31 Hours (12 page)

Seven, the holiest of numbers, the most complete. Allah, glory be to Him, ordained seven days in a week and grants seven gifts to his martyrs. Pilgrims on hajj circle seven times around the Ka’ba in Mecca. And so, seven central arteries to the subway. At 9:07
A.M
. in New York, on the ninth day of the eleventh month, seven sacred explosions, seven martyrs on their way to the seven heavens. Port Authority. Union Square. Penn Station. Columbus Circle. Times Square. Rockefeller Center. Grand Central. These men were headed for purity. Masoud would remain here, so humanly flawed, but determined to rewrite the significance of his family name and give meaning to his brother’s death so that it would not drift into irrelevance. Ifraan deserved that.

Masoud took three swipes with the razor, and then the cell phone, which he’d set on the toilet seat, rang again. He flipped it open to see that the call came from overseas. His father’s cell phone. He glanced at his watch, which he kept set to the time in Mecca. His father was calling when his father should be sleeping. He hesitated, then quickly wiped the cream off his left cheek. He held the phone to his ear.

“
As-salaam
, Father.”

“Masoud, where are you?” His father’s voice sounded sharp across the many miles. This was a man who played in three chords: flirtatious when speaking to attractive Western women, obsequious when talking to his social betters in Riyadh, and dictatorial when addressing the family.

“You know where I am. I am in New York.”

“Masoud.” The line crackled, possibly a sign that they were being overheard but maybe simply due to the distance between the two phones. “Masoud, I have been hearing things that do not please me.”

Masoud glanced at his reflection in the mirror, wiping away a little of the cream near the inside of his left eyebrow. “What things, Father?”

“I am not going into detail over these cursed phones,” his father said. “Twenty-two men in suits may be listening as we speak. But if there’s any truth to it, you should know that I’m hearing it here. And if I’m hearing it here, it is being heard across all the world’s deserts and in all the cities and in Mecca itself. So if you were counting on secrecy for unforgivable, anti-Islamic acts—”

That rumors were circulating was very unwelcome news, but he didn’t want his father to hear any concern in his voice. His father would read it, rightly, as confirmation. “I’m surprised you got through, Father,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. “My phone has been failing me lately. I don’t know how long the connection will last.”

“Islam is a religion of moderation and morality. You are interpreting
shari’a
to fit your private purposes, and that is a sin. Your understanding of duty to family and religion is, at best, erroneous.”

It is you, Father, who have misunderstood your duty and left it to me to rescue our name.
Aloud, Masoud said only, “I wish it were easier, Father, to make out your words.”

His father sighed. “We lost Ifraan. You think I don’t feel it as his father? But there are other ways, more restrained ways—”

Masoud interrupted. “How is my mother?”

“Yes,” said Masoud’s father. “Think of your mother. She barely survived your brother. Do not, Masoud, do not—”

“Father,” Masoud interrupted, “forgive me. Your voice is so fragmented I cannot make out the meaning.”

“I want this conversation in person. I insist that you return home now, with your hands unsullied, Masoud.”

“
Inshallah
, Father.” Easy enough for Masoud to agree. After all, the private jet with its private pilot and its access to a private tarmac—it had all already been arranged, though his father didn’t yet know that.

“You do not have the right to make choices for us all,” his father was continuing. “Make no mistake, what you do affects your sisters, your mother and me, my relations with the king and—”

“The line, Father. It is so poor.”

“I said my relations with—”

Masoud pressed the end button, hanging up the phone. “My relations with my yachts,” he muttered to himself.

He’d maintained a respectful attitude toward his father, but that was the extent of what he could take for today. He needed quiet to think about these intercontinental rumors. He didn’t want to change his plans, nor did he want to see them disrupted through premature revelations. He had to focus now, stay attentive to every detail if he were to make the right choices. He had taken on a historic assignment, and he needed to reflect with courage and calm. Allah, glory be upon Him, had set Masoud on a path to give meaning to his brother’s death, and Allah, glory be upon Him, would guide him now. Masoud inhaled deeply, calming himself, and continued to slide the razor’s blade over his face.

NEW YORK: 5:40 P.M.
MECCA: 1:40 A.M.

