Chapter IX

Riding Shotgun

January and February are the coldest months in Maryland, and back when I first moved to the States, at night the temperature would drop into the teens and sometimes below zero. When it snowed, after closing out, some of the boys would spin their cars in the big, empty parking lot in front of our office, by 355 and Shady Grove and across from the Comfort Inn. A tow truck would clear and salt the lot in the evening, but after dark the temperature would often fall below 15, the slush would freeze over and then you could really spin. The lights over the parking lot were 50 feet high, and in the winter dark they reflected off the black ice like floodlights on a skating rink. Some of the boys liked to do donuts, specially in my truck because it was rear-wheel drive and when they threw out the sandbags it spun like a skate. And after 9-11 maybe they wanted to fuck me over a little. And maybe I wanted to get fucked over a bit. To get relief from their hate.

Conor didn’t like that they did donuts in my truck, and he told me to not let them. One late Feb evening when Kara was in town and working the phones, Jason slides all the way to the Comfort Inn, jumps the sidewalk and bounces off the pillar on the entry archways with the rear right side. The fender digs into the tire, and he can’t straighten the wheel so he just leaves the truck there, at a crazy angle blocking the roundabout outside the Comfort Inn. Don worry, haji, he says, as he walks carefully back to his red Firebird. I’ll pull it out with a crowbar. Tomorrow. Kara was talking to Flora but now she is here, in his face. I’ll beat your ass with a crowbar, she says.

He laughs.

How much money you got? She’s looking at my truck sitting half on the curb, the left turn signal blinking.

What?

Suddenly she hugs him, reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a fat wallet. Hey, he yells and reaches, but she just hands him the cashless wallet, moves back, counts it out. $240? That’s it? You fucker. This is at least a thousand bucks of work.

Hey! Gimme my money.

Then give me your fuckin car keys, and she lunges for his front pocket and he recoils, reaches into his pocket, makes sure they’re there, backs away toward his pretty red car, cursing hard.

Here. She hands me a fist of cash. You need to tell them to back the fuck off.

It’s okay, I smile. I have a tire iron behind the seat. I’ll pull it out.

Right now? In the snow?

The wind is strong, blowing flurries fast into our faces.

I shrug. I gotta get home. If I don’t pull it out, the fender will stick into the tire when I turn the wheel.

How can you keep smiling, Ali?

It’s okay, Kara.

I’ll stay with you.

It’s snowing.

I know.

I look at her once again to ask are you sure, but I don’t ask, just get the tire iron. I kneel in the snow, and she bends over me shielding me with her flat open jacket like an eagle covering her young. A lightning bolt of red paint has come off, probably on the Comfort Inn pillar. Rust will form unless I paint over it. When I stand, a gust blows her into me and I hold her as the wind machine guns snow into her back, my closed eyes. Her belly round against mine, and she hugs her arms in and folds into me. I put my hand on her head until the gust subsides.

She knows I know she is pregnant with Rusty’s baby.

She met him in college.

He’s not even in college.

She still wears the same clothes she always wore, and she doesn’t show, but she is proud and happy.

Somehow Flora knew. At checkout one night Flora looked at her and asked, and she looked into her eyes and nodded. So everyone knows.

The wind subsides but she’s still leaning into me. Like she’s the one who needs protection.

Finally she pushes herself back from her core and looks up at me. You feel even thinner, she says.

That’s cause you took my fat.

She laughs. You funny, Ali. But seriously. You look like you stopped eating.

She’s right. I’m eating less. Drifting.

Khusro Dariya Prem Ka, Ulti Va ki Dhar

Jo Ubra so Doob Gaya, Jo Dooba So Paar.

What’s that?

It’s two lines from an old ghazal.

And?

My peer used to say it when he saw my mom and dad together.

What’s it mean?

I shake my head, smile more wide.

Drive me home.

Huh?

Drive me home.

Ask Conor?

No.

But he lives with you.

Drive me home, Ali. Please.

My eyes ask why.

I’m joining the police academy.

What?

Starts Jan 23. I’m not going back to college. I haven’t told Conor.

But why?

I can’t do it. The cost of college. It’s stupid. And this is what I want.

But Conor?

They pay $43,000 Ali. $43,000. A salary. And benefits. As soon as I start the academy.

I nod. It makes sense. But shit. Conor’s dream.

Get in, she says, as she opens the cabin door. It’s dry inside.

In the truck, leaning forward and looking straight ahead, trying to help me see in the snow that is still pelting us off the trees.

355, the road that unrolls through seven towns from DC to Western Maryland, is cleared, but ice is forming.

So last September, after 911, I applied to the County Police.

Watchful eyes laser focused, looking for black ice.

I just heard back.

But … ? And I look down at her belly.

She looks at me and nods. Turns to the road again.

Pothole, she says.

But I have it covered. I’m not going to risk a bump.

I know, Ali, she finally says. I know I have to figure it out. I can’t tell them about the baby. They’ll let me go.

