The hallway light cuts across my nine-year-old eyes like Zorro’s mask. I lay in bed, blankets up to my chest, and stare at the underside of my brother’s top bunk—the metal bars supporting his mattress. I know he’s asleep right now because he stopped asking me the kind of questions that every six-year-old asks their older brother as they wander through the jungles of sensemaking. Who would win in a fight—peanut butter or jelly? My mother is asleep directly across the hall. It’s her bedroom and only hers. I never ask why. I can hear her fan running on high—perfect white noise. If I had to guess, it’s midnight or just after.
The knob on our front door jostles. My chest warms with the opportunity of the night, that thing I earned because I held off on sleep.
I hear my dad sigh and close the door behind himself. He moves into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. Removes an already-made plate of food, a plastic wrap smooshing one of the three dinners my mom always makes him—burger and fries, steak and mashed potatoes, or rice and chicken. He presses the microwave’s buttons—four or five harsh beeps before the polar molecules and electromagnetic radiation heat the meal. A whiff of garlic permeates the house. Seeps into our pores. Definitely the just-add-water spuds and overcooked meat.
A fork and knife scratch and rip. The occasional clank of a glass against a cheap wooden coffee table. Twenty minutes later, I hear the slight rustling of a newspaper. The air is made impure from twisting, floating plumes of cigarette exhaust. This means one thing.
It’s time.
My body rolls off the bed, stealth-like, and crumbles down to the carpet. Rug burns await. The only thing separating me from him is the short hallway. If I move too quickly, the floor will moan, and my mother will hear and wake, putting an end to the game. I start to belly crawl—knees and elbows my propellers.
He senses me.
The newspaper lowers, and his eyes lock onto mine. He smirks in a way that turns his black mustache into a squiggle. He has little hair down the center of his scalp and the hairs on the sides of his head are starting to curl. In a day or two, he will take an electric trimmer and groom it back down, leaving little black remnants in the sink or on the countertop for someone else to clean.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks. His speech still contains hints of his Pakistani homeland nearly two decades after leaving.
I smile. Shake my head.
He gives off a sarcastic chuckle. Like he knew I’d do this again sooner or later. Like the performative nature of me obeying bedtimes was bound to reveal itself for the sham it has always been.
I sit down on the middle cushion next to my father. He picks the newspaper back up with both hands and pulls it taut. He flicks his nose at a story in the bottom corner.
“Read that headline.”
“It says, ‘Serbian Forces Suspected of War Crimes.’”
He sucks the backside of his teeth as he snarls. Puts his Marlboro to his mouth and inhales, his lips popping off the butt.
“Do they talk about this in school?” he asks like an interrogator.
I shake my head.
“Of course not.”
He reads the story in silence. I sit with my hands folded over my lap, fingers wriggling.
“Do you know what genocide means?”
“No.”
“The Serbians are trying to wipe out all the Bosnians.”
“Why don’t we stop them? Or another country?”
“Sometimes the bad guys get to do whatever they want.” He breathes audibly through his nose. Flips the page and keeps reading. I’m not sure if his night is going to intersect with mine after all. Sometimes it’s like this. Sometimes I sneak out of bed, and his mood never catches up with my eagerness for him. On those nights, he eventually gets up and turns out the lights. Sometimes he says good night. Other times he doesn’t. His personality forever split into concentrated disconnection and warm affection. And the only way to ever know is by moving dangerously close to whatever burns within him, wondering why it ever does, often getting singed by trying to figure it out. Scars accumulate.
He folds the newspaper neatly, pinching the creases from end to end. I can feel him looking over at my profile. He pulls me in close. I breathe in his signature scent—some combination of Brut aftershave, chain-smoking, and leather, probably from his jacket that now hangs over the back of a kitchen chair. His rib cage warms my shoulder. I can feel his body relax. Let go. This permits me to do the same. My stomach untangles.
“How’s everything else with school?” he asks.
“Fine. No tests coming up.”
“What about the other kids? Nobody bullying you, right?”
“No.”
“And anybody bullying someone else?”
“Nope.”
“Good. But if you do see that, you have to do something. That’s the only thing we can do in this world. Help where we can.” He stares at the newspaper and I know he’s addressing that story more than me now.
“But how else can we help?”
“Watch out for people. Like your younger brother, for starters. Anyone smaller than you. There are always homeless people who need money or food. These are simple things.”
He’s talked about this many times before. It all leads back to being a good Muslim. I nod and wait because what I really want is to engage with him in a different way. I stay quiet until he’s forced to recognize the same desire.
“You’re going to be hurting when you wake up for school,” he says.
“I’ll be okay. I promise.”
He smiles. “Okay, then. Let’s play.”
This is my cue. I’ve heard it dozens of times. He uncocks his arm and I wiggle off the couch. There is an ottoman pushed up against the wall facing us. Fake black leather embroidery. I unhook the top latch and open it. There are several game boxes stacked on top of each other. But there is but one king of the pile—the chess set rattling inside its container. I bring it back to my father and take the board out, running my hands across it so it snugs tightly to the table. We start assembling our sides. My pawns line up. The king, bishops, and knights take their places. He does the same with the black pieces.
“You go first.”
I make my move.
He makes his.
My knight hops over a soldier.
His bishop advances toward my army.
Bugs outside the house buzz and chirp. Frogs in the nearby creek talk to one another. But the contest within the house only bares the mild clashes of plastic pawns, the loser dragged off the checkered board and laid to rest in the graveyard for fallen soldiers on the side of the table.
The game intensifies. I hold my forehead in both hands, angled down, staring at the infinite possibilities of if I move here, he will move there. It’s all a matter of making plans and watching them disintegrate. Visualizing a path forward and adapting as best you can when that path suddenly gets cut off. Brain versus brain. Memory becomes paramount. After a series of moves, my rook lands in harm’s way.
He shakes his head more out of amusement than disappointment. “It’s okay. You can redo that move.” I check to see if he’s serious. Wonder if it’s a test. The room lamp, thin and tall, illuminates the side of his face in a way that makes him seem bigger. He nods. Crosses his arms and assures me that it’s truly okay. Like he can unwind time and fate with a simple statement. Like he’s moving me out of harm’s way to build me back up again. I return my rook to its previous spot and move my bishop instead. I look up at my father again and once more he’s grown bigger. He moves his pieces around the board with powerful intention. Never hesitating. Never uncertain. His voice becomes clearer. His knowledge unending.
Like a god.
The Next Chapter Begins in 3, 2, 1 . . .