Bright Lines (7 page)

“I hardly see mine,” said Malik. “She works all the time.”

“Money and women steal men’s thoughts the world over,” said Bic, shaking his head. “My memory’s spent. All these years thinkin’ on the same girl.”

Anwar coughed up smoke. “My god, man, it is a common ailment, it seems.”

“It’s why I can’t come by your house, Anwar; you know that,” said Bic.

“This is why you never make our Fourth of July barbecue?”

“It is. Thank you, son,” Bic said to Rashaud as he took the smoke into his lips, whistling a note outward like a faraway train. “Back in ’64, I used to play in that house when I was a boy of ten, with a girl named Tasha, the only daughter of a police officer named Abraham Bright.” He paused to take another toke, and looked at his ring finger, which swelled around a gold band. “Mr. Bright was a known man in the neighborhood, one of a dozen Black patrol officers in Brooklyn. He was a good man, in those days. Happy. Well-read and well liked. No easy thing, patrolling the neighborhood, streets hot, ready to ignite. Whenever a boy was killed by a policeman’s hand, Abraham Bright’s house suffered. Rocks and milk bottle bombs thrown, and once, an old lady’s rocking chair, right through them bay windows, right when the first riot broke. Boy’d been shot up in Harlem and we all felt this remarkable indignation, even me, a kid, a gap-toothed toothpick, before I was Bic. And man, did I have a crush.

“Tasha Bright had a curl in her bangs and in her pretty lips, when she grew mad at me for discovering her in hide ’n’ seek. She preferred pants to skirts against her mother’s wishes. Her mother was a lady named Omalia, and she was just that, a
lady
, who met Mr. Bright when he visited his grandmother in Montgomery before he joined the police academy. They married right over at Emmanuel Church on Lafayette.”

“There’s more churches here than any other city in the world,” said Anwar. “Everywhere you look there’s a chapel of some kind.”

“True. Within a block you might find a Lutheran or AME chapel, a Masonic temple, or a Rastafarian Nyabinghi. If you want to know
barbecue, Anwar, Mrs. Bright’s was the best I’ve ever had. She was slender with lips drawn and full; her last name was Sunny. Tasha had this joke that the reason her parents had married was to say it was a marriage of Bright and Sunny. But Mrs. Bright was miserable in Brooklyn. Summertime madness set her on edge. Winter crushed her spirit. The cycle of seasons to us natives ain’t new; we used to it. But for Mrs. Bright it was cause for dread.

“By ’67, Tasha and I had become more than playmates—we were teenagers, after all; we went from playing chase to stealing kisses in the park. Thirteen years old and
a mack
. It was the year before I started selling pens, four for a dollar. But I was foolish to think it’d last. No one knows how Mrs. Bright died. Heard she killed herself drinking an overdose of a poppy tea from flowers she grew in her garden. But when she died, Abraham Bright became distraught, disturbed. Now, in that house on Cambridge Place, light comes from all sides, and it is hotter than hell in summer.”

Anwar nodded. It was true about his house. The light was wondrous.

“She died on a June morning, just days after we’d finished seventh grade. And he decided to set her up on a cot in their backyard so that he and Tasha and their neighbors could say good-bye. I remember . . . I remember seeing them flies frenzy on her. Buzzing over her eyes and mouth. I swear I smelt her skin burning.

“He didn’t have her buried. Not at the Weeksville cemetery; no, he left her
outside
, for a good week, day and night, rocking in that chair, courtesy of ’64’s riot. Watching her ravaged by heat and maggots and butterflies.”

Bic paused, noticing the embers had turned to ash in his fingers. He looked around, embarrassed for having held the cigar so long that it burned out. He shook the ash and lit the cigar once more. He dropped his voice so low that the rest of the men had to lean in to hear him.

