“Can I open this? Mom told me to get you to eat.”
“Go ahead. I’m just reading.” Flannery’s “Revelation” is open on my lap. I’m at the part where Mary Grace throws a textbook at an insufferable self-righteous woman at the doctor’s office. The textbook is aptly titled Human Development.
Muhammad holds out a plate. Waffles, with buttery syrup.
He has a plate for himself, too. I point to the chair at my desk.
“Technically, this is my room. So Mom’s rule about eating in her bedroom doesn’t apply here,” I say, sawing a piece of thick waffle with the tiny fork Muhammad brought me. It’s Mom’s special pickle fork, two pronged.
“I have a feeling she’d make an exception in this case.” Muhammad picks his waffle up like a pizza slice. It’s slathered in Nutella. “But yeah, her land rights only extend as far as the screens.”
“Hmm, maybe you should have gone into law.”
“How are you doing? Tell me, really.” He swivels the chair and takes a bite of his waffle.
“All right, I guess. He was old, ninety-three. And even if he wasn’t, I know it’s not up to humans to decide when we die,” I say. “It’s up to God.”
“Ameen.”
“The only thing that bothers me is I don’t feel like I absorbed everything he tried to tell me. I wish I’d paid more attention to him.”
“Janna, he loved you. Anytime I’d see him, he’d tell me about Miss Janna.”
“I loved him, too.”
“That means you paid attention to him.”
“I don’t know. You know how when you really want to get to know someone, how you make it a point to hang on to their every word?” I isolate a piece of waffle and sink my fork in. When I lift, it falls off the fork. “Like Sarah. You’re so into her, right?”
“Of course. Hopefully, she’ll be my wifey soon.” He stops chewing and quickly adds, “Insha’Allah!” God willing.
“By the way, I think you made a good choice,” I say, concentrating on cutting a suitable size of waffle for the pickle fork. Ah, so one waffle square fits the ratio of prongs to dough. I have a feeling Soon-Lee would have figured this out before me. “Sarah. She’s okay, I mean.”
Muhammad smiles. “I knew you’d like her if you got to know her.”
“I don’t really know her. It’s like when Dad asked, Is she down-to-earth? And I found out she was.”
“So what were you saying about knowing someone? About Mr. Ram?”
“Yeah, so like when I met Tats and she was so fun, I wanted to know everything about her. I think I know everything about her now.” I put the tiny piece of waffle speared on my fork down. “But that wasn’t the case with Mr. Ram. He was kind of just there.”
“You guys were so different: generationally, culturally, so many ways. You wouldn’t have wanted to hang on to every word. Being kind of just there for each other was amazing.”
“I guess. I just want more time with him.” I put the waffle square in my mouth and chew so that I don’t cry.
“Just remember him and remember your times with him. It will come to you in bits. Mr. Ram moments.” Muhammad puts his plate on the desk. “Remember when Rafiq died? That’s what it was like. Things we’d done together would show up at the weirdest times. Or something he’d said. Even when I’m watching a movie. A Rafiq moment.”
Rafiq was Muhammad’s best friend when he was a kid. He died in a car accident when he was twelve. I can’t imagine what Muhammad must have felt. His best friend.
I nod. It doesn’t make complete sense, but at least he’s trying to help me. “Are you going to the funeral with me and Mom?”
“On Saturday? Yeah.”
“No, it’s Friday.”
“That’s the Hindu rites. It’s family only for that. Saturday for everyone else.”
I check my phone. Nuah’s modified his message on Mr. Ram’s Facebook page: Sorry, Mr. Ram’s family wants me to clarify that the gathering for friends is on Saturday at the community center, three p.m.
Muhammad takes a mini pack of halal gummy bears out of the pocket of his shorts. He places it on my desk. “Dessert. Got it at the open house for you.”
? ? ?
A flurry of text messages.
Me: About tomorrow.
Tats: Janna! I can’t stop thinking about you. Did this guy try to hurt you?
Me: Yes.
Tats: OMG!
Me: I can’t talk about it right now.
Tats: I’ll come over. You need someone.
Me: No. I’m dealing.
Tats: Police?
Me: Eventually.
Tats: Can I help you?
Me: You already have.
Tats: By the way, I like the Muslim guy. For you I mean.
Me: By the way, I’ll come with you to the party for a bit.
Tats: You sure?
Me: Yes.
MONSTER AND MAYHEM
Nuah texts me at three fifty from Seniors Games Club. He was just getting the handshake. Mr. Ram.
Is Ms. Kolbinsky there?
Yes. Her granddaughter brought her.
Say hi to them for me. And tell Sandra a joke about horse teeth. For me.
Will do.
Also, I’m having a Mr. Ram moment.
Yeah?
Sometimes people who appear great can be the real deal. The husk, the fruit, and the kernel align.
Yup, that was Mr. Ram for you. The real deal.
I mean not just him. I pause. Should I say it? A wave of courage buoys me: Thanks Nuah. For aligning.
Ah. And, aha, there you go, being nice.
? ? ?
I open Amu’s e-mail.
Dear Imam, what if you know something bad that someone’s done, something against the laws of God, but no one else knows it, and people think that person is really good and should get a position of responsibility in the community, like, say, leading prayers . . . what should the person who knows the truth do?
Answer: Thank you for your important question. The person who knows the truth should act ethically and alert the people in charge that they are making a grievous error by entrusting a position of responsibility on a person unworthy of such a trust. It becomes a compulsory act on the one who knows to ensure that this entrusting does not occur. Of course this is granting that the person knows the evidence with surety. Otherwise, it would be a merciless and, indeed, a heinous action, as it would entail ruining a reputation and misleading a community. I pray this person takes the right step and comes forward should such a situation described in the question exist. And Allah knows best.
I pause scrolling. Evidence.
Amu thinks it’s like a theft or something. Some kind of action where there’s a scene of the crime, a sequence of events with anomalies or gaps you can see, and empirical proof laid out on a white-clothed table.
Evidence that can be examined, to determine “surety.”
Here, I’m the only one who knows the evidence with surety. Other than him, of course.
And Rambo, Fizz’s cat.
Does this mean I have to come forward and prove that he’s a monster? Describe what happened when I can’t even make sense of how it happened? Each step of the description would be reliving it.
It would be me laid out on that white table, to be examined, to determine surety.
If only Rambo, independent and impartial, could talk.
Because I’m not strong enough to tell Amu.