The Nakeds (27 page)

In the early afternoon, Mustafa fell asleep on the couch, so the girls moved to the dining room.

“What’s with the picnic table?” Rebecca asked.

“It’s new,” Hannah said.

“Seems like it belongs outside.”

“Azeem thought it would be interesting. He likes to be interesting.”

Rebecca considered this. She rubbed her finger over the surface and said, “Has it been shellacked?”

“Yeah,” Hannah said, embarrassed.

“Mustafa doesn’t look like the boys at school,” Rebecca said.

“You can say that again.”

“You don’t think he’s foxy?”

“Not really, no.”

“He’s interesting—like your stepdad.”

“He’s OK, I guess.”

“Want me to call Pablo and ask him if he wants to come over and smoke pot with us?” Rebecca asked.

“Yes!” Hannah said.

Rebecca picked up the phone and started dialing.

•  •  •

The doorbell woke Mustafa up. He stretched and yawned and sat up on the couch. Pablo was all smiles, white straight teeth and perfectly pink lips. Dark T-shirt and shorts, black flip-flops. His cast had come off last week and already his right leg was almost as tan and strong as his left one.

Rebecca whistled. “Your legs are looking good, Pabs,” she said.

“Pabs?” Hannah said.

Rebecca shrugged.

Pablo pulled a six-pack of beer from a paper bag. He twisted off the caps before handing bottles to the girls. “You want one?” he asked Mustafa, who shook his head no.

“No beer,” Mustafa said. “Just pot. Drinking beer takes away from feeling the pot.”

“Whatever you say,” Pablo said.

“That’s what I say,” Mustafa said.

“OK then,” Hannah said, nervously.

Even though they obviously didn’t like each other, Mustafa offered Pablo a joint, which he happily accepted and immediately smoked. After he’d dropped the roach into his Coke can, Pablo pulled out his harmonica and offered to play for them. “How about some Bob Dylan?” he said, looking directly at Hannah.

“Yes, yes,” she said, more excited than she’d meant to sound. “I mean, if you want to.”

Rebecca looked at her.

Mustafa looked at Pablo.

She looked at Pablo too.

“Play for us,” she said.

They’d heard him play before at school, but never like this—his playing, like the bell pepper, had never been so sweet.

•  •  •

Within the hour, Hannah was sitting alone with Pablo in the backyard, side by side on the lounge chairs. Rebecca and Mustafa were in the den doing whatever they were doing. Pablo had sunglasses on, his harmonica by his side. The weather was perfect, not too hot, and a slight breeze cooled Hannah’s skin. She looked at Pablo’s leg, which was nearly as tan as the other one, and by next week, she was sure, they’d be identical. She asked him how it felt to be rid of the cast.

“It’s great,” he said. He looked down at her cast. “I mean, I get to do the things I used to do, you know?”

She nodded.

“Feels nice out here. I’m glad I came over,” he said. “I’m glad Rebecca called. Why didn’t
you
call?”

“I don’t know your phone number,” she lied.

They were quiet and it was excruciating for Hannah, but her mouth was dry and she couldn’t think of anything interesting to say.

“Your brother’s pretty funny,” Pablo said.

“He’s not my brother,” she said. “He’s my stepfather’s brother.”

“Then he’s your uncle,” he said.

“I don’t think of him like my uncle,” she said.

“Your step-uncle then.”

Hannah was mad at herself. This was her big chance and here she was disagreeing with him, barely saying more than a few stupid words at a time. Her tongue felt like cotton and she was nervous, thinking that he was bored and probably hating her, even though he was smiling.

“It’s really hitting me now,” he said. “I’m too stoned to move. That was some good shit.”

“Want something to drink? Another Coke?” she offered.

“Fuck, yeah,” he said.

In the kitchen, she opened the fridge and pulled out two cans of Coke. She grabbed a bag of potato chips from the cupboard too.

Even after all these years, it was a challenge to carry things while using crutches, but she had developed methods. She held the chips, securing the bag with her chin and chest, and set a can on each hand rest, and hopped back out to Pablo without too much trouble.

