The Milk of Birds (19 page)

I looked up at Kareema, who had joined us. “We must bring him inside,” I said to her.

My father was sitting on the ground, and I asked him to help. He did not move.

“He was standing right beside me,” my father said. “My brother. He was standing right beside me.”

I went to the water jug and poured a cup and threw it in my father's face. He looked more surprised than angry.

Inside, I gave everyone a job. “Bring more water. Find a cloth. Fan Hari. Keep the children busy,” I said to Saha and Kareema. My aunt was tending to my uncle.

I went outside, where Muhammad and my father had begun to wash Abdullah according to our custom. I looked away from his body toward my mother, scooping sand into her hair to show her mourning.

“Should I fetch Si-Bilal from the mosque?” I asked.

“Not now,” Muhammad said.

From all directions we could hear keening. Then hooves.

•   •   •

Zeinab and I have stopped again, and when the pain ends, I find wood at my feet. I do not remember dropping it.

“What do I do if the baby comes?” Zeinab asks.

“First babies do not come quickly,” I say. “Keep me walking.”

•   •   •

“Get inside,” my father said. “Take your mother.”

I led her by her hand like a little child. Inside was hot and bubbling, a pot full of questions. All stilled, however, when my father and brother carried in Abdullah's body, the sheet stained with blood.

“Ya Lateef, Ya Lateef,”
said Kareema. Kind One is the most soothing of God's ninety-nine names.

Three riders soon entered the house. They carried their guns with two hands and seemed to suck the air from the room, so we could hardly breathe. My aunt did not stand, but the rest of us did, backs pressed against the wall. The wall could not protect us anymore. The storm was inside and not out.

If you need something from a dog, call it “my lord.” But my father did not remember that.

“Get out,” he said. “Leave my house. Leave this village. You have no business here.”

“It is you who must get out,” one said.

“This is my property,” my father said. “You have no right here.”

“A slave with rights?” the speaker said. “We will show you rights.” He put his gun inside my father's ear and looked at us. “That one,” he said, pointing at Kareema. “And that.”

He pointed at me.

I closed my eyes, expecting to be killed. I prayed it would be over fast. Instead I smelled breath and sweat, and I opened
my eyes to see a man. He lifted his robe and put his hands on me. “No,” I cried, and looked to my father, but the leader poked his gun in my father's ear and ordered him to watch.

He ordered everyone to watch.

So my father and my mother and my brother and my sisters and my cousins stood there with eyes wide open while these men used me and Kareema as women.

Dear Nawra,

Last weekend Dad said, “What's eating you?” which is just an expression, but wondering is gnawing on my insides. You ever get mad at your dad? Like when he beat you with that switch? That's illegal here. So is cheating on your wife. I figured out that Dad might have run around with Sharon before he left my mom. Left us.

I have this theory that Dad picks on Mom because deep down he feels like a scumbag, so he's acting like one just to prove it. It's complicated because he's really nice to Sharon; he just bought her this huge freshwater aquarium she's always dreamed of. It's like there are two plays, and in one Dad's cast himself as the villain who insults his ex-wife and deprives his kids, and in the other he plays the hero who rescues an old maid from the drudgery of accounting and spoils her with red rainbow fish and golden puffers. Of course, Mom's harder to please than Sharon, who just wants fish to match her curtains.

“You and your theories,” Emily always says, but she can't wait for the next one.

I'm so glad she's back. You know she asked to be Sudan in her model United Nations? But it was already taken, so she ended up Guatemala.

God, this letter's going to be so fat in the envelope you can probably use it as a pillow. Don't think I've spaced out—the extra blank pages are on purpose so Adeeba and Hassan can write their dictionaries. And if they come through, the little rubber bandy things with butterflies are ponytail holders for Zeinab, and the pen of course is for Adeeba. Call it Big Sister! It's one of the freebies Dad brings home from SuperOffice.

I wish I could send you something really special, but I couldn't think of anything flat except temporary tattoos. Hold some wet demuria cloth over them for thirty seconds. We have these things called care packages, which you send to people when they're at camp or away from home. Usually it's their favorite food—I sent one to Emily this summer with red Skittles and animal crackers. For you I would pack camping gear like a two-room tent, a stove, and an air mattress, as well as some earplugs to wear around loudmouths like Halima.

Still, the thing you can never stuff into a box or even a phone call is what the person usually needs most: a hug. But there's one in this envelope, believe me.

Love, K. C.

S
EPTEMBER
2008

When I open my eyes, three women are staring at me. They have overtaken Zeinab and me.

“She will lose the child,” one says.

“She needs rest,” another says. “But not here.”

“We must get back before dark,” says the third.

“Can we walk with you?” Zeinab asks.

“She cannot keep up,” says the one afraid of the dark.

I felt such fear the first time I followed the herd, but Muhammad taught me to love the night. We see with different eyes in the dark.

“Will you take my little sister with you?” I ask.

“I will not leave you, Tata,” Zeinab says.

“We must go,” says the fearful one.

“Saddle your pack animal and slow down; either evil has passed by or good is coming to you,” says the second.

