I see the envelope in Rashid’s hand. He holds it out, baiting me as an owner would tempt a dog with a bone. Rashid in his coveralls seems to have just come off a job. Why does he smile like that, looking from the words on the envelope to me and back again? “The family of Rashid Siddique. That’s you Kathryn. This is for you,” he seems to speak directly into my mind, without moving his lips.
I look again at Rashid, but his face transforms, framed with a white turban and long beard, the very image of a terrorist, seething with the hatred of radical Islamists determined to destroy our way of life—as the politicians tell us. I step back, looking past the man who holds the envelope, this stranger who was once Rashid. I hear an explosion and the air fills with shards of bright red cloth embroidered with gold thread that falls to the ground, dissolving into puddles of blood. Three men run past me to tackle the man who offers me the money. I can see their black jackets bearing the homeland security department insignia. I am shoved to the ground, kicked in my back, someone is wrenching my hands behind me, shouting at me, slamming metal cuffs around my wrists.
I jerk away, force my eyes open. There are no men, no cuffs, no man with an envelope. But my heart races. I leave the bed, go to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water, hoping to wash away the nightmare. I open the refrigerator and nearly jump with fear. The envelope confronts me from the top shelf. I must have set it there in my haste the day before. I will have to find a place for it, a hiding place. I crave something, but cannot determine what. I open cupboards and drawers, rummage through the refrigerator. Finally I settle on a bottle. The stopper squeaks as I uncork it. I pour a small quantity of Scotch into a glass, taking my time to replace the stopper, to put away the bottle before sitting at the table to drink. It looks like liquid gold, but sears my throat. I close my eyes, inhale the peaty smell. I drink all of it, feel a pleasant disembodiment. I drift back to the counter, wash the glass, dry it, and put it away so I will not be reminded in the morning.
My keys rattle in my purse as I open the glass and chrome door to the bank. I shepherd Michael through and then Andrew in the stroller. I am glad to be standing after the long drive to San Diego. I rationalized that a bank in our new city makes more sense than our local bank in Los Angeles. I have tried to obscure my identity with my hair tucked away under a baseball cap. Andrew smiles at a slowly spinning sign, an advertisement, enticing working class people to dream of new homes and businesses, a reality but for the miracle of a bank loan. Michael pulls on my hand, “Does this bank give lollipops like our old bank?”
I approach the teller window. The envelope in my purse feels like a lead weight.
“Welcome,” the teller says with practiced cheerfulness, “how can I help you today?”
“I’d like to add a safety deposit box to my account, my son’s account actually.”
“Certainly. I’ll call a banker to assist you.”
A young Latino man, in suit and tie, walks me through the contract, the sizes (I will only be needing the smallest size), the access hours (I nod impatiently, I don’t plan to visit this money again) and the price (an automatic deduction from my son’s modest savings account will be fine).
He points to a small notice posted to the cubicle wall behind him. “I have to confirm you have read this.” He recites the warning. “In cooperation with the Department of Homeland Security, and in an effort to reduce terrorism, we report all transactions larger than $10,000.”
I let out a disgusted snort. As if such flimsy precautions could have prevented what happened.
“Of course it’s not meant for people like you,” he says apologetically.
I laugh, darkly. He smiles, uncertain. On any other day I would notice he is handsome, but today I see him as some kind of clown.
He pinches the baby’s cheek, offers Michael a lollipop, and escorts us all past a reinforced steel door into the bank’s vault. His spiel about the safety and privacy of the service blurs in my head as I grow increasingly anxious to rid myself of this money. The man can see I am not paying attention. He finally opens a door into a small room with one seat and a small built-in countertop. He retrieves a steel box from a wall of similar boxes, reminiscent of a columbarium to hold the ashes of the dead. With the box on the counter and the keys in my hand, I watch the man deferentially excuse himself. I send Michael in, try to follow with the stroller. The room cannot accommodate all of us. Flustered, I pick up Andrew, leave the stroller outside and squeeze us all inside. I sit down and open the box, briefly examine its emptiness, its potential to shield me from the imposition of the martyr’s wife identity.
“Mommy, what will you put in there?” Michael asks. “Can I see how the key works?”
“No. It’s not a toy, nothing in here, see?” I hold it up, turn it upside down, demonstrating its emptiness. Andrew starts to whimper.
I shove my hand into my purse, grab the envelope and place it in the box as if it might singe my fingers. I peer in, the words are face down, so I am not forced to read them again.
“What is it?” Michael asks.
I hadn’t planned for this. Hadn’t decided what story I would tell, I had stupidly envisioned this as a private action.
“A letter,” I improvise.
“From who?”
“Someone,” I evade. “It’s not important to you.”
I reach with my left hand to close the box and notice the glint reflecting off the small band of diamonds on my finger. I remember the gold band I have been carrying in my wallet. The FBI had let me keep it in what they believed was a gesture of good will, a bribe for my cooperation.
