Bright Lines (17 page)

Ella heard what sounded like a muffled scream.

“Shhh, shhh.” Anwar’s eyes widened. He brought a finger to his lips. “Hashi’s going to eat us—Shhh!”

“No, Anwar, look!” Ella pointed to the sliding glass door.

Hashi was running toward them.

 * * * 

As soon as everyone had left her room, Charu began stitching the leftover scraps of Ella’s violent mess into an escape ladder. Fuck them all. They wanted to keep her locked in the house? She was almost eighteen fucking years old and in college. In less than a week she’d be free. She was sure that wherever Maya was, she was better off away from her parents and this damned house. Charu pushed her bed’s headboard up to the window. She was confident that her impenetrable lockstitch would support her weight. She tied twenty-pound dumbbells to the limp legs of her fabric ladder, and then slung the weighted end outside her bedroom window. Just a few more yards of fabric and the ladder would be long enough.

Suddenly, her sewing machine groaned to a halt. Her window fan’s full blast wound down to a slow rotation, until it stopped. The Christmas lights blinked off and her digital clock was out.

“What the fuck?” Charu shouted.

T
his is a blackout
, Ella realized. She left Anwar to squabble with Hashi, who yelled at him for fiddling around with the circuit breaker. He held up his hands, pleading innocence, stoned and giggling.

Ella rode her bike onto the street. Many of their neighbors were outside, confused. Dr. Duray sat in his wheelchair, looking upward as if the end of days had arrived. Ella turned onto Greene Avenue to the traffic light on Grand to confirm her suspicions. Two cars waited on either side of the intersection, waiting for the other driver to move.

The traffic light was out.

Holy shit. Where would Maya go now? No traffic lights, no way out of the city. Had Ramona taken her somewhere? Ella’s mind raced, high and paranoid about all the things that could go wrong. She had no idea where Ramona lived now, but she suspected Maya was with her. Why else would Maya stop by the second floor? They didn’t even know each other.
Why hasn’t she called me?
There was nothing the hospital could do about Ramona—she hadn’t answered the phone when Dr. Kumar called. They didn’t have a new address on file, either. She was still listed as a resident at 111 Cambridge Place.

And, so, Ella began searching. There was only one thing she could think to do—ride to Prospect Park. Perhaps she’d be lucky again.

On Fulton Street, subway riders emerged aboveground, looking frazzled and spooked. Without traffic lights, Ella weaved easily between the deadlocked cars headed toward the Manhattan Bridge. Hordes of employees in Atlantic Mall stood in the plaza looking confused as to what they should do. Their shops were closed early, since no electricity meant no business.

Ella rode a lap around the bike path. Maya was not by the tree, nor the lake. Ella started to feel delirious, her knuckles sore from clenching the grips. She looped twice more around the path, until she felt sick with dehydration. She couldn’t ride any longer. The park was alive with joggers, families, lovers. Everything sickened her. She pulled over and vomited on the bike path.

“Gross!” yelled a kid who rode past her.

“Ugh!”

“Gnarly!”

Ella started dry heaving, unable to move out of the bike path, where disgusted bikers yelled at her.

“Time for you to get up, son,” said a baby-faced cop driving up in a go-cart. “There’s been a blackout. Things are about to get real crazy.”

Ella stood up. The cop drove away, stroking his gun. She watched him until he was out of her sight.

 * * * 

The first thing that everybody should do is to understand that there is no evidence of any terrorism whatsoever.
Anwar was glad that the mayor had spelled it out. He felt jittery, remembering what the city had survived two years ago. Thankful for his radio, he had spent the afternoon in the garden, listening for updates, watering the plants, and smoking his ganja pipe. He was enjoying the unexpected loss of current. Electricity outages were commonplace back home. In Brooklyn, he remembered only once or twice having lost power during a thunderstorm. As evening fell, they would light candles. Though he knew he lacked in many ways, Anwar excelled at emergency preparedness and a tendency to hoard in case of disaster. They were fully stocked with water, flashlights, batteries, canned food, and candles, enough for at least a year.

He heard footsteps and a spinning bicycle chain.

“Ella? Where did you go?”

Ella dropped her bike to the ground and sat down in the lawn chair beside him. “To the park. Streets are packed with stranded commuters. People are hitching rides. Power’s out all over the city.”

“Yes, it will be madness out there tonight. We are lucky we’re home.”

Ella nodded. “I think I need a nap.”

He offered her a toke, but she shook her head. “Naps are always a smart idea. You know, I quite like this world without television and bright lights. It’s nice to think.” Just as he said it, he heard the sound of shattering glass.

“Did you hear that, Uncle?”

“What the hell?”

