33
He forced down celebratory date smoothies with Rae and Wende and The Nephew and then went back to his room to pack. Their flight was that night. Finally, Prin’s cell coverage returned. His phone buzzed and pulsed again and again. He had thirty-two new messages. How did she know already?
But she didn’t. Not yet. He would tell her, soon. The thirty-two messages were from his parents. His Drag Racer lecture had been posted to YouTube and someone had forwarded it to his parents, who now knew he wasn’t in Milwaukee; he was in the Middle East.
Seventeen of the messages were from Lizzie, sixteen of which were incoherent sobs with a pug barking in the background. The other was from her husband, Kareem. He told Prin that if he met anyone who wanted to harm him—though Islam is a religion of peace, so he probably wouldn’t meet anyone who wanted to harm him, but just in case—that he should say La illah ila Allah, Muhammad Rasul Allah. Kareem’s translation: “Don’t worry, brother, we’re on the same team!” At least, that’s what Prin thought he heard as Kareem tried to speak over Lizzie’s sobbing and the pug.
Kingsley had left fifteen voicemails. The first was addressed to Prin. The rest were addressed to his kidnappers. To Prin, Kingsley asked why he was risking his life and ruining the lives of his wife and children by growing a beard and giving a lecture in the Middle East, “the suicide-bomber-exploding-toilet-bowl-of-the-world.” If Prin survived and came back to Toronto, he was grounded for a year. Finally, Kingsley was taking back the flat-screen television he’d given Prin as a housewarming present years before, because he was sure Prin never watched it or let his children watch it, which, in the twenty-first century, is like child abuse. Also, Kingsley obviously had to go to Sri Lanka to get a new wife now.
This last piece of information felt very, very tacked on.
The other fourteen messages from Kingsley were a rotating combination of insult rants directed at his son’s terrorist kidnappers, offers of guaranteed future casino winnings in exchange for Prin’s release, and hoarse begging for his son to be spared. In the final message, Kingsley took it all back, then offered it all again, and then just said, “Please, he’s my son, please,” before hanging up, poorly, and at length.
Prin was overcome for a moment with the nose-tingling, eye-watering sense of just how much his parents loved him, how madly. By the time he’d finished listening to the messages, a new one had come through. Prin listened. It was from Molly! Only it wasn’t Molly. It was Pippa, their youngest.
“Hi Dad. Where are you? I miss you, Dad. I want to show you my mosquito bites and see your hotel room. When are you coming home? Dad isn’t answering, Mom. Can I play a song on your phone?”
He heard Molly in the background. His heart was already smashing around in his chest just to hear the sweet, slurry sound of Pippa’s little voice. Hearing Molly in the background, knowing she was awake right now, standing in the middle of Milwaukee, their children all around her … now was the time to call. His heart was pulling, thrashing, trying to go deep caught at the end of a line. This was the time he could call, but what would that do to her, just then, there with them all around her? Out of nowhere—worse still, if she wasn’t surprised—what a car wreck he’d be giving her. What if she were driving, in fact?
Now that there was no chance of her being emailed about it first, what risk was there in waiting until he got home and could tell her in person, in their bedroom, with lots of contextualization and reports on subsequent reflections and prayers, with the children asleep down the hall, with the downstairs couch awaiting him?
Yes, that’s all it would take—a good and full and thoughtful accounting, and then days, weeks, even months of sleeping on the couch. He could hide sober and scouring spiritual reading under the cushions—hardcovers that he’d sleep on for added mortification.
He paced around his room, thinking it through, careful not to look to his left when he passed by the mirror.
He called Molly.
“Hi Prin! Girls, it’s Dad!” she said.
“Molly, can we talk?” he asked.
But she didn’t hear him. There was too much cheering and pleading for the phone. He ended up speaking with each of his daughters, and then with a couple of nieces and nephews. Molly thanked him from the background—chatting with the kids gave her enough time to finish folding laundry.
He put them on speakerphone so he could look up the metaphysical implications of failing to do penance for a mortal sin. The screen wouldn’t respond to his sweaty prompts. It just smudged and smudged.
Roasting in Hell for eternity, an eternity of being punished for trying and failing to look up rules for penance because the screen of your phone is soaked in sweat because you’re roasting in Hell.
But God, he intended to tell her!
He just needed, well, the right setting.
It could be the first night he returned home, or maybe the second because of the jet lag, or the third because he volunteered to pick up the house while she went to bed early for a change.
Or the fourth night, the fifth ... and on and on it could go until they were mild old people and by then wouldn’t he be risking Dante territory for her?
Prin looked in the mirror. He looked right back. They both nodded. But just before one looked away, the other said hold on, come closer, can you hear me?
What are you thinking?
What am I saying?
“Bullshit,” Prin said.
“Daddy? What did you just say?” one of his daughters asked.
“Nothing, sorry. What were you saying?” Prin asked.
“Daddy, there’s a skunk with three legs living in Grandma’s backyard!”
“No Daddy, it’s a skunk with four legs. One of them is disabled. And I think it lives under the neighbour’s porch.”
“Daddy, do you know what would have been a good way to capture the skunk? First, put glue on the pavement—”
“You can’t put glue on pavement!”
“LET ME TELL! IT’S MY WAY TO GET THE SKUNK! First, glue on the pavement and then get a real gun from the cousins and shoot the skunk in a box and then put a box on it. But we don’t have a real gun. And if someone gets hurt, we need to call the ambalance.”
“Portland’s pet shark died!”
“THAT’S MY STORY TO TELL DADDY! And it’s not true. She made it up.”
“Daddy, can you bring us Tic Tacs? Do they have Muslimic Tic Tacs?”
“Mommy said we’re allowed to sleep in our sleeping bags until you get home!”
“Daddy, our skunk has only three legs. The fourth is disabled, like when Pippa tries to put the password into Mommy’s phone.”
“I know her password! It’s a secret from all of you! Mummy only told me, right Daddy? Daddy, when are you coming home?”
“Alright girls, enough! Now it’s my turn to talk to Daddy,” Molly said.
There came a great gnashing, pleading, and rustling on the line. Finally, she had him to himself.
“How was the lecture? How are things going? We miss you! I miss you. You’re flying home tonight, right?” she said.
“Yes, we’re leaving for the airport in a bit,” Prin said.
“And everything has gone well?” Molly asked.
“Molly, I, I …”
“Yes? What is it, dear? Is everything okay? You’re coming home soon!” she said.
“I kissed Wende.”
“…”
“Hello? Are you there? Molly? Are you there?” Prin said.
She was not.