“Good never comes here,” says the first one. “Even if we had an animal, we should not slow down.”

“Go,” says the second. She is older than the others, perhaps a grandmother by her first child. She says, “I will walk with my sisters here. You must take the names of her people and her section and let them know she is coming.”

The women promise to tell Adeeba and the
khawaja
, if they can find one.

“The
khawaja
are like cattle,” says the youngest one with great bitterness. “They do not like to leave the
zariba
at night.”

The two walk quickly away. It must be nearing sunset. We cannot see it for the rain, but the gray is deepening.

“I regret to separate you from your friends,” I say.

“Their friendship is like a penny, quickly spent,” the woman says. Her name is Zeinab too, which makes us laugh.

“All Zeinabs must be good,” I say.

“Men are with their tribes, and women are with their good deeds,” she says.

I try to quicken my pace, but tiredness ripples through my legs. From the front, the pain circles to the back, eased only by my slow movement. I listen as Little Zeinab repeats what I have told about Adeeba and her father. She remembers well.

“It is the time of telling stories,” says Big Zeinab. “They push back the night.”

She is solid as a cow, and I remember the comfort of big animals nearby. “Please continue, sister,” she says to me, “if telling does not wear you down.”

I try to return with them to another time near El-Geneina, to a story Adeeba has told me. In full sun, Janjaweed attacked a line of trucks with a red crescent carrying mercy to a camp. Survivors brought the wounded to the hospital in El-Geneina. But first, government soldiers blocked the streets so that none could see, for the one who saw is not like the one who only heard.

In Adeeba's house they still had hanging the white coat of her mother. In disguise of a doctor, her father traveled to the hospital, where he saw the burned and talked to those who
could move their lips. One attacker had fired a missile from his shoulder. It hit a truck with an explosion of fire. As the passengers tried to run away, the gunmen shot them. Then they stole the abandoned trucks. This Adeeba's father wrote.

After this article, many became angry. The relatives of the dead marched from El-Geneina to the base of the union of Africa to say, “Why do you not help us? Does a red crescent mean nothing?” But the protectors were scared and far from home, so they pulled out their guns.

Men say guns bring protection, but all I have seen them bring is sorrow. Three nervous boys pulled their triggers, and more innocent died among those who had marched only to grieve.

Later the protectors apologized.

By then government soldiers had taken Adeeba's father to jail, and Adeeba had gone looking for her father's sister in her village.

S
EPTEMBER
2008

Now that we're both at WJLL High, I ride the bus home with Todd—well, not exactly
with
because what junior sits beside his freshman sister? I get off first and beat him to the mailbox.

“Bill, coupons, begging for money, more begging, viewbook”—I toss it to Todd. “Where's Kent State? Is there some new state called Kent?”

“Ohio, Sievebrain,” Todd says.

“Sounds expensive. Why are you looking there? To piss off Dad?”

Todd unlocks the door, and I toss the mail on the front hall table. The corner of something slides out from inside a Chinese takeout menu.

“I've got a letter,” I singsong to Todd.

From Nawra. I can tell because the paper's so thin it feels like it could dissolve on your tongue. It's amazing it didn't get lost somewhere along the way. I stuff it in my pocket.

While Todd leaves Mom a message at work and polishes off the milk, I make popcorn. Then he disappears into his black hole of a room, so I go into mine, turn on some music, and pull out Nawra's letter. It's weird to think these flimsy pieces of paper have traveled a gazillion miles. The handwriting is such a pain. I can make out something about disgusting latrines
and . . . the crescent of the house. I love it. Because of the crescent of our house, none of us will be having milk on our cereal tomorrow unless Mom goes shopping.

Purrfect visits, expecting adoration, so I stick Nawra's letter in my social studies book. Mom and I can read it together.

•   •   •

“K. C.?” Mom calls. “Todd?”

“Hi, Mom,” Todd calls.

“Up here,” I call, so loud and firm I end up coughing. Purrfect jumps off the bed as I sit up and pull out my math homework.

As Mom climbs the stairs to make room calls, I straighten my glasses and rub my cheek to get rid of any sheet creases. Her steps sound weary. Bad day at work.

When she comes in, she plunks down on the end of my bed—a heavy plunk—like a gym bag full of dumbbells. “What's wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says. “How was your day? How was the club fair?”

“You seem bummed out.”

“Not bummed out,” she says. “Just . . . I'm tired of people underestimating you, K. C.”

“Who's underestimating me today?”

“I met with your school counselor.”

Here it is. Mom's been bugging the school to test me for a learning disability. So what are they going to do—put my defective brain in a wheelchair?

“I'm dumb.”

“She did not say that,” Mom says. “You are not dumb. She said”—Mom slips into the voice of a salesclerk who hates you
because you're being a difficult customer—“ ‘Mrs. Cannelli, not everyone is college material.' ”

“So? Is the world going to end if I don't go to college?”

Mom purses her lips. “No,” she says finally. “But I want that to be our decision,
your
decision, and not some overworked old biddy who doesn't even know you.”