A Sister to Honor (25 page)

“Hadley police? I don't even know if there are—”

“Whoever answers 911.”

Ethan set Chloe down. “Are we staying?” Chloe asked.

“For a little bit, honey,” Lissy said, trying to keep her voice light. “You can take off your coat. You see Chander, on the first step? Go sit next to him for a second.”

Chloe dropped her coat and scampered off. Lissy picked it up. She could see Ethan weaving his way through the spectators, out to the lobby where he could make the call. She started to follow him, but a roar from the crowd drew her back. “Coach, look,” Yanik said, grabbing her forearm.

He led her to Jamil's court. Already the score had climbed: 6–3 Jamil, 6–4 Jamil, 7–4 Jamil. A few minutes later, he'd won, 11–6. The team began jumping, pounding each other on the back, pounding Lissy. Chander had Chloe on his shoulders, clapping.

“You pulled it out,” said George Bradley, shaking her hand, “with two defaults.”

Lissy glanced toward the lobby door. Through the glass she saw Ethan turning in circles, touching the keypad on the phone, putting it to his ear. No answer at the cabin yet. There was time. There was time. Around her, cheers erupted. She felt like a mole coming into the light, stunned by the reversal of everything she had counted on. Her faith in her squash team, insofar as she had any, had been faith in Shahid Satar. She had urged the others on, listened to their hopes, their fears, their complaints. But she had not believed in them, and she should have. “I'm as surprised as you,” she said to Bradley. “Do I still get those recruits?”

He nodded toward her briefcase; two folders peeked from underneath. “And I'm still interested in your boy,” he said. “Though he's got some 'splaining to do.”

Shears and Horton were making their way down, buttoning their jackets. Quickly she moved in their direction. “Well, Madame Director,” said Horton. “You've pulled off a small coup.”

“It was a close match,” she said. “Our boys are tough.”

“Most of them.” He looked toward the door. “What happened to that Persian guy?”

“Shahid was . . . he was ill,” she said, feeling Shears's gaze. “Fortunately it's a deep team.”

“Ought to get even deeper, once they get their fancy-ass machines.” He nudged Shears. “Maybe she'll get my son Drew and his buddies on them, who the hell knows?”

“I'm grateful, Mr. Horton. Truly. But if you'll excuse me—”

“Oh, go on, go on. You're a working girl.”

Ethan came in from the lobby. “No answer,” he said grimly. He handed back the phone. “Now do you want to tell me—”

“I'll explain, I promise. In a sec.” Lissy checked her watch. Twenty-five minutes since Shahid had clattered down the stairs. The women's team had massed by the courts. The men were high-fiving, gathering their gear. Chander had Chloe by the snack machine, picking out a treat. Gus, leaning on his crutches by the drinking fountain, was the only idle player. His face was a storm of confusion and anger. She stepped over. “Gus, can you get the girls' team on?”

“What the fuck's up with Shahid?” Gus swallowed. “You think he set that bomb, don't you? You”—he swiped with his sleeve at his nose—“you know where Afia is. You just didn't want Shahid locked up. And there I was practically accusing
her
, on the phone. All because you wanted—”

“Gus, that's not it at all. Look, we'll talk. Really. But can you get the girls on now? Please? Here's the lineup.” She handed him the form. He stared at it, wiped his nose again. His eyes were red. He nodded.

Stepping into the lobby, she found Shahid's cell number on her phone and keyed it in. On the second ring, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Ethan. She turned to him. Shahid's number rang again, once more, then cut to voice mail. Shutting her phone, she said in defeat, “I don't know what to do.”

Ethan's voice was solid and cold as stone. “You have another match to coach.”

“I didn't mean about that.”

“You mean about Shahid. About where he's headed.”

“Oh, God, Ethan. It's messy.” She felt a small hand in hers, Chloe's hand. She gripped it.

“Chloe should get something besides candy bars in her.”

“I'm on it.”

