Amar was hers. He always had been. Sometimes, she even thought that she and Amar were like friends when they walked grocery store aisles consulting each other before choosing the syrup or the chips flavor, and like friends when he tossed her fruits, saying, you can catch it, you can, and she would hesitate but if she caught it he’d cheer. And Amar asked about her day. Nearly no one did that. She could not deny that there was a part of her that could disregard the shock and the sin and confess to herself that mostly she felt hurt that there was so much he had hidden from her. She felt like she had brought it on herself—that had she not pried she would not have known, and would have less to worry about.
That night they did not eat dinner as a family and Layla was relieved. Amar took his dinner up to his bedroom, where he studied for his chemistry exam the next day. Layla waited until he was asleep before speaking with Rafiq in the amber light of their bedroom. He ran his hand along one side of his face, ruffling then smoothing his eyebrow. It was his habit when trying to think of a solution when presented with an impossible problem.
“How far have they gone?” he finally asked.
“It’s unclear. They have photographs of each other in the same places but never together. His box is full of letters from her, promising herself to him, but other than how she felt during their meetings there is no indication really of what, if anything, they have done.”
“Does she love him?”
“They are children.”
He looked at her then.
“It makes a difference.” He spoke slowly.
“What difference, what do children know about love, when they have sacrificed nothing.”
He was bent forward, his elbow on his knee, his hand resting on his face in such a way that half of it was hidden from her.
“I thought you would be angrier,” she said.
He shook his head.
“You surprise me.”
“There is plenty to be angry with him about—but when you said you had found something, I thought you had come to me with more troubling news.”
“This is troubling news.”
“Yes.”
“It would cause a scandal.”
He nodded.
“The girl would be humiliated and soon after we would be—the Alis would never accept Amar,” she said.
“What lack is there in our son?”
Rafiq raised his voice. He dropped his hand from his face and looked at her as though he had forgotten that he was the one who was always harsh toward Amar.
“Ask yourself. If you would feel, in good faith, able to give your daughter to someone like Amar.”
Rafiq was speechless. After holding her gaze sternly for a moment he looked down at his hands.
“So what—we will never send a proposal on his behalf?” he said. A quality in his voice made her want to hold him.
“Of course not. He will continue to mature. He will make something of himself.”
“He will never listen to us, Layla. If we tell him to stop this inappropriate, apas e bahar behavior—he will never listen.”
“We won’t tell him.”
“So we let this continue? Knowing that they have gone as far as to meet frequently? And that poor girl—we just allow him to continue to influence her to sin? We cannot. She does not know any better. She does not know what she is doing, what this could lead to.”
“Influence? She is the one tempting him.”
Again he looked at her sternly.
“Amar does not need any tempting, Layla. Don’t forget what you already know.”
“We could talk to Seema,” she offered.
He shook his head.
“Think about it,” she pressed. “Seema would be the first to want to keep it quiet. Her daughter would be the begharat one, any way you look at it.”
Rafiq started rubbing his eyebrow again. She reached out to touch his arm, to say to him, we are on the same side, remember?
“This could be good for Amar,” he said finally. There was an unmistakable note of hope in his voice.
“How can you say that?”
“It could be, she’s a good girl. I’ve always liked her. If it were made halal she could influence him in the right way.”
“You still think she is good?”
“Our son is no saint, Layla.”
“They would never consider it,” she said, and then, “Right now it is good for Amar. He is happy. He sneaks away smiling when his phone buzzes. He wakes up still sleepy, after talking to her about who knows what all night. But what will happen in a week? In a month? When anyone else from the community finds out? In a year, when the girl gets proposals from someone with twice his qualifications?”
Rafiq sighed. He seemed, in that moment, suddenly very old to Layla.
“Every day this continues it is worse for him. Every day that he has hope—it will only make the fall harder.”
* * *
LAYLA THRUSTS THE white sheet into the air, ridding it of any dust, then lowers it onto the lush grass. Amar kneels at the corner of the sheet and tugs at the edges to straighten it. She smiles as he does so: his initiative, his consideration. The two of them leave their shoes in the grass and step into the center of the sheet to sit side by side, Amar leaning slightly on her leg.
They watch Rafiq walk toward them, the lower half of his face hidden by the basket of food he carries. Huda runs a little to match his steady stride, her tight ponytail swaying. Hadia struggles behind them. Her lips are pressed together in concentration as she juggles a plastic bag filled with paper cups, plates, plastic utensils in one hand, the plastic bag twisting and tightening its grip on her wrist, and a large bottle of lemonade in the other. Layla made it earlier in the day, fresh and frosted from the ice that melts in it.
“Aao,” Layla says, looking up to Rafiq, come, she is squinting because of the sun, tapping twice at the empty space beside her. Something about the sweet air, the soft breeze, the cool grass that sinks beneath her weight, makes her feel bold enough to call for her husband to sit beside her, despite the presence of her children. It could be because he has granted their wish, or because neither can deny the beauty of the day, the contagious excitement of their children.
Beneath this sky, in this park tucked away from the main freeway, a side of her husband she has not often seen is brought out: this could be how he appears when he is relaxing. He comments on the cloudless sky, the birds that sing with voices that do not pester quite as much as the ones by his window.
“But, Baba,” Hadia says to him, “they are the same.”
The sun, still in the center of the sky, does not burn. Rafiq lies on his back and cushions his head on his interlocked hands. Layla pours lemonade into paper cups and passes them into the eager hands of her children. Days like this, days out, just the five of them, are rare. Her children are buzzing with the knowledge of its uniqueness. They might have thanked Rafiq a hundred times.
“It’s a lovely way to spend a Sunday, isn’t it?” she says, regretting immediately how calling attention to the loveliness of a thing diminishes its magic. Rafiq, his eyes hidden behind his dark sunglasses, nods solemnly. Amar looks up at her, radiant, she imagines, from considering himself responsible for the day. After dinner yesterday, before the plates had been cleared and the children sent to bed, he asked if they could go on a picnic and Rafiq said, why don’t we do that? Layla had smiled, surprised at the spontaneity of her husband, and said she could make food they could take along. Hadia said: tangerines. Huda said: lemonade. Amar said: river. We can try, Rafiq said to them, I might know a place for us.
There is a river nearby, past the trees that surround them, past where the meadow dips beyond their sight. The sound of water moving, the gurgling, tugs at Amar and he taps her leg when he hears it. Huda points to a far-off playground and asks Rafiq if he will take them there after they’ve eaten. They are asking for things openly, without hesitation, pausing for a moment after they do before Rafiq’s nod, out of fear that their good fortune has run out and soon routine will resume.