You can do the training with the baby?

It’s not allowed. But I can handle the physical stuff. I still run as fast as I did in high school, and pushups are no problem.

What if they find out?

I don’t know. Then louder. I don’t know, Ali. I just know I gotta do this.

I nod. And then realize why the truck feels so loose in my hands, why the wheels are slipping in the back. I forgot to put the sandbags in the bed. Shit. I slow down even more.

The only problem is the fucking shooting range. It’s so loud. And this little one can’t wear earmuffs.

When is range training?

I’ll find out in when I start. It’s only one week.

And …

What?

What if it’s loud?

I don’t know, Ali! I don’t fucking know.

Okay.

They only need two years of college. And with my AP credits, I have enough.

How long is academy?

Eight months.

And when is the baby due?

End of August. Three weeks after I graduate.

Is it better if range training is now or later?

I don’t know! Don’t talk!

At the light on Chestnut, I slow to a crawl, swing a very slow, very wide left onto the smaller street, inch the bumps over the tracks so we climb and fall eight little hills.

Sorry, and I put my hand on her hand on her knee.

She laughs. I’m not a delicate flower, Ali. But then she closes her eyes, curves her back and leans back into her seat. Then she bows into herself.

Into her chest she says softly. I’m so fucking scared, Ali.

About what?

About the shooting range.

I nod. Squeeze her hand. Take my hand off. Wear layers? Lots layers.

Yes! She laughs. I’ll tell them I’m always cold and I’ll bundle up like a motherfucker. I’ll wear like three layers. Put towels all around. I’ll start wearing towels on the first day, so they just think I’m fat! That’s genius, Ali!

We’re at the red light at West Side, waiting to turn left into her apartment complex.

What does Rusty think?

She shakes her head.

What? I turn to her.

Rusty’s joining the Marines.

What?

He leaves for bootcamp in next week.

Wow.

It’s okay. I don’t need him. He hasn’t even come down from Towson.

Wow.

He doesn’t even call. Just texts me back when I text him. Sometimes not even the same day.

Fuck him.

I’m surprised at my anger. But then my anger makes me more angry. I want to curse more.

No sweat. I got it. She smiles. I’ve never heard you curse, Ali.

I’m sorry. The wave of anger washes away. I touch her knee. I didn’t mean it.

It’s all good.

I am pulled up by the dumpster outside her and Conor’s apartment. She unhooks her seatbelt, turns to face me.

Ali. Look at me.

Ali. I mean at me.

I did look at you.

You smiled at me and looked down. I need you to look at me.

I look at her.

Why’d you stop smiling?

Cause you’re making me.

I need to move out. I can’t stay with Conor any more.

Why?

She shakes her head. Just look for a place for me, okay?

I nod.

It’s gonna snow again tomorrow. Make sure you put the sandbags in the back.

I start. You knew?

She laughs. I knew when the wheels were slipping. And from the way you slowed, when you realized.

Wow.

She smiles. That’s why I’ll be a good cop, Ali. I see shit.

When I get home I fall asleep on the couch, hungry. There’s food in the fridge, but I’m too tired. And I dream of her hand under mine and her hot thigh under my hand and her hot hot love accepts me, makes me whole. And I am careful. So careful. Because of the baby.

*

The next day is Friday, December 21. Owner Cal is still radio dispatcher on Fridays, our busiest evening. I am 22.

The weatherman says the snow will melt in the morning, but it will storm again during the evening commute.

On Fridays we have 45 guys on the road, 20 of whom are fast and experienced and know the whole county like a childhood backyard, one dispatcher, and three or four phone order takers. When it is bad weather no one goes out for dinner, and we are slammed.

The phones start ringing at 4 p.m. when people start calling in on their way home from work. Blockbuster and chill. It will stay crazy until 10 and even after we close the phone will keep ringing, and we will drive around four sprawling suburban towns trying to get everything delivered hot and within one hour of the time the order was placed.

At busy chain restaurants like TGI Fridays we weave and dodge out of the way, and at classy ones like Coleman’s Steak House on the Pike, we try to find a corner in the kitchen where our shabby, thin oversized green jackets that float like a plastic poncho down to our thighs don’t shame the liveried black bow-tie staff. The scurrying waiters and managers avoid us like we are mice in the kitchen that needed to be hidden, from the customers, from the manager, from everything. Sometimes a manager tells us to wait outside, even it is snowing. But the little Central American dishwashers find a way to make me feel a little comfortable. A little smile, a friendly Que Paso for a brown brother. And at Zio’s in Gaithersburg, the teenage schoolgirls and their mommy who take orders are always kind and if they aren’t too busy they will ask us if we wanted a drink.

It rains all afternoon, and at 4 it starts snowing. It is in the upper 20s now, and when it’s dark we’ll have black ice.

Sam Slate would have us keep a journal. He taught me to free-write. These are my journal notes from that night when I got home.

