American Dervish: A Novel (16 page)

“Eat what?” Mina asked, looking surprised, her eyes filled with tenderness. “You were playing with the food.”

“Well, I guess that’s what he wanted to do before eating it.”

It was true. Imran was sitting quietly by the goalpost, discreetly eating with his fingers from the plate Nathan had left behind.

Now Father was crossing the lawn back toward us. Mother eyed him suspiciously as he took a seat again. “Muneer, can I have some
gulab jamun?
”

She handed him the Tupperware bin.

“People forget he’s just a kid,” Nathan said, addressing no one in particular. “He’s been through a lot. All things considered, I think he’s doing pretty darn well.”

Mina gazed at him, a crease cutting deeply across her forehead. She looked like she was going to cry.

“You okay, Meen?” Nathan asked gently.

She lowered her head, nodding. She sniffled once, rubbed her nose. And then, suddenly, she was smiling. It was odd. “I just remembered that thing you told me yesterday, Nate…,” she said, chuckling to herself. The same fake singsong tone was back.

I looked at Nathan. His half smile looked fake to me as well.

“What thing?” he asked.

“About Emerson? Having a headache? Remember?”

“That?”

“It was good,” she said, sitting up in her chair and sniffling again. “Tell it again. Naveed will like it.”

“Like what?” Father asked, eager.

“Nathan’s joke.”

“Nathan has a joke?” Father bit off a piece of his dessert with his question. His eyes had a watery, unfocused look. And his words had a light—but unmistakable—lisp.

He glanced at me, feeling my gaze.

Nathan continued: “Well, I was just telling Mina yesterday that there’s this writer named Emerson…”

“A
writer?
” Father interrupted, still chewing. “And you’re calling this a joke? I hate it already.”

“Well, you didn’t let me finish.”

“I’m not stopping you…But after an opening like that, I don’t have high hopes.”

“Okay,” Nathan began. “So there was this writer who once said: ‘Why is it a man can’t sit down to think in this country without someone asking him if he’s got a headache?’”

There was a pause as we waited for the rest.

Mina laughed. Nathan didn’t go on. I was confused.

“And?” Father asked.

“That’s it. ‘Why can’t a man sit down to think without someone asking if he has a headache?’ That’s the joke.”

Mother smiled, releasing breath, as if trying to get a laugh going.

Father wore a blank stare. “You call that a joke?”

“Well, I wouldn’t necessarily have called it a joke per se,” Nathan said, turning to Mina, “though I understand, Meen, why you called it one.”

“Nate,” Father said. “That’s not a joke. Period.”

“Naveed,” Mother interrupted, with a hint of a censoring tone.

“What?” Father whined, like a boy bristling at his mother’s reprimand. “She said Nate had a joke I was going to like. I just want to hear something funny! I want to laugh! Is that a crime?”

Mother looked away. “Drunk, as usual,” she mumbled.

Father turned to Nathan. “I thought at least you might have a good Polack joke or something. Everyone has one of
those…
”

“You have Polack jokes, Naveed?” Nathan asked with disbelief.

“I have Sikh jokes. Pretty much the same thing.”

“Really?”

Mother explained: “For Punjabis, Sikhs are like what Polish people are here. Everybody makes fun of them.”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” Nathan said, “I do have a good Polish joke.”

“You do?” Mina asked. She didn’t sound pleased.

“I don’t know about
good,
” Father interjected. His eyes were brimming with glee. “After the last one,
I’ll
be the judge of that.”

Nathan nodded. “So did you ever hear about the Polack who studied for five days?”

Father stared at his colleague, deadpan. Nathan glanced at Mina—who was clearly annoyed—then back at Father. “He was scheduled to take a urine test.”

“Now
that’s
a joke!” Father roared. He laughed and laughed, his eyes filling with water.

Mina shook her head.

“What is it, Meen?” Nathan asked.

