In a family photograph taken nearly two years later, Kamal held Shabnam in one arm and Kareema in the other. Basir stood in front of his father, looking up at the lens obediently. Zeba stood demurely behind Kamal, her seated husband hiding the round of her belly, hiding Rima who was yet a few months from joining the family. She remained composed though her heart was ready to burst.
Could anything have been more perfect?
THE CHATTER OF HER CELLMATES BUZZED IN HER EARS, BACKGROUND noise to her own thoughts. What were the children doing? Were they terrified? Were they being treated decently? Her only consolation was that they were together.
Zeba’s stomach tightened to think of her children as orphans. But Basir, he was the type of boy a mother could have faith in.
Basir had said nothing when they’d taken Zeba away. Zeba had shrieked when they pulled her away, clawing at the air to reach Basir who lifted one arm toward her but hesitantly. A shadow had crossed his face, a darkness Zeba pretended not to see. All the children, especially Basir, were old enough to have known their father for what he was. Still, an angry father was better than a dead father.
Zeba’s neck was still sore from Fareed’s vengeful grip. Basir had helped two neighbors pull his father’s cousin off his mother.
“Let the police take her!” the neighbors had cried and turned Zeba over to Hakimi’s wide-eyed custody.
ZEBA FELT THE GUARDS’ EYES ON HER, KEYS JANGLING UNCEREMONIOUSLY as they strolled the wide hallways. It was a show, mostly. This was a job like any other, and the guards here had received little special training in policing inmates. The government wages were unreliable but better than nothing, and the titillating stories kept the day interesting enough.
Zeba’s story was more intriguing than most. Typically, husbands killed wives, not the other way around.
Whispers. Snickers. Eyebrows raised in acknowledgment.
Even the women who spoke in hushed voices were so near to her that Zeba could almost feel their hot breath in her ear. Some voices made her head throb as she pictured her children huddled together, confused.
God help those children. If she’s got daughters, they’ll probably be given away before her case goes to trial.
You know what they say. You can’t kill your husband, even if he’s the horned devil himself.
It wasn’t clear when the judge would summon her to discuss the charges, but it had to be soon. The children were staying with Kamal’s sister, Tamina. Zeba had begged for them to be sent to Rafi’s home instead, but Chief Hakimi, recalling Fareed’s fiery threats, had scoffed at her request.
“Khanum, I don’t think your head is clear. Your husband is dead. Let’s not dishonor him further by sending his children to the home of a stranger.”
“It didn’t have to be this way,” she said quietly. “You could have saved us.”
Hakimi had not replied, busying himself with paperwork and nodding for another officer to take her into custody. True, Zeba had come to him a month ago, the flesh over her cheekbone purple and blue, warning him that some of the men from the village were praying to a new god, one that lived in a bottle. They spent their evenings in a stupor and returned to their homes in a punishing mood.
God will strike them down for their sins, Zeba had prophesied. But by then it might be too late.
Zeba wondered what to tell the judge. When she closed her eyes, the events of that day came slowly into focus, like the flutter of a television on an overcast day.
ZEBA HEARD THE GUARD CALL THAT DINNER WAS READY. DOWN the hall, a heavyset woman in her fifties doled out steaming, cumin-infused rice with stewed potatoes. One woman from each cell would bring back a platter of rice and stew for the cellmates to share. The cellmates sat around a pale yellow tablecloth spread on the floor and mouthed morsels of rice and potatoes from their pinched fingers. Zeba joined them, keeping her somber eyes to herself and wishing she could have fed her own children this well. The women shook their heads but didn’t let the presence of their mute cellmate dampen their conversation. They smiled through greasy lips and nodded at stories they’d heard over and over again.
By her second week, Zeba felt sick wondering what Basir thought of her. Her arms ached just thinking of her daughters and the way they had buried their faces against her in the moments before the neighborhood had barged into their home. Day and night, she slept with her face to the wall.
Her cellmates thought her stuck-up.
We’re all here for some reason or another, guilty or not. Why not just tell us what you did?
Are you too good to talk to us?
Maybe she’s lost her mind.
Come on, if you’re going to be living with us for the next God knows how many years, we want to know who you are!
No one in this prison knew Zeba. They knew nothing about her husband or her distraught children. She was miles from home, miles from her village, and thankful for the anonymity. She would meet with the judge in the next week or two, she’d been told. She’d not yet breathed a word about that day’s bloody events, the hatchet found in her husband’s head, or the trail of footprints leaving their home.
CHAPTER 8
YUSUF SQUINTED HIS EYES, THE HEADLIGHTS OF ONCOMING cars bright in the evening light. A man on a bicycle chimed his handlebar bell. Yusuf stepped to the side to avoid his foot being run over by the cart the bicyclist pulled behind him. He had missed this, though it was remarkably similar to the noise and chaos of the Chinese, Indian, and Afghan neighborhoods of Queens. Had there been an elevated subway train roaring overhead, Yusuf might have felt that he was only a few blocks from home.
He’d spent the day revisiting the city he’d grown up in and trying not to look like a tourist. But between the bottle of water and the iPhone he pulled out to snap photos of the gardens, the monuments, or the dry riverbed, he had little chance of blending into the local crowd.
Another neighborhood, another band of boys in the street.
Kaka, Kaka, a boy had called out. Uncle, take my picture! He’d folded his arm across his chest and smiled broadly, revealing two missing teeth. Another child in a baseball cap followed his friend’s lead, cocking his head to the side and winking.
He’d taken their photographs and, to their delight, showed the images to them.
You’ll take these back to America and show everyone, won’t you?
Yusuf had laughed, promising to do just that.
Movie stars! That’s what they’ll say about us Kabul boys.
He took a sip of water from the bottle he’d purchased and felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. It was his mother.
“You weren’t sleeping, were you?”
“No, Madar-jan. It’s still early in the evening. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, yes. Listen, your Khala Zainab called me just a few moments ago and told me she was so happy to see you. She thanked me for the gifts and said you were so polite and wonderful and. . well, she praised you so much I didn’t know what to say.”
“That was nice of her. It was good to see them,” Yusuf said.
“Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Why?”
“I’m going to give you Meena’s mobile number. You can call her and speak to her. Get to know her.”
“Meena’s number?” Yusuf was bewildered. “How did you get that?”