All week it was dry cold and windy, sometimes I was teary and my truck veered in the wind and on bridges I drifted into other lanes. I love it. Thursday night it rained and then snowed and Friday was dark and no sun in the morning until 10 then the sun came out for an hour and was bright and glistening on the wet black roads. Slept in and didn’t want to wake up this morning but had to go to the mosque cause ammi asked to take her and then rushed to work and was late. 11:15 when I should have been there at 10:45. The puddle in the pit off the 270 ramp on Shady Grove is a lake now. Water came in the mouse hole in the floor under the clutch, in the hole in my shoe. Then cloudy dark again at 12 and around two it got warmer like it does just before snow. Light jacket, clean cold clear sky during the day and cloudy and darkening as the snow came down. Kara in the office again, winter break and she works the busy weekends. Full breasts. So full and ripe. I can’t not look. But not talking to me today. Too much last night? Or busy on the phone. I like cold snow on my face cause it makes me not feel the pain inside. I had sniffles all day and I got my feet soaked after Dr B run. Sudden dark. Sniffles and sneezing and Rockville home. Not the most hygienic delivery guy. Then the guy shot me.

This is my memory of that Friday evening:

Mark: Conor to Bare Bones, Conor to Bare Bones, please. Three there for you. 

Conor: 10-4. On the way. 

Buddy: Conor got a triple! Good for you, Conor! 

Mark: Buddy to Zio’s, Lew to Silver Diner, Theo to India Bistro. 

A chorus of 10-4s, but nothing from Theo. India Bistro is notoriously slow and rude to us. 

Mark: Theo to India Bistro, Ali to Sushi Palace, Big Bryan to Fridays. 

A chorus of 10-4s.  

Mark: Theo to India Bistro. Copy Theo? 

Theo: Copy. When was the order placed? 

Mark: Just now.  

 A long pause. 

Theo: Can I get the Zio's? I’m right next door. Bistro won’t be ready for another half hour. 

Mark: No. Theo to India Bistro, please. Ali to Sushi Palace. 

Theo: They take forever, and they’re rude. 

Mark: Ali, you want a double? First Sushi Palace then India Bistro, different directions, but Sushi is going to Dr. B off East Diamond and the Bistro is going to Rockville behind the town center. Drop off the East Diamond and then get on 270 or Key West Avenue to Rockville. You can swing it if you hustle. 

Dr B is not a doctor, but she won a lottery or something. She is large, she has many cats, she lives in a ground floor apartment off East Diamond, and she always tips very well. Theo just gave up a $10 tip. 

Ali: Short pause, so he doesn’t piss off Theo too much, then: 10-4, Mark. On the way. 

Mark: Theo, wait for now. 

Theo: Fuck you, Ali. 

Cal (sharply): Hey, Theo. Say that again and you can bring in your radio for the night. Big Bo to Silver Diner. There’s two there for you. Mo to El Mexicano in Germantown, please. 

A lot of crackle on the radio because three people are speaking at the same time.  

Then Theo: This is Theo. Where should I go? 

Mark: Wait please. I need confirmation from Big Bo and Mo. 

Theo dispatched on Sundays. I know she’ll get me one way or the other. I will either drive 14 miles from Paisanos in Rockville to Poolesville to see the old lady that didn’t tip, or I’ll take Mama Lucia 13 miles to the crazy large extended family on Muncaster almost all the way up in Olney that gives a one dollar tip. And everyone on the air knows it too. 

10-4s from Big Bo and Mohammed.  

I go to Sushi Palace first and get the order slip that Flora has faxed over, and I confirm it is going to Dr. B. It’s ready in five minutes. I put the sushi on one side of the big green bag and drive to Bistro, which is in the same lot as Sushi Palace. The people at Bistro are nice enough — the tall Indian Punjabi chef always tries to come out to talk to me in Punjabi — but they make us wait forever, so I brought my raggedy map book in to plan the route. I find the order sheet on the counter and map the route as I drip on the tile floor in the corner, trying to be unobtrusive and not shake the soft sitar ambience with my shabby, baggy, thin plastic jacket. Because of the weather, there is only one family in the restaurant. The Bistro order is going to a small street behind 28, and I’ve only been in that area a couple of times before. The order slip tells me it’s a first-time customer. When I finally get all the food the Bistro manager has put the hot dinners in the same tightly tied plastic bag as a raita. So in the truck I open the bag to repackage it, and the hot Indian food smells so good. It is snowing and snow is falling on the hot food containers. I put the chicken and dal containers back in the plastic bags and tie it tight. Then I put the hot food plastic bags inside my big green bag and the bag on the passenger seat of my pickup, wedged between the seat back and the dash. I re-tied the sushi plastic bag so it’s tight, and the raita I tuck beside the sushi bag on the passenger floor, and I wedge my giant Norton Anthology of Poetry between the food and the seat so everything is snug.

Ali: Ali on the way to Diamond.

Mark: Beth to Chi Chi’s in Lakeforest Mall please.  

Beth: 10-4.  

