WHAT WE HAVE LEFT

A Thesis in Fiction Writing

By

Molly Marks

Submitted in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Masters of

Fine Arts

Chatham University

November 2017

Contents

Introduction……………………………………………………………………IV

Lemoine Oyster Bar

August 25, 2005…………………………………………………………………01

Harrison Residence Hall

May 16, 2010…………………………………………………………………...07

GreyHound Station

May 16, 2010…………………………………………………………………..10

Delhomme Funeral Home

April 19, 2010………………………………………………………………….12

Horace Wilson Bridge

May 16, 2010…………………………………………………………………..13

Bon Temps Café

May 16, 2010….……………………………………………………………….14

Amtrak Rail

June 23, 2000…………………………………………………………………...27

Bon Temps Café

May 17, 2010……………………………………………………………………32

Marks ii

Yasser Rahal

November 2, 1999………………………………………………………………34

Betsy Vanderbilt

May 18, 2010……………………………………………………………………38

Valley Crescent School

April 12, 2000……………………………………………………………………45

Bon Temps Café

May 5, 2010…………………………………………………………….………47

Lemoine Oyster Bar

June 6, 2000……………………………………………………………………51

Bon Temps Café

June 19, 2010…………………………………………………………………….58

Lemoine Oyster Bar

September 12, 2000……………………………………………………………64

2nd Island

June 19, 2010…………………………………………………………………..69

2nd Island

September 28, 2000……………………………………………………………71

Marks iii

Bon Temps Café

June 19, 2010…………………………………………………………………..76

Lemoine Oyster Bar

September 28, 2000……………………………………………………………81

Betsy Vanderbilt

June 22, 2010…………………………………………………………………..84

End of the Earth

September 11, 2001……………………………………………………………89

Willowbrook Apartments

June 23, 2010…………………………………………………………………..94

Lemoine Oyster Bar

October 2, 2001………………………………………………………………..97

Bon Temps Café

June 24, 2010…………………………………………………………………..104

Harrison Residence Hall

February 16, 2009………………………………………………………………106

2926 Cambronne St

June 24, 2010…………………………………………………………………..108

Marks iv

Hasham Rahal

October 13, 2001……………………………………………………………….113

Abandoned Lot

June 28, 2010…………………………………………………………………116

Out Lady of Peace Shelter

August 17, 2005………………………………………………………………119

Lemoine Oyster Bar

March 15, 2002…………………………………………………………………120

Lemoine Oyster Bar

May 13, 2004…………………………………………………………………..123

Belle Chasse Middle School

April 2, 2004……………………………………………………………………126

Bon Temps Café

July 3, 2010……………………………………………………………………..129

Bibliography……………………………………………………………………131

Marks iv

Introduction

Personal

My friend Jude was recovering from a heart attack. Instead of going to the

hospital, calling his mom, calling him, sending fruit bouquets or a well-crafted

card, I wrote a memoir. Marma’s story was initially about my schizophrenic

teenage years in Erie, trying to recover from childhood abuse. Jude already knew

the details. He listened to every horrific story, talked me out of committing

suicide (twice), and bolstered my confidence in times of horrific shame. My

favorite Jude line is, “If everyone knew what you went through, they would be as

proud of you as I am.” Only, he didn’t know what I went through. I wasn’t abused

as a child and I wasn’t schizophrenic. I was a thief and a pathological liar.

In high school I searched for evil in the places I assumed it lived: the

cemetery where prostitutes dabbled, in the black neighborhoods, by the “meth

wharf”, and homeless shelters. I wanted to meet people who I thought were like

me: depraved. There was an impatient accomplice with a curlew tattoo for his

mother, an ex-painter who wept over almond trees, and myriad misfits who

protected me from “the real criminals.” Many of the sociological lessons I learned

have been in cars with strangers driving me home: the majority of crimes rise out

of pain. Most people need someone to listen, and actually listen.

After I got arrested for stealing, I attended a mandatory lecture. A bald

policeman stood in front of fifteen adolescent robbers, screaming. He said thieves

never amount to anything, that we’d wind up in and out of jail, homeless, that

society would forget we existed. The boy sitting next to me noticed I was crying.

He whispered, “you’ll get use to this bitch after a while.” During break he asked if

Marks v

I wanted to steal a television with him. I declined. Never stole again. His desire to

obtain things still haunts me.

It took me ten years to stop lying. After a decade of oral folklore, a kick-

ass psychologist found the qualm: for two years I was in a sexually abusive

relationship. Because I loved him, I refused to see our intimacy as repeated

assault. My partner’s behavior stemmed from the manipulation of his best friend,

who convinced us both to aid in the kidnapping of his girlfriend.

As soon as I could admit the truth to myself, I didn’t need to lie. By this

time I was engaged, living in Pittsburgh, and working at a methadone clinic. I

hadn’t seen Jude in two years, then randomly ran into him at a brewery in

Brooklyn. Although I expected him to be somewhat cold, he was nothing but

understanding and incredibly kind. He lives in a brownstone, writing children’s

books for Scholastic. He showed me a picture of his girlfriend. She’s from Spain,

petite, standing next to Malala Yousafzai. Of course, I thought. He asked what I

was working on. I responded, “nothing. I don’t write anymore.” He shook his

head, disappointed. “Don’t you think you should contribute something?”

Offended, I described my job in social services. He answered, “they’re lucky to

have you, but what about the rest of us? The people you don’t work with?” When

I got back to Pittsburgh I applied to Chatham’s MFA program. I decided if I got

in, I’d rewrite the book—try to reach out beyond my community. This time it

would be sincere. Fiction is the sole genre I can be completely honest in.

Marks vi

Process

I was exiled from my bedroom after getting arrested, and confined to the

basement. Activities were limited to laundry, television, and organizing my

father’s workshop. After stacking lumber and folding myriad scrubs, I turned on

the TV. An airal camera caught snapshots of kids jumping on roofs—dogs

paddling over houses. Due to my cloudy, adolescent brain I dramatically tied my

turmoil to the storm. I wanted to know more about the people—their families,

their favorite sport or sandwich—to humanize the survivors and those who were

lost.

The first major change in my thesis was the setting. My desire to learn

about the survivors of Hurricane Katrina, stuck with me. I switched Erie,

Pennsylvania to Plaquemines Parish, Louisiana. I spent hours packing my brain

and home with relative information. I sailed “the whelming brine”, listened to

oyster podcasts, played hurricane documentaries, maxed out credit cards buying

literature, stalked the New Orleans craigslist page, NOLA Instagrams, bought two

violins, sold one to make rent, and broke the other. I asked the hostess at Muddy

Oysters Bar if it was possible to collect shells from their dumpster. She said no.

Apparently that’s illegal.

The first draft was an amalgamation of memoir and New Orleans—a

gumbo with too much shrimp and not enough garlic. My northern characters

didn’t match the mood of the south. Flowery language rambled on the page. Non-

Marks vii

linear structure only complicated the story. I thought it was complex, scattered

like the brain of my schizophrenic character.

Marc Nieson asked my peers if they'd keep reading my work despite the

chaos. All but one said yes. She explained that overly flamboyant descriptors and

wacky dialogue exhausts her. She didn't understand what she was reading. Her

honesty inspired me to look at the narrative from a minimalist perspective. As a

manic logophile and hoarder, I struggle with letting things go. Amy Hempel’s In

a Tub became my catalyst for simplistic writing. Her first two lines are so

beautifully raw: “My heart — I thought it stopped. So I got in my car and headed

for God.” Without much detail, she introduces the rhythm of the story, drives the

plot, shapes character, and entices the audience. After reading Hempel’s

collection, I began to chisel.

In the process, I kept hearing Sarah Shotland ask, "what's at stake?"

"What drives you as a writer?" "Why you?" "Why now?" In our readings course

she discussed blogs, self-publishing, social media—the competition—sources that

take away readers. "What makes your story important?" I made lists of what

matters most: preserving New Orleans, fighting to keep their traditions alive, the

Gulf Coast, and basic survival. Very few people want to read a novel without

purpose. I realized that my flowery rambles were page fillers. I started removing

superfluous phrases and repainting key imagery. If the sentence didn’t say three

things of utter importance to the novel, I erased it, and wrote a new one.

When President Trump got elected I illuminated Hasham. Originally, he

served as the guy Marma accuses of rape. There weren’t full chapters dedicated to

Marks viii

his past or present. Essentially, his only presence in the book was through

Marma’s memory.

After protesting at JFK and talking with a lot of Arab-Americans, I felt the

responsibility to humanize him, to give him his own story. I started writing

chapters that showed insight into his life. Eventually, I found it just as important

to write Hasham’s story. This complicated my already convoluted order.

Writing a non-linear piece can be a little harrowing. I used a timeline to

keep track of dates. It begins in 1992 with Marma’s birth and ends with her

second year at college. This allows me to draw lines between days that influence

each other. In response to my travel essay, Dr. McNaugher noted that making

connections is key to academic and creative works. Trapped in myriad webs, it

helped to organize my themes on a blackboard—that way I could physically draw

circles and lines to weave theories through the piece. The timeline helped tether

sections to its roots. I ordered the pieces in a specific way, so that readers can

easily find connections between the periods. After I graduate it will also serve as

an outline for what comes next.

University

At Summer Community of Writers, BK Loren asked why I choose

Chatham. “You should have applied to Iowa,” she joked. “That’s where I went.”

Even if the University of Iowa was a realistic contender, I’d be at Chatham.

Community outweighs prestige. The Words Without Wall program illuminates

those swept under the judicial system. Since my youth I’ve been inspired by

Marks ix

prison-writers, amazed by the powerful literature that springs from oppressive

environments.

Chatham professors encouraged me to adopt a literary family. Before the

MFA program I considered my “tribe” to be Alice Coltrane and James Murray.

However, roots aren’t born from pure enjoyment. As Freidrich Nietzsche said, “to

live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.” Influential

pieces are those hefty, fell-in-the-bathtub-too-many-times masterpieces that make

life more profound, like Sula, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, and Salvage the

Bones. As happy as dictionaries make me, definitions don’t define who I am as a

reader.

What We Have Left is inspired by Southern Gothic literature. The

protagonist is a delusional girl who exists in a corrupt, southern society. She’s

driven mad by the destruction of her home and haunted by environmental racism.

Similar to John Brandon’s Citrus County, the horrific, grotesque attributes of

characters are balanced by humorous inner dialogue, and vulnerability. Marma

softens when she plays the violin—analogous to Mick Kelly in The Heart is a

Lonely Hunter. Before McCullers became a writer she played the piano. One of

the most incredible aspects of the novel is that Carson McCullers wrote the story

as a three-part fugue—like a mobster who builds a mall in the shape of a gun—a

secret homage to their previous life.

In the early stages of What We Have Left, Marma’s disorder is shown

through schizophrenic hallucinations. I decided to cut the hallucinations because

Schizophrenia is an incredibly complex illness that I know very little about. Since

Marks x

I was already drenched in research, I decided to go with a mental illness I do

know: dissociative disorder—this is my version of a fugue—an homage to the

memoir.

Dissociative disorder disrupts memory and identity. On a mild scale,

reading a book or daydreaming is dissociation. Dissociation describes the lack of

connection between things typically associated together. For example, Marma

dissociates herself from the travesties of her past in order to hide trauma. When

she returns to Louisiana she’s forced into reality. Truth begins shaping her

identity.

In Southern Gothic literature, authors reveal societal ills: slavery, poverty,

sexism, patriarchy, homophobia, racism, and violence. I explore these issues

through a modern lens: the spread of hate crimes, blaming the environment for

damaging or displacing impoverished communities, social media as a control or

distraction from government actions, compliancy to sexual violence, and

gentrification. Each of my characters experience backlash due to their class, race,

gender, and/or religion. I show idyllic settings pre-dilapidation, to clarify that the

homes and ecosystems that were lost to Katrina and BP, were worth saving.

Structure

Since the book revolves around the protagonist’s amnesia, I choose a non-

linear style that mimics retrospection and conveys information about the

characters mental state. My work is an emulation of various non-linear novels,

such as: Beloved by Tony Morrison, A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer

Egan, Collected Fictions by Jorge Luis Borges, Americanah by Chimamanda

Marks xi

Ngozi Adichie, Tracks by Louis Erdrich, Constellation of Vital Phenomena by

Anthony Marra, and Ishamael of Syria by Assad Almohammad. These authors

use disjointed text to spotlight their character’s circumstances and create empathy

for their character’s actions. Ethos encourages the reader to root for the

protagonist, even if the character acts disagreeably. For example, in Toni

Morrison’s Beloved, Sethe kills her daughter, but is forgiven by the reader

because of the harrowing pain she experienced as a slave.

In the narrative I weave separate strands together. For example: Marma’s

past and present intertwines with Hasham’s. As if braiding hair, the reader has to

keep their focus on the single strand that comes in and out of focus in order to

understand the whole. By making the sections short, I allow the reader to take

quick glimpses of an epoch. This way the reader’s unable to get too attached to

one story, and they blend together.

Similar to the section breaks in Louise Erdrich’s Tracks; I begin chapters

with dates, as well as location. Place and time work to keep the reader grounded.

White space provides the reader with pause. Time is crucial to the piece because

Marma’s childhood forms her psychology in adulthood. In order to survive in the

future, both past and present traumas have to be healed.

Distance between texts is symbolic of a shoreline, specifically the Gulf

Coast after the BP oil spill. White space represents clear water. Ink represents oil.

Clear water is ephemeral. Eventually the oil rises to the surface and it has to be

dealt with. The reader decides how to extract meaning out of the language.

Marks xii

Ecofeminism

Toni Morrison stated, “You can’t let the past strangle you if you’re going

to go forward. But nevertheless the past is not going anywhere.” She’s implying

that you have to cope with your past if you’re going to live a healthy life in the

present. However, coping with the past becomes difficult if it’s veiled. Crucial

fragments of personal and global history are often concealed. You can’t loosen

the hands around your neck if you don’t know they’re there.

Using ecofeminist writers as references, I drew parallels between

environmental and gender injustices. Toni Morrison’s Sula inspired me to explore

traditional notions of morality and land. Margaret Atwood’s Surfacing

encouraged me to tie reproductive rights with the treatment of animals. Both

novels kept me obsessed with water. Hidden truths are mirrored between Marma’s

childhood abuse and the Deepwater Horizon Disaster: Marma’s abuse could have

been prevented had her parents paid more attention, just as the oil blowout could

have been prevented had BP enforced safety regulations. After Marma

experiences the trauma she reports the assault to her mother, who undermines her

pain. The mother’s dismissal is parallel to the US Governments response to Deep

Water Horizon. In order to protect the reputation of British Petroleum, the U.S

downplays the atrocity in the media. Both the mother and the US Government

only address the surface. The mother moves Marma to a new state. The coast

guard sprayed Corexit on the Gulf, an oil dispersant that ephemerally hides oil by

emulsifying it into miniature particles that sink, but resurface. When Marma

Marks xiii

moves back to New Orleans, a month after the spill, her memories reemerge.

Marma and the ocean try to heal in a system that hinders recovery.

Language

Language in the novel demarcates New Orleans culture, exaggerates

disparity between classes, and nods to literature’s genesis: oral folklore, which

still plays a vital role in preserving Louisiana community. These three notions are

working to syncopate language as an accessible tool that can be used to liberate or

confine society. In the novel, language is ultimately used to bond the community.

Marma’s experience teaches readers how to use language (whatever form it exists

in) to bring social change and unite community members.

I relate the musical technique “by ear” to oral folklore. Marma learned

how to play violin by listening. There’s something surreptitiously magical about

it—the lesson being an intimate exchange between two artists. Without the

original composition written on page, the song’s existence is retained in her

memory and it’s likely that her memory will change it. Louisiana is lush with oral

tradition. Any grief or fragrant expression took form in handclap songs and rap.

Before slaves were able to read and write, their magnum opus existed in toasts

and rhymes. They educated each other in secret, without proof or documentation.

Lore kept their children safe and wisdom carried for generations.