“I saw Tasha for the last time on the day Mr. Bright was caught by his own officers. The smell of death had grown so bad that the neighbors called him in. He signed his daughter over to her aunt in Montgomery. Never saw him again. Might have gone back up to Harlem, where his brother was a policeman. Or maybe out to the
West Coast, to work in defense. Nobody knows. There was a looting of the place during the 1967 riots and all the fine old mahogany furniture, ceramic plates, Omalia’s wedding jewelry and silk kerchiefs, dry beans and flour and rice, the doorknobs, the light fixtures, anything and everything was gutted from that house. And then the house slept, for a long minute. Nobody wanted to live there. No one but hustlers and whores searching for a place to hide. As folks say:
’Twas a good place to freebase
. I didn’t go back there again until sometime in ’75, in need of a fix, not sure what I was looking for. Got a fucking concussion tripping on a full-length mirror. I fell on the floor. Stared right into a shank shaped like the Empire State Building, covered in white residue. I was a man eye-to-eye with his own depraved soul. It was the night I met my wife.”

“You married a whore?” asked Rashaud.

“Naw, man. I married the nurse who picked out the glass shrapnel from my face.”

Anwar pulled out a bag of spicy corn chips and passed it around. The men grew hushed, crunching their chips.

Anwar daydreamed about the history of his home. Images flashed in his mind like skipping across channels on the television. He saw woman’s corpse blackening under a hot sun. Fires and mobs justified in their anger. Abraham Bright in his policeman’s uniform. Tasha, living in Atlanta with her kids, a husband, maybe. A 1970s pimp fitted in a fox-fur coat, holding a rose, a revolver, a dead girl’s hand.

Anwar stared up at the paper lanterns overhead, wondering how such a simple thing, paper bent into a sphere, could be so beautiful.

 * * * 

“This morning I got attacked by my tenant’s lover,” said Anwar, breaking the silence.

Bic raised a brow. “How’s that?”

“Oh, god.”

“She’s gorgeous,” said Rashaud. “I seen her doin’ laundry at Miss Hashi’s, just today.”

“You saw Miss Hashi today?” asked Anwar. “And Ramona?”

“This morning,” said Rashaud. He traced his thin eyebrows with
his fingers. “She shapes me up. I also seen that woman Ramona before at the hospital.”

“You have?” It had not occurred to Anwar before to visit her at the hospital under the pretense of ailment—a brilliant idea. “Why were you there?”

“Oh you know, she work at the free sexual health clinic.”

“I think I know who you talkin’ about. That pretty nurse—man, I was embarrassed. That godforsaken prick in the prick,” said Bic, wincing at the memory. “She’s fine as they come. Why bother renting without the perks?”

“You all know Ramona?” asked Anwar. “And you are all getting tests for VD?” Going to get a VD test from her was not the way to impress her.

“Can’t have that VD,” said Bic. He cleared his throat and looked at Malik, who looked shyly down at his sneakers.

“Your wife?” asked Anwar. “But you took the test—?” He stopped himself and raised a hand. “Understood.”

“Games change,” said Bic, laughing. “Good ones, at least.”

“I suppose you are right on.” Anwar continued, “Anyway, Ramona likes to argue with this man, a shouting man, who I presume is her lover. This morning was the usual fight and like a terror he bolted downstairs from her apartment, jabbing me hard in the elbow, as I was locking my door, so hard that I almost fell over. From the back side the man had the figure of a wrestler, stacked and burly, and a strange long braided strip of hair down his neck.” He let the last embers of ganja die in his fingers.

“Motherfucker had a rattail?” asked Bic. He looked over at Malik and shook his head. “I feel high as fuck, gentlemen, but now I must get home and cook my wife some dinner. Here you are.” He handed Rashaud a wad of twenty-dollar bills.

“Gentlemen, it’s been fantastic,” said Anwar. He sighed with pleasure. He was content to be with these men. There was no other company he’d rather smoke ganja with (well, perhaps he could do without Malik). He felt a faint glimmer of paranoia—Bic’s story about the Brights—did he live in a haunted house of some kind? He shook his head. No use thinking about it now. “Gentlemen,” he said, “next time, I will make bhang.”

“Sounds real
dutty
.” Rashaud giggled.

“It’s quite clean. It’s a drink of hash, water, millet, and cinnamon and honey. The trouble is that there is no telling when the high begins and when it will stop.”

They all laughed. Anwar turned off the lights in his shop and they walked outside.

