O Sinners!

O Sinners!

The frigid air burned Faruq’s nose; when he blew it later, he would find that the city’s dirt had made its way inside him with the cold. Cars passed him sleepily, their headlights murky streaks in the early morning gloom. He wore only a thermal shirt, gloves, and running tights. His muscles were warm, though. His body moved exactly as it needed to. Beneath him, the East River, still semi-­frozen, chugged icily. Gray slush slapped up from the bridge onto his ankles, some of it hooking into the thin strip of bare flesh between his running tights and his socks, one of which had slipped down a little. He was still on an incline and the deeper his breath, the lighter he felt—­less weight to carry uphill before the glorious downward slope off the bridge, where he’d fly with no effort, letting gravity carry him down onto Centre Street, through the crowded heel of Manhattan. He took another deep breath. Don’t you stop, he told himself. Just keep going.

When his father was still here, the morning ritual was different, less quiet. His father would expect Faruq to do morning prayers with him, and then he’d sit at the table with his newspaper, commenting disapprovingly on what he read there. Now, Faruq had a quick, post-­run granola bar at the kitchen counter, the news blaring distantly from the television in the living room. Muezza yawned as Faruq scratched behind his ears. The cat liked to act like he was unaffected by Faruq’s comings and goings, but whenever Faruq returned home after being gone long, Muezza followed him around the brownstone like a new kitten. This—­Faruq’s scratching, Muezza’s indifference, the morning news—­was their morning ritual now.

Muezza stalked off, tail held high, as Faruq went into the living room to turn off the television. He ran his fingers over a groove in the wall between the living room and the dining room—­a thin black mark like a dead vine from when his mother used to push the heavy coffee table up against the wall so they could dance. Dance with me, puttar, she would say, holding out her arms, bouncing rhythmically from one foot to the other. And he would laugh because she always danced like a Bollywood starlet, whether they were listening to Nazia Hassan or Rick James. Her smile would be so wide he could see the yellowish glint of her back teeth. She never smiled that wide in front of his father. They never danced in front of his father, either. This mark on the wall in this dim room was their little secret. Faruq’s father either never noticed it, or he pretended not to.

He switched off the television just as the weatherman made his appearance on-­screen. It’s gonna be a cold one, folks . . . In the new silence, Faruq could hear his own breathing over the sound of his footsteps as he headed upstairs to take a shower. But even the silence here was crowded, like static; echoes of his parents, himself. Sometimes he’d wake up and feel a weight, as though someone were sitting on his chest. He didn’t believe in ghosts, not literally, but the place was as haunted as he believed a place could be—­stale energy, what the dead leave behind.

The water came out cold and stayed that way for a good minute, so Faruq gritted his teeth until, finally, warm water poured through the old pipes. He kept his shower quick, economical. Better to not get too comfortable right before heading out into the cold. When he stepped out of the shower, he froze. The house was so quiet these days that even the slightest out-­of-­place noise rang through like a foghorn. Someone was in the house.

Wrapping his towel around his waist, he grabbed the nearest thing to a weapon—­the plunger—­and stalked out into the hall. The noise was coming from downstairs. Footsteps, crinkling, the snap of something, a door opening. Faruq crept down the stairs, trying to remember where he’d left his cell phone. Shit. The kitchen. And that’s where the noise was coming from. The best he could do was rely on the element of surprise and hope the burglar didn’t have a gun. On the third step before the landing lay his father’s abandoned AirPods. They had lain there for the better part of a year now. He avoided brushing them with his foot as he passed, as he always did. When he reached the landing, he froze. Before he could fully flesh out his plan of attack, the intruder suddenly came into the hall. Faruq jumped up, brandishing the plunger.

“Holy shit,” he panted, relief undoing the tension in his muscles once he saw who it was. “Auntie, I thought you were a robber.”

Auntie Naila raised an eyebrow and put a hand on her sharp hip. “Oh? And what were you going to do with that?” she asked, nodding toward the plunger.

Now that the adrenaline was dissipating, irritation flooded into its place. “Auntie, I was taking a shower. I was naked.” He tried to keep his tone gentle, though this was the third time this month she’d let herself into the house with no notice. It was infantilizing. Still, he knew she was only doing what she thought was best for him. Even if he hated it. Even if it was stifling.

She shrugged. “I’ve raised three boys. I used to give all of you baths together when you were children.”

“Still,” said Faruq, getting more annoyed—­she was missing the point. “Remember, I asked you to call first? And knock?”

“This is my brother’s house,” she said firmly.

Faruq ran his free hand over his forehead. She’d never done this when his father was still alive. “Auntie, it’s my house now.”

His auntie pursed her lips in disapproval. “I was just coming to check on you.”

“It’s not even eight in the morning.”

“And I’m glad I did,” she continued, tsking. “It’s a mess. No food in the refrigerator, stuff all over the floor.” She pointed to the AirPods.

He stepped over to block them from her view.

She raised an eyebrow but made no further comment. “I was just going through some old clothes to donate, and look what I found.” She held out a turquoise silk scarf. “It was your mother’s. She lent it to me I don’t even know how long ago. I never got to return it.” She didn’t quite meet his eye as she said this.

Faruq was slightly hesitant to touch the scarf. He reached out but his hands didn’t quite meet the material. Auntie Naila noticed.

“Bismillah,” she said, quietly.

“Thanks, Auntie,” he said, taking the scarf. “It’s not like it’s cursed.”

She scoffed. “Of course not. Maybe it will give you luck.”

“Don’t know if I believe in luck, Auntie.”

“Well, what do you kids say? It will surround your bases.”

“Cover your bases.”

She waved a hand in the air. “Whatever. You have always been very logical, Faruq. There is a place for logic. But remember that not everything in the world is logic.”

“What’s the rest of it, then? Magic?”

“Rude boy. The rest of it is Allah, subhanahu wa ta’ala.”

Faruq suppressed any further argument.

“Alhamdulillah, I didn’t accidentally donate that scarf. Keep it near you, Faruq.”

He ran a thumb over the silky fabric. “I was just getting ready to leave for work, Auntie.” Which she knew. She knew enough of his daily routine by now that he had to figure her timing wasn’t an accident. He suspected she’d intended to come in after he’d already left, because he was running late.

She crossed her arms. “You’re kicking me out?”

“Look, I’ll visit this weekend or something.”

She huffed. “Don’t bother. Rude boy. What would your father say?”

Faruq closed his eyes briefly, and Auntie Naila swept back toward the kitchen. She cursed him in Urdu before slamming the back door shut on her way out. He sighed. He knew she didn’t mean it. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, either, but the house was beginning to feel like it was made of greenhouse glass—­hot, stinking, offering no real protection from the outside. When his father was alive, he’d always felt scrutinized here, his father watching, and Faruq ever careful not to slip up and let his lack of faith show. Now his father was gone, but the scrutiny wasn’t. Rude boy. He couldn’t escape.

A few months after his father died, Faruq had the locks changed. Too many people had had access to the house. He wasn’t even sure who had a key anymore, and he couldn’t stand the surprise visitors. But it wasn’t long before Auntie Naila found his spare and had copies made for all the other aunties before he’d even noticed it was missing.