Dialogue between Ryan, Keon, and Hasham are examples of how

language can bond a diverse group of people. It’s apparent that Hasham comes

from a financially privileged household, and that his parents encouraged

traditional intellectual growth. In contrast, Ryan and Keon exist in a fishing

Marks xiv

community where cultural traditions come before academics. Despite their

different upbringings they’re equally gifted musicians who use their unique styles

to create virtuosic songs. Art is a space they can come together. After their

disappearance, Marma emulates what they’ve created and produces a masterpiece.

My goal is to show the reader how to use their passion to connect to the world

that’s existed before them, with them, and how they’re art will affect the world

when they’re gone.

Music

My brother Kevin is twelve years older then me. By the time I was born he

conquered the guitar, saxophone, drums, and piano. When he graduated from high

school he built a recording studio in the basement of his friend’s (literal rocket

scientist) mansion. Nestled in sheepskin furs, cozy by the hearth, I listened to

spliced madrigals, arcade music intertwined with Afrocubism—banged my head

to ramshackle punk screamers, and danced to the dreamy, electronics of spacey

hip-hop. Occasionally, I’d take out my instrument, and play along.

Like Hasham, I was enrolled in Suzuki violin lessons in preschool. Before

my group came out with our cardboard “violins” I watched the advanced class.

Both their instruments and terminology sounded like music. Quietly, I’d repeat

the lush directions like bariolage, col lengo, and flautando. I tried using the

language with my peers and ended up getting scolded for showing off. It was the

first indication that language can disconnect people.

Once I got a real violin, I rushed through Twinkle Twinkle and went

straight to Beethoven. After exhausting minuets, Kevin introduced me to The

Marks xv

Devil Went Down to Georgia. We jammed to Dave Matthews and The

Raconteurs. I dismissed Vivaldi, Pablo de Sarasate, and claimed I was John

Lennon reincarnated. I drove my mother crazy with Eleanor Rigby concerts.

Memorized What’s Left of the Flag, by Flogging Molly. Bittersweet Symphony

became my fourth grade anthem. When asked to join a high-school orchestra, I

said yes, convinced my musical illiteracy would go unnoticed. The conductor

handed me a sheet of music (probably Mozart). I laid my chin on the strap and

played Running Dry. Make no mistake; even if your older brother likes Neil

Young, he’s not cool, especially not to orchestral teenagers who grew up with Yo-

Yo-Ma and Mark O’Connor.

From that point on I kept my creativity quiet, snuck Dixieland and jazz

into notebooks, fingered alphabets instead of strings, and traded my bow for a

heavy, oak desk.

*

There are twenty-four notes you can play on a violin. According to Oxford

Dictionaries there are 171, 476 current words in use, and 47, 156 obsolete words.

Words are analogous to notes. They’re tiny representations of human experience.

“The whole work of art depends on the harmonious involvement of the parts”.

When it comes to diction, I stand by Coleridge’s theory of organic unity. Each

word has purpose. It is incredibly hard choosing the best word out of thousands,

especially if you’re neurotic. Sarah helped me narrow the choices. She told me to

think of a plate. “You have the compote. Now you need the crunch.”

Marks xvi

Without these wisdoms, my thesis might still be a preserved fruit. Thanks

to the brilliant, magnanimous Chatham community for turning syrup into a feast.

Marks 1

Lemoine Oyster Bar and Farm

345 Earl Lanes

New Orleans LA, 70038

August 25, 2005

Cuddy Cabin was powered with a jigged Yamaha.

It had a sketch of Ginger Lynn on the side.

Henry Babic wiped vinegar across the fiberglass,

because his wife Janice swore it worked better then toilet bowl cleaner.

Plus, the smell of vinegar

gets the sperm moving.

Janice wanted a baby.

She resorted to old wives

tales instead of intercourse.

Marks 2

1998 Fountain 27 had a

daiquiri maker. No fridge or

storage for food.

Just daiquiris and a master

stateroom, rather large for a

boat under forty feet.

The room had a walk around

island berth, plenty of room

for Keon to groove.

Complete with a metallic

boom box and a hanging

locker full of jerseys and

Nylon Adidas pants.

Marks 3

Sea Ray Sedan Bridge was a nice

sized pocket cruiser. Belonged to

Hasham. He cleared out the

entertainment center and laid his

prayer rug down. Kept his letters from

his lover in a tub he never used. Liked

bathing in the ocean. The boat had a

carpeted overhead and teak-and-mica

interior woodwork. Cheap details, but

it didn’t matter. Hasham reveled in it.

Marks 4

40’ River Queen house boat

belonged to the Lemoines. They had

a trawler docked on the side, but it

was invisible next to their floating-

mansion. Flossy liked to tan on the

upper deck. She always had a big jug

of tea between her legs and stirred it

with a miniature paddle. Her

daughter hung bait off the side,

trying to catch criminals. Hooks

never caught.

Marks 5

Don Svoboda got his 1988 Reilly

Danos because it had a mahogany

deck and underwater lights. He liked

to invite the neighborhood kids over,

show them his collection of shells

and gold pelicans. He slept on the

bottom of a twin bunk bed.

Marks 6

The floodplains oozed blackcurrant and sherry. Phytoplankton

bloomed in sunlit patches. Beavers’ teeth rotted from wood bathed in

fertilizer. Died nearby. No lateral incisors. Five houseboats waded

by a dock made of railroad-ties. All farmers. Oil dripped on dinner

dumped. Small troubles. Windowpanes. Calcified, portable—

handheld archaic rock valleys, live underneath the boats, drawing

water over gills. Thorny. Not all bare pearls. Pearls are scraped out

with a knife. If they can’t pry her open, they throw the shell away,

even though most of the oysters are still alive, just stubborn.

Marks 7

Harrison Residence Hall,

107 MacArthur Rd.

West Lafayette, IN 47906

May 16, 2010

“And set forth to them parable of the life of this world: like water which we send down

from the cloud so the herbage of the earth becomes tangled on account of it, then it

becomes dry, broken into pieces which the winds scatter. (Quran 18:45)

Marma dropped to her knees and tore through the trash: rosin, cigarette cartons, a

rabbit skull wrapped in tinfoil, Beyond Pure Music, and a pregnancy test—everything

sticky from a face-mask she tried to make out of honey. No jewelry. She looked under

her pillow. Nothing. Flipped the mattress up. Nothing. She unraveled her sheets. Nothing

but matchsticks and panties.

“Fuck!” Marma yelled. “Where the hell is it?”

Her roommate, Beth, rolled over, blinking lazily. Lips swollen from entertaining a

sorority party the night before. She played a notched flute. Administration paired Marma

and Beth together based on their shared interest: music—this blew Marma’s mind. It’s

like putting a bug in a spider web. Violinists eat wind instruments.

“What are you looking for?” Beth asked, watching Marma remove all the Twisted

Teas from the mini fridge. She knew Marma drank them. Beth would be totally cool with

it if Marma wasn’t a psychopath. Everyone knew Marma shoved her Mendini down a

toilet.

“Beth, have you seen my tote? The LSU one? I swear I put it next to my bed,

but…”

“Your tote?” Beth asked. “Why would your tote be in the refrigerator?”

Marks 8

“I don’t know,” Marma said. “I’m just checking, but my bus leaves…” she

glanced at Beth’s alarm clock. “Now. My bus leaves now. Can you just text me if you

find it?”

“Yeah! So you’re like, leaving without it?” she asked, in a way that suggested she

was mentally putting a sticky-note on this moment and would bring it up later over flip-

cup.

“Yes,” Marma said, shoving the bottles back. Please be with Lina. Please be with

Lina. Please, God, please, let Lina have it.

“Well, I’ll miss you,” Beth said, giving Marma a fake frowny face. “Have fun in

Durham!”

“New Orleans. I’m going back to New Orleans,” Marma said. She’d explained

this to Beth at least thirty times.

“Oh! Well, like, have fun in Naaaw-lins,” Beth said, winking.

“Yeah,” Marma said, grabbing her trashcan. “Bye Beth.”

Lena was sitting cross-legged on the hood of her cutlass, holding Marma’s tote.

“You left it at my house,” Lena said. “I tried calling you but you left your phone

in your bag so…”

Marma set the can down, beaming.

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” Marma squealed, then kissed Lena’s cheek,

and ripped the bag from her hands. The contents of her purse looked like Cornell’s slot

machine, an artistic shadowbox of nostalgia. The necklace was tangled in dog-tags and a

miniature anchor. She held it up, as if she was offering it to the Gods. “Lena, I love you.

I really do. I don’t know how or why you’re magic but you’re magic.”

Marks 9

“You left your necklace in there?” Lena asked, surprised. “Damn. You must have

been freaking out.”

“I was. Wouldn’t leave without it.”

The necklace had a gold chain with a sheath at the bottom. The blade was small

and duller than a nail file, but it looked injurious. Marma flipped the knife open and

rubbed the engraving with her thumb: بوب meant “beloved.” An indirect Quranic مح

name.

Marks 10

Greyhound Station

100 Lee Ave,

Lafayette, LA 70501

May 16, 2010

There are thirty unidentified bodies according to public records. Marma folded

the newspaper on her lap, imagining their balloon limbs, like the Michelin Man, rubber

skin, soggy faces supine in garbage juice. Victims of the storm or the government,

depending on who you talked to. She wondered where the city was storing the cadavers.

Originally, the coroner took them to a warehouse. How do I know they’re actually dead

bodies and not fake bodies like fake dinosaur bones in museums? If they’re real bodies I

hope they’re white. Hasham could still be alive. He was Arab but most people thought he

was mixed and Marma figured they’d use black as a blanket term. Sometimes she could

guess what color they were based on their outfit, so long as their clothes weren’t torn off

in the canal. Marma felt bad stereotyping, but all she could do was read the descriptions

in the newspaper and make assumptions.

One of the dead guys was found near Elysian Fields Avenue, near the Marigny

Plantation. Hasham wouldn’t be caught dead there. Marma laughed at the irony. He

hated plantations. They were too much like graveyards. Though he liked graveyards. But

the description scared her: black Nikes, joggers, with a black choker adorned with a

wooden African pendant and black swatch quartz. Something Keon would wear and the

last time Marma saw Hasham he was with Keon. Where was Zari, Keon’s sister? Zari? It

hurt to think of Zari. Marma picked at the sore on her thumb. Tissue layered tissue. The

nail was chipped to the cuticle.

Marks 11

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, thinking of Zari blowing bubbles on the dock—

dozens of crystal balls floating and popping into champagne fizz. Zari’s pudgy hands,

stubby nails dipped in polish. She painted her hangnails. Her laugh sounded like a

chickadee. She had this ruffle bathing suit that gave her a wedgie because it was too

small. All the kids on the dock wore clothes too big or too tight. One of the parish

trademarks. Marma looked at her legs squeezed into patched denim. Size ten. It felt weird

having a specific number. She wanted to be a million numbers. Antwan told her you can

make anything fit. Marma liked stiff fabric, broken zippers, and bras that smelled briny.

She missed that smell. Clothes had stories before. Now each article was a clean slate and

Marma determined its climax. Too much pressure.

She turned her head as a bus pulled in. It wasn’t hers. It was leaving for Boston.

She noticed one of her classmates heading towards the gate. Igor was struggling to carry

his viola and hamper full of black turtlenecks. Dishrag Tycoon, Marma thought. A Phillip

Glass lover. A Modernist. Linguistic plurality sounds like boogers. Marma performed a

Luigi Borhi duet with him for the Cajun Alumni Social. After the curtain fell he made a

snide remark about her neck. It’s from my violin, she said, I lost my chinstrap. Igor

replied, violins don’t leave teeth marks. It wasn’t the rudest insult ever, but Marma felt

like it was. She jammed her bow in his crotch, yelling you suck on a Stradivari!

Marma fake yawned, covering her face as his bus drove by. She felt bad about

snapping like that. Using her bow like a shank, but she’d had enough. The funeral

director fired her, Rob wanted to sleep around, and Igor didn’t know shit. Violins do

leave teeth marks

Marks 12

Delhomme Funeral Homes

1011 Bertrand Dr

Lafayette LA, 70506

April 04, 2010

He clawed the skin between her dimples, you like that baby? You look so good

right now. Your pussy’s so wet. They were in the basement of a funeral home, lying on an

old vinyl couch next to a jar full of taffy. Good and pussy were throaty. Otherwise he

chirped like a bush cricket. Marma wondered if he knew the deceased. She’d feel better if

he was grieving. Yet, nothing about him suggested loss. He bit her neck like he was

biting a sandwich. Just lunch. His tongue tasted like mustard and potato chips. There was

mayonnaise on the collar of his polo. He’d taken the time to hang his Leatherman Jacket

on the coatrack. It was brightly colored and adorned with D.A.R.E pins. He climaxed in

the middle of Michael Jacksons, Gone Too Soon, which was playing upstairs

Shit. I have to go babe. You were so yummy.

Marks 13

Horace Wilson Bridge

1-10

Baton Rouge LA 70802

05/16/2010

10:58 AM to 11:01AM

Lena

Where u @

Marma

Idk. On a bridge. U?

Lena

A mili hrs away still.

Lena

U gng 2 tell Flossy about your violin?

Marma

Askdjalnci

Lena

She’ll probably buy u a new 1.

Marma

Lena. Stop it. I quit.

Lena

You just need a new violin.

11:23 AM

Lena

?

Lena

Marmaaaa

Lena

) :

1:48 PM

Lena

You can’t let him have everything. That was YOUR instrument. YOUR art.

Marks 14

Bon Temps Café

1505 Saint Phillips St.

New Orleans, LA 70116

May 16, 2010

The hole existed because God didn’t like Flossy’s customers—all grungy beatnik-

scientists, smoking on the patio, trying to get Flossy to invest in nitro-cold brews, extract

this and that. Young folks who wanted to rent out the space for community discussions,

asking her to be a part of the fabric.

What fabric? No. Flossy just wanted to sell something cheap and hot. Maybe put

some Jack in it, maybe a little whipped-cream. Fuck all the hoses and vacuums and

getting-to-know-the-farmer. Flossy had met plenty of farmers. She’d tasted plenty of

cappuccinos. Too much junk in it. She wanted mud so thick if you flipped the cup upside-

down, nothing moved. Spill-proof.

“All right baby,” she said, climbing up the ladder. A full moon brightened the

holy cavity. “Lord, I just need one more dry night. I just need one more dry night.”

“Don’t you fall Flossy. My hands are covered in butter,” Aniyah said, licking

chocolate off a whisk. “I can’t catch you if the ladder slides.”

The kitchen looked like the set-design from Bye Bye Birdie. Even Aniyah seemed

staged—stirring batter in a sunburst neckline and cat-eye glasses. There was something

about her shoulders—how they caved towards her breast—like she was trying to keep a

secret from popping out.

“I’m fine,” Flossy said. “I’m just going to pull that tarp over the hole. It blew off.

Think it's stuck on the gutter.”

Marks 15

The neon Open sign was still glowing. Marma had her face pressed to the

casement window expecting to see a mug left on a table, laptops, a moody barista with

gages, rocking out to Je Suis Punk while steaming cream in a tin beaker. Marma

rechecked her mother’s text, 1501 St. Phillip Street. The numbers were painted above the

door. One. Five. Zero. One. She definitely gave me the wrong address. Shit. It looked like

an antique shop. A pine floor displayed a picnic of second-hand furniture. Caquetoires

crammed under chess tables. Tapestries draped over wine barrels. No mocha. Just a few

French tureens and a patina teacart.

"Well, look who the cat dragged in!" Flossy yelled from the hole.

Marma whipped around, surprised to see her mother’s head sticking out of the

roof.

“Mom!” Marma said, smiling. “What are you doing?”

“The hole’s kind of grown on me,” Flossy said. “Romantic. What do you think?”

“Romantic?” Marma asked, wondering if the possums or poisoness copperheads

would also find the hole romantic. It didn’t occur to her that the animals in her childhood

wouldn’t be in Treme.

“Yeah! Why don’t you come have a look?” Flossy asked.

Marma rushed through the door, straight into a cherub lamp. The angel’s head

rolled under an ironing board as Flossy climbed down the rungs. They embraced with a

gilded base between them.