Ella leapt to her feet first, and Anwar got up, confused. Two figures had run along the side of the house to the backyard. By their sinewy limbs Anwar guessed they were no older than eighteen. Despite the heat, they wore 99-cent store ski masks and clownish black gloves. One of them threw a Molotov cocktail into the garden. A loud explosion resounded like thunder, and its echo sent a flock of brooding pigeons into the evening sky. Anwar watched Ella pick up Hashi’s cucumber-slicing knife, the garden hose in another.

She lifted both high in the air. Anwar stared at her, mesmerized.

Ella slashed the air with the knife and charged forward to stab one of the boys. “Fuck. You,” she growled, as she blasted the boys with hose water.

The arsonists shouted and started to run.

 * * * 

Ella turned to her garden. Flames curled and flower petals disintegrated to ash. Each of them grew tiny eyes and mouths, begging to be saved. But there was no saving them. She hosed down the burning petals to put the fire out. The humid night air was dense with the scent of blackened flowers, hibiscus bark, and petrol.

She gripped Anwar’s hand. They ran to the front of the house toward Hashi’s screams. Her aunt stood on the sidewalk, looking as if she might swoon. Ella pulled her onto the street, away from all of the flammable sprays exploding in the salon.

“T-t-they destroyed my salon.” Hashi gasped to catch her breath. Ella stroked her aunt’s back, trying to calm her.

“Why on earth would these hooligans do this?” cried Anwar.

“These psychos were sent by Sallah,” said Ella.

A crowd had collected on the block. A small circle of neighbors had pinned down two of the young men, who thrashed about in a futile attempt to flee. A few teenagers yelled profanities after the one boy who had gotten away. Faraway siren wails trailed behind her. All summer the hydrants had been broken open for children’s pleasure.

Maybe there’s no water left.

“Where is Charu? Where is my daughter?” Hashi broke away from Anwar’s grip and ran barefoot over the splinters of blasted glass strewn about the stoop and sidewalk.

“She’s going inside,” whispered Anwar, immobile.

Ella ran after Hashi. She ignored her neighbors yelling behind her to wait for the firemen.

Hashi had flung open the front door, but fumbled with the vestibule lock. With a forceful kick, Ella busted open the rickety old door. The main floor of the house was thick with black smoke rising from the salon. The scorched air pricked Ella’s arms, giving her goose bumps.

“Charu!” Hashi yelled.

They didn’t have to go far. Charu sat at the bottom of the stairwell.

“I thought no one would notice.”

“You’re all I’ve made that matters in this world.” Hashi gathered her into her arms. She stroked the light scar near Charu’s eye, the only reminder of her beating. They started coughing. Hashi covered Charu’s face with her shawl. Ella blinked as the black smoke took on forms, black demon faces and silhouettes. She was heady from the assault of fumes.

A fireman shouted, “Over there! Get ’em!”

The two firemen, one tall and built like a basketball player, the other stocky and short, grabbed each of them. The stocky one grabbed Ella. He tried to lift her up, but she accidentally kicked him in the crotch. He dropped her and keeled over in pain. He rejected their attempts at assistance and instead picked Hashi up and slung her over his shoulder. Behind him, his more dashing partner carried
Charu outside. Ella waved at the cheering crowd that greeted them as they exited the house.

 * * * 

Poisonous fumes and smoke damage from the fire in the salon made 111 Cambridge Place uninhabitable for at least a week. Bic and Mauve Gnarls had passed by the commotion during their evening stroll and offered to take them in. Bic’s townhouse was a stone’s throw from Anwar’s, near Emmanuel Baptist Church on Lafayette, right before Saint James Place turned into Hall Street.

Bic’s wife, Mauve, one of Hashi’s longtime clients, was half her husband’s size, with double his energy. “Come on in, y’all,” said Mauve, leading them into their house. “We’ll get a candlelight dinner set up. I’ve made some of my famous coq au vin for dinner. Thank goodness for gas stoves! And don’t you worry about the wine in the chicken—all the sinful stuff evaporates. Except for the flavor, of course. Girls, let me take you into Nia’s old bedroom.”

Charu and Ella followed Mauve upstairs, while Hashi took a seat in a luxurious armchair, a Queen Anne style that was a stoop sale classic. She looked like a bedraggled queen. Standing in their living room, Anwar felt himself transported to Havana, Tokyo, Marseille, and Lagos, given the artwork and varieties of furniture that Bic and Mauve had acquired over the years. It was harmonious. Anwar had always known Bic to be the truest of syncretics. Anwar smelled a chicken roast, the trail of incense. He felt the strangest guilt. Standing here, while his own home stood burnt, Hashi’s salon disintegrated. All these years of work tarnished by the whims of a madman. Anwar realized he was slow at connecting dots. The broken shop window. The hammering of hands against the walls of A Holy Bookstore. And now, a fire.

