A Long Pitch Home (17 page)

W
hen I wake up on Thanksgiving morning, I don't open my eyes right away. My family's voices drift up the stairs and into my room. Uncle says something I can't quite make out, followed by laughter. The sound of Hira's and Humza's bare feet slapping against the wood floor mixes with squeals and giggles.

“Stop, Jalaal!” they plead, with voices that make it clear they don't want Jalaal to stop tickling them or chasing them or whatever he's doing to make them laugh.

Auntie calls, “Jalaal, stop tormenting the children!” but her warning dissolves into laughter.

I try to imagine Baba's laughter mixed in with the others, but I can't do it. It feels like forever since I've heard his voice. Luckily today we don't have school, so he is going to call us after he gets home from work. I've got so much to tell him, like why today is a holiday. Mrs. Wu said that a long time ago, some people from England were saved by people from America, and they had a big feast to say thank you. The people who did the thanking were called Pilgrims, and the people who did the saving were called all kinds of things. Jack calls them Indians, but Akash says they aren't from his parents' country. Jordan calls them Native Americans, but Mrs. Wu says they are the Wampanoag people, which is all very confusing. I am still not sure who we are supposed to be thanking, but whoever it is, I would like to thank them for giving us two days off from school.

I roll out my
janamaz
. Each time I touch my forehead to the mat, I pray that the electricity will be on in Karachi when we call Baba.

When I head downstairs, rich, earthy smells greet me from the kitchen. They are not Pakistani smells, but my mouth waters all the same. Hira has settled on the couch in her fuzzy bathrobe and rabbit slippers and is watching something on TV with a loud band playing.

“Look!” Hira calls to me in English. “It's the Macy's parade.” She points to the TV.

“Macy's?” I plop into the chair across from her. Giant, colorful balloons shaped like animals and people and characters from movies hover above a street parade, dipping and bobbing in the wind.

“Macy's is a big store.” Hira points to the television. “The parade is in New York City.”

This is another fact my little sister knows that I don't. And she says it in English. I remember the saying Jalaal told me about: “as American as mom, baseball, and apple pie.” Maybe it should be “as American as Hira, baseball, and apple pie.”

The announcers on TV seem very happy about this parade. I can't always follow what they say because they talk so fast, but I am fascinated by the big, flat, decorated trucks. Uncle says that the flat trucks that don't float are called floats, which doesn't make sense. I wonder what it would be like to ride on one of the balloons—up, up over the ocean, then across the land to Baba.

When the phone finally rings, Hira grabs it first. Listening to her talk with Baba, I realize she uses as many English words with him as she does Urdu. Baba speaks English sometimes at work, but I think his English must have the same holes mine does. Words like
Macy's
and
floats
and even
Thanksgiving
might be new for him.

I try to wait patiently for my turn, but it's hard. Just when I think Hira is finally going to hand me the phone, she says, “Daddo!” Now she's talking to my grandmother? Hira shouts to us, “I'm on speakerphone,” like that makes her someone important.

But as she talks, her smile fades to a frown as she struggles with Urdu words. I have never heard Daddo use English; I don't think she knows how.

Hira starts a sentence in Urdu, covers the mouthpiece, and whispers, “How do you say
turkey
?” After a few more sentences, she asks, “What's the word for
report card
?”

She looks at me in frustration. Finally she hands me the phone.

“Hello!”

“Bilal!” A chorus of my relatives' voices comes through the line. “Thanksgiving
Mubarak
!” Baba says, and we both laugh at our own version of
Happy Thanksgiving
.

Since I am on speakerphone, their questions tumble out all at once, and I try to keep track so I don't miss any.

“How is school?”

“Is your baseball team winning?”

“Are you getting enough to eat?”

That last question comes from Daddo.

I tell them school is fine. I don't tell them it's still hard for me to keep up in English, or that I am behind in reading. Or that when I start to write something on a blank page, sometimes I still put my pencil on the right-hand side of the paper before remembering I must start on the left.