“I missed you baby,” Flossy said, then kissed her forehead. “And look at your

hair. I’m so glad you got that pink out.” She grabbed Marma’s chin, lifted it up, then

Marks 16

down, inspecting her face. “See how pretty it is with your complexion, just red? Though

you gained weight. I told you beer goes straight to your belly.”

Marma pulled the lamp out from between them.

“It’s not from beer mom,” she said. “And what is this?”

“Don’t you like it baby? It’s from France. Slag glass. I don’t know. Just put it

down somewhere. Come on. Take your shoes off. I just mopped.”

Marma kicked her mules under a cradle and peered through the phallic hole. A

helicopter loomed in the distance, chopping up clouds with its spotlight. Why the hell is

this hole here? She couldn’t tell if it was intentional. Romantic?

“So did you like college? How’d finals go?” Flossy said, grabbing Marma’s hand,

leading her through a maze. “Anyone try to haze you? I had friends in Lafayette. Use to

make freshman drink Everclear and pray the rosary.”

“Just punch mom,” Marma said, letting go to look at an aquarium full of sunken

clocks.

“Good God. That stuff’s even more dangerous,” Flossy said, picking up chest

pieces off a checker table. “At least you had Lena. How’s she doing? Did she miss

Durham?”

“Not a bit,” Marma said, not sure where to put her suitcase or coat. This place is

going to consume all my belongings. “Mom, why do you have all this stuff in here?”

“What do you mean all this stuff? Don’t you like it?” Flossy asked, hand on hip.

“I saved it.”

“What do you mean you saved it?” Marma asked.

Marks 17

“Aniyah!” She’s finally here! Come say hello!” Flossy said, stopping at an

overturned armoire, functioning as a table.

“I just mean…it looks like a thrift store. I almost walked away. You have to get a

sign or something.”

"Marma," Flossy spun around. Gray hair corkscrewed horizontally. She'd given

up trying to flatten it. Instead, she matched her mane's peculiarity with a squirrel coat and

layers of turquoise jewelry. "How do you think I paid your rent all year? I have

customers. Though I'm trying to get rid of them now. God don’t like them."

“Is that why you haven’t fixed the hole yet? Doesn’t rain get in?” Marma asked,

maneuvering her suitcase around a set of hand-painted crochet carts.

Their interaction felt the same, discombobulated and rushed, but her mother

looked together, the way she looked before Durham. Fit. Dewy. Even stylish.

"You look really nice, mom," Marma said, picking a ladybug off a framed print

by Edvard Munch.

"Bikram honey. You heard of that?" Flossy said. "Hot yoga. More like Sweaty-

Ass yoga."

Aniyah ran out of the kitchen, still holding a metal bowl. A wooden spoon sunk in

the fondue.

“Marcelie!” Aniyah said. A tear clung to her bottom lashes, which were unusually

long. Bifocals highlighted flecks of gold in her black eyes. “I can’t believe you’re finally

here!”

“Oh, don’t start that,” Flossy said, taking the bowl from her hands. “Give her a

hug.”

Marks 18

"I didn't even recognize you," Marma said.

Aniyah latched onto Marma, surprised by her girth. She was no longer the skeletal

child whose bones cracked if you touched her.

“You look healthy. Mature,” Aniyah said, holding Marma’s hands between hers,

which were stuck in childhood, thin and rough from climbing tupelos.

"Thanks," Marma said. Reddish, brown hair touched right below her collarbone—

just as unkempt as her mothers.

“Six years baby girl,” Aniyah said, nodding her head. “Can’t believe all that

time’s gone by.”

Six years since Marma and Flossy left the oyster farm and moved to Durham.

Aniyah always planned to visit, but a few months after they moved, the rain started. Tire

marks grew into puddles, which grew into streams, which grew into rivers, until the

world was a sea.

“You look beautiful,” Marma said, stepping back, analyzing her transformation—

secretly asking questions she knew were indelicate: does a vagina feel like a vagina as

soon as you put it on? Of course a man would choose to get double-D breasts…or did

they grow with the hormones? She. She is a she. What if her friends from grade school

recognize her?

"I'm in my skin now baby. It’s all me."

“I’m proud of you,” Marma said, hugging her.

Friends demoralized Aniyah for not buying a house or something practical with

the relief money, but liberation started with her body, recognizing who she was. What

Marks 19

was the point of fixing her boat, or buying a cottage, if it belonged to a stranger? A

vagina feels even more like a vagina after you’ve deliberately cut off the penis.

“Put your bag down Marma,” Flossy said. “Get a couple glasses off the shelf. I

got bourbon in the back. You want something to eat? Aniyah’s been making some real

good bark. Makes the white chocolate in the kitchen using almond milk. Organic stuff

and she buys the red-hots from Barneys? You remember Barney? Big, bald guy, liked

jalapenos on his oysters? He’s still here, and Doug Moses. The Crawford’s, Silas and

Emily. Remember? You use to get in all those brawls with Emily…”

“Yup,” Marma said. Exhausted already. Time to go back?

“Let the girl relax,” Aniyah said, placing her soft hands on Marma’s shoulders.

“Stop talking about yourself. Let her say something.”

Flossy and Aniyah (Antwan back then) used to stay up, shooting dice in the

cockpit. No matter how loud they got, Marma and her brother had to stay asleep in the

cabin. They didn't get why Aniyah and Flossy played craps on their boat when Aniyah

had a cruiser all to herself.

"Oh!" Flossy said. "I know what you can tell us. Tell us about Richard. Was it

Richard?”

Marma took a small sip.

"Shit!" She said, spitting it back into her glass.

"What was that?" Flossy said, laughing. "You forget the taste of Kentucky? Too

much shitty beer?"

Oh right. I can drink again, Marma thought. Baby’s gone.

"His name was Rob. Not Richard," she said. "We broke up."

Marks 20

"Doesn't know what he had," Flossy said. "Never met a good Rob."

"You're young," Aniyah said. "Hell, I'm sixty and still don't got a man."

"And we’re better off without them," Flossy said, clinking her glass to Aniyah's.

"Your husband was too stubborn for his own good," Aniyah said.

Louis felt like a character from a book, as if Marma could take him off the shelf

and skip the bad parts.

"My dad?" Marma asked quietly.

Returning to New Orleans felt like waking up a corpse.

“Yeah, your daddy,” Aniyah said.

Marma shifted her legs, alerted by the burst of menstrual blood. It was unusually

thick compared to the week’s steady flow.

"Thought he was Captain Edward or something. Kids kept screaming at him to

get off the damn pontoon. He just sat down, like the chief he was, and waited for the

thing to roll over,” Aniyah said. She wanted them to feel bad, just a little bit, for

abandoning them.

“You remember when my water broke with Ryan? And I’m lying on the ground,

and that son of a bitch, still has to take a damn shower. I mean, I’m about to give birth in

the yard, and Louis’s waiting for the water to get hot,” Flossy said, smiling. “Stubborn as

a pig.”

Their laughter sounded like bullfrog croaks in summer.

"Where's your bathroom Mom?"

"Door's right behind the barber chair," Aniyah said, wiping tears from her eyes.

She’d forgotten about that story. It always cracked her up.

Marks 21

Marma slung her book-bag over her shoulder, draping it low enough to cover her

butt. She leapt over the ottoman, weaved around the chair and shoved the door open.

"Where the fuck is the toilet!" Marma shrieked, hobbling over taxidermy bats and

tin pails. The interior décor didn't suggest "bathroom." The only piece of furniture that fit

the description was a copper tub. It sat in the middle of the room, on a heightened

platform like a kings thrown. She threw her clothes over a life-sized Elmer Food statue,

and hobbled in the bath. Goop was sliding down her legs, making her thighs sticky. Her

stomach sagged.

Marma spread the lips of her vagina. Tiny pieces of membrane spiraled out like

helicopter-leaves. Tissue looked like gnats. She gazed at the stringy particles, confused.

Am I that dirty? She turned the faucet on and pushed the matter towards the drain. She

clogged the drain with a sponge and sat in the shallow puddle. A bath would be good. Her

uterine muscles writhed in pain.

Blood spurted from her vagina. A small fish-like pod swirled in the water, than

clung to her toe. Marma carefully cupped the water encircling the pod, and brought it

close to her eyes. A fibrous tail wiggled from its belly. She knew instantly what it was.

Baby? It had three little fingers. A hand? Baby? Marma was afraid to breathe—nervous

that the slightest movement might blow the embryo off her palm. She was shocked and

amazed by its presence. It was supposed to be blood. Just blood. Brown blood. But there

was a pod, with a tiny hand, no bigger than Washington’s eye on a quarter. She hadn't

simply removed a puddle, but an ecosystem—a complex, entanglement of life. And it

was her baby. Her baby. My baby? Marma felt enormously powerful, that she an ordinary

Marks 22

being could be so prolific. Like a dinosaur, she thought; the baby was something

extinct—a creature who could have hatched, and towered over earth. I ruined you.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I am so, so sorry.”

Marma had been an irresponsible mother. In the two months she was pregnant she

had gone back and forth between nihilism and a harbinger. Some days she skipped the

tuna because she was afraid of giving her baby mercury poisoning, and other days she

smoked a whole pack of L&M’s. She spent her paychecks on handmade bonnets, and

teeny-tiny jumpers. With tips she kept her bowl packed and ketamine for the weekend.

When the blood first dripped, she nodded in acceptance, went to the pharmacy

and bought tampons, drank Sour Sazeracs with Lena, and let Rob put his thumb in her

asshole. Initially, she was relieved that she wasn’t coming home pregnant. Flossy would

have been ashamed, preached too much. But now, Marma wanted to hear the sermons.

She wanted to believe there was a God who would take care of her baby, and that

eventually he would reunite them, but she’d been an atheist since Katrina. She believed in

finality.

“What the hell are you doing, bathing with the door wide open?” Flossy asked,

closing the door as she entered. Her smirk quickly turned agape as her eyes settled on the

tea-stained water. Marma whipped her head around. The pod slid from her fingers and

got lost in the tub. Flossy stepped towards her.

“No!” Marma squelched, not knowing which particle was fetus or lining. “Just let

me find her. Please let me find her!”

Suddenly everything looked like a pod, like a baby, like a body drowning in

water, and the images got loud and she couldn’t hear her mother, because her senses were

Marks 23

deranged and it appeared that all things were screaming. She slipped under the water that

was dripping over the edges. Flossy dove over Beltane wreaths and lavender bundles. She

pulled Marma up from the water.

“What the hell are you doing?” Flossy asked, gripping her wrist, yanking her up.

Marma coughed up water, dry heaving.

“Jesus Christ,” Flossy said. “You are a grown woman. What did you do? Did you

shit in this water?”

Flossy refused to believe that her daughter was “diseased”, or chemically

imbalanced. Sure, she didn’t deny that mental disorders existed, but not with her child.

Marma wasn’t malnourished. Flossy didn’t sip a single drink during pregnancy. Aniyah

suggested it was Hasham. Flossy didn’t agree. I mean she was raped, but every girl’s

been raped. Just another stitch in womanhood. She believed Marma hadn’t matured,

hadn’t gone through enough hard experiences. Should have just stayed in New Orleans.

That’s the problem with this generation. Kids are just moved away from their problems.

You want someone to work hard and get by; they’ve got to deal with their troubles—face

them head on. Like we did as children. She often wondered what Ryan would have turned

out like, had he survived Katrina. She swore he’d be strong. A fighter. That’s why he

stayed with his father. Those boys were the same.

“Here, let me get her. Let go of her Flossy,” Aniyah said, flinging Marma over

her shoulder.

It was strange to see her daughter’s ass, slung over Aniyah’s large back. Marma

bludgeoned Aniyah’s weave with a bottle of conditioner. When Marma was little, Louis

carried her the same way, up and down the docks, trying to “pacify the devil.” Something

Marks 24

was always wrong with that child. Even when she was little, she’d make up terrible

stories—claimed Lucifer lived in Mr. Svoboda’s boat. Screamed every time she went

near it. Mr. Svoboda had been a family friend since Louis and him were boys, nicest man

Flossy ever knew.

“Well, this is going to be fun,” Aniyah said, carrying her out the door. “We have a

tranquilizer handy?”

“Just put her to bed,” Flossy said, which was the same thing she’d say to Louis.

Put her in the boat Louis. Just but her to bed.

“It’s going to be tough getting her up there,” Aniyah said, standing at the bottom

of the spiral staircase.

“Just go,” Flossy said. “I’ll grab her legs.”

“Get that damn soap from her,” Aniyah said. “This wig aint a helmet.”

Flossy grabbed it out of her hands and berated Marma’s forehead.

“Quit Marma!” Flossy snapped.

Marma gaped at Flossy, stunned, then sobbed into Aniyah’s shoulder.

“Well that’s one way to take of it. Just kill her,” Aniyah said, twisting around the

metal steps. She squeezed the railing with her right hand. Her fake nails scratched the

silver.

“At least she’s calm now,” Flossy said.

“Just get the girl some Advil,” Aniyah said, reaching the loft. Slatted screens and

old doors separated Flossy and Marma’s rooms. Marma’s bedroom was bare besides for a

queen-sized mattress and a couple boxes. On the other side, Flossy’s bed hung from the

rafters. Treasures hid in the carpet. Despite the material fantasia, Flossy knew the Advil

Marks 25

was kept in a cast iron crate of stemless wine glasses. Things got lost if the place was too

clean.

“Wait,” Flossy said, as Aniyah lowered Marma. “Let me put this towel down.

She’s menstruating.”

“What was I thinking, becoming a woman?” Aniyah asked, laughing.

“You signed up for it,” Flossy said, pulling a quilt over Marma.

“Did more than sign up for it,” Aniyah said, wiping sweat off the rims of her

glasses. She felt tottery. It’s been a while since she carried a drunk home. “Wouldn’t that

be nice? If you could just make things right by signing up?”

“Thinking I should sign her up for Debutant School,” Flossy said, pushing the

casement window open. Smoked pork and gospel blew in.

“Yeah, teaching her how to fold napkins is a real meditation,” Aniyah said,

heading down the stairs. “Maybe I shouldn’t have talked about her father.”

“She’s just immature,” Flossy said. “That and she looked stoned. Girl can’t

control her grass.”

“You should have listened to that doctor,” Aniyah yelled, flicking switches as she

sauntered towards the exit.

“Oh, that doctor’s full of shit. They’re just trying to raise her tuition. It’s God she

needs,” Flossy said, leaning over the balcony. It overlooked the café.

“Don’t send her to that nun,” Aniyah said, then swung the door open. “She’s just

another fortune teller on Bourbon.”

“You’re just mad that God doesn’t accept homosexuals,” Aniyah said. “You can’t

blame Sister Betsy for that.”

Marks 26

“What I’m talking about is…”

“Hasham?” Flossy asked. “That girl had plenty of years to pick herself back up.”

“You’ve got to open your own damn eyes,” Aniyah said. She slammed the door,

rattling the walls.

Marma rolled over in bed, clenching her blanket. She drew her legs to her breast,

containing herself in a tight cocoon. She didn’t like sleeping naked, especially in strange

places, but she refused to get up, to stretch, to be exposed. Everything ached. Her body

felt as empty as the room.

What happened? Did I pass out? Marma associated flashbacks with Vietnam vets,

camouflage uniforms running and “rolling thunder”. For a brief second, she wondered if

war was comparable to her experience. Shut up Marma. She often scolded herself. Don’t

be stupid.

Her analogy wasn’t wrong. Bound thoughts store like energy in uranium. Critical

mass is engineered to implode when triggered. Marma laid in the split second, between

the initial fission, and hydrogen being blown apart.

The schism was blood in the water. Smell of damp clothes and old, rotting

trinkets. Tiny reminders carried her conscious from Treme to Triumph, from the café to

Svoboto’s boat. Cobalt blue shined out of a bronze shell and glazed the water. Marma

stood on the lowest rung of the railing, watching shark blood propel from the motors.

Isn’t that pretty? Mr. Svoboto asked, putting his hand on her shoulder. Almost like a

painting. Marma nodded.

Marks 27

Amtrak Rail

Saguaro National Park

June 23, 2000

On the train ride from San Francisco to New Orleans, Hasham practiced

interviewing with Klauspeter Seibel, the Louisiana Philharmonic Orchestra director.