Sonny felt like dancing. He’d been raking it in. He hadn’t counted yet, and wouldn’t until he was alone, but he expected this would add up to the best day of the season so far, and for sure he’d done better than most any business aboveground. It was purely glacial on the street, without even snow to make it glistening and beautiful. No reason to linger upstairs. So everyone was diving into the subway, and when they saw Sonny moving their way with the slow, purposeful shuffle he’d perfected over the years, they started feeling guilty. His eyes were clear and his voice gentle and he knew he reminded folk—even white folk—of their own grandfathers. Who, on a cold day like this, could stand to see his grandfather without enough change to buy a hot bowl of soup? It didn’t hurt, either, that it was a Sunday. People mostly weren’t headed into the office, so they weren’t knotted up inside about how hard they had to work and how tired they were of their jobs and how they hated their bosses and how, on top of that, Sonny—luxuriating in the ranks of the unemployed—was wanting a piece of their salaries just for the asking.

He expected tomorrow to be a rippin’ day, too. After all, it would be just as cold. Now, though, it was starting to get dark, and he was bone-tired. He decided to head toward his sister’s, even though he might get another good hour out of the subway. The beauty of being selfemployed:
he could clock out when he wanted. He needed to leave his day’s take with Ruby, and he needed to be clean and fresh for Monday morning. He would shower and then visit a bit, since it wasn’t polite to just wash and run, as he liked to joke with Ruby.

When he came aboveground, he saw that the heavy clouds had made the street darker than it should be this early. He tightened his hold on his earnings. He carried the money in a worn knapsack someone had thrown away in a trash can at the 42nd Street Port Authority station, and now he tucked the knapsack under his coat. Folks knew him around his sister’s place; they might guess he was coming with some coins at the end of a day, and he didn’t want some junkie to jump him. The cops seemed to all be underground today, keeping warm, worrying about something that would probably never come to pass, leaving devils to harass folks up above.

His cheeks stung from the cold and then went numb as the wind screamed shrilly on its way down the tunnel of the street that emptied into the Hudson. The gale was at his back, at least, so it pushed him quickly toward Ruby’s. Between the station and Ruby’s, he saw only three men outside, warming their hands over a fire burning in an oil drum in front of Henry’s Restaurant Equipment and Supply Corp. A second later, he was at his destination. He pressed the bell, and Ruby’s voice came fast, as if she’d been waiting. “Who’s there?”

“Sonny.” He yelled to be heard above the wind. The door buzzed to signal that she’d unlocked it. He shoved it open and headed up the three flights and there she stood, waiting at the entrance to the apartment. “Get in here,” she said, wrapping him in a quick embrace and stepping back to pull him inside.

She held on to him for a long minute and then released him and stroked his cheek. He immediately felt the comfort of the indoor air.
She held his cold hands between hers and rubbed them. “Sonny,” she said, “I knew it. I knew you’d come today.”

Sonny wasn’t sure what that meant, but he just grinned. “Well, here I be,” he said.

He saw Leo then, standing stiffly at the door to the kitchen. Leo was staring at Sonny’s shoes, though Sonny couldn’t guess why because they weren’t too bad—dirty, of course, but shoes were allowed to be. A little torn on the right insole, but otherwise just like new-from-the-store to Sonny’s eyes. A junkie had sold them to him for two dollars a week ago, though Sonny wouldn’t be telling Leo that. Ruby glanced back at Leo, and under her gaze, he attempted to smile at Sonny, but it more closely resembled a grimace.

“How’s business, Leo?” Sonny asked.

“Business is good, Sonny. Seems everybody’s in the mood to buy homes this month.”

Sonny nodded. He wanted to dislike Leo, but under the circumstances, he couldn’t. “You sure taking good care of my sister, Leo,” he said.

Ruby pulled Sonny’s arm. “You’re just in time for some dinner.”

Sonny followed Ruby into the kitchen. The dishwasher was open and partly full, the table mostly cleared. “Looks like you already ate here, Ruby,” Sonny said.

She reached to a shelf above her head to get a bowl. “Plenty waiting for you. I made Sunday beef stew, just like Momma used to make.”