Rainfall had subsided to a languorous sprinkle. Steam wafted up from Atlantic Avenue’s sewers. Silhouettes of shopkeepers heaving closed their store gates. A yellow taxicab skidded across the slick road and braked hard at the traffic light. They heard the traffic signal click from orange halting hand to white running man. Ye Olde Liquor Shoppe’s neon sign hissed. Without the fire between their lips, the summer evening chilled their bones. Bic hailed the taxi and the driver pulled over.

“Will you join me, Malik?” he asked, getting into the cab.

“Yes, sir,” said the boy. He propped his skateboard in the backseat, getting in first. He waved good-bye to Rashaud and Anwar. “Thanks, sir. Bye, Rashaud. See you soon.”

“Good night, friends, and be careful,” said Bic. He got into the car, which sped off following a chain of ticking green lights, changing one after another.

“Where are you off to, Rashaud?” asked Anwar.

“Just meetin’ some guys in the city.”

“Will you take the train? May I walk with you?”

“Sure thing.”

Anwar wanted to tell Rashaud something to hearten him, but he couldn’t find his words. They walked toward Flatbush Avenue, and no one was about. Anwar felt like they were the last men on earth.
A strange idea, being stranded with another man
.

“It is always good to see you, Rashaud.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Anwah.”

“Please, Rashaud, no more Mr. Anwar business. I have known you for years!”

“Habits don’t die,” said Rashaud. He leaned over and gave Anwar a hug.

Anwar hugged him back, surprised. Though hugs and hand-holding were common between men back home, he felt himself stiffen. He patted Rashaud’s back one more time and said, “Home safe.”

He watched his friend walk in through the glass doors of the Atlantic Avenue station, waiting until Rashaud was no longer visible. Anwar worried for his skinny friend, worried if he was taken care of. Some jackals out there were keen on hurting an innocent fellow.

 * * * 

It was eight o’clock. Hashi would be waiting, sitting at the dinner table, unwilling to eat without Anwar. He took a different route home that evening, longer and roundabout. He walked down Atlantic Avenue, toward the bright lights of the mall, past the auto body shop and monstrous storage facility, where the world became darker and quieter. As he crossed over to Fulton Street, partygoers emerged from the subway. A legless man zipped around in his wheelchair, in the middle of the street, paying compliments to women. Despite the new culinary developments the busiest establishment was Happy Heavens Chinese restaurant. A new Trinidadian roti shop, which made boneless fluffy chicken roti slathered in yogurt, had become a neighborhood favorite—Anwar had yet to try it. The B26 bus dropped off a few nurses who were about to begin the night shift at Woodhull. They shook their hands to fan their faces, assaulted by the muggy air after their thirty-minute air-conditioned ride. It amazed Anwar how in a few minutes you could be in a different world. South of his shop, reggae blasted from a minivan stereo and somehow the horde of women leaning on it talked fast and slow at the same time, because of the lilt in their voices. Yet, on this side of Atlantic Avenue, the store signs had none of the Caribbean neon or Arabic scrawl; instead there were Black-owned hair salons (more churches perhaps meant more barbers per capita, too) with alliterative names like Cool Kutz and Burkina Beauté, and, of course, one that strayed from conventions of naming: Bic’s Razor.

Their own neighborhood, between Fort Greene and Bedford-Stuyvesant, was now considered Clinton Hill. Newcomers remained blissfully oblivious of the longtime residents who lived in prewar buildings and brownstones and housing projects nestled amid tall brick churches and storefronts.

Anwar turned left onto his block, half-expecting to see his home haunted by the Brights. But it loomed the same as it always did,
alongside sister row houses, each a slight mutation of the other. On his brownstone were simple rose engravings; on his neighbor’s, the head of a lion; wrought iron fences twisted into fleur-de-lis spears. Anwar sat on his stoop. The summer shower had heightened the scent of the trees on his block, and on humid nights like this, there was no place he’d rather be.