Beth is a short, curt and angry thirty-five-year-old blonde from West Virginia, who drives a light blue mid-80s Dodge minivan with rust on the wheels, with her eight-year old Sophie, who is car schooled. Beth is very watchful of who talks to Sophie, but Sophie likes me, and she comes to hang out, and often I work with her on math while Beth is checking out or waiting for an order. I wanted to help fix the rust on Beth’s van, so I mentioned it once and she gave me a wary maybe. 

 Mark: Leo to J.J. Muldoons please.  

Leo is my Russian concentration camp friend. Because of a bureaucratic mixup during the confusion in 1988 he was let out of his Siberian prison camp after which he somehow got asylum in the United States. He is always grateful to Reagan for ending the Soviet Union, and always watchful, and always a little afraid. Leo loves gun rights and the Republican party but doesn’t touch guns and is an atheist. When people get together and argued about politics — even if everyone is on the same side of a cause he supports, like gun rights — he starts muttering angrily in English and Russian and eventually walks away. Leo has only two friends: Lew, the angry Vietnam vet who calls me Haji and me. He and I get together for tea sometimes. If it is slow on a Monday or a Tuesday night, sometimes we clock out early. Once he invited me over to his room. He sipped his cheap South American wine and served me black tea with honey.

It is almost dark by the time I get to Dr. B’s. She opens the door as soon as I ring the bell, and I see from the indent on the leather couch arm close to the door that she’s been sitting there waiting. She is so happy to see me, and she hugs me and holds me tight. Oh Ali, she says. My sweetie. My fresh and still prickly beard scratching her neck, but she doesn’t care and hugs me tight under my arms and rocks. Oh Ali. I haven’t seen you in so long, and I was worried. Her apartment is always shiny clean and she smells of Tide detergent, and I imagine the large clean African American ladies on the TV ads smell the same as her. Then she pulls me away and touches my face. I see your beard is growing back. You be careful, baby. How’s your mom?

She’s okay.

I have no time to tell her how ammi is so anxious.

When I get back in the car, I see I still have almost 20 minutes to get to Rockville. I decide to hop on 270 south from Diamond. Snow is coming down hard now but there is slush on the ground because it isn’t yet cold enough to ice over. My feet are wet.

Ali: Ali on the way to Rockville.

Mark: 10-4. Good timing, Ali! Rockville is a first timer. They were weird with Flora on the phone. Flora said he sounded Indian, and he might not tip. Hopefully Dr B made up for this one.

Ali: 10-4. No problem. It all works out. Thanks to Flora.

I loved Flora. She was always good to me.

Mark: Ali, copy Ali?

Ali: 10-4.

Mark: It says the entrance to this basement apartment is in the back of the house, and you have to get to it from a back alley from Hubbard. So do not enter from 28.

Ali: 10-4. I read that on the ticket. Thanks.

Mark: Conor. What’s your status?

No response, so Conor is probably still waiting at Bare Bones. It has already been about 35 minutes, so he’ll have to hustle with his three orders.

When I got on the exit ramp off 270, traffic is super slow and then it stops. I only have a mile to go, but I am not moving, and I can’t see past the big truck in front to see what’s going on, so I park on the side and step out to see. The snow is coming down hard now and traffic is totally stopped all the way down 28 as far as I can see. Maybe a car slid into another one. The order is due in 3 minutes, and I won’t make it. Cal is an awesome guy, but he hates orders being late.

Ali: This is Ali. 28 off 270 ramp is a parking lot. This order will be late.

No response from Cal for a whole 10 seconds.

Cal: Okay. Do your best, Ali.

Ali: 10-4. Traffic’s not moving at all.

Cal: Okay. We’ll call them.

Conor: Conor on the way to number two on Wooton Parkway. I’ll drop this and then head to Potomac with number three. It’s really coming down hard now.

Cal: Great job, Conor. Great minds think alike.

That was his best compliment.

Conor: (probably grinning.) 10-4.

When I get to left on Hubbard I am already 20 minutes late. I announce I am at the customer and Cal doesn’t even respond. He must be pissed. Or maybe he’s in the bathroom. Kara pops on the radio. Hey, Ali, 10-4. He’s in the bathroom. Be safe, buddy. My heart and tummy are suddenly so full. I find the back alley, but it is pitch dark with no streetlights at all. I take out the food bag and flashlight and step into a slush and my socks are freshly soaked. After a few minutes of walking and shining my light at the homes I realize here are no numbers on the backs of the houses. Of course. So silly of me. All I have on is a light green WOW jacket with no hat and just a sweater underneath. My radio is back in the car, and my fingers and toes and ears and head are freezing. If I walk back to the car I’ll be really late, and Cal will be pissed. I try to think about the numbers. It was the 13600 block. Assuming they were going up by twos 13620 would be the tenth house. So I walk back to the first home and then back and count the homes. I am either at the eighth or ninth home. I walk to the next home. There is a little green wire fence and a sign that says “No Trespassing” and “Beware of Dogs”. It doesn’t look like an Indian guy’s home. I open the latch of the gate on the steel mesh fence, step into the backyard. Hello? I yell.

