Chapter Twelve

 

We luck out. We thought Uncle was in the mood to listen to Umm, but he proclaims how tired he is. "I feel like I've talked forever and that we've been out for an eternity," he says. "I'm going to bed."

It's almost eleven when we arrive home, which is late for a weekday. Omar is up though. As soon as he comes in, he asks Uncle to open the coat closet. Uncle has a skeleton key for this closet, and he opens it to retrieve a cigar box. Omar disappears behind the curtains and returns so his father can lock up the box.

"It's cash," Nasreen whispers to me. "The boy is loaded. I don't know how."

"He must be blackmailing other people besides us," I say.

My eyes are on Uncle's skeleton key attached to the rest of his key ring. He always has his keys on him, and I'm unaware of a duplicate key. I've peeked into the coat closet before. There's a box of jewelry Auntie rarely wears, priceless antiques and pieces from Iran. There are unused electronics, which might sell for a small fortune. Then there's Omar's cigar box, which I imagine is brimming with cash. He even has a rubber band around it to hold it in, so that the money doesn't burst out.

"Did you have a good time with your mother?" Uncle asks.

"Yeah, and I went to the playground with friends," Omar says. "We played ball until the sun set. Don't worry, though. Reinaldo and Winston walked me home."

"They're nice boys."

Omar smiles. I'm envious of the money he's collected for himself but relieved this is one more night Uncle won't be looking for Umm. Ever since we destroyed the tape, the urgency to replace it dogs us... and we're still aware we have to act fast. He'll want to listen to her eventually.

"Let's watch some TV," Nasreen says.

Letterman's monologue is hilarious. We both chuckle. I want to guffaw. Nasreen sits on her hands, because when she laughs she pounds her hands against the table, floor, or wherever she's sitting. In the closet, we have to be as quiet as possible so no one knows we're here. While we wait for Josie and the Pussycats, I write some letters on a legal pad that I'll mail to my soccer friends in Florida. I'm writing to them about how exciting it is to be in New York, but I don't mention the tape, the icky men at the store, or drinking.

Before I go to sleep, I look through my scrapbook. I've placed glue and tape on the windowsill so I don't have to get in and out of bed and disturb Nasreen, who snores underneath me. I take the label of the bottle of Merlot that I had peeled off before we left the party -- while Nasreen was talking to cousins, I lingered in the kitchen and peeled it as slowly as I could, but it's still raggedy and torn in places -- and glue it inside my scrapbook. I want to remember tonight. Despite not getting what I wanted, I was in good company. I saw far-flung relatives and dabbled in naughtiness with Nasreen.

 

***

 

In the morning, a face looms in front of me. I almost scream in surprise. It's Nasreen. She's perched on the side of the bunk bed staring at me at eye level... without makeup. She looks like a different person, unrecognizable without the eyeliner and shadow smeared across top and bottom lids. Even though I've seen her without makeup before, I thought someone had broken into the apartment.

"What is it?" I ask, rubbing my eyes. "What time is it?"

"It's seven o'clock," she whispers. "My dad is already up getting ready for work. We need to watch my family closely so we can search the apartment and get money. I'll also need my mother and Omar out of the way, but I think I have a plan."

I remember our plans from last night and the drinking I shouldn't have done. Nasreen normally takes showers in the morning, while I take them at night. She still smells like last night's cigarette smoke.

"You stink," I say.

"Thanks, dragon breath. I'll jump into the shower before my dad gets there."

She's done in ten minutes, and she's drying her hair, the blow-dryer loud in the quiet of the morning. Then she begins to paint her face, brushes and sponges in hand as she layers the war paint across her eyes.

The silence of the morning doesn't last because rush hour is building up. I watch calves and torsos glide past me. I used to feel bitter about people-watching. I always imagined others were living better lives than me, doing funner things. I used to look at people, thinking about how they'd shop for more things compared to me -- that they laughed more, went to exciting places without relatives, and experienced things I may never go through. Now I realize I'm just as capable of having these adventures, even if they begin the wrong way -- by erasing a tape of Uncle's most beloved singer.

