Chapter 16 Asma #2
Ruby pulled back the tarp covering the truck bed, and underneath it there was a futon, covered with blankets and pillows, a little cocoon of sorts.
It was freezing outside. Out of her pocket, Ruby pulled a red stocking cap with a fuzzy white poof on top and pulled it down on Asma’s head.
Asma had spent so much time gelling her hair into the right shape but didn’t care because Ruby was close and pampering her.
They scrambled under the covers and weighed themselves down with a random assortment of opened sleeping bags and quilts.
They lay awkwardly, side by side on the narrow bed, waiting to get warm.
“What about tomorrow?” Asma asked.
“What about it?” Ruby said.
The stars gazed down on them.
“You have to drive to Chicago, and it’s already so late.” Asma trembled.
“I am exactly where I want to be.”
Ruby’s husky voice was an aphrodisiac. She scooped her arm out, and Asma moved in so that her head lay on Ruby’s hard shoulder.
She didn’t want to make any assumptions, but she needn’t have worried.
Their bodies were starlings, flowing and fitting together seamlessly while they adjusted.
In one part of her brain, Asma saw the line where she was standing and recognized that she was going to step over it.
On another level, the smells of earth and woodsmoke permeated her.
This field reminded her of the tall grass in the lot next to their house. She could have been home. She was home.
Now that they were settled in, Asma saw how dark it really was, how exposed they were to the elements. An owl hooted nearby. Wind softly rustled the leaves on the ground around them. The bare trees encircled them.
Ruby pointed to the sky with her free arm. “There’s going to be a meteor shower tonight. From now till dawn. We’re supposed to see it over there.”
Asma propped herself up on her elbow and looked down at Ruby’s face, an entirely different shade of gold in starlight.
“Did you know that I’m really good at math?” Asma asked.
Ruby chuckled her low, gravelly laugh. “I did not.”
“Did you also know that there is only one reason I considered studying math, and that’s so I could be the first woman up in space?”
Ruby looked on the edge of laughter.
Asma went on. “But then Sally Ride came along and ruined all of that.”
Ruby reached up and pulled Asma’s face down to hers. “Did you want to go up in space, or did you just want to be the first?” And then she kissed Asma, long, slow, and deep.
Now, there was only the mystery of Ruby below her and the peace that comes from clarity.
She was doing what she was supposed to. The way Ruby felt, strong and soft at the same time, the way she touched her face and ran her hands from her neck to chest, the wet, sinking softness of each of them, none of this required prior knowledge. This was ancient and raw and pure.
Later, as they returned to the city, otherworldly, early morning light cast into the cab of the truck.
Asma leaned against Ruby as they drove into the pink-and-orange-smudged horizon.
Ruby kissed Asma on the top of the head, lingering for a long moment as though inhaling her.
By the time they turned off the highway, the morning light was blinding, and Asma knew with complete certainty that Ruby was the person with whom she would spend the rest of her days.
As Asma was growing up, Thanksgiving was probably her favorite holiday.
In some ways, it was a holiday meant for them—the newcomers, the transplants, the culturally homeless.
Even after she learned the real story behind the holiday and about the smallpox-infected blankets, she couldn’t help but love it.
It was the one day when her family came together and celebrated something that everyone else did also.
It was a day to be grateful. How could that be bad?
Her mother had started making a traditional Thanksgiving meal after their first few years in America, with mixed results.
The first year, the turkey had been mostly raw on the inside.
The second year, it was so dry, it caught in the throat.
But she had persisted, learning the tricks to try and keep the turkey moist and slowly mastering the traditional sides of mashed potatoes, stuffing, and green beans.
Asma was supposed to return home with Mamoo and Aunty on Wednesday, but on Tuesday night, she called Mamoo in a weak voice. “I think I have the stomach bug. Maybe we should go on Thursday instead?”
“We can do that. Feel better.”
She hadn’t seen or talked to her parents since the night of Pippin. She didn’t know what she was more afraid of, their desire to talk about what had happened or pretending that nothing had.