I decide to stick with baseball. “The season is over now—it's getting too cold to play outside. We start again in the spring.”

Baba tells everyone that I play on a team called the Cardinals and I am a great pitcher and a medal winner for most improved.Then he tells them what a pitcher is, because it's a little different from the bowler in cricket.

Daddo interrupts him; she is the only one who ever does that. “Bilal? Are you there?”

“Yes, Daddo, I am here.”

“Do you like this baseball? Is it fun?”

I pause. Sometimes it is fun, but only when I'm pitching. Mostly it's frustrating.

“Yes, Daddo. It's a lot of fun. Baba says when he gets to America, he's coming to all my games.”

Lots of murmuring comes over the line, and I can imagine everyone nodding and smiling. I only want to hear Baba say, “Yes! I will be there soon, Bilal, and I will come to every baseball game, like I promised.”

He doesn't say this, though, so I ask a different question: “Baba, when can I call Mudassar?”

The relatives' voices stop and then I hear shuffling, followed by Baba's voice, closer now. I can tell I am no longer on speaker.

“Bilal, I know you are missing your friend.”

My relatives' murmurs start up again but then fade. I think Baba is moving into another room to talk to me.

“I haven't talked with Mudassar since we left—almost five months!”

“I know, Bilal
jaan
.”

“But
I
don't know. I still don't know why because you won't tell me.”

Baba sighs and is probably nodding and running a hand through his hair. “I will do my best to explain.”

I grip the phone.

“I am sad to say that Mudassar's father did something wrong, Bilal. He took money from some of our clients at work.”

Now I move into the darkened front room, away from the others so I can hear Baba better.

“Is he—is he in jail?”

“No, Bilal. It is my word against his, which makes it complicated. He is saying that I am the one who took the money.”

“But you would never do that!”

“Of course I wouldn't. But I have to prove that he is the guilty one, not I.”

I nod even though Baba can't see me. “Is that why you can't come here?”

“That is why I cannot come there yet. But I will come, Bilal, I promise.”

My mother rests her hand on my shoulder, and I know it's her turn to talk. She steers me back to the family room and nudges me toward my sister, who looks miserable, slumped on the couch. I sit next to her.

Hira is too little to understand the real reason Baba can't come to America yet. I still can't believe Mudassar's father would do that to Baba. They were best friends, like Mudassar and me. Is Mudassar still my best friend? What is his father saying about my family? Maybe we're not friends anymore.

Hira leans her head on my shoulder and sniffles. “Bilal?” Her voice is quiet. When she looks up, her eyes brim with tears. “I don't know all the words anymore.”

“That's okay—you'll remember when Baba gets here.”

Her bottom lip quivers.

“Besides, Hira, you can teach him all of your English words.”

Her face brightens. “I could do that, couldn't I?”

I nod as Humza toddles by, grabbing for the phone Ammi holds out to him. “Say hello to Baba!”

Humza puts his ear to the phone, and I can hear Baba's jolly voice coming through the line, but after a few seconds, Humza loses interest. He drops the phone on the carpet and wanders toward Hira and me.

“Lal!” Humza shouts. He climbs into my lap, reaches for Hira's braid, and stuffs the end of it into his mouth. Hira gently pulls it back and tickles his cheek with the tips of her hair, and he laughs. Ammi comes and puts the phone back up to Humza's ear. He pushes it away and grabs Hira's braid again.

Ammi walks away, still talking with Baba. “He's playing with Hira. I'll put him on next time so he can hear your voice.”

I realize a truth about my siblings. Not only is Hira forgetting Urdu, but Humza is forgetting Baba.

When the table is set and the food is ready, Auntie calls us into the dining room. Candles flicker, the light bouncing off plates heaped with food, most of which I don't recognize. Auntie names them for us:
mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, green-bean casserole, candied yams, crescent rolls, gravy,
and
turkey.

The turkey looks like ones I've seen on TV, except this one is
halal
; Ammi and Auntie bought it at an Afghan butcher shop.