There was a seat open for a violinist. The easiest part would be the audition. Hasham

was well rehearsed in the German Classics. His father, Yasser, was the original tiger

mom. While his friends played in abandoned chicken coops, Hasham rehearsed scales in

his father’s honey store. By the time Hasham was twelve he was bored of replaying

Bach’s Chaconne, much to the amazement of the high-class Californians who came to

buy Yasser’s magical beeswax.

From Baroque he moved to Leroy Jenkins. Splintered jazz syncopated nicely with

puberty. Hasham felt that Leroy was leading him to manhood. Jenkins free-formed so

hard his bow-hair littered stages. And the man never cracked during a baritone solo.

Hasham felt free to blur the lines—stray a little.

Occasionally he smoked half a cigarette in the locker-room instead of praying.

During Ramadan he ordered Lara St. John’s Gypsy from San Francisco. The shipping

charge was worth it. Her rendition of Carmen seduced him. Proof splattered her album

cover. Yasser blamed the impurities on the public school system. You always pay a price

for free lunch! Immediately after cracking the CD, Yasser enrolled Hasham at Valley

Crescent School. Prisha Nasrallah sat next to him in calculus. During a slide-show

presentation she took out a freezer-bag full of Barbie heads. In between logic and method

she glued blond scalps to pencils. The principal expelled her for witchcraft. Hasham

convinced the board to forgive Prisha after reciting Surat Al ‘Imran, 136: Their

Marks 28

recompense is forgiveness from their Lord, and Gardens with rivers flowing under them,

remaining in them timelessly, forever. How excellent is the reward of those who act. He

also offered, tutoring. I believe instructing her on Qur’anic morality is Allah’s wish.

During their first “tutoring session” Hasham gifted Prisha a copy of Niccole

Paganini. The album included La Streghe or “Witches Dance.” That Saturday he found

her collecting feathers in Woodward Park. Her sneakers squelched in mud. The hem of

her patchwork dress was tethered. Flower petals drifted from her hoody pockets.

Somehow she’d managed to make a Von Dutch trucker hat, adorable—probably because

she was still wearing her yellow sari underneath.

“Hey,” he said, removing his sweatband. His waves of brown curled below his

chin. It annoyed Prisha that he took better care of his hair then she did.

“I’m a feminist, not a witch,” Prisha said, stuffing a bouquet of feathers into a

grocery bag. “They use to hang women because they were smart.”

“A lot of women in the KKK were wiccan. They also hung people,” he said,

hoping his pectorals appeared larger in sunlight.

“You’re disgusting,” she said.

“You could at least thank me,” Hasham said.

“For what?” She wanted to spit on him for being a pompous asshole.

“For getting you re-enrolled,” Hasham boasted, laughing.

“Why did you think I wanted to be re-enrolled into an academy that doesn’t

permit freedom of speech?” Prisha asked.

Hasham snickered.

“Patriarchy isn’t funny,” she asserted.

Marks 29

“Anything can be funny,” he argued.

“Assault?” she asked.

“Funny,” Hasham said.

“Death?” she asked.

“Funny,” Hasham said.

“Marriage?” Prisha asked.

“Hilarious,” he said.

She sat on a bench with her back towards the river.

“What? Are you really mad?” he asked, running in place. “I apologize, honestly,

if I offended you. I meant witch in a Mesopotamian way. Come on, lighten up.”

“I am,” she said, pulling Menthols out of her sweatshirt.

“Good one,” he said, smirking—watching a little girl scatter breadcrumbs along

the shore. Ducks honked and nibbled the bits. A boy, slightly taller than her, shrieked

with delight. The ducks retreated.

“Child molestation.” she asked. “Funny?”

Long strands of black hair clung to her fleece. He imagined her mane to be thick

considering her frazzled brows and upper lip. Unlike his friends, he thought a little fuzz

was natural, even womanly.

“Pedophiles are the funniest,” Hasham said.

“No.” She shook her head angrily. “There is a difference between a pedophile and

a child molester. Not all pedophiles are monsters.”

“Still funny,” Hasham said.

“Great. I have a really good joke for you.” Prisha flicked the cherry.

Marks 30

“Can you tell me while walking,” he asked, airing out his muscle-tee. “It’s almost

time for As’r.”

“Pray here,” she said.

“The Fengshui is wrong.” Usually he prayed in the grove of cherry trees. Bare

branches left him with little company. Hasham never understood why pink blossoms

mattered. Trees were beautiful with or without spring.

“Fengshui,” she beamed, amused.

“Just, tell your story,” he said, sitting beside her. “I’ll pray here.”

“K. It’s so funny.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Like, you’ll probably shit yourself.”

“Great.”

“Okay. I had a sister and my parents could only afford to send one of us to

America,” she said, twinkle-eyed and cheery. “So on my sister’s ninth birthday she

married a thirty-six year-old goat farmer.”

Hasham laughed.

“Ah, I’ve heard this before. The half-blind clodhopper accidently marries his pig.

Comedic gold. Come on, let’s go. We should pray.”

“This is better than the Clodhopper. Just wait. So, my parents sell my sister, and

get the money, and after three years they finally pass immigration, and get the okay to

send me to Ohio where relatives are waiting, but the Goat farmer shows up at the airport

with two dead bodies. One’s my sister. The other is a slaughtered faun. The farmer claims

my sister cheated on him with one of his goats and demands his money back. So my

Marks 31

parents suggests he takes me,” Prisha said, pulling a feather from her pocket. She ran her

thumb up and down the spine. A spot of oil abutted the edge of her nail. Sun illuminated

the grease. She rubbed it in the webs of her fingers. Her hands coruscated.

“Then what?” Hasham asked, wishing he could hold one of her hands—protect

the scintillas from fading.

“Then I lead a life of bestiality until he died of rabies. After I buried him, I

released all the animals, and road a beautiful white steed across the ocean until I reached

California.”

His stomach felt as if someone was ringing the water out of it. He no longer

wanted to run or kneel under naked trees.

“You’re not laughing,” she said.

“It wasn’t funny.”

“You said all things can be funny.”

“That was a strange story,” Hasham said, not knowing if he wanted to hear more

stories. He didn’t have answers to stories like that.

“It’s not a story,” she said. “It’s my life.”

Hasham squeezed her hand, which was no longer celestial, but indigo like his

fathers and his own—not brown or black, but deep blue, the color of penstemonias that

emerge from snow in the Sierras.

“Here,” Prisha said, sliding a disc out of her hat. “I made you a mix that’s actually

good.”

Marks 32

Bon Temps Café

1505 Saint Phillips St.

New Orleans, LA 70116

May 17, 2010

Flossy shined a flashlight in Marma’s face.

“Good morning sweetheart,” she said. “Feeling better?”

“It’s still dark Mom,” Marma said, pulling the blanket over her head.

“Please tell me you didn’t leave your violin at school,” Flossy said, sitting on

the edge of the bed, holding a mug of coffee. Biscotti crumbled down her shearling robe.

“Mom. Can we talk about this later?” Marma yawned.

“No, because if I have to drive you all the way back to get it, then we have to

leave now. I can’t leave that hole alone for too long.”

Marma considered lying. It might be better to fib and say she left it there, have her

mom drive six hours, and then blame it on the janitors, they must have thrown it out, but

Flossy would search through every dumpster in Louisiana, and fuss with every janitor on

campus and it might be the janitor who took a sledgehammer to the porcelain, and he’d

tell Flossy what happened, and Flossy would skin Marma with a potato peeler.

“I didn’t leave it at school,” Marma said, softly.

“What?” Flossy’s eyes bulged from their sockets. “What do you mean you didn’t

leave it at school?”

“Jesus Christ! What do you want me to say?” That I wanted to shove it down the

john as soon as I got it?

Marks 33

“You lost it,” Flossy said, shaking her head. “You went to some party, trying to

show off, and you lost it. A two thousand dollar violin, and you lost it. I knew I should

have kept it.”

“You really think I’d lose it?” Marma asked, sitting up. I carried it around like a

sword, slayed by sliding from one note to the next. Cherubic piccolo tore down her

insecurities. Vibrato filled an empty room. You really think I’d misplace a tool that

powerful?

“I don’t think Marma. I know,” Flossy said, getting up.

“Oh, fuck off.” Marma picked at white paint chipping off the window ledge. She

liked sleeping next to a potential escape.

Flossy patted Marma’s leg and said, “you better pray Sister Betsy gets the devil

out of you before I do or I aint buying you a knew one.”

“Sister Betsy?” Marma chuckled at the arbitrary name. “Who is Sister Betsy?”

“She’s going to talk to you about your problems.”

“A psychologist?”

“A woman of faith,” Flossy said, taking the necklace off Marma’s dresser. “Help

you deal with some of your issues.”

“What issues?” Marma peeled off the dried blood on her thigh. It was gritty and

dark, the consistency of a stale gummy. Why can’t she just forget? She wanted a break

out of jail free card. She couldn’t control the memories. It was something in the

bathroom. Something reminded her of Plaquemines. One of the relics. If she avoided the

room she’d be fine. Where will I shit?

“I don’t know what issues Marma. That’s what we’re going to find out

Marks 34

Yasser Rahal

4 North Mosaic Way

Clovis, CA 93619

November 2, 1999

Hasham spent months in the bee fields covering songs from The National and

Neutral Milk Hotel. After playing Communist Daughter on repeat he returned to the

comforting narcissism of Wolfgang and Bononcini.

“As-Salam-u-Alaikum wa-rahmatullahi wa-barakatuh,” Yasser said, entering the

kitchen with his arms outstretched. His body-odor smelt like an old, unwashed

microwave. Hasham didn’t mind the stench after Prisha accepted him as “the original

crust punk.”

“Good morning father,” Hasham said.

“It’s nice to hear Bononcini again,” Yasser said, placing an envelope on the table,

next to a can of cardamom pods.

“Thanks,” Hasham said, resting his violin on his crossed leg.

“You are grown,” Yasser said.

“Yup,” Hasham said. Although he didn’t understand the bridge between

machismo and 17th century composers, he knew Yasser was proud. It felt good.

“It was your mothers dream that you play the violin.” Yasser drizzled honey over

a bowl of cream and bananas. “It was one of many. She was full of dreams for you.

Wanted you to have nice clothes, a safe house, and a dog.”

“I never got the dog.” Hasham wondered if his father’s pride might produce a

puppy. Hasham considered dogs to be the propria of Californians.

“But you have everything else,” Yasser said. “That is my point.”

Marks 35

“I know.” Hasham stirred his tea. No puppy.

“Won’t it be nice when you can play for her?” Yasser asked.

“Of course,” Hasham said, smiling and blew a kiss to the Vogue cutout on their

fridge. It was not a photograph of Hasham’s mother. It was Jennifer Lopez, who Yassar

claimed to be a spitting image of her. It didn’t matter that she was from South America

and worked with Oliver Stone.

“And he will play for you soon! Darling,” Yasser said, pointing at the photo.

“Yup! Be there soon Ma,” Hasham said.

Yasser raised Hasham with the notion that America was temporary, and that once

he made enough money, they’d return to Yemen. But Hasham didn’t take the plan

seriously. His friends, all raised by Indian Sikh’s, were told the same, but none of them

returned to Rajasthan. Occasionally it was rumored that a distant third cousin’s girlfriend

was shipped back to Syria, but Hasham always believed “they returned” was a

euphemism for college, or eloping with a Christian. In most cases it was.

“You are graduating from high-school,” Yasser said, pressing the bananas to the

bottom of the dish. “I think it’s time that you reunite with your mother."

"Yes. Me too," Hasham said, startled by the vibration in his book-bag. Either it

was Sree trying to get lecture notes or Prisha wanted a ride, and Hasham never missed an

opportunity to take Prisha to school.

“I am so proud of you,” Yasser said. “I was warned by a Murshid, that American

air was infested with evil, intoxicating Yemeni children.”

Prisha’s number appeared on his beeper.

Marks 36

His dick hardened just looking at the numbers. Shame seemed to be popping up

more frequently. Hasham promised to pray about it. Is it possible that my erection just

speaks for my heart?

His father continued, saying, “…not following their religious duties—being late

for salat, Horror stories of daughters berating parents in public. Listening to fasid music,

that hop-hip. Miss Elliot. But you…You are a Ḥūrī. I can tell everyone in the Mosque

that you play the music of Muhammad.”

“I’m happy to make you happy,” Hasham said, while paging Prisha.

“I have arranged your flight,” Yasser said, pushing the envelope towards

Hasham. “No need to thank me.”

Usually five or ten dollars was inside, but this time the paper was yellow.

“A ticket?” Hasham said, after pulling it out. “Wow.”

Hasham ran his thumb over the barcode and flipped it over several times, as if

twirling it might make the departure date disappear. This is real. This is actually a ticket.

SAN-AH. Airport. 0081A.

“Your Uncle will pick you up. I’ve asked him to show you around the city. He

suggested taking you to a soccer game, which you can do if you prefer, but I encourage

you to see the Ghumdan Palace or Bab al-Yaman. There’s soccer everywhere. Why he

wants to take you to a soccer game, is beyond me. He’s always been…aloof. The

youngest usually are, but tell Jalal…”

My Uncle? Jalal isn’t real? My mother’s J.Lo. Who the hell is Jalal?

“Baba, I have to go,” Hasham said, placing the ticket back in the envelope. I don’t

have time for this. I can’t believe he spent money on a ticket.

Marks 37

“She will probably make too much food,” Yasser said. “Hopefully she’s learned

how to measure in the last twenty years. If not, I’m sorry. Everything will taste like

fenugreek. Be polite. Do not fall back on American manners…you are uncomfortable, I

know.”

“Baba, it’s a wonderful surprise,” Hasham said, kissing his father’s cheek. “I’m

not uncomfortable at all. Can’t wait.”

"I will come eventually. Once I have enough to last us, I will join you, but for

now you have to go. You’re mother’s getting old and Jalal is joining the resistance. You

have to go. It’s you’re mother Hasham. Look at her,” Yasser said, staring at J.Lo. “She

has been waiting seventeen years to meet you.”

Marks 38

Betsy Vanderbilt

1436 Verna Ct

New Orleans, LA 70119

May 05, 2010

“Is the transition giving you anxiety?” Sister Betsy asked, sitting adjacent to her

Persian cat. Saint needed the tufted sofa with manicured claws. Owner and pet both had a

round face and short muzzle, framed by a mane of ivory locks. Weirdoes. They probably

have best-friend tattoos, Marma thought. Saint erected his tail, and stuck his butthole in

Marma’s face.

“What transition?” Marma asked, picking cat hairs off her blouse.

“Transition is a changing of state. For example, your first year at college ended

and instead of going home to Durham, you’re in Treme. You’re mother opened a cafe.

You lost your violin. These are transitions. They can be very stressful.”

Marma propped a silk pillow against the back of the chaise and reclined. Saint

scrambled.

“No. It’s fine. It’s not like I didn’t know we were moving back,” Marma said,

eyeing The Floor Scrapers by Gustave Caillebotte. A painting about poverty in an old

plantation mansion. How special. Prussian blue walls boxed meticulous clutter. Gilded

encyclopedias leaned against a bronze greyhound. Cabinet doors were left open,

exhibiting rare Japanese fertility sculptures. Travel anthologies sat on a Tibetan armoire,

though it was clear Betsy wasn’t nomadic.

“Marma?” Sister Betsy clapped, trying to get her attention.

“Sorry…I got sidetracked, uh anyway, once Mama got the grief money, she

started talking about Treme, which was kind of fun, because we both had something to

Marks 39

look forward to. Me starting LSU and her going back into business. It sort of bonded us,

you know? We finally had things to look forward to.”

“Of course,” Flossy said. “I’m sure you were anxious to move out of your

shelter.”

“Shelter?” Marma questioned, picking at her thumb. Scabby fringe adorned the

cuticle.

“Well initially, Durham was where you sought refuge,” Sister Betsy sipped

comfrey tea out of a Spode tea-bowl.

“From my dad?” Marma asked, confused.

“No, from the hurricane,” Sister Betsy clarified.

“Mom didn’t leave cause of the hurricane. Shit, she’s powered through a dozen

storms. It was my father that got us in the car. He was being crazy,” Marma said, sitting

up. She put her hands on her knees. “We left months before the storm came.”