I place Andrew on the floor, hand my car keys to Michael, “Can you rattle these in front of your brother, play with him?”
Michael obliges me, twisting the lollipop between his pursed lips.
I have a minute, maximum, of simulated solitude. I retrieve the ring from my wallet, place it on the counter. Then I slide the band off my own hand and place it on top of the gold band. Is it heaven? I wonder. Do you share it with your father? With Shoukart? With the thousands, the millions who have died for someone’s ideals, some nation’s greed, some political necessity, some long-forgotten blood feud?
I lift both of the rings to my lips, kiss them, whisper a silent blessing. I drop them into the box, wishing I had some appropriate eulogy for the man who was my husband, for the marriage we used to have, for our murdered future.
The children are asleep in the bed when I open my eyes, I hadn’t meant to fall asleep myself when I lay down to put them to bed. I glance at the clock—I have already missed an hour of undisturbed time in which I can pack, separating the essentials we will take with us from what will go into storage. I open the closet. Rashid’s clothes remain, unpacked. Jeans and shirts, one good suit, a few kurtas. Maybe I can call someone else to deal with them, someone who will simply see them as clothes. I see them as they were when he animated them; dancing at our wedding in the kurta, calmly confident in the suit at a company party, musky and sweaty in the casual shirt painting the bedroom walls.
I slide my hand between two linen button-down shirts. The hangers jangle against each other. I step in and I am surrounded by his shirts and pants. I inhale the fragrance of his life, persisting in these fibers. I lift my arms so they encircle a generous quantity of garments. How many shirts will it take to occupy the same volume as his chest, his waist, his shoulders? Who was he really—the man who wore these? I squeeze the clothes harder, lean into them until the wooden clothes rod creaks. Gone. How will I ever know? And I am still here. Responsible for the family, for making the money, for dealing with these fucking clothes. I step out, pull on a sleeve until I hear a seam rip. And the sound, my act of destruction, of harm, causes a rent somewhere inside me. I lean back and then slam my palms into the plaid of the first shirt. Like a catapult, the weight of my body plows into the all of these costumes that camouflaged. Like a succession of paper dolls each one collapses into the next, until they are all shoved up against the wall, immobilized, routed. I bang my fists against cotton, wool, silk with gold threads. “God damn you, you bastard. God damn you!”
From the other room comes a crash, the sound of glass shattering and a heavy thud. Somewhere outside an engine revs and tires squeal. I rush out of the bedroom. Cold air billows in from a gaping hole in the living room window. Shards of glass litter the floor. On the edge of the Persian carpet, a brick has landed. I shiver, turning the brick over with my toe. One side bears a message, in black ink. Fuck you.
A few cars move through the intersection as the light turns green. One photographer persists in his news gathering vigil—did he throw this brick out of frustration? Maybe a teenaged thug just randomly threw the brick. Or maybe a survivor of the bombing, or a relative, an uncle, a cousin of one of the people killed, looking for a way to express their anger? I remember the window in the bedroom and run to that glass, imagining with terror another brick landing on the bed, the sharp edges of broken glass cutting my children’s perfect skin. I unlatch the bedroom window and swing it out on its hinge, so any broken glass would fall down instead of in. I pull the curtains shut and pile up three boxes in front of them. In an adrenaline frenzy I gather a pile of diapers, a toothbrush, a few clothes and bundle it all into a bag. When I slide shoes onto Michael’s feet, he grumbles sleepily.
“Michael,” my urgent whisper sounds like a hiss. “Get up. We have to go. Can you get up? You need to help me and walk to the car.”
He opens his eyes, his eyebrows wrinkle in confusion. “What? Why?”
“Just come. We are going to get in the car, and go to Uncle Ted’s.” He does not move. “Now!” I shout.
He whimpers and then cries. I am already setting Andrew in the stroller.
“I want my daddy…I want my daddy…” Michael cries from the bed.
“Stop it!” I place my hand over his mouth to silence him. “He is gone. Gone!” His eyes grow wide with surprise, with fear. I know I am just making this worse. I will ask his forgiveness later. I pull him up, drag him into the other room.
Andrew starts to kick his legs in the stroller. I don’t have time for this. I grab my keys and purse. The door locks behind us, and we are running down the hall, down the elevator, into the parking garage. I check the back seat, the trunk before I open the doors.
Only when we are on the freeway, when we pass the lights at regular intervals and the hum of the engine grows constant can I speak in soothing tones to the boys. “Everything will be fine. There was a problem at our home. A window broke, but we’ll feel better at Uncle Ted’s. Please stop crying, I didn’t mean to shout, we just needed to leave quickly.”
“Does Uncle Ted know we’re coming?” Michael asks.
“He is expecting us, we are just coming a little early.”
“Will we go back home tomorrow?”
I consider the question. “Uncle Ted’s guest house will be home.” I look in the rear view mirror. The freeway lights briefly illuminate his face.