I watch Auntie blow Uncle. Okay, that thought came out wrong. What I meant is that Auntie says her prayers, blowing a circle of air around and around Uncle's face. This will protect him from muggers and stabbers on his subway ride to work. If we go out today, she'll do the same to us. Blow and blow.

"Don't forget your prayer pouch," Auntie says. She hands Uncle a triangular pouch, which looks identical to the one I saw with Nasreen days ago. It has papers inscribed with prayers sewn into it.

"Your mom sure is religious," I say.

"And superstitious," Nasreen says. She pulls a necklace from under her t-shirt and shows me an evil-eye bead. The evil eye. When I was a child, my mom would go on about it as if it were real. I would dream about a huge, evil-looking eye gliding across the floor to hunt me down with promises of danger and disease.

With Uncle out of the way, we both go into the bathroom. We squeeze into it, our elbows jostling each other as we style our hair. We use so much Aqua Net spray that the bathroom reeks of its scent. The ozone layer is suffering because of us.

My bangs are swept up into a wave, while Nasreen's hair spikes up like scissors, her favorite style. We go to the kitchen, where Omar and Auntie are eating breakfast.

"Come eat this cheese," Auntie says. "It's so delicious. I need to buy some more soon."

I pick up a piece of bread and put a slice of cheese on it. It tastes like Monterey Jack. Nasreen doesn't pick at the food. "Are you going shopping today?" she asks.

"Today or tomorrow," Auntie says.

"I'm almost out of hairspray," Nasreen says. This is true. We use a lot of it.

"That's not important," Auntie says, patting a piece of bread with a spoonful of yogurt. "You can wait an extra day for that."

"And I need some pens and pencils."

"I just went to your room. You have a cup of pens on your desk."

"Let's go to the toy store!" Omar says. Gross. His mouth is full of fruit and he's talking.

"Whatever you like, my little fellow," Auntie says, changing her tune. "I suppose I can shop today, not tomorrow."

I look at Nasreen but see no change in her. I'm upset for her. How horrible that Omar is the favorite child and whatever he says goes! At least Auntie will be out of the apartment soon so we can look for money.

We watch morning news and entertainment shows in the living room, waiting for the two of them to leave. Shopping for Uncle and Auntie is different from how we shop in Miami. In Miami my parents jump into a car and ride from shopping complex to shopping complex to get things on their list. It might take a long time depending on how many stops they make and what the traffic's like.

In New York, when I've shopped with Auntie, she walks long blocks. She bargain-shops. If another store has something for a dime cheaper, then a dime cheaper it is, and she's off to another store. She once took me clothes shopping, and it was interesting seeing how she measures things. She takes her thumb and forefinger, spread apart, and uses that length as a ruler. Her two fingers glide across clothes to measure them. I know my waist is two thumb-forefinger spans, while Nasreen's is slightly bigger by a thumbnail. After measuring clothes, my aunt inspects every inch for tears and other aberrations. Shopping with her takes forever, so I avoid doing so.

"Would you like to come with us?" Auntie asks.

"No," we say simultaneously. I don't want her to finger-measure any clothes and I have to be here for my first foray in thievery.

Sitting on a sofa watching Regis and Kathie Lee, Nasreen crosses her legs, while I fold mine under myself or otherwise I'd be tapping my feet nervously. Omar walks by. He narrows his eyes.

"What do you want?" Nasreen asks.

"You two are up to something," he says.

"And you aren't? All you do is spy on people."

"Me? Spy? Something about you two is off, and I'm going to find out what it is."

"Get out of here. Go behind your curtain, you little troll."

He sticks his tongue out and disappears, his green curtains flapping behind him. Ever since that area was sectioned off, I've never been behind those curtains.

"Do you think there's a chance we can open that closet and get to Omar's money?" I whisper. "It'll only be fair since some of it is ours."

Nasreen gives me a sideways glance. "Are you crazy? If anything goes missing, he'll know we're behind it. We have a motive since he recently blackmailed us. Anyway, only Dad and the super have the key to that closet."