“Hmm.” He nodded appreciatively. He shrugged out of his coat and set it on the chair next to him. Ruby was not the cook their momma had been. Still, it smelled good, and this was a pretty fancy meal for Ruby. Must have taken her some time.

She put a bowl before him. “Eat,” she said. She brought him two pieces of bread and grated some fresh ginger into a pot and added water
and set it to boil. She didn’t talk much, but every now and then, she came over to squeeze his arm. She went to the cupboard and pulled out three candles and lit them, placing them carefully in the middle of the kitchen table. Then she sat down beside him. “So you remembered today,” she said.

“Today,” he said speculatively, noncommittally, staring deep into the stew in the bowl.

“It’s the anniversary.” Her voice was soft and expectant.

“Well, ain’t that right,” he said, her words jarring his memory. “Ain’t that right.” So that was why the candles and the stew. He reached out and patted her hand.

She rose abruptly. “I was looking through the old album,” she said. She disappeared for a moment and returned with a large, worn, dark-brown picture album. She opened it on the table in front of them. “Look. The three of us.”

Sonny leaned forward and peered. A posed black-and-white snapshot: Sonny and Ruby in front, their mother behind. Momma wore a dark, smooth-fitting dress and that silver cross of hers around her neck, while Ruby, still slightly taller than Sonny in those days, wore a short-sleeved dress that sprang out from her waist. Sonny had on a miniature suit. He would never have recognized himself. Ruby’s shy grin was pretty much the same, but otherwise she, too, was completely changed. Momma, though, looked just like Sonny always remembered her: lined forehead, smiling mouth, shoulders back. She always told Ruby and Sonny to carry themselves straight because once they started to bend over with their troubles, that was good as giving up; that meant the troubles were halfway to winning.

“This,” Sonny said, “is how we can know there’s an afterlife, just like Momma always said.”

Ruby tipped her head. “How do you mean?”

“Well, that little boy.” Sonny tapped his right pointer-finger on the tiny image of himself. “He dead. He don’t exist anymore. But me, I’m still here. Touch me. Go on.” Ruby laughed a little and squeezed Sonny’s arm. “So that’s what it’s like when we be dying, Ruby. Momma still exists, just she somewhere else right now.”

Ruby shook her head, a sad smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t know what I’d do without you, Sonny. You always do make me feel better.”

“She probably in the expanse of Heaven right now, kicking up her feet dancing,” Sonny said, warming to his subject. “Or belting some rambunctious boy.”

“Oh, Sonny.” Ruby poked his arm. “She never belted you.”

“The hell she didn’t.”

“If she did, you deserved it. You were wild in those days.” Ruby flipped a couple of pages and pointed to another picture of Sonny, about fifteen, clowning for the camera with a stern, forbidding expression. “Can’t you just see the mischief in that face?”

“Mischief” was a nice word for it. Both of them knew, after all, that crack had played a part in Sonny’s life turning out like it had, and crack surely qualified as more than mischief, though he’d never become a full-out addict and finally lost interest; turned out lucky that way.

This picture Sonny only glanced at, not really interested in a long look. He took another spoonful of the stew. What he remembered from those teenaged years was how narrow the world seemed, how limited to whatever block he and Ruby and Momma were living on, to the hard, thick walls of the neighborhood school, and to the friends who lived nearby and were as dissatisfied as he. There were three who didn’t make it, and another four or five who ended up in jail, but the rest were probably still trapped on those blocks, still fighting a dissatisfaction they
were trying to ignore. Some of the old apartment buildings were close enough that he could walk there if he had to. But to his way of thinking, he’d ridden that subway right out of his hometown—even if it was just to another part of New York—and made good. Or good enough.

“You hold on to these memories, Ruby,” he said, “ ’cause you do it for all of us.”

He took one more sip of stew, wiped his mouth with the napkin Ruby had set before him, and reached into his coat to pull out the bag holding his day’s earnings. He dumped it on the kitchen table, and Ruby pushed aside the photo album and began helping him separate the coins from the bills, and then the quarters from the dimes, and so on. Leo came to stand at the door of the kitchen, watching as though he expected them to do a magic trick.

“Two hundred sixty-four dollars and thirty cents,” Ruby said when they finished. “Lordy, Sonny. That’s a good day’s work.”

Leo snorted, but they both ignored him.