Saints and Misfits

by S. K. Ali

  “Can I open this? Mom told me to get you to eat.”

  “Go ahead. I’m just reading.” Flannery’s “Revelation” is open on my lap. I’m at the part where Mary Grace throws a textbook at an insufferable self-righteous woman at the doctor’s office. The textbook is aptly titled Human Development.

  Muhammad holds out a plate. Waffles, with buttery syrup.

  He has a plate for himself, too. I point to the chair at my desk.

  “Technically, this is my room. So Mom’s rule about eating in her bedroom doesn’t apply here,” I say, sawing a piece of thick waffle with the tiny fork Muhammad brought me. It’s Mom’s special pickle fork, two pronged.

  “I have a feeling she’d make an exception in this case.” Muhammad picks his waffle up like a pizza slice. It’s slathered in Nutella. “But yeah, her land rights only extend as far as the screens.”

  “Hmm, maybe you should have gone into law.”

  “How are you doing? Tell me, really.” He swivels the chair and takes a bite of his waffle.

  “All right, I guess. He was old, ninety-three. And even if he wasn’t, I know it’s not up to humans to decide when we die,” I say. “It’s up to God.”

  “Ameen.”

  “The only thing that bothers me is I don’t feel like I absorbed everything he tried to tell me. I wish I’d paid more attention to him.”

  “Janna, he loved you. Anytime I’d see him, he’d tell me about Miss Janna.”

  “I loved him, too.”

  “That means you paid attention to him.”

  “I don’t know. You know how when you really want to get to know someone, how you make it a point to hang on to their every word?” I isolate a piece of waffle and sink my fork in. When I lift, it falls off the fork. “Like Sarah. You’re so into her, right?”

  “Of course. Hopefully, she’ll be my wifey soon.” He stops chewing and quickly adds, “Insha’Allah!” God willing.

  “By the way, I think you made a good choice,” I say, concentrating on cutting a suitable size of waffle for the pickle fork. Ah, so one waffle square fits the ratio of prongs to dough. I have a feeling Soon-Lee would have figured this out before me. “Sarah. She’s okay, I mean.”

  Muhammad smiles. “I knew you’d like her if you got to know her.”

  “I don’t really know her. It’s like when Dad asked, Is she down-to-earth? And I found out she was.”

  “So what were you saying about knowing someone? About Mr. Ram?”

  “Yeah, so like when I met Tats and she was so fun, I wanted to know everything about her. I think I know everything about her now.” I put the tiny piece of waffle speared on my fork down. “But that wasn’t the case with Mr. Ram. He was kind of just there.”

  “You guys were so different: generationally, culturally, so many ways. You wouldn’t have wanted to hang on to every word. Being kind of just there for each other was amazing.”

  “I guess. I just want more time with him.” I put the waffle square in my mouth and chew so that I don’t cry.

  “Just remember him and remember your times with him. It will come to you in bits. Mr. Ram moments.” Muhammad puts his plate on the desk. “Remember when Rafiq died? That’s what it was like. Things we’d done together would show up at the weirdest times. Or something he’d said. Even when I’m watching a movie. A Rafiq moment.”

  Rafiq was Muhammad’s best friend when he was a kid. He died in a car accident when he was twelve. I can’t imagine what Muhammad must have felt. His best friend.

  I nod. It doesn’t make complete sense, but at least he’s trying to help me. “Are you going to the funeral with me and Mom?”

  “On Saturday? Yeah.”

  “No, it’s Friday.”

  “That’s the Hindu rites. It’s family only for that. Saturday for everyone else.”

  I check my phone. Nuah’s modified his message on Mr. Ram’s Facebook page: Sorry, Mr. Ram’s family wants me to clarify that the gathering for friends is on Saturday at the community center, three p.m.

  Muhammad takes a mini pack of halal gummy bears out of the pocket of his shorts. He places it on my desk. “Dessert. Got it at the open house for you.”

  • • •

  A flurry of text messages.

  Me: About tomorrow.

  Tats: Janna! I can’t stop thinking about you. Did this guy try to hurt you?

  Me: Yes.

  Tats: OMG!