Before Mina could reply, Father started in keenly: “Here’s a good one about Sikhs. There’s a job interview for a detective’s position, and three guys show up. A Jew, a Roman, and a Sikh. The chief decides he’s going to ask his candidates one question, the same question, and make his decision based on their answers. So, one by one they’re called into the chief’s office. First the Jew comes, and the chief asks him to sit down. ‘Who killed Jesus Christ?’ The Jew answers: ‘The Romans killed him.’ The chief says ‘Thank you.’ When the Jew leaves, the Roman comes in, and the chief asks him the same question: ‘Who killed Jesus Christ?’ The Roman says ‘The Jews killed him.’ ‘Thank you,’ says the chief. Finally, the Sikh comes in, and the chief asks him the same question. But instead of answering right away, the Sikh asks, ‘Chief, do you think I could have some time to think about it?’ The chief tells him that’s fine, that he should get back to him with an answer by tomorrow. When the Sikh goes home that night, his wife asks him how the interview went. ‘Great, honey,’ he tells her. ‘I got the job, and I’m already investigating a murder!’”

“Haaaaah!” Nathan exclaimed, letting loose a hearty, vigorous laugh. Mother laughed as well. Father chuckled, enjoying the success of his joke, at least with the two of them. I wasn’t laughing—I didn’t understand the joke—and neither was Mina. She wore a dour look, her mood completely transformed. She was looking at Nathan like she didn’t recognize him.

“The Jews didn’t kill Christ, Naveed,” Mina said sternly.

“It’s a joke,” Father said.

Mina offered a dismissive shrug. Nathan’s cheeks were ruddy from laughter. “I’m not so sure about that, Meen,” he said sweetly. “Supposedly, we
did
have a chance to save him and we didn’t. We asked for Barabbas instead. Though I’m not sure that amounts to us having killed the man.”

“Barabbas?” Mina asked, an edge in her voice. “I don’t know who that is.”

“He was the other prisoner. Pontius Pilate asked the Jews which one they wanted to free. And they chose Barabbas. And that meant Jesus was the one who got crucified.”

Mina clearly had no idea what he was talking about.

“More food, anyone?” Mother asked. Nobody responded.

Nathan turned to Father. “But as far as the criminal investigation goes, Naveed, I think my kinsman was right on that count. The Romans are definitely the ones who did the deed.”

“For the record,” Mina stated sharply, “Hazrat Isa never died. The whole thing is a misunderstanding.”

“Isa?” Nathan asked.

“That’s what we call Jesus. I thought you would know that by now.”

“He never died? What do you mean?” It looked to me like Nathan thought she was joking.

I felt a scarlet blush—it was anger—push to my face.

“When Hazrat Isa was in the prison cell,” Mina continued, her voice charged, “before they were going to take him to be crucified, he prayed to Allah to spare him. And when the guard came to fetch him, he found no one in the cell. Isa was gone. Saved by Allah.”

Nathan turned to Father, perplexed.

Father shrugged. He looked out at the field, where Imran was now chasing fireflies by the bleachers.

Mina glared at both of them. “Allah answered Isa’s prayer and took him up to heaven directly. And when the guard came out to tell the others that Isa was gone, they seized
him.
Because the guard now looked exactly like Isa: Allah transformed the guard’s face so the others would mistake him for Isa.”

She had told me a much longer version of this tale during one of our story hours, complete with Isa’s dialogue with Allah, in which Isa—in his holding cell—pleaded with our Lord to spare him the pain of death.

“That’s why he has to come back,” Mina said confidently.

“
Who
has to come back?” Nathan asked, incredulous.

“Who do you think?” Mina was indignant. The hint of violence in her replies had me rapt. “Isa…or Jesus, as you call him. He has to come back because he hasn’t died. He has to come and live a normal human life. To complete his life and die like a normal person. And when he comes back, he will be a Muslim. And his death will mark the beginning of the end of the world.”

Nathan stared at her, speechless. “You
believe
that?”

“No more than you believe Jesus died on the cross,” she spit back at him.

“Well, I don’t know that I believe that.”

“So what do you believe?! Do you believe
anything?!?
”

Around us, heads turned to look. Nathan’s face was blank with shock.

“When are they going to start this thing?” Mother said, looking up at the black-brown sky. Nobody answered. She pulled open a garbage bag and started dumping things inside.

“Religion, my friends,” Father said as he stood, taking up a pair of plastic cups before Mother could throw them out, “is a topic for fools. And this conversation is the living proof.”

Father got up and walked off to join Imran by the bleachers.

“I don’t see what you’re so upset about, Meen,” Nathan finally said.