Uncle lifts his hands as if he is holding an open Koran, and we do the same. He says, “
Bismillah hir-Rahman nir-Raheem
,” reminding us of Allah's grace and mercy. Looking at the strange food on the table, I am hoping Allah will have mercy on my taste buds. We each say our own silent prayer. Mine, as always, is for Baba. This time, I also say a prayer for Mudassar.

Auntie beams as she looks at the table. “We eat Pakistani dishes for many meals, but this is one time of year when we eat a traditional American meal.” She holds up a crescent roll. “This shape reminds me of the crescent moon on the Pakistani flag, the symbol of progress.” Auntie smiles. “So we do have a little bit of Pakistan on our American table.”

I'm not sure where to begin. I decide it's safest to start with the bread. I take a roll and spread some of the dark sauce called
cranberry
on top, then take a bite. I expect it to be sweet, but it's tart instead.

Auntie laughs. “Bilal, the cranberry sauce is for the turkey. But I think it's a good idea on bread, too.”

The meat? Why would anyone put fruit sauce on meat? I decide it's fine on bread and finish my roll.

My favorite is definitely the mashed potatoes with gravy, and in second place is the turkey. I'm a little nervous to try the stuffing, because who knows what's in it? It is a mishmash of colors, like the fall leaves that have already blown away. When I taste this stuffing, I decide it's okay. But I don't ask for seconds.

Auntie brings out something called
pumpkin pie
for dessert. She lets us spoon as much whipped cream as we like on top of our slices, and I can't wait to try it. But when I take a bite, I have to work hard to fake a smile and say, “Mmm!” as I chew and force myself to swallow.

I must not be a very good actor, because Auntie says, “There may be a bit of
jalebi
if anyone is interested.” She stands and winks at me before heading into the kitchen.

When she comes back, I dig into the crispy sweetness of the curly noodles.

Jalaal takes a piece and says, “I thought this was going to be an all-American meal.” He grins at his mother, and her eyes twinkle.

“If you'd rather not eat the
jalebi
, I'm sure I can find someone who will want seconds.”

I raise my hand hopefully, and everyone laughs.

When our stomachs are full and our plates empty, Uncle says, “
Alhamdulillah
,” to praise Allah for the food. He also thanks Auntie, who thanks Ammi for making the
jalebi
, who thanks Hira for fluffing the mashed potatoes with a fork, and somehow Jalaal and I get thanked for what we'll be doing later, which is taking out the trash.

Auntie smiles and turns to Jalaal. “Bring the markers, will you?”

Jalaal disappears into the kitchen and returns with a plastic cup filled with markers of different colors.

“Thank you, Jalaal. Why don't you clear the plates while I explain this part?”

As the plates and platters are taken away and Uncle turns up the lights, I see that the tablecloth designs are not designs, they're words—some in English and others in Urdu.

Auntie explains. “I got this idea from a neighbor when we first moved to America. Here—take one.” She passes around the cup of markers. I choose a blue marker, the color of a Karachi sky in November.

“Every year, we each write something for which we are thankful. We try to write something different each year.”

Ammi smiles. “What a lovely idea. It will be difficult to choose only one thing.”

If I had had to do this last year, there are a million things I could have written: cricket, Mudassar, my family being together. But last year, I would not have thought about being thankful for having my family together, because we had always been together. It's not one of those things you think about—it just is. Until it's not, and then all of a sudden you wish you had been more thankful.

Hira poises a fuchsia marker in midair. “So it doesn't
have
to be in Urdu?”

“That's right,” Uncle says. “It could even be a drawing, if you'd like.”

Hira grins and gets to work.

Humza gets a different kind of marker and a regular piece of paper on his high-chair tray.

I uncap my marker and try to look at what others are writing, but I can't tell. I look at what they've written in the past, and I notice there are a lot of baseball things written by the same hand over the last few years. I wonder if Jalaal will come up with something that's not about baseball.

I could write
baseball
, but there are only some parts of baseball I'm thankful for. Actually, just one part—pitching.