He stood up, flustered, his cheeks red. The harmonica fell to the ground and he left it there. “I should have helped you. I’m sorry. What was I thinking, just sitting here like an asshole. I’m stoned. I’m sorry,” he said again.

“I get around fine,” she said.

He looked down at her cast. “How much longer do you have to wear that thing?”

“Three weeks,” she said.

“Can I sign it?”

“You already did.”

“I know,” he said, picking up the harmonica and putting it in his pocket. “I want to do it again.”

“Maybe later,” she said.

She sipped her soda and he gulped his down. He had the bag of chips in his lap, his hand in the bag. He was staring at her and then he wasn’t staring at her. He was eating potato chips and forgetting to share. She thought this was adorable somehow and she watched him eat, noisy and with enthusiasm. There were pale crumbs on his perfect lips. His arms were golden brown, hairless and muscular, and she wanted to touch them. He put the empty can down on the table in front of them and smacked those perfect lips, satisfied.

They stared at each other.

“Your face—” he said, looking at her hard.

“Yours,” she said.

He scooted his lounge chair closer to hers and it made a horrible scratching sound on the concrete.

“Kiss me,” he said.

And, just like that, she did.

HIS PARENTS
had turned Martin’s old apartment into a storage space. It was like a garage above the garage. When his mom fell asleep, he went outside and up the stairs to check it out. He opened the door with his old key and found a room full of discarded things from the restaurants: old sinks, countertops standing on their sides against the wall, and a trio of rusty toilets where Martin’s bed used to be. The room was musty, too cluttered to walk around in, but he scooted in between a sink and toilet and stood in the middle. He thought about the many nights he’d spent in this space unable to sleep, thinking about the girl he’d hit. He decided he hadn’t changed at all—he was still the very young man in the dented car, hiding from himself. He wondered where the girl was now, if she could walk, and if she still thought about the person who’d hit and left her there.

It wouldn’t be easy being in his thirties and staying in his sister’s old room. He ripped down the Partridge Family and Donny Osmond posters and tossed out the dried-up corsage from her prom that was on the dresser. He told himself that his living situation was only temporary and that once he’d helped his mom sort through his dad’s things and get used to being alone, he’d rent an apartment and move out. He’d find his own place, maybe something in Los Angeles if he could figure out the bus system, or maybe something closer, overlooking the water.

Sandy and her husband had bought a four-bedroom house in La Mirada with a big backyard and orange trees. More square footage for your money inland, his sister said. Martin’s mom wasn’t happy that Sandy and her grandkids were now an hour away, and she complained about it frequently. “Right when I need her the most,” she’d say. “She was always selfish. Remember when she wouldn’t eat?”

“I remember,” he said.

“Remember when she told her father to fuck off?”

It was strange hearing the word
fuck
come out of his mother’s mouth. He smiled at her. “I was already in Vegas by then, but you told me all about it.”

“Dad didn’t like Sandy’s boyfriend, which made sense. That fellow didn’t come to the door when he picked her up. He’d honk at the curb. What kind of manners . . .” she said. “And
fuck off
is a terrible thing for a daughter to say to her father.” His mom looked at him. She paused. She seemed to be enjoying saying the word
fuck
and Martin wondered if it might become part of her vocabulary. “At least I’ve got you, Marty.”

“Yeah,” he said, sadly.

“It’s you and me now,” she continued.

“I’m only here for a short while,” he reminded her.

“Nonsense,” she said.

“It’s temporary,” he insisted.

“Where else do you have to go?”

She irritated him, but Martin felt sorry for her too. He’d find her late at night in the living room, with the television mute, staring out the window at the dark front yard at nothing. She slept late, well past the usual six a.m. sharp that he remembered from his childhood. Sometimes she’d come into the kitchen at noon and refuse coffee or even toast. She didn’t fix her hair anymore but wore it clipped back with barrettes way too young for her, silver things with butterflies or daisies on them.

“Maybe you’ll stay forever,” she said.

“I’m here for a visit, Mom. A short while, until you feel better.”

“You’re not married—what else do you have to do?” she said, matter-of-factly.

She was old, so much older than he remembered her, the years and his father’s death having changed her features—her lips thinner and her cheeks hollow, dark half-moons under her eyes. He was surprised at the deep lines running up her cheeks, and she had a nervous habit of pulling at the loose skin under her chin.

