Chapter VI

Jesus, He Loves You

Door wails open. Light streams in from behind us. She turns around to look for a light switch but there is none.  She shines her beam ahead at Jesus on his cross.

She crosses herself, turns the beam around.

Her eyes widen. She points to the wall to the left of the door.

There in faded capital letters, with no curls, a sign:

THE TRUE LIFE IS THE PRINCIPLES OF CHRIST LIVED.

THERE IS NO OTHER LIFE THAT IS TRUE.

TO CONDENSE IT STILL MORE,

THE TRUE LIFE IS THE CHRIST LIFE LIVED.

Her back straightens. She looks at him and smiles.

Go ahead, she whispers and smiles.

Ali holds his carefully folded glossy blue prayer mat to his chest, looks around the gloom. Even though it’s blazing bright outside, it’s cool and soft light inside. Dust particles in the air, in the light. Dust on the floors, on the pews. But ahead of them, foot marks in the dust.

She grabs his hand. Come, she whispers, and leads him into the center hallway until he stops uncertain and she can’t pull him anymore.

You could go up front. She points to the empty space between the front pew and the altar. Jesus is there.

Ali looks in the corners. In a filtered light beam that streams in from old, rain-cleaned windows, he sees in the corner on the left, between the walls and the pews, about five feet of space. He shuffles into a pew and through it, to the darkness beyond.

Hey, she says, scooching up the bench so she’s immediately on his right.

In the dark, Ali finds her soft eyes looking at him, a foot above where he’s kneeling on the floor.

Nothing. Just … I’m here.

On the dark cherry floor Ali blows the dust but it just swirls into his face, uncreases the colorful velvety purple green print two-by-four prayer mat that his father never used, spreads it out. Bows four times and says the Shahada. Then he startles up, remembers that he forgot his water bottle. She sees him look to the bottle by her side and hands it to him. He leaves his shoes behind him, wets his palms, wrists, elbows. On his knees again, he tries to find the angle of the sun which is almost vertical so it’s hard to tell south-east. So he guesses, turns so he’s at a sixty degree angle to her, smiles at her to say thanks, but her hands are locked under her chin, eyes closed tight. He bows three times forehead to the mat, then he says the Shahada.

When he is done, she is looking at him, smiling serene.

It is so cool and peaceful here, he says. I was thinking of my Peer.

How often do you pray?

I try for five times a day.

Wow.

Do all Muslims pray five times a day?

He shakes his head. Looks down. No. My father didn’t.

Then why you?

Because it gives me peace.

What do you ask for?

Ask?

Yes, what do you ask for?

Nothing.

How do you pray?

I say the prayers my ammi taught me. They are a little different depending upon the time of the day. And then I say God’s name.

How many times?

100 times. When I have the time.

He is suddenly conscious that he is talking across five feet in a sanctified space, so he folds his mat and she shuffles over a bit, so close he can smell the musk under her arms, see her inner thighs in her short shorts. She puts her head on his shoulder, breathes soft on his neck. He can feel the heat from her thighs.

What if you lose count? She is so soft.

What?

What if you lose count when you are praying?

I count with this. He shows her the misbah in his right hand, cool sandalwood wrapped around his fingers, his fingers still counting.

Are you praying now, she says?

And he starts. A little, I guess. Here. He takes off the sandalwood prayer beads on his wrist folds them into her palm. 

They are so cool, she says as she cups them with both hands, opens and closes her palms around them, lets the base of her fingers run over them. So peaceful.

Smell.

She cups them to her nose, closes her eyes and breathes in the sandalwood. Smiles in bliss.

Why 100 times? She’s still smiling, eyes closed.

Because my Peer told me to.

But why repeat His name?

Because in prayer is fanaa.

Fanaa?

Finish.

Finish? You pray to die? Face tilted to him, she is holding the sandalwood to her cheek and her eyes are closed, her face soft.

No. I pray to love, and in love I can finish my self.

You ever think about dying?

Sometimes.

I do, too. What’s wrong with dying? Bending her eyes into the cool sandalwood in her cupped hands.

Why do you want to die?

I want to live in this forever. She’s sinking into the beads, her voice smiling.

Sometimes I wonder if I die, I will ever meet my father.

Face in her cupped palms, she smiles sideways at him. Or die outside, she says. In this riverplain.

If I were to die and be reunited with him for a day, I would.

And I’d be happy, she says.

And I wonder if my brother fights so he can die. And meet my father.

She rises. Reluctant. And die he will.

What?

