Bright Lines (13 page)

A
nwar’s Apothecary was closed on Sundays. But this Sunday, Anwar wanted to run from the tremendous tension that had taken over his home. Since her indiscretions last night, Charu was under house arrest until she left for college. Though Ella had offended Hashi, she was an adult, and so, beyond her scope. Hashi had cried herself to sleep and somehow willed herself awake at seven o’clock in the morning for the day’s wedding party. Anwar agreed to buy her maxi pads, just for an excuse to leave the house.

The church crowd was out and about on the streets. Anwar admired their accoutrements and commitment to the higher power on Sundays, his favorite day to sleep. He had not spoken to his brother in a month. Aman ignored Hashi’s peace-offering phone calls. Anwar knew his brother, an extraordinary grudge holder, would never again respond to Hashi as he had before, and would not call her back unless he needed something.

Anwar was going to make the peace today. He would walk to his brother’s establishment, called Kings Pharmacy, which Aman claimed was for the borough, but Anwar knew it was a matter of ego. It was a place he hated; he had worked in one on Long Island for a decade. Dredging up the old memories in that nasty basement did nothing to assuage today’s stress, so Anwar pushed his own grudges out of his mind. Yes, he would go to Kings. Another bonus: not having to pay for maxi pads.

He passed a new store on Atlantic Avenue, On the Silk Road, which housed a collection of renowned silks: charmeuse, dupioni,
shantung, crepe de chine. He paused in front of the large glass storefront to take in the bolts of fabric that lined the shelves like brilliantly colored Japanese scrolls. It would be nice to get Charu some of this stuff. Poor thing would lock herself in her room with her sewing machine for company. Inside the shop, a pair of elderly women negotiated the price of a royal purple swath of cloth. As he turned around, a jaunty West African fellow in matching lime green linen shirt and pants knocked Anwar down with a gigantic baton of fabric.

“I’m sorry, man, I didn’t see you,” said the man, offering Anwar his hand.

Anwar stood up and said, “I will take the entire roll, please.” He reached into his pocket for his wallet—no cash. The sole credit card in the damned thing was under Aman’s name. Anwar cursed his habit of stuffing credit cards into his pants pocket rather than his wallet. He was given a ten-dollar liability discount. Using the bolt as a makeshift cane, Anwar went on his way.

Atlantic Avenue’s steady rush of cars accompanied him as he neared his brother’s pharmacy
.
Anwar let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. This place sickened him. Gratuitous air-conditioning. Advertisements galore: L’Oréal! Plan B! Rogaine! SpongeBob pencil kits! Radio: the nauseating buzz of today’s generation! In the back of store, the pharmacy reeked of that oppressive Aman smell, the lingering smell of a flushed toilet.
For god’s sake, man. Burn some Nag Champa and do us all a favor.

“What brings you around?” Aman said, without bothering to look up from his
New York Times
crossword. He sat at the pharmacy counter, while a young Indian woman pharmacist filled a prescription beside him.

“Oh, I need to pick up some antiseptic cream and perhaps a shaving razor, and, eh—some womanly items for Hashi,” said Anwar.

“Hashi’s little errand boy, huh? Go get your things and Rinku will ring you up. That’s funny, isn’t it? Rinku ring you up? Ha!” Aman turned up the radio and turned back to his crossword.

The woman named Rinku nodded. She widened her eyes, so that only Anwar could see. It was a look that people who’d spent enough time with Aman could understand.

Aisle 5 had Advil and other analgesics. Last night had done him in; he was paying for running down the stairs to the backyard. He admitted perhaps he was used to being a slender man who was terribly out of shape. He headed over to the bacterial ointments and creams aisle. He made an Anwar’s Apothecary Cocoa Butter Scar Away, which lightened scars. Yet when it came to healing his daughter’s face, he wanted that Neosporin.

Right after she had hit Charu, Anwar saw Hashi’s face grimace with immediate regret.

From out of nowhere, Ella tore Hashi off before any real damage had been done. Besides the bruise on her jowl, Charu had minor scratches on her cheeks, some self-inflicted from clawing her way out of the swarm of butterflies. She’d survive, but Anwar was sure she was just as shocked as he. They’d never raised a hand to their children—once or twice a bottom had been smacked when they were toddlers, sure, but nothing as far as using an object. A garden hose, at that! What shocked him was Hashi’s full control of herself in the garden. There was no manic, crazed beatdown. Hashi had been resolute and aware. She held the hose across Charu’s throat and snarled, “Never lie to me again.” Charu gagged under the pressure. Anwar heard Hashi’s thought:
Fuck with me, child, and I will beat the life out of you.
Anwar stood there, paralyzed and a little high.