My hopes regarding the coat closet and Omar's cigar box are dashed. An hour later Auntie and Omar are by the front door, dressed for their outing. She's wearing a lavender dress, and he's wearing shorts and a Spiderman t-shirt. She blows her holy wind on him and says a prayer. I realize that while she blows on everyone, no one blows on her. Who will pray for Auntie's safety?

Omar bends down to tie a shoelace when I notice something disturbing. There are two white patches on each side of his head. Typically, on people with short hair, I notice one whorl, where the hair has a natural pattern of growth spiraling from the middle of the head. Omar doesn't have one whorl but two.

I nudge Nasreen's ribs. "Take a look at that," I say.

"Devil's horns," she whispers.

My mom told me that people with two whorls represent the devil, because that's where horns grow. Here Auntie is so superstitious, taking heed of everything from the old country, but she never mentions that her own son has the markings of Satan. It doesn't surprise me. At least he'll be out of our way for a few hours and the apartment will be a demon-free zone during that time.

 

***

 

"Okay, they're gone," Nasreen says, leaping off the couch. "Let's start looking. Just make sure you put things back exactly as you found them."

"Will do."

Nasreen is twice as fast as I am. It's her home, after all. She looks through her parent's room and living room, finding four dollars worth of loose change. I try the closet door in the front hallway to make sure it's locked, still thinking of that box of money, but Uncle hasn't left it open. Then I'm in the kitchen, putting utensils and appliances back where I found them, handling them with care since I'm afraid Auntie will notice something's awry. When I reach the last drawer, I hit pay dirt.

There's a list, but it's in Persian. It's paper-clipped to six ten dollar bills. Sixty dollars! It's not the one hundred we're looking for, but it's something.

"Nasreen, I found something!" I say.

She rushes over and smiles. "This looks like an old shopping list for groceries, sewing stuff, and school supplies," she says. "I think it's from September. Mom must have forgotten about it."

"Yeah, or she would have taken it with her just now."

"According to what you say you have left over for your trip expenses and considering that Omar fleeced me, we don't have one hundred dollars, but maybe if we go back to the store in Brooklyn the guy can lower the price or we can haggle. Maybe he'll drop the price to seventy-five or eighty."

"But what if your mom notices today or tomorrow that the money's missing?"

"I don't think she'll notice anytime soon since it's been here awhile. Also, in a few weeks I can replenish it. Aunt Latifah is visiting from Buffalo in August, and she always gives me money when she comes down here. Also, I won't spend a dime of my allowance."

"Still, a few weeks is a long time."

"Not for my mom," Nasreen says. "She won't notice it missing right away. Anyway, if she sees something is gone, she blames jinn. You know, genies? She says they move stuff to cause mischief."

My parents have warned me about jinn, that they shift things around people's homes as a prank. Shortly before I left, my mother lost her sewing kit and blamed it on them. "In that, case, let's go to Brooklyn, and I'm sure the store owner can't turn this money down," I say. "Let's go today."

"We'll wait for Mom to come back so I can tell her we're sightseeing." She says the last word with air quotes. It's okay since I've seen all of New York's biggest sights during previous trips. Right now my mind is on the replacement tape.

"But, maybe there is more money somewhere," I say.

"We've checked every room. I even checked the toilet tank, because people keep things in there to hide from burglars."

"Yuck."

"I checked my dad's desk in the living room. Really, there's just the closet."

"You're forgetting one place. I know you said we can't take from him, but at least we can take a peek behind Omar's curtains."

Nasreen's eyes darken. I also feel a bit ill thinking about it. Those curtains have come to symbolize something mysterious and sinister, but I'm still curious. What's behind those curtains? What does Omar do for hours a day behind them?

"All right," Nasreen says. "Things are so rocky between me and him that I haven't been there in months."

"Really?" I say.

"Yeah. Let's go though."

Nasreen follows me. When something pokes my back, I jump up and yelp. She laughs at my fear. "Oooh, the boogeyman will get you," Nasreen howls in a spooky voice. "Boooogeyman."

"I don't expect rainbows and butterflies, but I know we're bound to see something frightening in there."

"You first," she says.

"No, you," I say.

"No... you!"

"All right, all right, I'll go first."