I walk to the door and knock. No response. So I walk back to the gate and clank the metal latch on the metal gate and turn around and yell again, Hello? Immediately two or three big dogs erupt in a loud deep angry barking. A light comes on inside. Someone’s head shadow bobs up on the glass panel above the door. I walk closer and he opens the glass door and stands by the shut screen door 15 feet away, and there is a long barrel rifle at his side. Sorry, I say, backing out. Wrong house. He shines a powerful flashlight on my face. I’m looking for 13620, I yell. He doesn’t say a word. The dogs are right behind him. I can’t see but they sound like large German shepherds. I am backing all the way, not turning my eyes away from them. Then my heel hits a bump and I turn and stumble and start running to stop falling and I hear the screen door open behind me and the dogs come after me, and I fall to my knees and elbows on the asphalt road with the bag open. The gate behind me is open. But they will stop at the fence, I think. But I look back and they are coming and the bag is on the side and open and the salads out and a plastic container of chicken upside down, smoke rising from the snow, smoke rising of the bag as snow falls inside. So I crawl to get it all in, and the man yells at his dogs but they are coming right at me, at the food. So I get up, grab the bag and run. A shot from his gun and I fall. On my butt now and the dogs stop just short of me and the bag. Chicken curry on the snow. I look at the man and he’s got the flashlight leveled and me and the rifle must be parallel to it. And I close my eyes tight. And I pray. With all my heart I pray to Allah T'alla. And I promise him that I will serve. The dead biker flashes before my eyes. What right do I have to live? And I say again, with all my heart I will serve.

A yell from my right. A flashlight dancing in the distance and a yell. Hey!

It is Conor!

Hey! The guy from the house yells, swivels the light to Conor marching up.

Call your dogs, Conor yells, shielding his face from the light, square on his face.

Outside lights come on in the neighborhood homes on the left and right.

Why you shooting at us, Conor yells. Conor is mad. I’ve never heard him yell.

That guy was breaking into my home.

Conor is still walking toward the dude with the gun, blinded. He probably can’t see the gun. He’s got a gun, Conor!

Put your gun down, he yells. He’s a delivery driver. And you know it.

A light comes on in the home one door before the angry dude, lights us all up. Conor is still walking toward the guy.

Hey Conor, I said. Let’s go.

But Conor doesn’t respond.

Someone opens the backdoor of the neighboring home. A small Indian guy. Hello?

Conor, I say. That’s the customer. Let’s go.

But Conor is under the porch light. He is holding the guy up by the neck and the man is on his tiptoes, flashlight dancing circles in the sky, gun in hanging loose in his other hand, and Conor’s left hand is wrapped around his neck. There’s a white bandage wrapped around Conor’s other hand, around the palm. The German Shepherds are out where I dropped the bag.

Ima call the cops he yells. Ima call the cops. You’re in my home, he says. And Conor is holding him off the ground by the neck, shaking him. You asshole, he yells. You fucking asshole. You wanted to shoot him dead cause he’s brown and bearded. The man’s toes dancing off the ground. Then with left hand Conor pushes him back against the door and with the other he punches him hard in the face. I come up behind and grab him from the waist and pull back. He ignores me, punches again. Straight to the face. He’s holding the guy up with just his left arm. How could he be so strong? And he hits him again. The man’s gun clatters on the porch. I get low and wedge myself in between them and push out with my arms as hard as I can. And he drops the guy, grabs me and throws me aside like I’m nothing and swings back to punch him again, and the guy is on the floor, reaching for his gun. Conor yanks the gun out of his hand and throws it away, looks back at me, still mad. Conor, for Kara’s sake! Just let him be. Shame washes over his eyes. He drops his eyes. He shrivels, folds inside. Let’s go Conor. I hold his hand and he yields. Walks with me to my bag. Sorry, he says to me, as he walks with me. I’m sorry. Puts his arm around my shoulder as we walk back to the cars. I’m sorry, Ali. I walk him to his car, get him in, run to mine.

Are we going to prison, I wonder, as we drive off in our cars.

*

At the shop there is a long line to check out, and we are sitting in the corner by the bathroom, and he is staring at the floor. On the green leather chair with a metal base that creaks like a tortured scream when it swivels and he is going back and forth, arms hugging his chest and metal hinges shrieking and his eyes staring at dirt brown carpet turning black and screaming that he wants to get out, be everywhere but here, nowhere. To enter the carpet. Leo comes by and stands next to us, and he doesn’t even look up. And I’m stuck into a plastic chair beside and looking for Kara to help him, but she is outside on her cell phone. So I put a hand on his knee, but he keeps rocking.

And Leo looks at him, at me, watching over me, smiling suspicious.