He was surprised to see that Ella and the girl Maya fled right after Hashi’s outburst. Hashi’s look was similar to the one Sallah S. had given him and Ella yesterday. Her disgust for their children was palpable.

 * * * 

In Aisle 6, land of diapers for infants, women, and the elderly, Anwar saw his tenant, Ramona Espinal.

He tapped her shoulder and said, “Boo.”

“Oh!” she yelped. “Anwar, you scared me!”

“I am in this aisle to buy . . . sundries for Hashi.”

Ramona chuckled. “You’re a good husband.”

“I hope we did not disturb you this morning.”

“I wasn’t home. Late shift at the hospital.” She tapped a box against the palm of her hand. “Well, I’ve got what I was looking for. I should get some sleep. I have to be at work at ten o’clock tonight.”

“Come with me. Perhaps I can get you some kind of discount. I am on the free-for-family plan.”

“Sure. I could use the extra four dollars.”

They walked over to Aman’s register.

“Let’s see what you’ve got here,” said Aman, scanning Anwar’s purchases. “That’ll be twenty-three forty-nine.”

“Wait, what are you doing?” asked Anwar.

“Counting up what you’re taking, so you know how much you owe,” he replied, as if Anwar were a simpleton.

Anwar set the bolt of silk down and searched his pockets, pretending to look for his wallet. “I—I did not bring any cash. In the past you’ve—” Anwar sniffed. “Very well, brother.”

“I have enough,” offered Ramona. “It’s not a big deal.”

Aman held up a hand to silence them. “This is a corporation, not some black market shampoo shop. I don’t do any favors for those who don’t do me any.”

Ramona glared at Aman and slipped him her credit card.

“I’ll pay you back as soon as we return to the house,” said Anwar, as they made their way through the automatic doors into the already sweltering morning.

“What a pinche piece of shit,” muttered Ramona. “Sorry, I know he’s your brother.”

“Whatever you said sounds about right,” said Anwar. “I’m so sorry. I will pay you back when we get back to our house. When I get back to my house, I mean, whenever you get back to your house—”

Ramona laughed. “Why don’t we shave this off my next rent check?”

“Then I’d have to explain to Hashi why and—oh, never mind.”

“I understand,” said Ramona.

“I’m walking home. Are you walking home? Do you want to walk home?”

“Yes, let’s walk home.”

 * * * 

As Anwar and Ramona arrived at 111 Cambridge Place, he could hear the radio blaring from Hashi’s salon
.
There were two weddings this weekend. The last thing Hashi would want was for him to drop
by with a bag of maxi pads. He didn’t feel like saying hello, or making small talk with the wedding party: “No-way-you-met-at-the-food-co-op?” “He’s-Jewish-
and
-Buddhist?”

Anwar tied the plastic bag on the vestibule doorknob and leaned the bolt of fabric against the bannister. Hashi would find them eventually.

Ramona zipped up the stairs in front of him. Step after step, he was captivated by her sashaying rear. He wanted to lay his head on it like a pillow.

They reached the third floor.

“I’ll come back to repay you for the items,” said Anwar.

“I said no worries—”

“I’m not letting you pay for my wife’s maxi pads. Will you be home for a while?”

“Until my shift at ten, yes. Bye now.”

Anwar rushed downstairs to his bedroom. He needed a smoke. He shook from the rush of electricity between his heart and crotch. He stepped on the chair and unlocked the attic door. His bare feet were sweaty on the rungs of the ladder. Once upstairs, he pulled the ladder back in and locked the door. He packed his pipe with a nugget of herb and took a long toke. He felt like he’d just run a mile. If he
were
indeed having a heart attack, smoking was a stupid idea. Ah, well. He puffed and paced. He bumped his head a few times against the wall he shared with Ramona Espinal.

“Hello?” he heard Ramona say.

Should I say anything?

“Hello?”

“Oh! It’s nothing! Hello!”

“Anwar?”