“Oh,” Betsy said, genuinely surprised. “Sorry. I just assumed.”

“Everyone does.” Marma leaned back, jigging her leg. She couldn’t keep still. As

comfortable as the chaise looked it was hard and awkward.

“So, why did you move?” Sister Betsy asked. “You mentioned your father. What

was your relationship like?”

It would be so easy, Marma thought, to tell a sad story. I could tell her how dad

kept scotch in the console of his Sea Ray. Never fished without drinking. I could tell her

about the “glitter trails.” Bouillon headdresses. Rhinestone pasties. The crystal tiara

Mom let me wear for Halloween. Souvenirs, Mama called them, from his voyages. Gifts

from the mermaids.

Marks 40

“He just had a way of getting to me,” Marma said. “And Mom especially.”

Flossy’s lips parted, eager to preach but Regina Carter’s Aint Nobody interceded.

“Oh shit. Sorry!” Marma pulled her phone out. “It’s just Lena. I’ll call her back.”

“Lena?” Sister Betsy asked, taking a very small sip, as if she was trying not to

drink it.

“My best friend.”

“From Lafayette?”

“Yeah she goes there too, but we’ve been tight since Durham. We met at the state

fairgrounds in the victim center. The volunteers made us do these dumb icebreakers. She

was my partner for a potato-sack race.”

“I thought you weren’t in a shelter?” Sister Betsy asked, reaching in her drawer,

trying to find honey.

“Mom volunteered for the red cross,” Marma said, twirling her bracelet around

her wrist. “She thought we’d have a better chance of hearing something.”

“Hear what?” Sister Betsy asked, although she knew. She was the one who found

Ryan LeMoine, blitzed, wearing a ragged suit, singing with the choir. His gray skin

glimmered like a pearl underneath the basilica’s chandeliers. One of his eyes was swollen

shut. DIY stitches across his cheek. She recognized him instantly. God have mercy, it’s

that redheaded heathen. The year prior, Ryan stole Baby Jesus from the nativity set. His

cackle kept her up at night.

“News of my family,” Marma said, annoyed she’d ask. Questions felt like

foreplay. She hated foreplay. Wanted to get to the point so she could finish as soon as

Marks 41

possible, yet grief isn’t easily satisfied. It’s not fluid. Grief is a heavy clay bowl, sitting

inside a cold kiln. Waiting.

“I see,” Sister Betsy said, attempting to make eye contact. “And when did you

hear?”

I was sleeping in my cot. Mama kneeled. Shook me. She said my name really

softly, “Marcelie.” I knew what she was going to say. I wanted her to get it over with it.

Just say it. “Your brother and father are dead.” She expected me to cry. So I pretended.

She got in the cot with me. Wrapped her arms around my stomach. Her tears fell on my

face. It annoyed me. I wanted her to get out so I could sleep.

“I don’t remember exactly.”

“It’s okay dear,” Sister Betsy murmured. Too soon. “I apologize.”

Denial dressed itself as ennui. Marma wasn’t complacent, just suspicious. In a

world full of magic, it seemed impossible for tragedy to occur. In Babylon, Jesus turned

water into wine. At the docks he turned sand into oysters. Funerals into festivals

“Tell me about the violin,” Sister Betsy said. “I heard you’re pretty talented.”

Louis told her that bivalve babies have a one in a million chance to age. And Lord

knows you can’t feed nobody a baby. Somehow Louis caught each and every one of those

calcified miracles. Threw the young ones back in the sea. You can’t be greedy, baby. You

can’t take everything. So how could God take everything? Her despair quickly turned to

anger. She pictured everyone drowning. Everyone losing everything. Maybe then, if they

knew what it was like, they would do something.

“It’s a wooden string instrument with approximately two-hundred horse hairs,”

Marma said, picking dried yogurt off her pleated skirt. Thoughts like that scared her—

Marks 42

wanting someone to drown--the toxic, bruised emotions that punched walls and broke

lampshades. Occasionally she’d throw herself at a drum set. Break a good pair of sticks.

“Your mother told me you’ve been playing since you were a little girl.”

“Mhmm.” Marma didn’t want to talk about it. She wanted to think of life pre-

violin. AKA pre everything.

Zari talked about flying horses. Rougarou. She wrapped legends around Marma

like a wool blanket. They girls sat snuggly in the thick fabric, evading the cold. Marma

depended on her warmth. Enshrined folklore. Forgot hurt. Retained treasures. Effaced

burden.

“Are you still playing?” Sister Betsy asked.

She knows I’m not.

“No,” Marma said. What is the real question? “I might start gardening or Bo-

taoshi. I just want a change.”

“You received a scholarship from LSU for music,” Sister Betsy said. “That’s

pretty impressive.”

“It wasn’t much,” Marma responded. “I’ll still die in dept.”

“Did you become disinterested?” Sister Betsy asked.

“Bored?” Marma laughed. “Probably the opposite of bored.”

“Over stimulated. Stressed maybe?”

Hasham didn’t pluck the strings. He didn’t grind them, or beat them without

breathing. His bow moved tenderly, genial. Lightness of touch. His songs reminded

Marma of church bells and gossamer, music at a soiree with ruffles and madcaps. Most of

the time, at least.

Marks 43

“I guess,” Marma said.

After Zari stopped coming to the docks, Marma disappeared in Hasham’s music.

She watched stories unfold in intervals and tremolo. Napped in cradlesongs lush as cloud

beds.

“So, it isn’t that you didn’t enjoy it. You were overwhelmed?” Sister Betsy folded

her hands and leaned over her planner. Her daybook was embossed with gold lettering. It

read I’m the Boss. Sure are, Marma thought, sarcastically.

“Yeah,” Marma said. Overwhelmed? Conversations with hairdressers, growling

dogs, and ironing overwhelmed her. Playing music fed her. She craved it. “It wasn’t that I

didn’t want to play anymore. It was just this one song…I lost it.”

Dvorak’s From the New World. She argued that the composition was not a

representation of seventeenth century “bohemia”. Bassoons and triangles disagreed

(Marma never used names in the chamber. She called everyone by his or her instrument.)

She didn’t understand how the mourning of slaves fit into the “romantic” period.

Symphony No. 9 was inspired by plantation songs and Native Americans. Dvorak

appropriated the coded messages of human chattel and created a “masterpiece.” French

Horn believed that it was the skills Dvorak learned in Europe that lead to the songs fame.

His stances drove Marma to drink herbal tinctures during orchestral practice.

“Musicians can just be so…” Marma bit her lip, afraid of sounding too calloused.

They were still her chamber members. Bonded. “Insensitive.”

Dvorak reminded her of Hasham. Before college, the only fact she new about

Symphony No. 9, was that Neil Armstrong took the recording on Apollo 11. It became the

soundtrack for the first moon landing. Hasham taught Marma the song at night, so they

Marks 44

could imagine the astronauts, standing in the shadow of a lunar module. Between their

helmet and earth, violet mountains blocked out earths curvature—mountains made of

dust. Sunbursts flowed through peaks like rivulets.

“Ah,” Sister Betsy said, tapping her pen on the page. “Perhaps you can tell me

more about the violin next week. It seems we’ve run out of time.”

“Okay,” Marma said, disappointed—staring at her blistered palms—proof that she

sculpted sorrow, patiently rotated it, and formed hollow shapes. Myriad vessels waited to

burn.

“Oh! And please remember the check next Friday,” Sister Betsy, said, stirring a

full cup of tea.

Marks 45

Valley Crescent School

547 W. Nees Ave

Clovis, CA 93611

04/12/2000

It turned out Yasser wasn’t the only jingoist who thought Hasham should return to

Yemen. When Hasham walked into class his teacher and classmates surprised him with a

party. He embraced their compliments, put his arm around his teacher and swooned over

the Arabian Sea. In the bathroom stall, Hasham gagged, trying to keep himself from

crying. Midwest? Nah, too many hate crimes. New York was too artistically pedestrian.

Vermont?

“New Orleans,” Prisha suggested as she walked into the boy’s lavatory.

She leaned over the sink and lined her eyes with charcoal. Hasham kicked the

stall-door open and asked, “why?” He was use to her prophetic abilities. She had a way of

knowing. It was part of her mystery—one of the many reasons he loved her.

“They have depth,” she answered.

He would have went regardless of what she said, but depth intrigued him. Depth

implied something he didn’t know about or something she thought he didn’t know about.

“They also,” she said, tucking a hair behind her sari, have an open seat available

for a violinist in the Louisiana Philharmonic.

Her socks were pulled over her knees. She crossed her legs, leaning against the

concrete wall, standing in her platform Mary-Janes. Hasham grinned. His mouth felt sour,

as if he’d been sipping Tamr Hendi. He popped off the toilet seat, and resisted grabbing

her face with his hands. In another world he might have kissed her cheek.

“You thought of me,” he said. “Praise Allah.”

Marks 46

“What are you talking about?” she asked. “I’m always thinking of you.”

“Huh?” he asked, bewildered. Hasham was sure she used him for his car and

beard. The only time she asked to hang out was when she needed Gin or cigarettes. No

one carded Hasham.

“You’re so stupid,” she said, pushing past him.

It was Prisha who would take care of Yasser when Hasham was gone. Prisha who

tended to Yasser’s persecutory delusions and remained empathetic during his wife’s

“affair” with Marc Anthony. Prisha who knew that the real reason Hasham didn’t go to

Yemen, was because he’d be too far from the tule fog, sequoia trees, and his father.

Hasham’s anxieties became her anxieties. What if Yasser remembers that his wife left

them, that she asked not to be found, that she never tried to reach them in her thirteen-

year hiatus that she does not look like JLo, but a young Diane Rehm? What if he

remembers how badly she hurt? How bad would he hurt if he remembered?

The door swung close. Prisha’s lipstick sat on the sink. Hasham picked it up and

inspected the gold tube. Besame was embossed on the side. He plucked the cap open,

curious of the cosmetic’s smell. He found a small knife wrapped in a scroll. Written in

Arabic, she scribbled for protection. She didn’t mean to leave it, but he thought she did

so he slipped it in his pocket, and smiled.

Marks 47

Bon Temps Café

1505 Saint Phillips St.

New Orleans, LA 70116

May 5, 2010

Amongst all the clutter, there was an actual coffee bar. The glass display cases

were taken from an old jeweler and the nickel-plated cash register made a satisfying Cha-

Ching! A hunchback in a knitted trench coat peered at pastries through a monocle.

Desserts sat in tufted beds of satin, meant for opulent rubies and amulets.

“I’ll take a stack of that cherry candy and some apricot coffee cake. The one with

those crunchy things on it. And I’d like it in a box, not bagged,” she said, hoisting up a

fraying carpet bag.

“All right Honey-Bear,” Marma said. She wanted to be the type of server that

smoked a lot and called people sugar or darling, but “darling” didn’t come natural.

Maybe I should watch Amelie? Isn’t she a waitress…

“Sans toi,” she whispered, quoting the movie as she reached for the tarts. “Les

émotions d'aujourd hui ne…”

“What’s that?” the woman asked, leaning in.

“Just talking to myself,” Marma said, winking with both eyes because she

couldn’t wink with one. “Is that all madam?”

“Without you?” the woman translated, taking a step back, marveling. Eyes

glowing as if she was watching something spectacular on stage.

“Oui!” Marma said. She’d taken French in high school. “Is that all you’d like?”

“C’est tout! Merci beaucoup cher!” the woman said excitedly, handing Marma a

twenty-dollar bill. “It’s nice having another Cajun round these parts.”

Marks 48

“Same,” Marma said, kicking Aniyah’s butt as she squeezed by, holding a tray of

pralines.

Luanne’s neighborhood use to be a library of languages. Translations slipped into

each other, forming new words, new definitions. Togetherness felt possible, Luanne

thought, rhetoric doesn’t have as much power when language is void of a hierarchy. Her

brain bubbled, pushing up thoughts. Uncovering philosophies buried deep, almost

decayed, but possible to resurrect.

Marma smiled, subtracting the numbers, thinking of Hasham because he

introduced her to Amelie, and encouraged her to speak French, and listen to French

musicians—to think of people outside the docks. Bruno Le Forestier, Noir Desir. What

else would he have taught me? What would I be doing right now, if he was here? The

“what if’s” haunted Marma. Reminders like the slow dripping of water into the thirsty

mouth of someone who would eventually drown.

“One to go Ms. Luanne?” Aniyah asked, as she grabbed the candy with a sheet of

wax paper, and passed it to Marma. “Give this to Ms. Luanne please.”

“Une lagniappe,” Marma said, placing the treat in a checkered box. She tied a lace

ribbon around it, and stuck a vanilla pod between the bow. “Bon apeti!”

“Bonswa sweet child,” the woman said.

Chairs screeched as Luanne pushed by. Her cane hit a Tashiro planter. Her boot

kicked the shattered pieces, but she didn’t notice. Her mind was elsewhere. Marma

reached for the broom.

“Before you sweep,” Aniyah said, blocking Marma. “Tell me how you got that

lady to smile at you?”

Marks 49

“What lady?” Marma asked, trying to get past.

“Ms. Luanne. Monocle. Ex-witch. Has a voice like Christopher Walken.”

“Lady who just knocked that pot over?” Marma asked.

“Yes! Your mom calls her the great depression. Seriously. Always has a scowl on

her face. What you say to her?”

“Sans toi…without you today’s emotions would be the scurf of yesterday.”

“What?” Aniyah asked.

“It’s a quote from Amelie. A movie. Hipolito? It’s French. I was speaking

French.”

“You know French?” Aniyah asked, smirking. “Say something.”

“Aniyah un plomb. Aniyah, etre con comme un balai.”

“Oh,” Aniyah said, tucking a loose curl in her head wrap. “You do know

something.”

“You going to let me sweep now?” Marma asked.

“Look at you,” Aniyah said, letting the brush fall towards Marma. “Sophisticated.

Bilingual.”

“Me? Little old me? A skit-scat? Thank you darling. Butler, bring me my hankie.

I’m meeting Alice Coltrane for brunch!” she shouted, galloping around the counter,

envisioning herself as “sophisticated”. Aniyah laughed, taking the top off the industrial

coffee-grinder. Just another eccentric, warm spirited nutcase. Aniyah wondered if Flossy

was wrong. Maybe the girl isn’t crazy. Maybe Marma just needs to be Marma. As two

revolving blades chopped hundreds of beans, she watched Marma carry the metal dustpan

towards the door. She held it steadily with one hand, smiling, giving the thumbs-up to a

Marks 50

little boy. The customers liked her. Hell, she might even bring us some more business.

People like cuckoo.

Marks 51

Lemoine Oyster Bar

345 Earl Lanes

New Orleans LA, 70038

June 6, 2000

Marma sat on a tin pail eating pork rinds. She itched her head, scraped something

off her nails, and stuck her hand in the bag. Flakes got wedged between braids. Red hair

spiraled in salt. Denim shorts rose too high on her legs. Hasham drifted in and out of

sleep, curled up on a bench, cuddling his violin. They overlooked the Mississippi.

“Daddy should be out any second,” Marma said for the ninth time.

“Great,” Hasham said, yawning—sucking in more air then usual. His head rolled.

Eyes fluttered, then shut. He picked his head up and rubbed his temples. After the

Orchestra’s rejection, Hasham imbibed negronis at a bar congested with taxidermy, and

wrote his future-self letters by candlelight. Do not be naïve! Do not trust women. Dreams

are not real. Logic is real. After snooping at his ballad, a waitress told him the best place

to catch a gig is The Lemoine Oyster Bar. Down in Buras. Ask for Louis. The after-hours

club he pictured turned out to be a rickety dock in a horseshoe shape. Three houseboats

jutted on either side. Six total. Louis wasn’t home yet, but his nine-year-old daughter was

sitting between the two piers, playing bones. She played a decent triplet; let the bones

follow her body.

“You can’t yawn in front of Daddy,” Marma said, tapping the pail with her

corkscrew. “He can’t know you’re tired.”

“I know. I know,” Hasham said, lightly slapping his cheeks.

“I could make you some coffee,” Marma suggested. “We have coffee in my boat.”