My father.

Your father?

Sorry. I understand. About your brother. You know Conor brought me here maybe six years ago, to this riverplain. When I was twelve.

Was it hot?

No. It was the fall, and I was very angry, and we walked on a deer trail to the water and then along the river for many miles. Until I was less angry. And he showed me this church and said that many years ago dad had brought him here. After fishing.

That’s beautiful.

I think there’s a part of Conor that wants to die.

And you?

After he kills dad. She forces herself to rise. Puts the beads back in his hands. Folds his palm over them. Looks up into him until he raises his eyes to meet hers. Ali. Promise something.

He nods.

If I die bury me in the floodplain here, outside this church.

He looks at her uncomprehending.

No coffin. Just put me six feet in.

I squeeze her hands, try to shine my love at her, just focus on my heart and be like ammi. She’s looking at me so intently.  Does she see? She caresses my wispy beard. She tugs at it lightly and kisses me so softly on my lips. Her lips are so soft, and I’m uncomfortable in my pants. She looks into my eyes.

Why are your lashes so long? Do you put on extensions?

I’m here. Whatever you need. Is what I want to say.

Why are your eyes so bright? Have you seen God?

Whatever you need. With my eyes, I say it.

Whatever I need? She asks with her eyes.

And I nod.

She kisses me with passion.

I’ve been told to open my mouth, then open her mouth, then explore with my tongue, but I can’t. I’m electric shocked, still.

She looks at me puzzled.

Am I the first person you’ve kissed?

I laugh.

She laughs a little laugh and draws back.

And he turns to her and kisses her again. And this time his lips are soft and open with faith and love and desire to be one. He is open. She is open. With his hands in his lap, he explores her lips. If there is a god, if there is union, it is this. He is sure of it.

Don’t die, he says.

I’ll try, she whispers.

Tears in her eyes. Don’t die, he says, and he kisses the tears as they roll down. Again and again. Until she laughs and pushes him away. Leans away.

Do you think he knew he was going to die? She is looking at the altar.

I don’t know about Jesus. I’m sorry.

Father O says he knew he was going to die, and he chose it.

Why?

Because he took on our debt.

Our debt?

He took on our sins, forever and ever.

Look, she says, and pulls down her shirt until I see the fulness of her breasts rise and black gothic font.

I can’t read it.

She pulls her shirt down further, holds her chest out. My eyes float down to the beginnings of dark circles, to what I can’t see.

T E T E L E S T A I.

Meaning?

It means, “it is finished”.

Death?

No. According to Father O, it means that here and now, I have erased your sins. Past, present, and future.

Her eyes in his.

Forever?

Yes. By taking on the most painful punishment known to man, Jesus took on our sins.

So he could have stopped it?

He is the son of God.

And by taking it on he showed us how we should respond to cruelty?

He took on our sins.

But he did not blame. Despite the pain, he forgave. He loved. Correct?

Her eyes flicker away from his.

Sometimes you have to fight evil.

But his way was different?

No one else can be like him. Even his last words were in the perfect tense.

But he would have wanted us to try.

He was the son of God. He’s perfect. We just have to accept him, and we are forgiven.

She is looking at Jesus, hanging on his cross. And she is crying soundless.

And he is not here to help. Just a whisper with barely open lips. Soft slow breathing alternating with mine. Can we ever be in sync? The sprinkle of a cool tear drop bouncing off her hand onto mine.

So I will do what I must.

So soft I am not even sure she said it. I look to see if her lips are moving, or maybe I was listening so intently I heard her think.

I put my right hand on her back. Under my hand, her body rises.

Let’s go, she says. She’s up and around, already walking out.

And the hole in me is gaping wide, and I can’t get up.

*

Silence in the car.

Her hand on her lap.

Left on Seneca, she says.

Hey!

I look to her.

We needed to take a left there.

I look around for a place to U on windy River Road.

Can I ask you something?

I nod.

Why do children have to suffer?

I look at her once, twice, but she is looking straight ahead.

If there is a God, why must she suffer?

I reach out to put my hand on hers. But her hand is so tight I can’t relax it. So I squeeze gently and let go.

What does your Quran say?

I shake my head.

Are they also paying our debt?

My mind flashes back to the man with the long black beard and the strange, soft voice. His eyes soft as he ordered the death of my father. In front of an eight-year old child. Soft-spoken, calm, like he was an angel of God. A God with no mercy. Then it flashes to Jesus on the cross. Were the eyes of Pilate soft?

What will she learn from her suffering?