T
hey celebrated Maya’s golden birthday, her eighteenth, on the eighteenth of July, with a small picnic at Fort Greene Park. Despite having to witness Charu and Malik making out on a blanket for much of the afternoon, Ella was impressed at the small, devoted group who came out to celebrate with Maya. They came from wholly different parts of her life—her friends from Bushwick High School, friends from her volunteer stint at the local daycare, friends from Arabic school (where she and Charu had originally met, during Charu’s failed two months of Quranic study), and Maya’s ex-boyfriend, who was now gay. They’d known each other since they were in fifth grade; their mothers had been friends back in Egypt. Halim’s hair was a crown of black ringlets doused in peppermint hair gel. He wore a tight black tank with an even tighter pair of acid-washed jeans. He was lying on the blanket, propped up on his elbows. His boyfriend, a silent young man in retro sunglasses named Marque, was resting his head on Halim’s hip. The boy gave a faint smile, and went back to playing his Game Boy.

“We were fast friends, yeah, until I broke down during
My Own Private Idaho
, and was like, I am
so
gay,” Halim told Ella, laughing. “But now, she’s my wife for life.” He swatted Maya’s knee. “I don’t see you anymore.”

“Ay, I’ve been working. Hanging with these girls,” said Maya. “Besides, you’ve all but disappeared with this new boy in your life.”

“Sure. But things are good? I feel like I haven’t talked to you since—” Halim faltered. “Sorry.”

“Let’s just cut this cake.” Maya gave his hand a squeeze.

“Cut the cake, guys!” said Charu, coming up for air.

“Red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting?” asked Malik, following suit, lips stained hot pink.

Everyone laughed, but still Halim looked at Maya. “Just tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” she said.

 * * * 

When the girls arrived at home that evening, Anwar and Hashi were still out at a dinner party on Long Island. Charu went upstairs to work on her clothing line, leaving Maya and Ella to themselves. They sat on lawn chairs in the backyard, speaking little. Speckled violet and salmon clouds filled the evening sky, and dissonant playlists escaped from backyards on Cambridge Place. While daytime had been dank and muggy, the evening air felt less thick. Ella took off her glasses, blinked a few times. Perhaps it was the shift in humidity, or the neighborhood’s babble—her visions had commenced for the evening. She tried to make it stop by blinking, then shutting her eyes tight. No use.

“Are you all right?” asked Maya. “Do you have a headache or something?”

“No. I’m just having an—episode.”

“What kind of episode?”

“It’s weird.”

“Well, if you couldn’t tell by my friends today, I like weird. So try me.”

“Ha. Well . . . I’m hallucinating, as we speak.”

Maya smiled, and the gap in her front teeth opened wide into a river mouth, with pebbles spilling out onto the ground. “What are you seeing?”

“Shit that’s nonsense. Right now there’s tiny elfin creatures building a pyramid of rhododendron flowers, and the seed bank looks like it’s stitched out of silk dragon kites. The sky is this portal brewing like a witch’s cauldron, and shiny specks are bubbling in it.”

“Wow. That’s insane. How long does this last? How long has this been happening? Do you need a doctor?”

“It’s been happening forever, since I came to the States.”

“After your parents died.”

“Yes. But I can’t remember if I was dropped on my head or something. Might be lesions on my brain.”

“That sounds serious as fuck. You need to see a doctor!”

“I haven’t gotten an MRI yet.” Even saying it out loud sounded a bit ridiculous, Ella realized. “You know, I think I’m going to do that when I get back to school.”

“Maybe you should get one now?”

“I don’t know, I can’t explain it, but I don’t want my aunt and uncle to freak—”

“You don’t want to get rid of them,” said Maya.

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Maybe there’s comfort in it, seeing things no one sees. That’s special, Ella Anwar. I would love to be able to see the world like you do.”

“I wouldn’t wish this on you. Now I won’t be able to sleep all night.”

“Try Benadryl?”

“Charu teach you that?”

“Ha. You know, I think she did!”

“Melatonin, sheep counting, and Benadryl all make me jittery. Back at school, I usually stay up studying, but I’m lucky just to make it on time for an afternoon class. But at least everyone in college is an insomniac. Here, all of you like to sleep and shit.”

“Some of us have
jobs
.”

“Sucks you have to work on Saturdays.”

“Where am I going? I already got them to give me Friday off.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“Religious observance. They’re scared of discrimination claims, after a girl threatened one of the managers for sending her sexual e-mails and whatnot.”

“That’ll do it,” said Ella.

“What are you seeing now?”