“You should go back to bed,” he said. “Aren’t you sleepy?”

Marks 52

“I told you. I’m a Zombie-ack,” Marma said. She refused to leave.

“Your mom’s going to be mad at you,” he teased, amused by the odd

circumstance he found himself in. Middle of nowhere with an antsy, gap tooth, little girl,

waiting for the owner of a non-existent restaurant, unless the restaurant was on a boat or

in that strange tin shack. What’s with the circle of picnic tables? Looks like a cult thing.

“See that big one?” Marma asked, pointing. “The fish trawler with the naked lady

on it? That’s Henrys’. He can shuck forty-something oysters under a minute. Even daddy

can’t do that. You’ve shucked oysters before, right?”

“I haven’t,” Hasham said.

“That’s something daddy will ask you in the interview. He won’t hire a guy

who’s a slow shucker, ” Marma said.

“Why?” Hasham wondered if shucking was a test of agility—how skilled one was

with their fingers.

“Well, you’re here because Daddy needs a kitchen hand, right?” Marma asked.

“I’m here to play music. That’s why I have this.” He drummed his fingers on his

violin case.

“Just for tonight?” Marma asked.

“I don’t know,” Hasham said.

“Where you from?” Marma asked.

“California.”

“Daddy says a bunch of surfer douchebags lives there,” Marma said.

Hasham laughed, stunned that she cussed.

“Not in Fresno. It’s a big Yemen population and Indians.”

Marks 53

“Really?” Marma asked, highly intrigued. “You live in a teepee?”

“No.” Hasham chuckled, sitting up. “People from India, in South Asia. Not

Native Americans.”

“Oh, Chinese people,” Marma said, bewildered.

“Uhm, no. Not Chinese. India. It’s separate from China…do you go to school?”

Hasham asked.

“Yes!” Marma said. “I’m in third grade!”

“Have you taken a Geography course?”

“That the one with rocks or places?” she asked.

“Places,” he said. “A lot of maps.”

“Yes, I think so.”

Hasham imagined his father’s reaction to the child’s disposition, her uncombed

hair and lack of manners. Crumbs everywhere. She didn’t thank Allah before eating a

handful of miscellaneous pig bits or apologize for yelling.

*

“Sir, I don’t want to work in a kitchen. I’m a musician. I was looking for more of

a…” Hasham said, staring at a spread of oysters that looked more like candies then

mollusks. Each shell was adorned in a neon compote and roe. Two Dixie-cups full of

Muscadet sat in the middle of the table. Men on opposite sides of the booth.

“You don’t want a supper club. Plus, nobodies going to invest in some kid they

never heard of, when The Dirty Dozen Brass Band lives next door,” Louis said. He

unbuttoned a couple notches on his leopard print suit jacket. A narrow scar stretched

from his neck and curved towards his nipple—it was bumpy like a tentacle. “Even if you

Marks 54

get a gig fiddling at some Hee-Haw, the club owner won’t have pennies to promote you,

so you’ll be losing cash off the bat trying to crayon some flyers. You’re going to need

some income.”

They sat in the galley of the Lemoine’s houseboat. Their table paralleled a pink

kitchenette. State magnets and wrinkled photographs infested his fridge. Louis stretched

over, grabbed a picture, and laid it on the table.

“You know who this is?” Louis asked, smirking. The man in the Polaroid had a

widow’s peak, long fingers paused above pistons. His mouth just about to blow.

“Louis Armstrong,” Hasham said, smiling politely. “Great jazz player.”

“You see that other guy?” Louis asked, grinning. In the shadowy background, a

waifish fellow saluted the cameraman.

“Professor Longhair,” they said simultaneously.

“And this guy,” Louis said, putting another photo down.

“Shoot. He had that single, Mother-in-Law! Wore a cape and crown,” Hasham

said, wanting to say Kermit Ruffins though he knew it wasn’t Kermit Ruffins.

“Ernie K. Doe,” Louis said. “And that’s me with him. About twenty years

younger, but you can still tell.”

“Nice,” Hasham said, amazed that a fishermen had enough time to Photoshop so

many pictures.

“Nice? I have a picture of me and Ernie K. Doe and you say nice?” Louis

questioned, drizzling balsamic over an oyster. “Thought as a musician, you’d be more

impressed.”

“Adobe,” Hasham said. “You used Adobe.”

Marks 55

“A dough what?” Louis let the briny sack fall down his throat like a shot of

whiskey.

“The Photoshop program for computers,” Hasham said, charmed by Louis’s

performance.

“You’re saying their fake?” Louis asked, chagrinned—wondering why he was

trying so hard. It wasn’t like the team couldn’t handle a few days without another

shucker. Hell, if this kid is difficult now…but Marma liked him. She wouldn’t stop talking

about him. China this and tee-pee that. Guess he’s some sort of Native American.

Louis slid off the bench and started chucking photos off the fridge. Hasham wiped

his hands on his Levi’s. He didn’t want to dirty the photos even if they were cons.

“Mayfield, Snooks Eaglin…Dirty Dozen Brass Band,” Hasham mumbled.

Skeptism washed away with discoloration, heads cut off, thumbs in the way—mistakes a

photographer would have corrected. Terence Blanchard with a spoonful of gratin. Master

Pete juggling tomatoes, wearing a ski-sweater. Marma dancing in the background. “Holy

Shit! Is this Lil Wayne?” Magic soaked in. Soulja Slim, Mystikal…The stars have

aligned. His belief in Allah heightened. His stomach rolled, alarmed by his astonishment.

“You met Curren$y? You actually…he was here?”

“Yup,” Louis said, covering a shell with Worcestershire sauce. He swallowed an

embryo of fermented fish sauce. Goop burned its way down his esophagus. Louis rattled

his head like he was shaking the heat off. After his mouth cooled down, he grabbed a

photo-strip, “see this peach? That’s my wife getting a wet kiss by Dr. John. And this here,

this is one of my favorites.” Louis spun around a picture of Allen Toussaint holding a

Marks 56

baby with one arm and a stack of ribs in another. The baby sucked on a bone—barbeque

sauce all over her face.

“My girl’s only about five months old,” Louis said, smiling proudly. “Allen came

to one of our rib-fests after Hurricane Andrew. Storm ravaged his Aunts old house, and

he came to jam after he got done making things right, settle down with us, you know?

Man, he didn’t put Marma down for a second. Let her sleep in his big jacket, rolled up in

the captain’s chair. Good man.”

“Wow,” Hasham said, not knowing how else to describe the glitter floating in his

belly. So many of his hero’s in one place. Sitting where I’m sitting. He spread the

photographs around the table, wanting to tell someone, chest tingling. Louis poured him a

third glass of wine.

“And all those legends,” Louis said. “Worked in the kitchen out back.”

Hasham looked out the oval window, mulling over the proposition. Waves

washed the glass. Specs of salt and stone reflected streams of light on the counter.

Hasham touched a dot of white, thinking of Prisha and the gold pendant his father wore.

There wasn’t a clear connection between kitchen-prep and famous musicians, but Louis

intrigued him—the whole place intrigued him. Who knows? Maybe there’s something in

the water.

“Ok,” Hasham said. “I’m in.” Hasham glanced at the fridge, imagining his own

picture. He couldn’t wait to write Prisha. The letter was already outlined in his head.

“Well, I declare a toast,” Louis said, holding his glass up. “I’m real excited to

have you here.”

Marks 57

They clinked glasses. Hasham held the wine in his mouth—absorbing the crisp,

salty taste. Effervescence washed his tongue. His enchantment bubbled over.

Marks 58

Bon Temps Café

1505 Saint Phillips St.

New Orleans, LA 70116

June 19, 2010

Carla walked in and Marma knew it. Thee Order. Medium, triple-shot, whole milk

latte with two pumps vanilla, caramel drizzle in a tic-tac-toe pattern, steamed at 120

degrees, in the Charlie Brown mug and one slice of banana nut bread. Buttered. Heavily

buttered. Carla was allowed to have a bitchy order because Carla came every day. Sunday

to Saturday. Sat in the same place: in the old dentist’s chair by the fireplace. She arrived

at six in the morning, read two chapters of a book, and left. Everyday. That’s fifty dollars

a week. Two-hundred bucks a month. Seven-hundred and thirty chapters a year.

Homogeny mystified Marma.

By the time Carla reached the counter, Marma had the duck mug on the counter.

Bread buttered. Boom.

“Hi Carla!” Marma said, joyfully.

“Good morning,” Carla said. Her voice always sounded disappointed. She

glanced at her order. “Has this been sitting out?”

“I saw your car pull up. It’s still hot, but I can take the temperature if you need me

to,” Marma said.

“Please,” Carla said. “One-hundred and twenty.”

“Of course,” Marma said, walking towards the steamer, sad her latte art was for

naught. Such delicate leaf work.

“Actually, can you just remake it?” Carla asked.

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“Yeah,” Marma said. No Problem. Cows like being eternally pregnant for

nothing, right?

“And rinse out the mug, please?” Carla asked.

“No problem,” Marma said, proud of herself for being so patient.

She washed the cup then dried the cup. Set it on a new plate with a new napkin.

Got milk out of the fridge. Put the milk in a pitcher. Submerged the wand in milk. Tilted

the pitcher. The wand hissed. She hissed back, then turned the wand off. Tapped the

pitcher on the table to pop bubbles. Queued the espresso. Pumped vanilla into the mug.

Poured the espresso over vanilla. Lifted the pitcher three inches above the cup and poured

slowly, in a circular motion. Once the cup was two-thirds full, she dragged the pitcher in

a zigzag motion, creating rose petals. Made a tic-tac-toe across the flower with

homemade caramel sauce.

“Thank you dear,” Carla said, once Marma handed her the monstrosity. “It looks

perfect.”

“I hope so,” Marma said, smiling. “It’s on the house. Sorry for letting the first cup

get cold.”

Carla winked. Marma took a well deserved exhale and leaned against the fridge,

wondering what it was that made people so intense. Maybe this is the only time she’s in

control. Maybe, this latte is the only happiness in her life. Maybe she some sort of phobia

of imperfect hot milk drinks.

“Hey baby,” Aniyah said, wiping tears off with the back of her hand. “Your mom

wants to talk to you for a second. She’s in the kitchen.”

“You okay?” Marma asked, taking the cash register key out of her pocket.

Marks 60

“Yeah. Just fine Marma,” Aniyah said, taking the key. “Just go ahead.”

What is going on? Does mom have cancer? Was my financial aid rejected? Are

we out of salt again?

Her mother sat on stacked crates with a clipboard in her lap, between two giant

burlap bags stuffed with espresso beans. Gray eye shadow and tears formed tiny, pasty

balls that sat in the corners of her eyes.

“What’s going on?” Marma hopped on a barrel. “Everything okay?”

Everything was stacked neatly on the racks. All the mug handles were turned in

one direction. Stoneware with stoneware. Saucer on saucer instead of plate on saucer on

soup bowl. Flossy only organized when life got messy.

“Honey, you remember Keon?” Flossy asked.

Ah.

Marma stayed quiet, waiting for the next part.

“They found his body,” Flossy said, sniffling. “It wasn’t too far from Zari’s.”

Marma nodded, deciding what to do with the information. Sadness didn’t come

straight away. It had to touch each vein, hit all her nerves and bones before it reacted.

Marma tended to knot her veins before the pain slipped deep. She clotted emotions.

“You know, he’s at peace now,” Flossy said, getting up. She grabbed Marma’s

hands. “His Mom said they had a real nice funeral.”

“They didn’t invite us?” Marma asked, alarmed.

“Marma, it’s been ten years sense we’ve seen her. It’s nice she thought of us,”

Flossy said.

Marks 61

“But I grew up with him.” Being angry with someone felt better then losing

someone, even though he was lost a long time ago. “Fuck, you practically raised him. He

lived with us the majority of his life!”

Keon and Marma flipped through graphic novels, popping skittles, listening to

acid jazz. He always had quarters for gumball machines and arcades. They made their

own version of Queppe Dolls with slippers and softballs. He made Zari and Marma

drums out of soup cans and balloons. He made coco if he got homesick. Nestle Hot

Chocolate. Butter. Brown Sugar. A whole half-carton of cream and caramel.

“Can you even imagine what Mrs. Harris went through? Ten years, not knowing

what happened to her son. I can’t even imagine,” Flossy said, forgetting momentarily that

she too was waiting. She met Marma’s eyes, which never momentarily forgot anything.

Eyes like jewel beetles. They cut through Flossy like a hook. Marma didn’t know it, but

she reeled her mother in. Flossy’s coldness rose from Marma’s temper. If her daughter

felt hurt, Flossy felt it three-fold. Flossy thought the only way to stay sane was to build

walls, determined to keep Marma inside, safe, but levees are not foolproof. Water is

meant to run.

“What about Ryan?” Marma asked, disgusted. “What do you mean you can’t

imagine?”

Flossy shook her head and grabbed her clipboard.

“I have to finish intake.”

Marma bit her lip and nodded.

“Right,” Marma said. “Because that’s what normal people do when someone

dies.”

Marks 62

Marma ignored the line and went straight for the IPod. Changed the Pandora

station from the Rat Pack to Brooklyn Funk Essentials. She wanted island hip-hop and

poetry. Punkie brass. In-your-face synthesizer. Psychedelic horns that threw people out of

their chairs and into the streets, but really, she just wanted coco. In her favorite mug.

Chipped three times around the edges as if a bear bit it. White inside stained brown from

decades of coffee. A child’s illustration of a one-eyed frog near the handle. F.T.K

initialed on the bottom.

“Marma, I need three au’laits, apple strudel warmed up, the trash needs taken out,

and Carla needs a refill,” Aniyah said, once Marma returned.

“Carla?” Marma asked. “She never gets refills.”

Aniyah shrugged.

Marma pulled the strudel from the pastry case. I mean, Keon was practically her

son. She set the timer. Lifted the trash from the can. Tied the ends. Got a new bag and put

it in. And what the fuck…She couldn’t talk about Ryan, not even in the safety of her own

head. The oven beeped. She took the strudel out, slipped it in a box, and rested it on the

counter. Put the trash to the side. Fucking Carla. A tear slipped out. She brushed it off.

Another tear. Let it drip. Grabbed her frog-mug and three little packets of raw-sugar.

Ripped the tops off. Poured the sugar in. Poured cream in a pitcher. Set the wand in. She

hissed louder then the wand. Took the wand out. Six pumps of chocolate. Added the

cream. Got a butter packet from the condiment container. Scooped the butter out with the

wand. Stirred. Tears fell in the mug. She laughed. That’s right, drink my sorrow! Marma

topped it with a generous amount of whip cream. Instead of placing it on the counter, she

put it on a saucer and hand-delivered it to Carla.

Marks 63

“What’s this?” Carla asked.

“This is the best drink you will ever drink in your whole life,” Marma said. “Just

drink it. Okay. Just enjoy it. Please.”

“I don’t understand,” Carla said.

“Me neither.” Marma walked out the door and screamed into her hands. It did

nothing accept startle the customers eating on the terrace. She put Lemoine Oyster Bar in

her phone’s MapQuest. It no longer existed. Phone said, make sure your search is spelled

correctly. Try adding a city. She erased the search. Buras Triumph, Plaquemines Parish.

An hour and twenty-three minute drive.

Marks 64

Lemoine Oyster Bar and Farm

345 Earl Lanes

New Orleans LA, 70038

September 12, 2000

“That’s God’s pond!” Babic said, wiping gills on his apron. “Right in the

Mississippi, when it smacks the Gulf, and you get all those tributaries. That’s where you

get the best oysters.”

Babic didn’t use gloves. He liked feeling the shell. Let the juice run between his

webbed fingers, slip down his fishing pants, and wet the floor. Sea vomit. Hasham

concentrated on his egg-shaped knife, terrified of ramming the blade into his hand.

Wounds got shuckers benched.

“Come on man,” Keon said, stepping around Babic’s gut bucket. “Every day you

knock that over. Every damn day.”

“It’s not that he knocks it over,” Ryan said, walking through the screen door,

sunburnt and lit. “He just doesn’t use it. Throws all that shit on the floor.”

“And who cleans it?” Babic asked. “I do.”

