The famous Grandma. Two days in America and she meets Grandma. She was very old. And not a Crusader. Yellow. An Asian. She didn’t look so mean, someone who would burn children in ovens and make stew of their hearts. Like a switch turned on her brain, Clary hummed the song all the children in Allah Land were taught, Abuela esta Muerta. It reassured her in a strange way.
Nothing else did.
The trees were very sad, along with the animals. Strange animals who she sometimes saw through. Ghost animals. And the towns. There weren’t many. America was supposed to be full of big cities where the Devil had parties, but she’d only seen little places. Now she hadn’t looked too carefully, being afraid. Maybe the big cities were hidden. They had lost the war. Maybe they had moved the cities further away from the Allahs. Sad wilted trees and ghost animals and sometimes a car. The people well, they seemed stupido. She could steal anything easily. She stole some socks and an extra t-shirt from a clothes line. The candy and band aids, of course. The money from the motel and the woman’s shoes and sweater and scarf. Like it was okay for children to steal.
The Americans were very surprised by what Grandma was saying. They stared like they thought their eyes and ears were lying, and then suddenly they started cheering. A few men slapped each other and Clary grabbed a fork in case there was a fight, but they just hugged and kissed. Maricon, she sneered in disgust. Another man waved his red cap with a B on the front and danced with a woman whose underwear showed. Clary needed underwear but didn’t know how she could steal that woman’s.
As Grandma kept talking in this very soft kind way, the Americans got quieter. They didn’t seem so happy anymore, like someone was telling them it was time for bed. Clary understood a couple words. Islam. Muslims. They gasped and made upset faces, like the Allahs did if the food was cold or you didn’t swallow the mucus from their penises. Maybe this wasn’t a safe place. She hadn’t found a safe place yet. She’d slept in the sad forest last night and today kept hidden in the woods along the road.
She’d seen a sign, New York, 100 miles. The address in her pocket said New York, Bronx, but she figured that was pretty close.
She was so hungry. Clary pocketed a donut from the plastic dome and finished the glass of water in one gulp when Grandma’s face disappeared. People mumbled, unsure how to act. Grandma had only talked for about five minutes but she seemed to say a lot.
A waitress tossed a menu down. “You eating?”
Her tone wasn’t mean, just curious; Clary could be anyone except who she was. She had tried talking yesterday at that tiny store. Simple Spanish even the idiota Allahs understood. I am hungry, how much. But the man behind the counter made a nasty face like the Spanish hurt his ears and asked, “You an American?” Well no, idiota, if I’m American I would speak English. She tried again and he came around and kept saying “American, American?” She got so mad she pulled down the scarf and he saw the scar and turned away. Since she was too horrible to look at, she was able to steal candy and skipped out the door making up a song about ugly men with little penises.
This waitress peered at the bandage on her cheek, but only cared whether Clary was eating.
Act like you belong, Clary decided, scrambling back onto the stool and confidently studying the foreign menu. A lot of the pictures looked good. She pointed at a hamburger and the waitress asked something. Clary nodded slowly. She’d taken a lot of money from el motel.
Two of the American men sat down to her left, talking about Grandma and Allahs. They were confused. They seemed half happy and half mad.
“What do you think?” The fat one suddenly asked her. “Is forgiveness the way?”
She shrugged. Shrugging worked with people. Usually they only wanted to be the ones talking.
“Kid’s probably as confused as us,” his fatter friend said. “Baseball good, Camels bad.”
“Not anymore,” his amigo said.
The waitress put down the biggest hamburger she’d ever seen along with potatoes and a soda. Clary waited politely until the men started their sandwiches.
“Manners, nice,” the fat man said. “Bon appetite.” He held up his plate. “Eat while we can.”
The tall man craned his neck at Clary, who’d already eaten half her burger and was considering ordering another.
“Where you from, girl?”
She poured more ketchup on the potatoes. Acting deaf also worked.
“Let her be.”
“Just asking.”
She ate quicker.
A man in a blue uniform put both his hands on their shoulders. “I thought you boys were on diets?”
They all laughed about that. Clary felt the policeman staring. She turned with very calm eyes and smiled.
“Hello,” she said her only English word.
“Hello,” he answered pleasantly, watching her eat. “Bundled up nicely.” He motioned to Clary’s many layers of clothes.
Clary barely chewed the last of the burger, wiped her mouth and grabbed the check.
“Where’s your parents?”
She shrugged and the policeman lost his smile.
“Parents? Mommy and Daddy?”
She looked into his cow face and smiled. “Muerte.”
Clary hurried to the cashier by the door, feeling the policeman staring.
“Be sixteen fifty, honey.”
Clary looked helpless.
“Sixteen fifty.”
Clary flung a twenty dollar bill on the counter, not waiting for the woman to tell her it was right. She ran back into the woods, making sure she was going in the direction of New York, Bronx.
The Blue Shirt finished thumbing through his notebook. “Was the bandage on that girl’s right cheek?”
His friends nodded and the cop raced out the door.
• • • •
JALAK ANGRILY SPILLED the bag of pistachios onto the counter and began counting. Blasted thief in the