He crouched. “Take care of Mommy.” Standing, he nodded at Lissy's phone. “If you reach the girl,” he said, “tell her I'm on my way. If I need to, I'll contact the cops.”

Gently he placed his hand on her cheek, thumbed the bruise by her temple. Then he was gone.

W
alking back to the cabin took far longer than walking to Hadley. The road ran uphill, and Afia's blister made her limp. Her throat burned, from vomiting. She had to act, to do something on her own. She knew that now. And she would lose Gus. Maybe she had already lost him. And lost or not, she was sick with love for him. This was what they sang about, in all those Western love songs—the pain, the firing and freezing of the blood, the waiting, the loss.
Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
She hugged herself as she walked, for the warmth but also the comfort. The sun plummeted behind the pine-thick hills.

She didn't want to prepare for death. She wanted to live. If she could step forward first, if she could lead the police to whatever loose thread would rip apart Shahid's alibi, they would arrest him. Deport him, for having set that bomb. But would they execute him? The Americans, she had read, executed more prisoners than the Chinese.

She opened her phone: no signal. The green numbers read 6:12. She was too far from the village to retrace her steps. If she rang the police, she would have to do it from the cabin, from the landline. And then there would be no saving Shahid.

She tucked the phone into her pocket and stepped up her pace, her blister screaming at her. Once, she had loved her family more than anything. She counted them. Shahid, Sobia, Muska, Moray, Baba, Anâ, her funny uncles and mischievous cousins. Even Khalid. She belonged to them; she was theirs. But that was before the blast, before the lives of Gus and Coach Hayes and all Gus's animals were weighed as nothing against the gold of honor. Now she was pushing down on the other end of the scales. The weight of love for Gus. Love for herself. Selfish love, the heaviest kind.

Stars littered the sky by the time she reached the cabin. Tiny birds flitted among the trees, pecking their last seeds. She let herself in the back door and flicked on the light. Painfully she sat in the kitchen chair and pulled off the boots and socks. On her left heel a clear blister, fragile as an egg sac, had emerged. Shahid had bought these good boots for her, but they weren't meant for so long a trek. Barefoot, she went to stoke the fire. It had died almost to embers. She scraped the ash into the metal bucket, crumpled the last of the newspapers, tucked in the last of the dry kindling, and struck a match. The fire lit noisily, creosote crackling its way up the stovepipe. She freed her hair from the makeshift scarf. From outside came another sound—an owl, a car? She stood up. Was Coach Hayes coming? Had she phoned and found Afia not home? On the other side of the window a black curtain seemed to have fallen; she saw only her reflection. Too easy to imagine danger in the noises of nature. She pushed a log in on top of the kindling. For a long time she crouched, watching the fire dance.

In Nasirabad, she thought, it was first light. Closer to the equator, the days not much different in length summer to winter. Tayyab was stirring already, making tea, preparing his lists for the day, leaning close over the back of an envelope with his weak eyes, scratching his notes in a written Pashto that he'd picked up, the way servants did, from shop signs and advertisements. Outside Charsadda, Lema was stirring next to her husband—what was his name?—and the scar on her face smarted, as it always did when she wasn't too busy to think about it. The baby stirred in Lema's belly and gave her a little ache of hope.

There they all were, dancing in the flames behind the door of the woodstove, where Afia could not reach or touch them. Why had she ever left? To become a doctor. But no doctor could bring back Tayyab's dead daughters. No doctor could heal Lema's face or bring back the mischief that once warmed her smile.

Protecting her blistered feet, Afia tiptoed into the cold kitchen. She stared at the phone, as she had last night, but with emotions whipsawing.

She could wait for Coach Hayes.

No. This wasn't Coach Hayes's problem.

She could send a message, warn Shahid that she would betray him.

Shahid had not warned her. Not of the bomb, not of the brakes on Gus's car.

She had already betrayed Shahid. She had betrayed him when she shamed her family, when she betrayed his trust.