“So we won’t go back to our home in Los Angeles?” A note of panic sours his question.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“But Mom,” his distress now obvious, “what about my Legos, my Spiderman toothbrush?”
“Oh Michael, don’t worry about that, we’ll make sure to get those things.” If only all our problems were so simple.
“Promise?”
I reach back and stroke his hand. “I promise. Now sleep, we still have a long drive.”
He is silent for a moment. “Mom?”
“Yes, love?”
“I miss Daddy.”
I want to tell him I do, too. To tell him about the impossible void I feel, the enormous hole I must fill in our lives. But maybe it was all false, maybe the man we loved was just a façade, an apparition. I look in the rear view mirror again, watch as the lights pass. One. Two. Three times.
“Tomorrow I’ll get you a Spiderman toothbrush.”
He nods, closes his eyes.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Capen…”
“Ms. Capen,” I correct the principal at Michael’s new school.
“Ms. Capen then, the name on the application doesn’t match the name on your son’s birth certificate.”
“That was his father’s last name, his father is…” I hesitate, “he is no longer with us.”
I see the principal, sitting smugly behind his desk, glance at Andrew in the sling over my shoulder, and then at my naked ring finger.
“Michael Capen is my son’s name,” I assert. “I’ve made the change on his passport, on both their passports,” I nod at Andrew as well. “We’re still waiting for them to arrive.”
I pull a copy of my passport application out of my purse, see my mother’s neat letters in each of the boxes. I remember how she had simply filled in the names and the information as if she were applying for a new credit card. Her handwriting shows none of my turmoil over the implications of the request.
The principal places the copy squarely next to the school registration form, I see his eyes move from one paper to the other. He glances at Michael, who makes an effort to look well behaved. The man glances back at me, frowning momentarily before accepting my documents as valid. “Ask my secretary to make a copy of the passport application,” he holds it out to me as if it smells bad, “and welcome to Hoover Elementary, Michael. I will introduce you to Miss Lopez. She will be your teacher.”
The principal stands and guides Michael by the shoulder, out of the room. He holds the door open for me to follow him, but otherwise he does not acknowledge me. Does he know? Did he recognize the last name from the birth certificate, or is his disdain for a woman he assumes has failed in her marriage?
Michael turns to look at me and Andrew as the principal tries to hurry him out into the hallway. My instinct to rush to my child, to take him into my protection and retreat to some safe place overwhelms me. But where? What place is safe? The danger in our lives originated in our own home, with our love for a man.
I kiss my hand and blow it in his direction. He mimes catching the kiss and slapping it to his cheek. And then he and the principal turn a corner and disappear down another hallway.
Janet meets me at her front door with a cup of coffee and a business card. “My salon. I made an appointment for you. My stylist is great, she’ll give you a cut and a new color.”
“What for? I think I really need to go back to LA to finish the packing.”
“No way. Ted doesn’t want you going back there after the brick accident. I have taken care of everything, called the movers. Don’t worry. Your new life is starting, you should have a new look too.”
I think maybe she is afraid the neighbors will recognize me from the news photos. “But the baby,” I start to protest, holding him tighter to me in his sling.
“Andrew can stay with me. Just feed him before you go and he’ll be fine. Really,” she says with forced politeness, “it’s my treat. I insist.”
The stylist pumps on the foot lever, raising me in the chair, with a flourish covering me with the waterproof cape. I feel small and helpless.
“So Janet said you’re moving to San Diego from LA? You’ll love it here. We’ve got everything you’d want that LA has, the beach, the weather, the fashion, but without the traffic or the smog. You came for a job?”
“No.” I am not in the mood to chat.
“Oh, so something else?”
“I came for a new start,” I say repeating Janet’s explanation. And I close my eyes to shut her out. I guess I doze off until she calls my name.
“Kathryn, Kathryn, do you want to see? It turned out really well.”
I open my eyes. My long hair has been reduced to a chin length bob, a bright platinum blonde strip dramatically framing the left side of my face. I think of Cruella deVille. Dark lines below my eyes undermine the lightness of my new hairstyle. I resist the urge to cry.
“Do you love it? You won’t have to do anything in the morning, except add a little comb in conditioner, especially since your hair is already so straight. If you wanna make another appointment, we also do facials here.”
I can’t even muster a smile before I nod and say thank you.
When I pick up Michael, he does not hug me. He looks at me and takes a step back. “What happened to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“What happened to your hair?” I have assiduously avoided looking in mirrors since I left the salon. I am not yet ready to confront this new woman.
“Auntie Janet arranged for me to have a haircut. Do you like it?”
I see his upper lip disappear inside his lower lip, prelude to a cry. “I just want everything to be like it was.”
If Michael cries, I won’t be able to hold myself together. “Kiss baby Andrew, he missed you today,” I chirp. “Kiss?” I nearly plead. He kisses the baby perfunctorily, keeping his eyes on me. I thank God for Andrew’s giggles as he reaches out for Michael.