Finally Kara comes in, stomps the snow out of her shoes, puts her phone in her pocket, clears her thoughts from her eyes, walks all the way to the dark back of the office, to us. Conor looks up at her.

What happened?

He looks into her eyes, shakes his head, drops his head, goes back to rocking.

And she comes down as he slouches and hugs him, holding his head to her chest, like she will pour her strength into him, pull him straight.

It’s okay buddy, she says, holding him, rubbing his back. It’s okay. Whatever happens. It’ll be okay.

He saved my life, I say softly.

Conor starts and looks at me.

I nod. Guy shot at me. Conor saved my life.

S’not what happened. Conor looks sideways from her hug, shakes his head.

Leo is watching. Inquisitive, rat-like. My loving friend.

I look directly at Kara. Guy shot at me on the Hubbard run. Conor grabbed him, saved my life. I told him to get off the guy. Full truth.

She takes a sharp breath.

Did you hurt him, she looks at Conor.

Conor nods.

How?

Conor holds his hands up like he’s holding a neck. Big hands. White bandage on his palm, black in the middle. Blood.

Kara stands straight, jaw tight.

Take me home, Ali.

I look at her. Then at Conor. 

Take me home please.

I shake my head.

She looks at me, mad.

I shake my head again. Turn to Conor and put my hand on his shoulder. I can’t.

She looks at Leo. He nods, looks down, starts walking to the door.

See me tomorrow, she says to me as she’s leaving.

I don’t respond, so she stops at the door until I look into her eyes. Tomorrow after lunch shift. Please. I’m not working the evening. Waits until I nod.

I turn to Conor, who is sitting with his head in his hands hunched almost all the way to his knees. Did you see Josh today?

He nods.

For two hours?

Three. Maybe four. Raksha was stuck in traffic.

What happened?

After the first 15 minutes he was screaming and hitting himself all through. Until she got home.

I close my eyes. I don’t ask why. We don’t know why. It’s been like this for the last three months. He gets triggered by something. The microwave. If Conor is wearing a sweatshirt and not the green Wheels Jacket. Sometimes nothing we know. And starts punching himself in the cheek. We try to block him from hitting himself and just get punched. If  he can grab a sharp object he hits himself with it. His left cheek has a hole in it. His knuckles are raw and bloody.

I don’t know what to do, Ali. I have the worst thoughts.

I know. I open my eyes and look at him. Elbows on knees, head in his hands, hair over his fingers. Like he can’t get up. Like he’s retreating into the misery of Josh. So he can understand. So he can help.

Like I feel his pain, he says. I feel it, and I can’t stop it.

And then I can’t stop feeling it.

And I get numb.

And I go home and play video games forever.

I miss shifts at Wheels.

Or I’m late.

I play for a whole day straight.

And I’m still not numb enough.

Like nothing will make me forget those screams, Ali.

Nothing.

Why, Ali? Why should he suffer so much? He looks up at me, on his side. Eyes are wet.

I put a hand on his shoulder.

Like fuck God. And fuck life. It’s not worth this much suffering.

He’s whispering, but with so much intensity I worry that those on the other end of the room will hear.

I have a random thought about suffering. Prison suffering. Is my brother in prison?

Do you think he’ll get us arrested?

Conor shrugs. He’s the one who fired at us. In Montgomery County, Maryland. He’ll want to keep things quiet.

But we hit him.

I hit him. Not we. Don’t worry, Ali. Nothing that happens to me is anything compared to what Josh goes through every day.

I think the same about my brother in Pakistan.

You know Raksha told me about Albie’s parents. They put him in a home.

Albie is worse than Josh.

Albie is older than Josh. And Josh is getting worse. Every day.

I don’t look up. I want to be shocked, but I am not.

And she wonders if she could do it.

She said it?

No. But I’m sure she wonders.

No. I whisper it. Never.

Like what does your God say, Ali? Why should Josh suffer so much? When there is no hope. Why keep him alive through all that suffering?

I want to say something, but I have nothing.

I asked Father O. Like kind of.

I look up.

And he told me the story of Job and his kids. How the devil took them. And he still had faith in God.

Yes?

But I’m not Job! He says it loudly.

I look at him sharply, and he whispers urgently. And He didn’t take Josh away. He left him here to suffer. Every day.

Every day he suffers. For most of the day he suffers.

If the devil is testing my faith then this is a test greater than Job’s.

Job had to deal with the death of his children.

Not the daily suffering of a child. With no hope.

And He has won.

I put my hands over my eyes. Not yet. I whisper.

And what will they do when he is a big 18-year old hitting himself? Or attacking others? No one’s going to care for him like she does.

I will.

And what if you’re not around? What if you want to date someone, marry, have your own family?

I’ll still be there for him.

And for how many others? Like why? What’s the fucking point? Why does he suffer?

I don’t know. I say it loudly. Clearly. So everyone looks at me. I look down, then at Conor. Say softly. I only know that being with him when he suffers is what keeps me real.

So he should suffer so you can be real?