From the moment Aunty and Mamoo had picked her up from the dorms, Asma felt Mamoo observing her.
She had looked up to see him watching her in the rearview mirror.
Asma felt Ruby’s presence seeping out from her body.
Surely, it was visible. If Mamoo was noticing changes, would her parents see them too?
She felt a pang of fear and vowed to not think about Ruby until she was quietly in bed by herself.
Just in case. She feigned tiredness and lay down in the back seat to be alone with her thoughts and covered her face with her arm as though to block out the sun, but really just to hide the crazy-looking smile straining her cheeks.
No, Mamoo didn’t know about Ruby. He couldn’t. She had just figured it out.
When they pulled up to the house, her father was at the door, holding it wide in welcome. “Salaam aleikum. Happy Thanksgiving!”
What was this? What was he doing? She brushed past him and immediately noticed small changes around the house: A wooden Allah carving on one wall.
A calendar with pictures of Pakistan in the kitchen.
Throw pillows with extensive bead- and glasswork on the couch.
She coughed exaggeratedly at the acrid smell of burnt spices.
He said, “Your mother’s experimenting. She made the turkey with some of our spices. It’s going to be tasty, tasty.”
Despite her intention to ignore her father, Asma couldn’t help but stare at him.
When had he ever talked like this? Tasty, tasty?
And when had he started defending her mother?
The father she knew was usually the one leading the judgment brigade, telling her she should stick to what she knew.
To be fair, Asma was no fan of her mother’s forays into culinary experimentation either.
Once, after she had made sweet-and-sour chicken, Asma had said, “If I wanted Chinese food, I’d go to a Chinese restaurant. ”
In a way, it was good to have the smell of burning things and near ruin because it gave her something to complain about.
She strode into the kitchen and opened a window above the sink, where her mother was zooming around the kitchen, seemingly in multiple places at the same time, frantically cutting, sautéing, assembling.
It was as though important people were coming for dinner.
Asma muttered a salaam and headed downstairs.
Asma hadn’t been in her bedroom since she had left for university.
It felt smaller than when she had left it, shabbier and more pieced together.
The spokes of the wagon wheel headboard were dusty; the bulletin board on the wall had a sign-up sheet for a high school field trip still pinned to it.
She wondered how Ruby would view these tokens of her previous life.
“It feels like you’ve been gone forever,” Salma said, appearing silently behind her.
“I didn’t want to come home, Sal. But I’m happy to see you.”
Being with Ruby had made Asma vulnerable.
She had recently been noticing something in Mamoo’s and Aunty’s voices when they talked to each other.
They told each other in ways large and small that they thought the other was wonderful.
It was the way Mamoo said, “You’re so right,” to Aunty.
It was the way she rubbed his shoulder while driving.
They spoke to each other with love, and they spoke to Asma and Salma with love.
It was probably how they had planted a stake in her and Salma’s hearts since this was not a quality modeled by anyone else in their life.
Asma was thinking about how to emulate this.
She wanted to express her love, her care for the people that mattered most.
Salma looked like she’d swallowed light.
It embarrassed Asma that such a small act of kindness could make Salma so happy. It shamed her that she had caused this.
They sat down to an early dinner. The table was dressed with a harvest-themed tablecloth, and a few small pumpkins served as a centerpiece. In spite of her dread about this weekend, Asma was touched by her mother’s effort at being festive.
Asma sat across from Aunty, with her father on one side and Salma on the other, and willed her body to be as small and as self-contained as possible.
If she said nothing and made no sudden movements, maybe they would forget she was there.
Her mind kept retreating to Ruby, especially their last night together, the mere thought of which had the effect of inflaming her.
She had to be careful. In addition to the fact that thinking about Ruby made her grin like a fool, she could feel her boundaries soften and her body relax; there was no way to entirely suppress her joy.
And the only thing she knew with absolute certainty was that to survive this time with her parents, she had to keep her defenses up.
All she wanted to do was to get through this weekend without attracting attention.