“Don’t even play that. We all know Hash cleans your shit,” Keon said, filling his

jean pockets with jars of hot sauce. The added weight pulled his pants below his briefs.

His midriff was smooth and steely like a stingray’s back.

Babic shook his head, smiling as he thrust his knife in the bivalve, separating two

shells. He cut through the muscle, and flipped it on the flat side. Oyster intestine stuck to

his muttonchops.

“I need fresh ones,” Ryan said, uncapping his flask. He drank a cocktail of last-

sips abandoned by customers.

Marks 65

“How many?” Babic asked, leaning over the table. A flab of white belly rested on

the cutting board. Tiny black hairs protruded like pufferfish spikes.

“Three more,” Ryan responded, placing it on his tray. “Butter me Hash.”

Typically Hasham would have replied with lascivious banter, but he was

concentrating. Silver hit bone, hit tray. Like claves or dowels clapping in Guaguancó.

Babic shucked and plated metrically. Hasham tapped his foot in time while ladling

melted butter in a ramekin.

“Hash, why are you so quiet?” Keon asked, taking wood off the racks. His job

was maintaining the fire pit: setting a large metal plate over the coals, tossing oysters on

it, covering them with wet burlap, and serving them. Right outside the kitchen, flames

roared in the middle of a large loop of picnic tables. It sat fifty people comfortably, but

most patrons squeezed together, found a lap, or stood.

“Doesn’t this sound nice?” Hasham asked, picking two empty shells out of the

bucket. He clapped them together. “Better then sticks. Am I right?”

“Let me hear it again,” Keon said.

Hasham tapped the shells together, a basic 2-3 beat.

“That’s good.” Keon two-stepped. “I like that.” He ran his tongue along his lips,

started blowing raspberries, oscillating.

Babic shook his head, while wiping grit off the table into his bucket.

Ryan handed Babic his flask. “Have a drink old man.”

If the customers weren’t eating smoked oysters, Ryan carried out fresh ones. His

mother, Flossy Lemoine ran the bar. On rare occasions, when the crowd got

overwhelming Flossy let Marma help. She could whip up the tastiest hurricane in the

Marks 66

parish. No one mentioned labor laws. Either patrons didn’t give a shit, or saw that Marma

truly enjoyed bartending—wore a little apron, demanded tips, and performed hilarious

impersonations of Emeril Lagasse.

“Ryan!” Marma kicked the door open. She stood in the entry with her hands on

her hips. Dull pencils stuck out of her jean-short pockets. Red frizz sat in two puffy balls

on her head. “Dad’s back. You have to help him unload stuff off the trawler!”

“What the hell? We’ve got a full moon out there,” Ryan said, in reference to the

crowded picnic table. “I got three plates I have to deliver and…” Muttering violently to

himself, Ryan left the dishes, and stormed off.

“At least he left us something to drink,” Babic said, shoving the flask in his

pocket.

“You better watch your pants, man. If Ryan knows you got his cup, he’ll rip those

off. And Lord knows none of these people want to see you naked.”

“Mama said I could help carry the trays,” Marma said confidently.

“Ah, really?” Keon said, laughing. “You’re going to carry these big ass trays all

by yourself?”

“Yeah,” Marma said, holding her arms out. Mosquito bites covered her elbows.

She had a match-burn on her ankle from a tic removal. Her freckled skin looked like salt-

glazed stoneware, Germanic jugs Hasham saw in museums. He smiled, thinking of her in

terms of music. She fit into a song like a vocal sample, a snippet of recorded history;

ancient language from decayed wax cylinders. She had an archaic strength that reminded

Hasham of portraits in National Geographic.

Marks 67

“I’ll help you,” Hasham said, putting plates on a tray. He tried to preserve her

strength. His notion of romantic bohemia was beginning to wear off, at least when it

came to child rearing. Marma missed school often, usually hung around lewd adults, and

breathed in too much smoke. Once he found her tipsy on the boardwalk, teetering

towards the water. She lay down, telling Hasham to go home, that she was fine. Good

night. He cried as he carried her home, feeling her soft, small head asleep on his chest—

frail legs draped over his arm.

The door swung open. Hasham jumped back, almost dropping the tray.

“Guys! You have to come out here. My man Frank’s here,” Ryan said.

“Frank,” Marma whispered, licking her lips.

“That young kid? He’s like twelve or something?” Keon asked, grabbing Ryan’s

shoulders. “Raps like a mother fucker?”

“Sings like a sweet angel,” Ryan said, picking up napkins and pots, trying to find

his flask.

“I love that kid! Damn, Hash you got to see him. This dude won out a freestyle

battle against Juvenile!”

“Juvenile?” Hasham asked, skeptical.

“Yeah man. You know who Juvenile is, right?” Keon asked. He started singing

one of his songs, “girl you looks good, won’t you back that ass up. You’s a fine

motherfucker, won’t you back that ass up.”

“Call me big daddy when you back that ass up,” Ryan sang, grinding against

Babic. Babic whacked Ryan’s shoulder with a wet spatula.

“Girl who you playing with, back that ass up,” Marma sang, guffawing.

Marks 68

Keon pulled Marma into a hug. “See, even this gangster knows Juvenile.”

“That’s not appropriate,” Hasham said, pointing a spoon at Marma.

“Come on bro,” Ryan said, pulling on Hasham's arm. “Let’s get Frank.”

“We got time to get my violin?” Hasham asked.

“Well yeah man, he came here to jam with us.”

“With us?” Hasham asked, excited. “He knows we play?”

“Yes dude! Let’s go,” Ryan said, impatiently busting out the door.

“Old man.” Keon held his hand out to Babic. “Let up.”

Babic reluctantly took the flask out of his pocket and threw it to Keon.

“You be all right?” Keon asked Marma.

“Yeah,” she said sadly, wishing he’d invite her.

“Come find me if Babic starts messing up. Okay?” Keon stood in the door. One

foot on the wooden porch, his other on the linoleum.

“Yup.” Marma watched Keon and Hasham chase after her brother. Mud stuck to

their work boots. Water trickled in their footprints.

“Okay doll.” Babic lowered the tray. “Time to prove yourself.”

Marks 69

2nd Island

Plaquemines LA

06/19/2010

Marma stuck her feet in the shore. Black slime coated her toes. She didn’t

understand why the water was so dirty. The tide pushed up copper gunk. She walked

through the sludge, trying to relive days bygone; childhood morning’s spent strolling on

shore, spotting dolphin fins, collecting mermaid purses. Sauntering wasn’t possible. She

had to bunch up the bottom of her tulle skirt, and trudge. No seashells or polished rocks,

just amorphous iridescent swirls, lopsided mangroves and abandoned pelican nests.

Marma studied cradle sized halos of stale vegetation. Eggs smeared with oil. Where’d

they go? It’s abnormal for parents to leave their chicks. A couple spoonbills flew

overhead, carrying trout in their pouches. Their shadows drifted over a corpse. What is

that? It looked like an angel floating on its back. Wings outstretched. Marma stumbled in

the water. A pelican? Tulle steeped in sulfur. Grit drifted through her underwear. Her

labia filtered nitrogen and phosphorous.

She wanted to clean the carrion in a claw foot tub, comb its feathers, and patch the

lobster bites. If nothing miraculous happened, she’d place magnolias and lilies around her

throat. Light candles. Keep the bones. Play bagpipes. Write a darling epitaph on a hedge

stone. In loving memory of my beloved. The smell alone could have killed the bird. Like

ten thousand cadavers rotting.

She walked back to the nest, stepped into the hole and curled her body around the

eggs. The embryo’s squawked, cold. Marma pressed her palm on the shell. Tears fell. She

didn’t want to be sensitive. Tears are pointless. She wanted the water back to its original

color. She wanted the dead pelicans to rise up, and the dead fish to keep swimming. It

Marks 70

was worse then she imagined. As if her nightmares had melted and oozed from her pores

into the Gulf.

Marks 71

2nd Island

New Orleans LA, 70038

09/28/2000

There are four known Islands off the coast of Louisiana, but there’s a fifth

unmapped. The LeMoine’s just called it “2nd Island” because everyone knows Grand Isle

is thee Island. Louis’s great-grandfather or great-great-uncle (depending on who asked

who) found 2nd Island hunting mudbugs. Took his canoe all the way down Mississippi,

couple yards off Iberville’s tip and found a patch of the Bon Temps! They built a small

shotgun in a grove of orange trees. Painted it custard yellow. Hickory chairs rocked on a

wrap around porch. Kids shoes and deflated balls scattered amongst lobster cages and

bistro tables. Pools of condensation formed around pitchers of lemonade. Beach towels

hung over the railing.

Marma ran down the trail, parallel to the shoreline, skimming both hands across

saltmarsh grasses. She knew every curve, where the rocks jutted, when to duck, or jump

over a fallen Oak. Big dipper fireflies sparkled in toothed-edge leaves. Pecan shells

cracked on branches. Hoppers bombinated in bluebells. She heard the squeal of Ryan’s

harmonica, interlaced with the gruff yawn of Keon’s cello. They were close by, playing

over the wall of sandbags.

“Rar!” Louis jumped out of the locusts with his hands curled like claws. Marma

shrieked. He clenched her overall straps, dangling her above the sandy soil. “Dis wild ole

hog’s got you now, baby!”

“Daddy!” she wiggled in his arms, trying to get out, but he was buff from erecting

dredges and tugging the line. “Let me down!”

Marks 72

“What will you give me?” he asked, in a low, croaky voice.

“Nothing!” she said, punching his Dashiki vest with tiny fists. Her vehemence

made him feel like he was doing something right. He thought happiness depended on

verve.

“One kiss or I throw you over.” Louis swung her in a circle. Her slippers flew off.

She screamed and giggled.

“Well?” he asked, stumbling over a dirt mound. She pecked his forehead.

He let go. She scrambled over the barrier, hopping in her brother’s footprints.

They slanted inward. Toes spread far apart. She didn’t look up until water poured in.

Smoke blew ash in circles above the water. The tide caught up to the fire pit, which Louis

said use to be a couple miles from the ocean.

Keon sat on a tilted stool. It’s legs sank in the sea. He balanced his cello on

driftwood. Hasham improvised a solo, ankle deep in water. His instrument looked like a

fiddle, but it sounded too sweet, nothing Marma recognized. Whispery like wind over

palm trees.

“That’s a fiddle daddy, right?” she asked, once Louis caught up.

“Yeah, but you never seen it played like that.” He twisted his gold ring around,

completely enamored. “He’s got something.”

Hashahm’s wrist seemed diabolic. Unnatural, the way it jounced like rubber.

Painted stories instead of drawing sound. His fingers glided along the strings, shifting

from one note to the next like skiers on snow. Hooked two notes in one bow, then three

notes. Occasionally he clucked the wood with his knuckle for percussion, or whistled.

When the violin breathed, his fingers still tremored, impatient for the next move.

Marks 73

“Sorry,” Hasham said, taking a swig out of Ryan’s flask. “I get caught up

sometimes…I’ll keep going if no one stops me.”

“Brah, I don’t think anyone’s trying to stop you,” Keon said, smiling. “That was

tight.” He reclined in his rocker, with his hands folded behind his cornrows. Moonstone

bracelets slid down his wrist. “Hey boo,” he said, waving to Marma. She smiled, curling

up with Louis on a beach chair. Water soaked his sandals.

“I didn’t know you could play like that.” Ryan talked with a mouthful of broiled

shrimp. He swallowed them politely before talking again. “You’ve been holding out.”

“What do you mean?” Hasham asked, watching Mr. Svoboto emerge from the

sea. “You’ve heard me play before.”

“Fiddle,” Keon corrected. “We’ve heard you fiddle. Dixieland. Square dance, but

you never let loose like that. Like you mixed up Arabic pop with Bach…Bachpop. You

like that word?” He turned to Marma but she was gone. “Where’d she…”

“Hey! Mr. Svoboto!” Ryan ran up to his canoe. He fastened the rope to a metal

rod sticking out of the pit.

“Evening gentlemen,” Mr. Svoboto said. Scuba goggles wrapped around his neck.

“Evening Mr. Svoboto,” Hasham said, nodding his head. “They shook hands.”

“Duchess Castile,” Keon whispered in Hasham’s ear. “The Noble is back.”

Hasham smirked. He didn’t know why Keon called him Duchess Castile. There

was nothing ladylike about him—though he wasn’t entirely masculine either. He had his

own oceanic gender. Fishlike. Blond hair stuck up like a fin on his scalp. Backbones

protruded like flippers. Eyes as endless as a sharks. Neon wetsuit. Maybe he wants to

blend in, Hasham considered.

Marks 74

“Good to see you man,” Louis said, straightening his sou’wester hat. He grabbed

a Budweiser from the cooler and handed it to Mr. Svoboto. “Just missed Hasham.”

“Missed what?” Mr. Svoboto asked, eying the violin.

“A hell of a good show.” Louis roughly patted Hasham’s back.

“You play by ear or by sheet?” Mr. Svoboto asked.

“Both,” Hasham responded.

“Who taught you?”

“My mom.”

“Your mom?” Ryan asked, confused. “Didn’t she run off or something?”

It took a moment for Hasham to register. He intended for Ryan to keep that

information private. He was slowly learning that no one on the docks kept anything to

themselves.

“Yeah, when I was six, but she started me at a Suzuki school when I was in

preschool.” Hasham picked his head up. “We started out with cereal box’s and rubber

bands.”

“What kind of cereal was it?” Keon asked, chuckling. “Fruity Pebbles is my jam.”

“I think it was Wheaties,” Hasham said, scratching his back with the tip of his

bow. Marma chuckled. She hid in the branches of an orange tree, listening to waves creep

up shore. Water twisted through rocks in the bellies of ark shells.

“Is that Marma?” Keon asked.

“Sounded like her.” Hasham said.

Crabs scratched sand, burrowing in holes. What if she gets pinched?

Marks 75

“She’s fine. Just hiding,” Louis said, picking burrs off his socks. “Probably just

finding another conch shell to give me.” His pockets were swollen with last week’s

treasures.

“Guys, can we try something real quick.” Ryan pulled his harmonica out.

“Hasham, that sound you made, what’s it called, that flute thing?”

“Flautando?” Hasham asked.

“Sure,” Ryan said. “Can you flaw-town-doe, while Keon plays that super fast

riff?”

Accelerando.

“Loud, right?” Keon asked.

Fortissimo.

“Right, then Hash can start up with that real whiny shit.” Ryan ditched his plate in

the sand.

Grave. An emotional climax in a song is called grave. Hasham leaned his jaw

against the violin, thinking of his mother. Cindy read musical terms instead of bedtime

stories. Dictations found their way into his soliloquy. Before Plaquemines, he considered

a broad vocabulary an indication of intelligence, but broad didn’t apply to Ryan who

described everything pleasant as “dope” and anything uncomfortable as “dumb as shit.”

After meeting Ryan, he realized that intelligence has nothing to do with words. Grave is

whiny shit. It’s the music.

“And a one, two, one-two-three-four,” Louis said, clapping his hands.

Marks 76

Bon Temps Café

1505 Saint Phillips St.

New Orleans, LA 70116

June 19, 2010

Aniyah tapped her cigarette on the wooden porch railing-painted lime green to

match the shutters.

“My dad use to roll his own,” Marma said. She imagined him in the cockpit,

holding a cigarette between his lips. Look dat, he’d say, watching a flock of plovers rise

from the bayou.

“I know,” Aniyah said. “Who do you think taught me how to roll joints so tight?”

Sometimes Marma forgot Aniyah use to be Antwan, that she wore slacks to

Marma’s recitals, a bowtie to Ryan’s wings ceremony, that Aniyah saw more of her

father then anyone else in the family, because Antwan use to dredge. It was hard to

imagine Aniyah doing manual labor. Marma wondered if she missed being muscular, less

fatty.

“Can I have one?” Marma leaned against the railing. Across the street, gymnasts

practiced baton twirling in the soccer field. An occasional flicker of silver shined in the

stadium lights.

“Make it yourself.” Aniyah handed her the injector. She lolled on the porch

swing. Braided chains jingled. Leather clogs scuffed the concrete. She slowly peeled off a

strip of fake lashes. Her natural lashes refracted into fans—thicker and longer then the

synthetic ones. A tuna can filled with vermouth sat on the fringe of the Turkish rug—its

design lost in footprints and bird shit.

