Gardens of Water (26 page)

smail told the story, about falling and waking in Sarah Han
m’s arms, about the darkness beneath the rubble and the sounds of heavy wheels above. He told the American about the water she placed on his lips, about the dog and the kiss and finally about the silence.

The American watched with intense eyes, crescents beneath his brows as blue as the tip of a propane flame.

“I don’t think she drank any of the water,”
smail said.

Sinan felt sick to his stomach.

“I think she gave it all to me.”

They were indebted now. Silence wouldn’t have made it less so, but at least the American wouldn’t have known and Sinan could have suffered his shame alone.

The blood seemed to drain from Marcus’s face, the muscles grew slack as though his skin hung on ridges of bone. He seemed to be frozen, but then he gently grabbed
smail’s hand. Sinan wanted to stop him, but the American was so careful, so calm and caring with his touch, that he couldn’t think of any good reason to protest. He turned
smail’s hand palm up to reveal the bruises on his forearm—four finger-sized blue marks stretching across the tendons of his arms. He considered them a moment; then, with his other hand, he ran his fingers over the marks as if they were welts he could touch.

Dylan picked at a piece of loose rubber on his shoe, his long hair covering his face.

“I don’t understand the dog,”
smail said.

Marcus laughed and looked up at the ceiling of the tent. “She was remembering the dog she had as a child in New Hampshire. Claudia,” he laughed as if it were the
illiest thing in the world. “The dog’s name was Claudia.” He shook his head.

Dylan ripped the piece of rubber off his shoe and dropped it on the floor.

“She stayed here this year because I promised her we’d move back to Plymouth when I finished my twentieth at the school. Just two years more,” he said, nodding his head. “She missed the snow. And the maple trees.”

Sinan thought he saw a drop of water fall from the tip of Dylan’s nose, but the boy made no other movement to betray that he was crying.

“I’m sorry about your mother,”
smail said, and Sinan could hear the guilt in his voice.

Dylan didn’t look up.

Marcus took
smail’s hand in his. “I’m very glad you’re alive,
smail,” he said. “I miss my wife, but she did the right thing to save you.”

As soon as he said it the American boy looked up at
smail, his blue eyes burning despite the water, and Sinan could see all the anger pooling there. These were not tears of sadness, but tears of frustration, tears of a boy wanting to strike someone but unable to do so. Sinan pulled
smail closer. Dylan looked away, over Sinan’s shoulder, and the boy suddenly seemed embarrassed. He jumped up, accidentally knocking over his teacup. He ripped back the flap of canvas used as a door, and disappeared into the darkness.