  Me: I can’t talk about it right now.

  Tats: I’ll come over. You need someone.

  Me: No. I’m dealing.

  Tats: Police?

  Me: Eventually.

  Tats: Can I help you?

  Me: You already have.

  Tats: By the way, I like the Muslim guy. For you I mean.

  Me: By the way, I’ll come with you to the party for a bit.

  Tats: You sure?

  Me: Yes.

  MONSTER AND MAYHEM

  Nuah texts me at three fifty from Seniors Games Club. He was just getting the handshake. Mr. Ram.

  Is Ms. Kolbinsky there?

  Yes. Her granddaughter brought her.

  Say hi to them for me. And tell Sandra a joke about horse teeth. For me.

  Will do.

  Also, I’m having a Mr. Ram moment.

  Yeah?

  Sometimes people who appear great can be the real deal. The husk, the fruit, and the kernel align.

  Yup, that was Mr. Ram for you. The real deal.

  I mean not just him. I pause. Should I say it? A wave of courage buoys me: Thanks Nuah. For aligning.

  Ah. And, aha, there you go, being nice.

  • • •

  I open Amu’s e-mail.

  Dear Imam, what if you know something bad that someone’s done, something against the laws of God, but no one else knows it, and people think that person is really good and should get a position of responsibility in the community, like, say, leading prayers . . . what should the person who knows the truth do?

  Answer: Thank you for your important question. The person who knows the truth should act ethically and alert the people in charge that they are making a grievous error by entrusting a position of responsibility on a person unworthy of such a trust. It becomes a compulsory act on the one who knows to ensure that this entrusting does not occur. Of course this is granting that the person knows the evidence with surety. Otherwise, it would be a merciless and, indeed, a heinous action, as it would entail ruining a reputation and misleading a community. I pray this person takes the right step and comes forward should such a situation described in the question exist. And Allah knows best.

  I pause scrolling. Evidence.

  Amu thinks it’s like a theft or something. Some kind of action where there’s a scene of the crime, a sequence of events with anomalies or gaps you can see, and empirical proof laid out on a white-clothed table.

  Evidence that can be examined, to determine “surety.”

  Here, I’m the only one who knows the evidence with surety. Other than him, of course.

  And Rambo, Fizz’s cat.

  Does this mean I have to come forward and prove that he’s a monster? Describe what happened when I can’t even make sense of how it happened? Each step of the description would be reliving it.

  It would be me laid out on that white table, to be examined, to determine surety.

  If only Rambo, independent and impartial, could talk.

  Because I’m not strong enough to tell Amu.

  Dear Imam, what if you find that you’ve fallen for someone who is not Muslim?

  Answer: Thank you for your relevant question. Living in a diverse society such as ours, this is bound to occur as we interact with each other on equitable and ethical terms (hopefully) in the large melting cauldron called America. As the cauldron swirls, we may notice the very admirable features and impeccable characters of many of the non-Muslim peoples that are bobbing alongside us. (Janna, does this sound too much like I’m describing the bobbing-for-apples pot I saw at the harves
t fair with you when you were six? And, I tremble here, does this analogy seem LOQUACIOUS? Forgive me if so and adjust as you see fit.) The question we must ask ourselves at this point—a very tricky question to ask at a time of being intrigued by someone—is: Will this person hold dear the same things that I will in life? Will it be as important to them to observe Ramadan properly, bundling up in the winter months to head to the mosque in the evenings when there is work in the mornings; will they cherish the times and sanctity of prayers for my family as I will; will they observe the ritual cleansing acts so important to a Muslim; and so on. Perhaps the most important question one would need to ask of oneself is, Do I hold dear these things? If so, a reevaluation of the attraction and the potential for realistic fruition may be in order. If not, Allah is the most aware of your situation and the one to turn to, being the best of all guides. I can offer no other advice than this. And Allah knows best.

  • • •

  We meet at the Book Nook at five because Sausun says it’s going to take at least an hour to “get into character.” She hustles me into a bathroom and locks us into a wheelchair accessible stall, extra wide.