“Your face turned into a river mouth a few minutes ago. Now you’ve got neon fish jumping from one shoulder to the other.”

 * * * 

All around them, the moon garden’s blossoms had opened for the evening. They released an intoxicating brew of aromas into the backyard. Hypnotic flowering tobacco recalled packed pipes on continental voyages. Jasmine’s strong notes hit their noses, punctuated by the sweetness of the yellow evening primrose.

“This one’s beautiful. It’s like a fallen bell,” said Maya, cupping a flower in her hand. She leaned in to inhale it. “Smells like peanut butter and smoke.”

Ella leaned in closer, unsure if she was seeing properly; the silvery white and violet petals turned like moonlit pinwheels. “That’s an angel’s trumpet.
Datura inoxia.
Maybe we should get rid of it. I don’t want a stray cat or bird to eat it. It’s poisonous.”

“Dang,” said Maya. “They look so—gentle. You know, you know a shitload about drugs.”

“I’m a wizard without bad habits, I swear. It’s a nightshade, like potatoes, tomatoes, and petunias. They grow anywhere—the seeds lay dormant for years in abandoned lots, timber yards, docks. It’s the alkaloids that’ll kill you. You stop wanting to eat, but get real thirsty. You can’t pee. Your heart races out of your chest. But the Aztecs, Indians, the Oracle at Delphi, shamans and witches the world over drank its tea and smoked its leaves to see visions. Crazy-ass visions.”

“Things you see all the time
and
you get to pee.” Maya laughed.

“I’ve never thought of it that way.”

 * * * 

Ella handed Maya a bottle of neem oil to spray the morning glory blossoms, while Ella watered the plants.
Aphids must be dead
, she thought, imagining her butterfly larvae sleeping, wrapped in their cocoons, bellies full of the pests.

“I hope this is a fun way to end your birthday,” said Ella.

“This was the best. It
is
the best. It was so good to see everyone.”

“Halim’s sweet.”

“He is. He’s done a lot for me.”

“Like what?”

“Things no one should have to do.”

Ella nodded, but did not want to pry. This happened often. Maya
would offer a bit of information, then end the conversation, matter-of-fact, with a note of finality. Ella would be unable to pry further or think of something clever to throw back at her, so she would say nothing, until Maya spoke again.

 * * * 

Evening became night, and eventually, Maya dozed off in the lawn chair. Ella covered her with an old Mexican wool blanket, a Christmas gift from Ramona Espinal.

“Want to come inside?” asked Ella.

“Nmmhm.”

Ella took that as a no, and went to lie in her hammock. She stared at the sky turning colors like a disco ball, listened to the unquiet that belonged to the city. That first tickle of fear—
summer is almost over
—occurred to her. All of them would move forward. Ella would return to Cornell, as a junior, and start applying for programs abroad in Latin America; Charu would start at NYU, and she would forget about Ella. Would Maya follow through on that half-formed plan of staying in Charu’s dorm room? Why had Halim been so concerned for her? Ella realized that she didn’t know very much about Maya, but she felt like she’d known her for years. Maybe she could come to Ithaca.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Ella aloud.

 * * * 

Maya had gone and come back from work by the time Ella awoke in the afternoon. She grabbed Ella by the hands and pulled her off the hammock. “You started snoring so hard I had to go inside.”

“Crap. I should lie on my side. Sorry.”

“I was just glad you fell asleep. Let’s go find Charu.”

The steady drone of the sewing machine led them up the stairs to Charu’s room. Maya knocked a rhythm on the door.

“Who is it?”

“Guess.”

Charu opened the door and gasped. “You are a fucking psychic! Get in here!”

Charu’s room was as disastrous as it had ever been. There were hundreds of fabrics slung about anywhere there was space: old saris,
cuts of West African kente, Thai silk dupioni—random leftovers from weddings that drove Hashi crazy when they piled up at the salon.

“So this is what you’ve been up to all day?” asked Maya.

“I’ve been busy with this project, girls. Maybe you can wear something for when we go check out Malik’s band tonight! What do you think of my dress?” Charu struck a pop star pose in a dress that was brown, buttoned, and sacklike.

“Out of all the beautiful things you got in your closet, you want to wear that?” asked Maya.