He tapped a faux Morse code against the wall.

She tapped something back.

He pressed his cheek against the cool drywall, and pictured a cross-section view of her doing the same.

“Anwar?”

“I want to—” he started to say, but stopped. He hurried himself over to his table to sit down. Where did he keep the key, the key that would open the partition? He went over to the wall and tapped his knuckles on it once more. She tapped an identical rhythm back to him.

They did this a number of times.

“Where are you?” she said, sounding as if she were speaking underwater.

He found the key taped to the side of his refrigerator. Given his tendency to forget items in pockets and crevices, he’d taped it there a couple of years ago, before they’d even had a tenant. He removed the key and slipped it into the doorknob, praying for it to work, for it not to work.

Ramona pulled the door open.

She stood there wearing nothing but a pair of rather large underwear and a utilitarian-looking bra. Not what he’d pictured. Her body dripped with sweat—she did not have air-conditioning in her bedroom. His kind of woman.

Anwar took a step forward and tripped on the matrix of extension cords on the floor. Every appliance she owned—iron, hair dryer, lamp, CD player—was plugged into a flimsy power strip. “Fire hazard, you know.”

“Yes, Señor Propietario, thanks for your warning,” she said. They laughed and sat next to each other on her bed.

Anwar felt her eyes on him, waiting for him to do something. But he’d already done the unthinkable: He’d walked through a wall.

“It’s strange to have you over here like this,” said Ramona.

“It’s strange to be here.”

She sniffed the air. “I wondered if I were imagining marijuana.”

“You are not imagining things. Do you want some? I can go get it—”

“No. How about a drink? How about a shot of tequila?”

“Tequila, I’ve not had since 1982!” he exclaimed. “No drinks, for that matter.”

“Well, then, let’s drink some tequila.”

She hopped off the bed and disappeared.

In his fantasies, they never spoke. They never shared anything. They were just fucking. He looked around her room. She had built a bookshelf into the wall above her bed—a nice touch. He stared at some of the titles.
The
Bell Jar
,
This Bridge Called My Back
,
Ulysses
,
NCLEX-RN Examination
,
Davis’s Drug Guide for Nurses
. She kept things pretty neat in her bedroom, besides the extension cords. Late afternoon light filtered through the blinds in stripes along the floor.
Plants in plastic vessels dotted the windowsill. They needed watering.

Ramona reappeared with a bottle of clear tequila marked
TRES GENERACIONES
, and two shot glasses—one held in her lips, the other balanced on her forefinger.

“You have a lot of books.”

“Yes.” She dropped the shot glass into Anwar’s palm.

“You know the layout of your floor is like ours,” said Anwar. “I wanted to build two of everything, so that maybe I could have my own place within a place.”

“No tengo limas. You’ll get the full taste.” Ramona poured the clear liquor into his tiny glass, and then into hers. She sat down next to him, and said, “On three . . .”

“Let me try—” said Anwar.

“Uno, dos, tres,” they counted together, laughing.

Anwar felt his mouth explode. “Fire,” he sputtered.

Ramona shook her head, feigning exasperation, and slid even closer to him. Her breast grazed his arm.

“You know, I thought you had a boyfriend,” said Anwar.

“I just broke up with my husband of seven years.”

“Husband? The stocky man with a”—Anwar flicked an imaginary ponytail—“a rattail?”

“Ha. Yes, that’s him.”

“Your husband?”

“Well, once upon a time we did it for the papers, but we were in love. Now I’ve got the papers, but there’s no love.”

“Who is this guy?”

“Hugo. He’s a biology professor at NYU.”

“Biology professors have changed since my day. How did you meet him?”

“We’ve known each other since we were in college in Mexico City, but we fell in love here.”

She stopped speaking and poured another shot of tequila, and Anwar pushed his glass forward. Again they counted to three, but this time they said
ek
,
dui
,
teen
. The shot burned less this time around. He leaned forward and met Ramona’s lips. Each rapturous tickle of her tongue, each whiff of her breath that tasted like salt, breath mint, and tequila, engorged every cell in his body with desire.

“What madman would ever let you go?” he found himself asking.

“That’s the funny thing. He’s already let me go once before. But this time, he’s sure. He never wanted to be married.”

“Not worth a second more of your time,” said Anwar.

“It’s hard to just stop loving someone, no?”