  “If you fidget with your abaya and niqab, he’ll know you’re not the real thing. Which means he won’t be convinced enough to get scared of you, which, knowing you, will get you scared and then, wham, you’ll blow your cover. Pun intended.” She unfolds a black cloak—an abaya. “Sorry, this is kind of long. Ruki’s almost a foot taller than you.”

  “So, because I won’t be able to see a hundred percent through my niqab, I’ll probably trip on this thing and fall?”

  “No, because a niqab doesn’t mean you can’t see. Actually, your sense of sight is accentuated, sort of like the way a blind person’s sense of hearing becomes sharper. Your eyes are all you’ve got so . . .”

  I look at her doubtfully as she holds open the abaya for me.

  “Relax. You’re not wearing the type I have on, no eye screen. Your eyes will get total freedom.”

  Just not my nose and mouth. Well, my mouth is going to get the freedom to tell him off, even if it’s in a muffled way.

  I finish buttoning up the abaya and wait as Sausun does some complicated thing with the head scarf portion of the outfit.

  “I’m folding this so it’s not as long and won’t drape onto your arms. That way you can actually move your arms to lift up the bottom of the abaya, because, man, that’s one looong dress.”

  She winds the scarf around my head and secures it with pins. Then she takes out the final piece of my outfit: the face veil or niqab, a small rectangular piece of black fabric with ties extending on either side. I feel a welling inside me, like a case of hyperventilating is about to unleash itself.

  “I’m claustrophobic. Severely,” I pant.

  Sausun stops moving, the niqab dangling from her hand by one of the ties. “Do you want to do this or not?”

  I don’t say anything and stare at the niqab swinging slightly.

  “Do you? Do you want him to keep thinking he’s got you in control, like he’s going to dictate how you act, how free you are, just because you won’t give in to him? Do you want to put a stop to one more perverted scum acting all holy or not? There are too many in the world—come on already.”

  I pretend it isn’t tears that drop onto the black fabric of the niqab as I bring it to my face. I join the ties at the back of my head myself before looking up. The first thing I see out of my niqabbed face is Sausun’s eyes, wet, before she lowers her mesh eye screen on top of them.

  We’re two sad and angry women, about to wreak vengeance on one unsuspecting monster. I lead the way out of the bathroom stall.

  • • •

  The first thing I notice about wearing the niqab is that you have to like your own breath. Lunch was a handful of sour cream and onion chips, so I’m not having much fun. The walking candy store helps out by handing me two Wint O Green Life Savers from her bulging laptop case as she opens it to set up her equipment. Her eye screen is flipped back so she can work. We’re in the coffee shop area of the store, with mellow French music playing.

  “For the first part, where you’re stalking him, use your phone cam. I can clean it up after,” Sausun says. “I’ll be here. You’ve got to get him into view of my laptop cam before doing your spiel. We need to get a frontal view on tape.”

  I avert my gaze from a girl paying at the counter who looks vaguely familiar. Was she in my English class?

  “Janna. Nobody knows it’s you. Even your mom.”

  “I have expressive eyebrows. They have a life of their own.” I wiggle them to make my case. “I should have grown them out or something.”

  “No offense but your eyebrows are nothing special.” Sausun finishes positioning her laptop. “I’m going to go stand where you need to be standing with the asshole. To give you an idea of where to get him cornered.”

  I sit in her chair and look at the image on the screen. I click record as Sausun comes into view, doing a twirl near the bookcases that say BARGAIN FINDS. A man in teeny shorts steps back from her, holding his coffee away. She curtsies and makes an after-you motion with her hands. Teeny-shorts man frowns and strides off, holding his coffee aloft.

  Sausun walks back, with a lot more people looking at her now. She takes her chair from me.

  “You can have a bit more space to play with, but try to stay tight. I won’t be able to keep moving my laptop to track you guys.”

  “That guy is staring over here,” I say, sucking then blowing out minty air for my personal pleasure. “The one in the baseball cap.”

  “Wouldn’t you look at two identically dressed people? Just to work it out in your head? That’s why he’s staring.”

  “Yeah but not for-e-ver.” I will myself to stare back.

  He drops his gaze. Wow, what power!