She loved Gus, who had not glossy dark hair but kinky red hair, and no goatee because his beard grew in thin and scraggly, who hit the squash ball with a clumsy swipe, who maybe loved his snakes and fish best but she came in a close second. She loved herself the way you love a dirt floor, because without it you plunge to the earth's bowel. Slowly she lifted the heavy receiver from the phone on the wall. She pressed the numbers Americans pressed when they wanted information, 411. A recorded voice asked for city and state and she whispered, “Devon, Massachusetts.” What listing, the voice asked, and she said, “Police.” But she must have said it too softly because the recorded voice said to hold for an operator.

From outside, she heard the spin of tires. Headlights scanned the kitchen window. Coach Hayes wouldn't have come back so soon, not after the Harvard match today. Could Gus have found her? Her heart swelled. But she hadn't told him where she was. She hardly knew where she was. An operator came onto the line. “Devon police station,” the woman said. “Regular business, or an emergency?”

“I—I don't know,” she breathed into the receiver. “Emergency?”

“That would be 911, honey,” said the operator. “I'll connect you.”

Steps on the back porch. The back door burst open. Framed in its darkness stood not Coach Hayes, not Gus, but Shahid. Her brother, her enemy. A scream died in her throat. She pressed the button down and dropped the receiver. It bounced against the wall, the dial tone a distant drone. She backed away from the wall, away from Shahid, behind the table. Her tongue clamped to the roof of her mouth.

“I knew it,” Shahid said in Pashto. Stamping his feet, he stepped into the kitchen. Under the fluorescent light he looked weary and old, like Baba. His hair was disheveled, his face unshaven. Dark circles rimmed his eyes. He was wearing his squash uniform, a jacket loose over the jersey. Clumps of snow followed his footsteps. “I didn't believe it but I knew it. What in the name of Allah did you think you were doing?”

He reached for her. She backed into the sitting room, her injured heels hitting the floor. “I—I was about to ring you,” she said. She nodded at the phone.

“But you did ring. You rang from the village. You rang someone else. I saw it on our mobile plan. You didn't know I could do that, did you?”

She shook her head. The cabin felt so warm, unbearably warm.

“I pay extra for the family map, so I can know where you are. So I can protect you, keep you safe. Only I never thought I would have to use it, Afia. And then when I did you weren't anywhere. Till today, and you weren't here, you were down the road, down toward that little town, and I saw you like a little dot, because you were calling someone. You weren't calling me, were you?”

He was on her now. He smelled of dried sweat. He grabbed her above the elbow, where the nerve pinched, and her throat opened and she cried out. “Shahid, stop it! Don't be stupid! Let me go!”

“You were calling
him
. Weren't you?”

She wouldn't answer. Defiantly she met his eyes. “How did you get here?”

“Had to ask, starting at Lake Luzerne. Not many people walk the road around here. After dark especially. I knocked on doors. Said you were mentally ill. One guy said a girl in a scarf headed north. Then another guy'd seen you. And a woman spotted you this morning, going the other way. Last house before the fork, she thought. She'd seen smoke from there.”

“What about—about the Harvard match?”

“Forget squash! They are looking for you, back in Devon. Something about a bomb?”

“Bomb?” Afia heard herself laugh, a harsh caw. “You should tell them who set that bomb, Shahid lala. Who wanted to blast me into pieces. But you won't tell them. You're a coward.”

“Don't talk that way!” His hand whipped by her face, not quite making the slap. Even so, her cheek stung. But she would not cry in front of him. “You have
no idea
,” he said fiercely, shaking her right arm from the wrist, “what danger you are in. Look.” With one hand he reached deep into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small dark object that gradually formed itself into a revolver. Afia's chest went cold. Still holding her, he offered the gun to her on an outstretched palm, as if offering a sweet. “Where do you think this came from?”