Here. I knock my heart with my fist. Away from everything beautiful, away from my mountains, in your … country. This keeps me real. It keeps me connected to God.

So he should suffer? To keep it real for you?

I shake my head. No.

Nothing is worth that much suffering, Ali. And I don’t know how much longer I can take it. I can’t leave her, I just can’t. She needs me. But at this point I’m just a human shield. For most of the three hours she’s gone he is anxious and he bites and kicks so hard. And it strains my abilities. To the max. And I don’t know when I will break.

Take a break. I’ll take your shifts.

But like why? Why are we doing this. It’s not even balm on a wound. Why?

Was he really hitting himself for all three hours?

Yes. Well no. For the first 10 minutes he was happy to see me.

How was it?

It was love. I was in joy. He was beating the drum she got him. Perfect beat. I was rapping. He was laughing.

I laugh.

And then Raksha left the home.

And he started getting anxious.

And it kept getting worse.

And I was calm.

As calm as I could be.

Comforting.

But he started repeating her name.

And I tried to divert him.

And he started hitting himself.

So I blocked it. 

And then he attacked you.

Yes. Conor shows me the marks. Little pinch marks all over his forearm.

I’m sorry. I have the same.

And I held him down.

And finally he quit.

Relaxed on me for a minute. And I got him outside, in the snow. In just a t-shirt but I thought I had to get him out.

And he smashed his head onto the neighbor’s car.

Did you get him safe?

Yeah, but it was like that the whole 3 hours. Almost.

I’m sorry, bud. I put my hand on his shoulder.

It’s life, Ali. Life doesn’t work. When there’s no end to suffering. And no hope.

Conor. It’s Mark, co-owner, night shift manager tonight. From far other corner of our dark office room. You’re next.

I don’t think it’s Conor’s turn to checkout, but they want us guys out.

Wait for me, I say, when he’s checked out.

When I get out I see him leaning on the front of my truck, standing on a patch of black ice, confronting the icy wind in his thin jacket, tears in his eyes. And we go sit in my truck, and roll up the windows in the last snow of that late February snowstorm, and smoke weed off his beautiful glass bowl until the cabin is full of smoke and we gasp and cry. And then we laugh.

And then I turn on the radio, and Losing My Religion is on 98 Rock.

And I sing the song loudly in a Pakistani way, hitting the ending consonants hard and stretching out my vowels, and he’s laughing so hard.

From his jean pocket takes out a little zip lock bag of white powder.

Takes my map book out from the sunvisor above his head. Pours the powder into a neat circle. Pulls out an ATM card.

Cuts it into four thin lines.

What is it?

It’s my magic powder, Ali.

Pulls the map book up on his palm and inhales one line into his left nostril. Then another into his right.

There’s a light in his eyes.

It is hope, Ali.

It is strength.

With the card he cuts two tiny bumps off one line, guides it to the corner of to the corner of the book. Holds it up. Try it.

I look at it.

What is it?

It is god, Ali.

Coke?

He shakes his head. Not coke.

I shake my head, and carefully he brings it back to his lap.

You know what I did every night last week? Every night before bed I prayed. I prayed as hard as I could for as long as I could. I told God I would give up weed, meth, everything. I would give up sex with Lila.

Lila?

The 16-year old.

His eyes are calm. Not lost any more. His jaw is solid.

And this week he’s worse.

Look. He holds up his right hand, carefully unrolls the white dressing that is now black with grime. Flips the light switch. An ugly red open wound.

Josh?

Today broke me, Ali.

After he bit me he kept saying sorry.

But he’ll do it again. His suffering is so huge. Nothing can conquer it.

I’m not Job, Ali.

If a God exists he is a cruel, sadistic god. And I refuse believe in a God so cruel.

And this is the only way I can take it. This is my strength. My only god, Ali. And he holds up the map book again, over to me.

I look away, roll open the window a crack, let the last snowflakes of the dying storm land on my beard, wake me up.

I’m late, I say. Ammi will be waiting.

Maybe she will say I’m praying to the wrong god.

I stand on the floor of the truck and lean out the window and yell into the storm. Into the fresh cold that wakes me up. Something.

Nothing.

I get back in and shake the fresh snow off my head.

What would ammi say to me?

He says ammi. Like she’s his ammi.

I don’t know, brother. But I gotta go. I put both my hands on his. She’ll be up. She’s been so worried.
Gotta tell you something, Conor says.

I turn on the windshield wipers, and from the open window the wipers sweep the snow into my lap. I laugh and turn them off, roll up the window.

You know why I don’t drink?

Cause your dad was a drunk.

He nods.

But also cause it improves my meditation. My insight.

Your meditation?

Yes. You know how I found you?

I shake my head. I never asked!

Yeah. How’d you find me.

When I meditate, I have intuition.

Wow. How do you meditate?

Last year I did a weekend Buddhist meditation retreat. And then I meditated regularly for a while. Every day for 15-20 minutes.

And today?