Was this his punishment for sleeping with Ramona? He shook his head.
There’s no such thing as divine ordinance. It is the will of a man out to get me. Sallah S.

“Mauve and I are happy to have you as long as you need, brother,” said Bic, grabbing Anwar in a bear hug. “We’re thanking the universe you’re alive.”

“We can never thank you enough,” said Hashi.

Anwar wept in his friend’s arms.

 * * * 

Mauve led the girls to Nia Gnarls’s old room, which was adorned with floral wallpaper and bedcovers. Ella opted for an air mattress on the floor beside the bed, where Charu would sleep. Without electricity, Ella would have to inflate the mattress manually with a bike pump.

“Back in the seventies, fires were everyday occurrences,” said Mauve, resting two glass candle jars on the shelf. She shook her head. “I certainly hope we aren’t returning to those days of destruction. The city is no place for fires. No place for fires except in the forest. See you downstairs in ten minutes, ladies, okay? Bring the candles with you.” She gently closed the door.

“What does she mean no place for fires except in the forest? I have the distinct memory of that bear telling me only I can prevent forest fires,” Charu said.

Ella started pumping the mattress—this was going to take a while. “Ha. Those days of Smokey the Bear are over. She’s right. Trees need natural fires. Those giant coastal redwoods will spontaneously fucking combust. Because those fires let their seedlings and other plants grow in the forest floor. Fires clear the clutter, the junk. It’s rejuvenation. It’s necessary. Without the fires, all the debris and waste would build up, and eventually there’d be a much greater, much more destructive fire.”

Charu rested her hand on Ella’s shoulder. “We haven’t had an easy summer, El, but I’m glad you’re here. Of course, I had to damn near die in a fire to realize it, but it’s true.”

“Me, too.”

“I wonder who would try to hurt us. I know blackouts mean people go crazy with the looting and whatnot. But you’d think it would happen to Baba’s store or some shit. No, scratch that. Who needs body cream when they don’t have food?”

“I’m almost positive that I’ve met the three guys that started the fire. I’ve seen them twice. They’re with Sallah. I think they’re the same ones that threw bricks at Anwar’s storefront.”

“Shit. Well, they caught two of the assholes. I’m sure they’ll connect it back to Sallah S. Unless the cops are too dumb to figure it out. All this drama is making college look pretty sweet right about now.”

Ella nodded. “In a weird way, though, this was the best and shittiest summer I’ve ever had.”

“You know, I have no idea where Maya is. But I know wherever she is, whatever she’s doing—it’s necessary.”

 * * * 

After dinner, Hashi and Mauve made a pot of tea and replayed Hashi’s dramatic exit with the firemen.

“Girl, he was
cute
!” said Mauve, and Hashi hooted with laughter.

“Quite cute. Smelled like a barbershop and burnt wood at the same time.” They all howled with laughter again.

“Let’s have a smoke, man,” said Anwar. “I actually think I deserve it.”

Bic led Anwar through the house to the backyard. Unlike the mess the arsonists had left behind, Bic and Mauve’s garden felt like an oasis, with voluptuous red and pink blossoms. Hollyhock, rose of Sharon, and English roses spiked the air with their bold notes—an eternal Valentine’s Day. Anwar closed his eyes to breathe it in and saw Ramona’s tits, an image he was a fool to try and repress. Bic motioned for them to sit in a pair of worn Appalachian rocking chairs, which rocked spontaneously in the faint breeze. Anwar pictured Abraham Bright and his poisoned wife rocking in those chairs, just as Bic had once described. He shooed away the ghosts to enjoy a smoke with the man he realized was his best friend.

 * * * 

Anwar felt his tongue loosen after a few pulls on the blunt. “I cheated on Hashi, man,” he muttered. “I’m a fucking shit.”

Bic nearly rocked out of his chair onto his feet. “You did what, motherfucker?”

“Ramona-fucker.” Anwar’s need for absolution outweighed his shame. Bic had always been one to swap war and love stories. But, as he suspected, Bic did not approve. His stories all predated his marriage to Mauve.

“Damn. I’m not mad about how fine that girl was. She truly was a fine-looking woman. But got-damn, Anwar. Why would you shit where you eat and sleep?”

“This seems to be a common point of consensus.”

Bic shook his head. “What the hell happened?”

“I went through the studio door into her apartment one day—”

“Wait—what? You made love to her in your own home?” Bic sucked his teeth. “Poor Hashi. Man.” They sat in silence. Even Bic didn’t want to hear about his conquest and eventual beatdown at the hands of Hugo. Anwar looked up at a large black cloud in the night sky, hovering until it dissipated into a hundred tiny versions of itself.