And the eyes of the watchers on the hillside. The audience. They were bright. Eager.

What God wants her to suffer? The shrill shout shatters my reverie.

I flash to the invaders on my hills, eyes bright with the zeal of a foreign faith.

I reject it. So softly she says it, almost under her breath.

I look at her. Eyes bright like a fanatic.

What?

Nothing, she says. I didn’t say anything. I said nothing. Sometimes I want to kill someone. Anyone.

You reject what?

No. Take a U, Ali. You’re still going the wrong way.

*

At four, before the evening shift I drive her home.

She’s soft again, seatbelt off, snug into my side, hand in my lap.

Hey. I almost forgot. Play this for me. And she pulls a cassette tape out of her bag.

It’s an Urdu song!

Aaj jaane ki zid na karo.

Not Farida Khatoon. Some guy singing it.

The sorrow is the same, the pain is too, but it’s a man singing.

Show me the cover, please.

Monsoon Wedding. The Movie.

Indian actors in turbans. He recognizes one man’s face, doesn’t remember his name.

You can’t have a wedding in the monsoon.

Why not?

You just can’t. It’s not possible.

It’s just a musical. I was told to watch it for a class. I loved the music, so I bought the tape.

Yeah, but you can’t have a wedding in the monsoon.

It’s just an Indian movie, she says. Will you watch it with me?

You watch movies in college?

It was a class on Literature of the Diaspora.

I’m quiet. I have my ammi. I can’t go to college for classes like that. I have to become a doctor.

What is he saying?

He’s asking her to stay.

But she has to leave?

Yes. But you knew that, right? Is that why you asked me to play it?

She just folds into him.

It’s odd to hear a man sing it. The original was sung by a woman, for a man.

My professor told me the original was written by a man in Pakistan.

No. A woman. We saw her in Lahore.

Later that afternoon we pass by a Roy Rogers on Shady Grove where I worked for six months. On an impulse I swing a mad U from the center lane of Shady Grove and then a left and go into the drive-thru. She swings to the right end of the cab and the left. Hey, she cries and laughs. At the drive-thru, it’s Thais, my thick Puerto Rican friend. Little Angelo would scream Mucho Cullo at her and laugh uncontrollably. She sees me, and her eyes are filled with love. Kara’s hand soft in my lap and Thais looks into her eyes, and she is so happy. Strawberry shortcake para tu mami, she says? I nod. And she makes us the biggest shortcakes with corn bread scrunched in the bottom, strawberry syrup with big huge strawberries, vanilla ice cream and more strawberry syrup on top.

At Conor’s apartment. Trash bags are sitting full around the dumpster. Some ripped open. A pizza box open and a rat’s tail sticking out. Stay for 5 minutes, she says.

She takes off her seat belt, unclips mine, slips her shoes off and sits Indian style on the passenger seat. Looks at me.

I turn the car off and face her.

Put your hands out, she says.

Turn around, Ali, she says.

So I turn to face her, awkwardly climbing my left leg over the gear box, my right leg folded on the seat.

She pulls my hands in her lap, her fingertips on my palms.

Look at me, she says.

Her eyes are open and trusting. I hold her gaze for a moment and then it is too much, and I look away.

No, she says, and turns my chin. I read about this. It’s a partner meditation. Please.

So I hold her gaze, and I hold it. And I see for the first time what they mean about blue eyes. They’re not blue but there is a little blue in the grey, in the back. When I was a child my mom’s eyes were green, and now they are grey.  And it all comes back. My other life. Where there was so much death.

I’m a little crazy, you know.

I know.

I don’t think you do.

I know.

Okay, go now. You’ll be late. She jumps out and runs down the sidewalk to her building, brown leather bag swinging behind her and rhythmically smacking those light pink shorts. A big rat pokes out of a pizza box, scurries out, and I stare at it willing it with all my power. Go back in. If there is a God, get away from her. And back in.

*

Gul shuffles over to Ali’s bed with the glass of hot milk with ground almonds inside. He drinks it all and she hugs his head to her breast. Ali’s face is crushed against the faint smell of moth balls in her shawl and her smell and now the smell of Tide in her salwaar, and he is instantly happy. And she sits down by his pillow and hugs him. And he knows happiness. And she moves to his shorter leg and as she starts to rub balm on it and then he realizes how it hurts. Ow.  Be quiet, she says. As he falls asleep he wonders if maybe because he ate meat that’s not halal he will dream of violence. 

* * *

Next —> Chapter VII