet for the last ten years now, and it’s not coming back.”

  “Maybe that’s why I’m so involved with this girl’s death. I need something to give me purpose and meaning while I’m staying here in Fawn Grove.”

  “You were always a hyperactive kid. You used to drive Mom crazy because you could never sit still or focus on anything for more than a few seconds at a time.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I joined the army, to keep myself occupied.”

  “If you’re looking for something meaningful to do while you’re here, you should go visit your father. He’d really love to see you.”

  “Has he been asking about me?”