I was staring at him now, noticing the pallor of his creamy, lightly freckled skin.

“I don’t know about all this,” she muttered.

“All what?” Nathan asked. When Mina hesitated, Nathan prodded. “All what?” he asked again.

“Nothing,” Mina replied, quietly.

“No, it’s something…All what?”

Mina paused, and when she spoke, it wasn’t with an answer to his question: “If you’re interested in Islam…”

“I am. You know that.”

Mina looked at him, suddenly weary, resigned, hopeless.

Nathan finally noticed me staring at him. I held his gaze with defiance. Then I looked away.

Out on the lawn, Father and Imran were creeping about, hunched, trying to catch fireflies with the plastic cups. It was just then that the first streak of light appeared, exploding against the night sky. The modest crowd responded to the golden, glittering trails with a chorus of oohs and aahs.

“It’s so beautiful,” Mother sang out, throwing a glance over her shoulder at Nathan and Mina. They were holding hands. Or rather, Nathan’s hand was resting on Mina’s, which sat leaden, unmoving on the folding chair’s armrest. Her face wore the same dead expression. Again, I noticed the paleness of Nathan’s face in the brown night. There was something sickly about it. I felt uneasy. And then I realized I didn’t have to feel that way: It wasn’t my white skin. I didn’t have white skin. He did.

Nathan made efforts to appease Mina through the show, but she was unresponsive. And by the time the final flurry of Chinese stars and peony shells and roman candles was under way, Mina was already on her feet, headed back to the parking lot. We packed up and walked to the car, where we found her waiting, silent, her eyes lowered to avoid our gazes.

“Meen… ,” Nathan pleaded. “Talk to me.” That, she wasn’t going to do. Mina didn’t speak a word to anyone the entire way home.

Back at the house, Mina disappeared inside without a good-night. Nathan was panicked. “I don’t understand,” he said to Father. I was unloading things from the trunk. He and Father were standing by his car in the driveway.

“Probably just that time of month, Nate,” Father said with a laugh.

“It’s not funny, Naveed. I’m worried. I think I may have really offended her.”

“With that stuff about Jesus?”

“I guess.”

“Are you serious?! We’re talking about
Jesus!
Who even knows if that guy lived? How stupid can you get? Arguing about nonsense like that?” Father turned to look at me.

I looked away.

What could possibly matter more?
I thought. Mina had explained it all to me clearly: Isa had never died. That was why he was coming back, this time as a Muslim. And his return to earth, she’d said, would mark the end of time and the beginning of the Day of Judgment. That miraculous day when every soul that had ever lived would rise from its grave to account for itself.

“Naveed, please. Obviously she takes it very seriously—and something I said offended her.”

“If she’s offended by that, then she
needs
offending…That’ll teach you to talk about religion. Stay away from it. You know what everybody always says? Don’t discuss religion or politics. Especially with a Muslim.”

“I don’t know why she thinks I’m not interested in Islam. I’m reading the Quran every day.”

Father laughed.

“Naveed. Stop it.”

“Okay, okay, Nate…”

As they made their way down to Nathan’s car, I reached into the trunk for the remaining folding chairs. One of the aluminum legs was caught on the canvas covering the spare tire. I tugged, pulling the leg free. The canvas cover ripped open.

Cradled there in the tire’s hub was a bottle with a golden label, half-filled with wheat-colored water. I set the chairs down and reached for the bottle. I held it to the lightbulb in the corner.

Something inside me sank.
WHISKEY
, the label read.

I looked back at Father. He and Nathan were shaking hands. I reached back into the trunk and pulled the canvas closed again. My heart racing, I hurried into the open garage, the bottle hidden under my shirt. I noticed the pile of plastic tarps in the corner that Father used to collect leaves in the fall.

I looked back to see Nathan’s car pulling away and Father heading up the driveway.

I stuffed the bottle underneath the tarps. The bulge it formed looked conspicuous to me. I kicked at it a few times.

“Is this all?” Father asked as he turned to me. He was holding the rest of the folding chairs.

“Yeah,” I replied, hurrying back to the car.

Father stepped away. I slammed the trunk shut. I followed him into the garage, watching as he leaned the chairs along the far wall. He looked distracted, disoriented, like he was struggling with his balance.

Mother’s right,
I thought.
He’s a drunk.