With her free hand she snatched the gun from him. She held it behind her back, feeling its weight. She backed away from him into the sitting room, her fettered arm pulling on his hand. She saw his eyes flit to the photos on the wall. “Who is that?” He let go her wrist. She clutched the gun tight behind her back. “Whose place is this?” He flicked on the standing lamp and peered more closely. He looked at Afia, then at the photos again. “Coach Hayes,” he said wonderingly. “Coach brought you here.”

“I made her, Shahid. It wasn't her fault.”

“That cut on her cheek—” He backed away from the picture. “She was with you, wasn't she? When the thing went off?” When Afia didn't answer, he shook his head. “And I thought she never lied.”

“Everyone lies, Shahid lala. You lied. You tried to kill Gus.”

“I didn't set that bomb.”

She managed to meet his gaze. In his bloodshot eyes she saw only grief and torment. This was Shahid, her brother who loved her. He had put up his life to guarantee her honor. He was not reaching for the gun. So he had not come here to hurt her. Something else he wanted. “Who, then?” she ventured.

“I want you back home, Afia. Where you're safe, where they'll forgive you, where everything will be all right.”

“And I said I would go, Shahid, and then someone tried to kill me.”

“Remember—Afia, remember—you told me that picture of you, in the orchard—”

“Shahid, it was on my mobile. Are you going to admit you uploaded it? I suspected from the start—”

“That someone stole it. Yes, but not me. Think, Afia.”

She frowned. She concentrated on the floor, the wide wooden boards. She pictured herself, back in Nasirabad, fishing for her mobile, finding it in the wrong pocket of her purse, erasing the photo. She had been at the
mehndi
. Plenty of time to take the phone down to Ali Bhai's, to upload the image. She had erased it too late.

“Khalid,” she said slowly. She lifted her face, met Shahid's eyes. “But Khalid doesn't know Taylor. He's not even on Facebook.”

“He is now. You think Taylor's hard to find, once he's got your phone contacts? It's Facebook, Afia. No one is real, and everyone is everyone's friend. I should've thought it through, once you said you didn't post that damn thing.”

Afia's head swirled. “But you said there's another—you said I'm kissing Gus in it—you said our family is dishonored—”

“Our family doesn't know about it. I'm not even sure it exists.”

“But you said—”

“There might be another picture, yes.” Now Shahid's voice was gentle, the voice he used when they had secrets to share, like the application she made to Smith, like the places Uncle Omar took him to in Peshawar. These were things not for the family to know, just for the two of them, like in meiosis, a dyad. “If there is, Khalid got it, too. But he didn't steal it. He took it.”

Khalid.
Afia had looked in the fire and seen Tayyab, Lema. She had not seen Khalid. Khalid was in the mountains, planning jihad. Yet some part of her was unsurprised to find Khalid lurking behind these events. “But where did he take—”

“From outside Gus Schneider's hospital room.”

“Khalid is in America?” From outside, she heard a new noise. A slow crunch. Quickly she stepped through the kitchen and opened the back door. No moon shone. No car lights. Only the owl, hooting. Sounds of nature. She lifted the heavy, man-made gun and hurled it into the darkness. She heard it land, somewhere near the woodpile, out of reach. Feeling a bit better, she shut the door. “How can Khalid,” she asked—should she believe Shahid? Should she believe anybody?—“be in America?”

“I don't know. It takes months to get a visa. Maybe he's got powerful friends. Maybe they sent him here to wage jihad.”

“Or Baba sent him.”

“No.” Shahid spoke firmly. “No, Afia. Baba wants you home. I told him I was sending you home. Anyway, Baba doesn't have that kind of money or power. Khalid says he has business here.”

“Why would he dishonor our family, with such a photo?” She found herself shivering. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Has he gone mad?”

Shahid's chest rose as he took a long breath in, then let it out. He ran a hand through his unruly hair. She knew what he was thinking—
You dishonored us, Afia, you with your lust, you with no morals, no control, you alone, you.
Aloud he said, “He is not mad. He is calculating. To dishonor us would be to dishonor himself.”