“In certain cases,” Omar said slowly, carefully gathering his words as if reading off a prepared page. “In certain cases, where the student’s home is not suitable.”
Azhar blanched. “Are those bastards saying your parents…”
“Parent.” Omar stood. “Mother is a faithful woman. You are not suitable, Father. I will be infected with your weakness and heresy. I cannot open my heart and mind to Allah while living here. Your sins are many.”
“Sins? I’ve always obeyed Allah.”
The boy’s face curled in disdain. “I leave in the morning.”
“The hell you do. I don’t permit it. Do you hear me?” he thundered.
Omar frowned, genuinely puzzled. “That is not your decision anymore.”
Azhar shook him roughly, hoping the madness would fly out of Omar’s ears, lips, head, ass, crawl out from beneath his toenails. But the boy kept shaking his head with smug pity.
“I’m still your father.” Azhar eventually released him and the boy toppled onto the bed.
“I obey Allah. He loves me.”
“You stupid little shit. How do you think he dispenses His love?”
Omar flinched.
Following Azhar out the door, Abdul scowled disgustedly at his brother and grabbed his pillow, draping the blanket over his shoulder and walking silently down the steps into the living room. He bundled himself on the couch, snacking on pistachio ice cream with his father before collapsing with surprisingly loud snores.
Azhar fell asleep in the armchair, leg draped over the arm, toes brushing his son’s curly hair, wondering what he believed in.
30
Clary managed a few last drops of spit which she rubbed on the man’s caked, white lips. That was it, she was out of saliva. Two days on the dinghy and she had no water left in her body. Even her eyeballs were dry; she shielded herself from the faint late sun.
The man moaned. At least he wasn’t dead yet. How was she not dead? The bullets had torn into the tarpaulin, missing her on all sides. When they were done shooting, she’d waited a long time before crawling out onto the deck of the sinking ship. She kicked a few of the bodies to see if anyone was alive, but if they were, it was just barely and what could she do for them anyway.
She had to get off the ship and somehow, in the way she was somehow alive, one of the rubber boats was still floating. She hopped over the bodies and started down the side when the man moaned again in English.
What could she do for him? Except he was a sailor and maybe he’d know how to get the boat somewhere. Clary had dragged the man, bleeding from his stomach, along the deck, stopping to clear a path by shoving aside the dead orphans. The man helped a little, pushing along on a knee and an elbow, but it was really all her.
Getting into the rubber boat was something else. She wrapped her arm around his waist and tried lowering them together, but her hand slipped and they fell into the boat, where she lost her right shoe.
He’d nearly rolled into the ocean and she thought about letting him sink; she could probably figure out which way to go. But he had such a sad look. As they floated away from the disappearing ship, Clary pulled out an oar, stuck to a dead boy’s leg, and began paddling.
The man shook his head and pointed toward the setting sun, giving a direction. West. He had a nice smile, kind of like her cousin Pedro. Whatever happened to him, she wondered. Maybe Pedro was also wondering whatever happened to her. What really ever happened to anyone she knew.
When Clary got tired of paddling, they drifted. The sailor tried helping but he was pretty bad. They went in a circle once and they both laughed. That’s when she worried she would die because you shouldn’t laugh at a time like that. Maybe because they had no water or food and her mind was grubby and her clothes were ripped and wet and stained with his blood and she couldn’t stop shivering. That’s when he gave her his thin jacket.
She tried fixing his wound, thinking about what the Allah nurse did at the orphanage, but she had no medicine and knew better than to use sea water and besides, every time she touched his stomach he groaned, which scared her. Better just let him go quietly to Jesus. She didn’t know if she could eat him. Maybe if she had a fire but they were in the boat and how would she cut off his flesh anyway. Maybe if she somehow sharpened the oar, but she needed it to row.
She kept paddling until her shoulders screamed, trying to remember a song to sing but she couldn’t; they landed at this beach. She’d dragged him to the tree line and then passed out. It was getting dark and the man gurgled and moaned, frightening her. She wanted to run but where and it didn’t seem really right to leave before he died.
He tugged on her arm.
“Please,” he whispered.
“Si.” She had to say something.
He reached into his pocket and handed her a small black box. Her mother had lots of these with beautiful rings and necklaces and bracelets. She was supposed to get them when she was confirmed. But Jesus had gone somewhere else.
Clary took the box and smiled. The sailor found a pencil and a damp piece of paper. He scribbled an address, shoving that at her.
Address, box. “Si.”
The sailor used his right hand as a mountain to show a big belly. She frowned. He pretended he was rocking a baby and she nodded.
He smiled weakly, gurgled, this time with blood dripping out of his mouth. He coughed and closed his eyes.
Clary sat with him for a few minutes until his soul went to Heaven. She kicked away her left shoe, pulled off the man’s shirt and ripped long shreds. She yanked off his shoes, shoved the fabric inside and laced up his sneakers. They