“It’s simple. I like simple.”

“You sure you aren’t trying to blot yourself out of the scene?”

“This is what I want. Now, I must get you dressed, Maya, my dear.”

“Oh, I don’t want to go. I’ve been working all day—”

“It’s Saturday night.” Charu pulled out three scarves from the mound of textiles on the floor. “Model for me? You can wear one out tonight. I call this collection of head scarves—haute hijabi. It’s either that or jihadi hotties.”

“The latter probably won’t sell,” said Ella.

Charu chose a bright red fleur-de-lis print. Gently, she unpinned Maya’s hijab, careful to stick the pins into a tomato cushion. Once she dressed Maya in her creation, she squealed, “You look divine in it!”

It was hard to look away. The bright color of the head scarf accentuated Maya’s skin, framing her aquiline nose. Maya caught Ella staring and smiled.

“The show is in Williamsburg. I’ll pay for the car back. Let’s go,” said Charu.

“With what money?” asked Ella.

“Baba gave me a hundred and fifty bucks for business expenses. He likes my sense of entrepreneurship.”

“Lucky girl,” said Maya. “You know, I think you’re onto something.”

“Is Malik’s band even good?” asked Ella.

“You’re coming, too, El,” said Charu. “I’m not gonna take no for—”

“Aw shit, Charu, I’m not interested.”

“Okay, fine. But later tonight we’ll need you to distract the parentals while we sneak out,” said Charu.

“Use your tree,” said Ella.

“You know I’m afraid of heights,” snapped Charu. “Stop being so fucking righteous for once.”

Ella quivered, thinking of the night’s promises: Cigarettes. Alcohol. Infrequent late-night trains.

“How are you going to get in? You don’t have ID. I guess you’ve got Malik,” said Ella.

“Malik got me these,” said Charu, holding two laminated cards. “And I
don’t
want to talk about it.” She turned to the mirror and pouted at her reflection.

“So it looks like my birthday party jump-started you two again,” said Maya.

“Yes. Well, something like that. He’s been busy working. Maybe tonight we can—connect.”

“Give him time. He’ll come around.” Maya looked down at the laminated ID that Charu had handed to her and said, “Hey, Charu, I don’t think we can both go in with the same name and be from South Carolina.”

Ella glanced at the name on the card. “
Salma Hiyuk?
You must be joking.”

“We’re both pretty and brown and motherfuckers can’t tell the difference.”

“Ella, it’s the spirit of the evening, no?” Maya said. “Will you come? It’s not like I do this all the time myself.”

“I’m just not into this sort of thing.”

Charu sneered, “You’re never into
anything
.”

“I’ll be back,” Ella said. She left the two of them deciding which one of Charu’s haute hijabi samples Maya should represent for the evening.

The last thing she wanted to do was zap the night’s fun. She made her way downstairs to her bedroom. Hashi was still in the salon; Anwar had not yet come home from work. She’d been looking forward to another night with Maya, and seeing Charu and Maya together was making Ella’s head pound. Charu’s anger would dissolve as soon as she got what she wanted. Ella just had to let them
out the door, maybe stop by her aunt and uncle’s bedroom. It would never occur to them that Ella would tell a lie.

 * * * 

Maya stayed upstairs in Charu’s room during dinner. She mentioned not wanting to risk Aman seeing her. After being gone for a month and a half, Maya worried he might tell her father at the masjid. Charu chatted about her hijabs, Aman looked dour and complained about his divorce proceedings, and Hashi and Anwar listened to everyone. Anwar asked Ella if she’d want to come by the apothecary. She had been avoiding the shop. Something about being stuck with Anwar without knowing what to say to him for hours was too awkward, even for her. She said, sure, yeah, why not, but gave no specifics. After dinner, Hashi went to her bedroom to read the Bangla paper, while Aman watched his favorite TV programs, and Anwar went to his study to concoct batches of jojoba shampoo for some famous actor.

Around ten p.m., Charu texted Ella:

Can you chk on parents?

Ella did her due diligence and knocked on Hashi’s door.

“Open!” Hashi lay in bed, reading the Bangla newspaper. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I’m uh—going to sleep.”

“Good. Maybe you can wake up earlier, then!”