  I turn to a woman at the next table who’s been taking glances here and there. I wonder if my eyes show that I’m actually doing a smiling sort of stare. She looks away.

  “Having fun?” Sausun watches me, eyes crinkled.

  “Are you smiling? I think I can tell now.” I smile back. “Hey, I thought of something. What about the music?”

  “You mean what about the Edith Piaf playing? I think it would be a great soundtrack for what you’re going to do.” Now she’s definitely smiling. “Very ironic.”

  “No one will hear me. On video.”

  “That’s why you’ll wear this mic under your abaya.” She hands me a small silver rectangle with a clip on one side. “It’s Bluetooth connected to my laptop.”

  I take the mic and rotate it in my hand. “If I don’t go through with it, will you be mad?”

  “No, ’cause you will go through with it.” She scoots to another chair, one facing only me and the corner behind me. Lifting her niqab right up to her forehead and then flipping it back, she speaks. “Here’s why you need to do this: It’s not only for you. It’s for me, too.”

  Her face is intense, with eyes open wide and mouth tight. “I’m planning something to help my sister. Something big so she can come back here to the States, with her son. Something that will blow up big in the media, in my bastard-in-law’s face. So you doing this is my trial run. It’s the first strike in the war against fake-holy shits.”

  I nod. She lets her niqab drop, then the eye screen.

  • • •

  Dad: You’ll fail. And maybe you’ll fail and fail and fail again. But then each fall will teach you how to make a new wing. Your rise will be on that many more wings.

  I initially position myself near the doors, by the summer travel books display. But the entrance security guard is not doing a good job surveying me discreetly, and I’m afraid he’ll start tracking me tracking Farooq, so I grab a book and move into the closest aisle.

  Maybe a black cloak and face covering isn’t exactly the best disguise. Maybe in Saudi Arabia but not here.

  I open a book on Istanbul and read about the Harem at the Topkapi Palace. A labyrinth of
three hundred rooms housing, no, make that caging, the wives and concubines of the sultan. I feel nauseated, thinking of Sausun’s sister.

  At the height of Ottoman power, one thousand women were kept in the Harem is what I’m reading when Farooq comes in. I put the book on a shelf and straighten up, feeling as though I’ve been released from something.

  I turn on my phone cam and step behind him. He pauses when he gets a few yards from the coffee shop and picks up a book from a table that has a sign saying SUMMER GRILLING. He isn’t reading but looking at the coffee drinkers in the shop. I can tell the moment he spots Sausun because he tilts his head and peers closer at his book.

  A burst of bravado washes over me.

  I go around to the bookshelves opposite to where he’s pretending to read. Holding up my phone, I fit the camera lens in a gap in the books at my eye level. I zoom in and fix on his face.

  The face I’ve been hiding from is on my screen. It’s wide with squinty eyes and a slack jawline.

  I record for a bit and then step back out as he begins to move toward the coffee shop, book in hand, Guys ’n’ Grills.

  Sausun looks up as he steps into the shop. She nods. He must think it’s at him because he nods back at her. But it’s my cue that he’s in front of the BARGAIN FINDS sign. I move out from behind him and look him in the face for the first time.

  His eyes widen considerably.

  Will he know it’s me? I stop moving, the bravado retreating on seeing the hand holding the book. I feel it under my shirt again, and my insides seize against the memory.

  I can’t do this. It’s like letting him have access to me again.

  “Excuse me, sister,” he says, waving me away with his book, like I’m ugh.

  Sister?

  “I’m NOT your sister. NOT in your family, NOT your sister in Islam. I have NOTHING to do with you ’cause you’re a big, empty HUSK of NOTHINGNESS! Trying to get in my pants, oh Mr. I-memorized-the-whole-Qur’an-so-I’m-untouchable? This guy is a pervert! An attempted rapist! This guy here!”

  Who am I, screaming uncontrollably now and blocking him as he tries to get away? I’m me and Sausun’s sister and the thousand women locked in the Harem. I look at Sausun, whose eyes are probably crinkled, and I wiggle my eyebrows at her. The security guard comes up and is reaching out for me, but I dodge him, which gives Farooq the opportunity to escape through the nearest doors.