No. He shakes his head. But I took some Benadryl earlier and napped, and somehow it popped me into the same space. Somehow I knew when you went off the air and Cal kept asking. I knew something was wrong.

Wow.

I think meditation helps me be more intuitive. Like I know shit.

You knew something was up?

It’s a feeling in my stomach. And then something is wrong with someone I know.

You feel it about Kara too?

Yeah. I think so. Once.

He pauses. You know the reason she was so mad?

I shake my head.

Because when he got drunk he would hit me.

And I was too afraid to hit back. I couldn’t. He started when I was too young. When he was so much stronger. So it would make me strong, he said.

Once he kept punching me in my belly and my ribs. I was maybe 10.

When I got bigger once I pushed him off, and then he grabbed me by the neck and choked me. I thought I was gonna die. And then he let go and grinned.

And then I was always afraid of him.

Then once, only once, I saw him choke Kara. Just like that. He holds his hands up. The map on his lap is steady. His legs steady. He’s so calm.

I roll up the window and turn to him.

I was seventeen, and she was 10. He was holding her up by the neck, and her feet were off the ground and she was tryna push him off.

And I was behind him, and he didn’t see me come inside.

Didn’t even know where to hit or how, but I swung hard and got him right on the right side of the neck.

And he dropped her.

And I backed up cause I was so scared.

I was sure he was gonna kill me.

He was so strong.

But when turned to me there was pain in his eyes.

He had an 8-inch knife in his pocket. And before he reached for his knife I knew what he would do.

So I hit him again. In the neck. Here. And he points to his Adam’s apple.

And he gurgled something bad and went down on his knees. Holding his neck.

And I kicked him in the head. As hard as I could. And I picked up Kara and ran.

From the corner by the door where we put the shoes, I grabbed his old hunting rifle.

And after that day I was never afraid.

It was November. Cold rain. We ran and walked all the way to church. We lived in Damascus. Church was four miles away.

She told me that he had hit her a few times. When he was drinking. She would hide in the woods except when it was cold and raining.

And that she was sure that he had done it to mom too. And she never wanted to go back to his home.

Even though she never knew mom.

What happened to your mom?

But he doesn’t even hear me.

We had plans. He and I. Big plans. A lot of money.

But Kara and I went to Father O.

And we left it all behind.

And we lived in his basement.

He gave me his clothes. And we went to Goodwill to get clothes for Kara.

Monday after school we went to CSAAC. Same place you work at now. He spoke to a Nigerian brother. John. And John talked to Mary, and Mary gave me a job. Serve the children, Father O said to me. Give them all your love. Give them the love you never got. And you will heal.

And I did.

I was their golden boy.

I worked with three kids, ten hours with each kid. Every week. I was so patient.

Everyone loved me.

And in 4 years I saved $20,000.

And on Kara’s fourteenth birthday we moved out. I was 21. Father O gave me this, he says. And he takes off his cross and puts it in my hands. It’s a small silver cross on a silver chain.

I lived in this church, helped with the services, got to know everyone in this community. Only 50-60 people come to church, only 20 on any Sunday it’s not Easter or Christmas. But everyone knows Kara and me.

And then I started working with Josh. And at first it wasn’t bad.

And I knew if he trusted me it would get better.

So I stuck with it.

I never got to play like a kid. So I love kids. I love to play.

But then something happened. And he kept getting worse.

And now there’s nothing I can do.

Nothing works.

You can’t give up, Conor.

I tried all my tricks, Ali. Everything I have learned.

And now I’m just making money off of false hope.

I turn on the inside light above the mirror, hold the cross up. It’s a silver cross, exactly like the one Kara has.

I think there’s hope.

You keep it.

No! He gave it to you.

You keep it. He looks into my yes. I’m afraid I’ll lose it any way.

You’ll never lose it.

And then two years ago Kara got into college. And she got a scholarship from Mount Saint Mary’s.

And the parish chipped in and bought her a computer.

And we only had to pay $10,000 a year.

I had enough for two years.

So I gave them 10,000 and put the rest in the market.

Call options. I’d been watching the market for months. Playing small. Careful.

And it almost doubled.

I had almost enough for two more years.

He stops here. Looks at me. Eyes red.

I had almost enough for three years of college.

You understand, Ali?

I nod. Put a hand on his knee. He looks at it. I take it off.

And I put it all back in.

And I knew it was going to crash eventually.

But thought if I could only get another 50%  I’d have enough for four years.

Maybe a little left over for me.

I got greedy.

And here he stops. Rolls open the window a crack. Leans up and breaths the fresh air,.

For a minute he says nothing.

Okay Ali. Go home. See your mom. Tell her to say a prayer for me. And save some halwa for me.

With the credit card, he guides the two bumps from my map book into a little plastic baggie. Tucks the bag in a buttoned change pocket in his fat wallet, wallet in his right front pocket.

Don’t worry, he says.

I’m gonna make it all back.

I'll make a plan.

* * *

Next —> Chapter X