She pulled at that loose skin now, sitting on the couch with her legs tucked under her. They’d eaten dinner together and she hadn’t bothered dressing. It was only dusk and she was already in her robe and slippers. The streetlights had just come on and she was pestering him about not driving—even offering to buy him a car with some of the life insurance money, and wanting to know what had happened to make him so afraid of getting behind the wheel.

“I’m not afraid,” he snapped. He was sitting in his father’s chair, reading a magazine his dad had left behind, an article about the Miss Universe pageant, where the stage collapsed right after the winner was crowned. While his mother continued talking, he was imagining all those beautiful girls spilling to the floor.

“They have pills for your nerves. I’ve been prescribed some of those pills, although I suppose you’re not supposed to drive after taking them,” she said.

“It’s not nerves,” he said.

“What is it, then?”

“I don’t fucking know.” He slapped the magazine closed, giving up, and dropped it on the coffee table.

“Watch your language, Marty.”

“I’m a grown man.”

“Maybe—but you’re living in my house.”

“Not for long.”

“Maybe forever.”

“Stop saying that,” he said angrily. “Say it again and I’ll be out by the morning.”

“Well,” she said, taken aback. “You too, huh? What did I ever do to my children to deserve this?” She tightened her robe at the neck and shook her head.

He needed air. He needed to get away from her before he really told her off. “I’m going for a walk,” he said. His boots were by the couch and he leaned forward and grabbed them.

“Where are you going?” she said, softening.

He shrugged angrily. It was none of her damn business. He was lacing up the boots and not looking at her.

She asked him if he could stop by the pharmacy to pick up a prescription for her. She couldn’t sleep, she said, she couldn’t eat, and the doctor had promised that the little white pills, the ones she thought he should take too, would help. It was why, she said, she’d been so agitated. She was pulling on the loose skin under her chin again. “I’m sorry, Martin. I know I’m making this worse for you. Something pops into my head and the next thing you know it’s coming out of my mouth. I can’t seem to swallow it. It just comes out. I’m sorry,” she repeated.

“OK, OK,” he said, picking up his wallet and keys. “Give me the prescription,” he told her.

THEY TOOK
Mustafa to a female doctor in Fullerton who he kept calling Nurse. Finally, after Nina corrected him for what seemed like the tenth time, he called her Doctor Nurse. They took him to doctors in Huntington Beach and Oceanside. On the way to San Diego they stopped for fast food and Mustafa ordered the smallest burger on the menu. After the appointment at the La Jolla hospital with a doctor who was suffering from some terrible tic himself, they went to Sea World and spent a somber afternoon with the trapped dolphins and otters and whales.

Their last stop of the week was at UCLA, where an epilepsy specialist Azeem had read about in the newspaper only confirmed what Nina had been telling him all along. There was no cure, even here in Los Angeles, Dr. Schultz said, and the most exciting, cutting-edge thing he knew about in epilepsy research was an experimental drug that they’d been studying for only a few months. He had high hopes for the drug, but it wouldn’t be available for at least another year to the general public.

“My brother will be home by then,” Azeem said.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said.

At the car Azeem whispered to Nina that because Mustafa had just received bad news maybe he should sit in the front seat on the way home. “And just for the ride back, we’ll be talking in Arabic. The boy’s upset with the bad news,” he repeated.

“It’s not really news,” she said.

“I have hope, Nina, so it’s news to me,” he snapped.

She opened the back door and climbed in. She was getting to know the backseat of her own car very well. The seat belt and ashtray. The hump between the two seats where she rested her arm. The headrests she stared at and, finally, the backs of their heads. Her legs felt cramped and she wished she’d sent them to the doctors without her.

Last night after dinner, Mustafa had placed a flat palm on his stomach and said the spaghetti was very tasty but didn’t seem to agree with him. He was nauseous, he said, so Azeem suggested he sit in the front on the way home from the restaurant.

Azeem insisted he sit in the front seat the whole way to San Diego too because he’d have a better view of the ocean. “You live here,” he’d told Nina. “You see the ocean all the time.”