“Why do you drink things out of cans?” Marma sprinkled tobacco in the tube.

Marks 77

Aniyah pulled out a wrinkly tissue, spat in its fold, and smeared foundation off

her jaw. She said her freckles came from her Irish Grandmother, but all Marma saw was

African. She couldn’t look at a black person without wondering if their ancestors were

slaves. Incapable of letting history go. Lessons outlined in fourth-grade history books.

Photographs of flagellation. Nooses hanging in trees. Children sold out of their mother’s

arms. How could someone treat another person like that? She wanted to burn the

plantations down. Grow crops in the ashes. Start over again.

“I use to can tuna,” Aniyah said. “That was my first job.”

Marma watched the majorettes. One girl cartwheeled, while others caught rods

behind their head, at their side, under a kick.

“You know how much goes into one can?” Aniyah asked. “First someone has to

catch the fish. Then you have to remove its head and tail. Then you gut it. Once it’s

gutted you steam it for two hours, sometimes four hours if it’s a big fish. While it’s

steaming you start hacking away at other fish. Cut their heads off, repeat dat. Once it’s

steamed, you have to cool it on a rack, debone it, vacuum seal it and heat it up again for

two hours. That’s nine hours work for a 99 cent can and it’s not fun work either.”

Four batons flew up. One girl missed. A whistle shrieked and Marma felt

embarrassed for the gymnast. She probably practiced so hard. What if she spent the

majority of her young life trying to catch that stick? The other girls kept going. Rolling

their elbows. A Tour Jete. Salute.

“I’m just trying to make the can worth it,” Aniyah said.

“Sounds like awful work.” Marma checked her phone. “It’s fine if you want to

take a streetcar home.”

Marks 78

“I’m fine waiting.” Aniyah bent her long neck over the edge of the swing. She

closed her eyes and inhaled.

“You don’t need to wait for my mom to come. I’ll be fine by myself.”

“Really? Cause I thought you’d be fine taking the trash out, but you just took

yourself out and didn’t come back for what, ten hours?”

“But I’m fine…”

“You don’t smell fine.”

Coffee scrub and bath bombs didn’t wipe out the odor.

“I know,” Marma said. Defeated.

“I’m not leaving you by yourself,” Aniyah said, “if you want to go inside and rest,

go rest.”

“Nah,” Marma said.

“Then take a seat.”

Marma sat down and let the swing rock her. Held the smoke in her mouth, drew it

into her lungs, until she blew it out her nose. She wanted to believe that all the ephemeral

moments of peace were worth lung tumors.

“Why’d you go?” Aniyah asked.

“Go where?”

“To the island.” Aniyah flicked ash over the porch railing. “Don’t even try telling

me you didn’t go. I can smell it on you.”

Her tone was flat, apathetic. There wasn’t a right way to respond. Is she upset that

I left her in a swamped café or mad that I wanted to see it?

Marma shook her head. She couldn’t talk about it.

Marks 79

“You must have known it wasn’t going to be pretty,” Aniyah said.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think the spill would be that bad,” Marma said.

Aniyah laughed. “You got one hundred gallons of crude oil in the water and you

think it won’t be that bad? Jesus Marma. You got to pay attention.”

“I try to.” Marma wasn’t sure if this was true. Did I really try?

It wasn’t ignorance. A deluge of oil: a nasty injury. She hid the wound between

swashbuckling and miscarriage, in the superfluity of booze and recitals. She released her

own chemicals. Meditated. Stole the alcoholic juicebox’s from Beth’s fridge. Acquired a

taste for cafeteria cherries. Ate them alone, replaying the score in her head. Practiced

until her callouses cut open. Etude. Etude. Etude. Etude. Etude. Went from serene

lullabies to turbulent finales. Played until every song sounded like wrought plumage and

eleven watery graves.

“Marma, if I was you. I wouldn’t go back there. Going back doesn’t help. You’ve

got to move forward.” Aniyah patted Marma’s hands. “That’s all we can do, is move

forward.”

There was a sign posted on the auditorium door: Closed for ORED. There were

news reporters on campus, an exorbitant amount of bake sales and “open discussions” on

the environment. Marma bought cookies without seeing where the proceeds went. She

ignored the seminars. Gazed at nothing for long periods of time. Forgot what she was

doing. Where her bow was, what note she just touched. I just have a bad memory, Marma

thought, I’m just spacey. Teachers deemed her inattentive. ADHD. Friends mistook her

as silly, flighty. You’re head is in the clouds.

“Moonraker,” Aniyah said. “That’s what you are. A moonraker.”

Marks 80

Marma pictured a chamberlain raking craters.

“Can I have a sip?” Marma asked, eyeing the tuna can, thinking of powdery dust

and fractured bedrock, a difficult surface, a new terrain. The ability to float above a

mountain range of asteroids. Eternal floating. She wished that’s what she was doing.

Floating in clouds like people imagined. That would be incredible.

“Sure,” Aniyah said.

But I’d want to come down. I’d want to come home.

Marma held the cup to her mouth. Frayed metal cut her lip as liquor trickled

down. Moisture fled her throat and damned her eyes. She got up and watched the batons.

Squeezed the railing. Pinched her eyes shut. Opened and stared without blinking. Such

perfect agility. Such perfect coordination.

“It’s not a baton twirl.” Marma spoke quietly, almost mumbling. “You don’t just

fumble around with thousands of gallons of crude oil in the ocean, around homes, and

people and birds.”

“Don’t you think that girl planned to catch it?” Aniyah asked, going along with

the metaphor. “Life happens, baby. Things fall apart.”

Marma hated that: life happens. No. Life does not just happen to people. People

happen to people.

“But things don’t have to fall apart,” Marma said. “I’m sure if whoever the fuck

owns BP had a summer home in New Orleans, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Sit down baby.” Aniyah patted the seat. “Just come on and sit down.”

Marks 81

Lemoine Oyster Bar

345 Earl Lanes

New Orleans LA, 70038

09/28/2000

Keon plucked the strings so hard they hit the wood. The effect was short,

percussive beats. Ryan blew twelve-tone scales on his chromatic. Hasham experimented

with trebles and cuts, shifting from Celtic repertoires to sarabands. Louis gripped his

chair’s armrest, as if he was on a descending coaster ride. Chords danced erratically.

Switched from a plaint to a confession. Klezmer to shoegaze.

“It’s incredible!” Louis shouted, stumbling towards Ryan. He held his bottle out.

“Genius!”

“Thanks dad,” Ryan said, clinking his glass. Once Louis turned around Ryan

exchanged what the hell glances with Keon.

“Your dad is wasted,” Keon whispered.

“You guys are true to your vision,” Louis grabbed the back of Hasham’s head.

“And you boy, are an angel.” He kissed Hasham’s cheek, making a suction noise. “I bet a

good-looking kid like you gets plenty of ass!”

“All right now Lou.” Mr. Svoboto shoved him out of the water. “Let’s get you

back to your boat.”

“I can get him home Mr. Svoboto,” Ryan offered. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No!” Mr. Svoboto said. “Stay out! Laissez les bon temps rouler!”

“You sure?” Keon asked, buckling his cello case.

“I’ve been handling this fucker for the past twenty-two years. Just leave my yak

tied up and don’t leave the girl.” Mr. Svoboto ignored Louis’s string of senseless banter,

Marks 82

awkwardly leading him towards the sandbags. “Maybe if one of you boys could help me

boost him over the barrier.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said, walking towards them. “I got yeah.”

Hasham eyed Marma who was curled up on a beach chair, asleep. Her neck rolled

over the armrest. It looked highly uncomfortable. Hasham unclasped his case and pulled

the linen off his violin. Gently, he tucked it under her head. A little pillow.

“Thank God he’s leaving,” Keon said, folding up beach chairs. “I love me some

drunk Louis but when he starts talking about pussy…”

“And Bota’s the opposite,” Hasham said. “Doesn’t even drink.”

“Shit, I don’t know how he does it. Louis makes me want to drink grain alcohol.

Hasham laughed.

“Look at this mess.” Keon pointed.

Mr. Svoboto and Ryan were running after Louis, kicking up sand and fauna. After

a while Louis tumbled through a rose bush. Ryan dragged him out, hollering. Daddy, I’m

about to boil you in a stew if you don’t settle down now!

Hasham held Keon’s shoulder. His chest turned in, cracking up.

“I never heard his voice go so high.” Keon cackled. “Daddy!” His imitation

sounded like the squeak of a chair sliding back, inhuman. Hasham had to squeeze his

thighs together, afraid of pissing himself. He’d never heard a sound like that.

“Hey!” Ryan shouted. “You mother-fuckers trying to say something?”

“Daddy!” Hasham yelled in a womanly key.

Ryan dropped whatever he was holding and sprinted towards them.

“Oh shit,” Keon said, unbuttoning his cargos. “We got to go.”

Marks 83

“Where?”

“In the water,” Keon explained, chortling. “Come on man, get your clothes off!”

Ryan ran scary fast. His legs looked like propellers.

“Hash, less, you like getting your ass whooped on sand I’d start swimming.”

Ryan stampeded. Red faced. Blurring the world behind him. Fully clothed,

Hasham hurdled over the waves. Dove into a crest, puncturing the breaker. The surf

coaxed him backwards. He stroked the water with his long arms, freestyling. Gasped for

air, revealing his position. Ryan plundered, yelling jocularly.

“I’ll get you now boy!” A giant wave loomed over Ryan’s head. “Oh shit.”

Hasham laughed as Ryan threw himself against the sea. Ripples enveloped his

body, and lugged him to shore. Hasham floated, resting limpidly in an ephemeral calm.

The Quran mentions two seas living side-by-side, unable to mesh. One sweet and

palatable. The other salty and bitter. There is a barrier not visible to human eyes. In order

to remain free, they must push against each other.

He wondered if he was floating on the partition. To him, the waters looked

homogenous. How could they not be?

Marks 84

Betsy Vanderbilt

1436 Verna Ct

New Orleans, LA 70119

June 22, 2010

“I constantly feel like I’m slipping, like I’m an inch from falling off the edge,”

Marma said, wishing there was a better word for edge and falling. Edge insinuates a

choice, that attached to the brink is a safer space, away from danger, but the edges in her

mind lacked support. Her version of falling excluded landing. “My eyes aren’t working

properly. I sit and feel guilty, and my eyes water, and I can’t communicate with anyone.

My voice locks. I just get really weird. I get in these lulls where I feel like a monster, and

I’m afraid of myself. I get so afraid. I just forget how to respond to people,” Marma said,

petting Saint who accompanied her on the chaise, purring.

“And this is why you left work?” Sister Betsy asked, squeezing a lemon into ice

water. “You felt like you were falling?” Her chiffon blouse suggested airiness. She

should have to wear a black cloak and white turtleneck. The old timey nun suit.

“No,” Marma said. “I just feel that in general.”

“Okay. Well, I wanted to know why you left work?”

“Smoke break,” Marma said, not wanting to explain.

“Was something giving you anxiety?” Sister Betsy asked.

“A customer,” Marma said.

“A customer?” Sister Betsy repeated.

They found Keon’s body. How did the water move around him? Maybe it confined

him. Locked him between houses like a showgirl in a shark tank. Did he look pretty? Did

his jewelry shimmer in sunlight? A doll incased.

Marks 85

“She wants this drink. This perfect drink,” Marma said.

Keon smoked thin, fruity cigars. When his mom died of Sarcoidosis he picked

Zari up in an escalade with the back windows smashed out, and let her sleep in his bed.

He slept on the floor. Started the motor in the morning like he was freeing them both, him

and his mother. He kept comics stacked under his mattress. The way his head banged to a

beat, felt like a boulder rolling towards you.

“What’s wrong with wanting something perfect?” Sister Betsy had tiny gems on

her acrylic nails that matched her ruby sandals.

“Perfection is arbitrary,” Marma said.

Keon’s demeanor stayed consistent. He never put on a front. He’d never sit

behind a desk, drinking ice-water, asking formulaic questions. Keon knew hard truths

come out a little at a time, between repartees and vinyl.

“What do you mean?” Sister Betsy asked.

“Who the fuck cares about a latte that much?” Marma asked. “There is so much

more to life than hot milk!”

“Of course, but we all like things a certain way. When you were playing the

violin did you have a particular style you liked?”

“No,” Marma lied.

“So you played every genre of music?”

“Yes.” That was true.

“But you played everything well,” Sister Betsy said. “That’s what got you that

scholarship. You did everything well. To your fullest potential.”

“I guess.”

Marks 86

“Because you want your music to be perfect.”

“To be meaningful,” Marma corrected, peeved. “To mean something to

someone!” She pulled out her phone and checked the time. Fifteen minutes left.

“And you felt the coffee doesn’t mean anything?”

“No,” she said, coldly, almost laughing.

“So what does mean something to you?”

“Keon.”

“Keon? Whose Keon?”

“A friend from Plaquemines.”

“I see,” Sister Betsy said, beaming as if she knew all along. “A fisherman.”

“A cook at the restaurant.” Marma nodded. “He was missing for five years. They

just found his body.”

Before Flossy threw the TV out the window, Marma snuck downstairs to watch

storm updates: glass breaking, lines of people waiting to get into the superdome, carrying

pillows and suitcases. She watched wind pluck trees from the ground. Aluminum peeled

from roofs. Rumors were spread: Bush, terrorists, or both might have dynamited the

levees. Disabled patients and elderly died in wheelchairs. Marma cried. Flossy gave her

melatonin to sleep, but nightmares still woke her. She had a reoccurring dream that

everyone was stuck in a snow globe, being continually shaken, laid flat momentarily so

that bystanders could watch the neighborhoods drop like snow. As soon as everything

went still, the hand lifted the globe.

“You were close to him?” Sister Betsy asked.

“Yeah,” Marma said. “I was closer to Zari, his little sister.”

Marks 87

“Is she alive?” Sister Betsy asked.

“No.”

After the TV vanished, Marma stayed awake fantasizing about their escape. She

imagined a helicopter rescuing Zari, Keon swimming to dry land. Of course, they

wouldn’t tell me they’re safe. They hate me. I betrayed Hasham. She pictured them in a

cottage, playing video games in a house with Doric columns and eucalyptus. A house

with kettle-corn and gallons of pork gravy. All the things they like. She convinced herself

they weren’t AWOL, that their pictures weren’t on the Missing Persons website, or hedge

stones, but written and eventually she’d find them, apologize.

“You must be in so much pain,” Sister Betsy said.

The fluids in her stomach tipped. A giant wave broke over her bones. An

emaciated dog swam up and down the deluge. A ballooning couple decayed in a taxi full

of green water. Children waved their nightgowns from rooftops. Helicopters drifted by,

videotaping. How much money did that footage get you? Could you buy guest towels for

your downstairs bathroom? Tickets to see a cover band on the beach?

“I kept thinking they made it,” Marma said. “A part of me thought it would all be

okay, but it’s not okay. Nothing is okay.”

“Marma, do you know God gave us his only son?” Sister Betsy asked, folding her

hands. “Jesus suffered for us because he knew his pain would result in our freedom. Isn’t

that amazing?”

Marma knew what Sister Betsy was going to say—reassure Marma that God has a

plan, that those who died were meant to die, and those who survived were meant to

Marks 88

continue, but Marma didn’t buy it. How can someone trust a patriarchal asshole who

impregnates a young girl and kills his son? Heaven is a manipulation.

“So, what was his sacrifice for this time?” Marma asked, thinking of kayaks

rowing above underwater villages. Families floating on makeshift rafts. Carnage rotting

in water. Bodies dangling from windows of smashed houses. Limbs of animals clogging

drains. Mosquitos feasted. Maybe God sacrificed us for the bugs.

Marks 89

End of the Earth

Mississippi Estuaries

September 11, 2001

A rusted claw scraped the river floor with metal teeth and a mesh net. Estuaries

intertwined like braids. Red fish jumped out of the rapids. The blur of their bodies looked

like ribbons.

"Little ones, you throw back. Have to wait until they’re ready,” Louis said,

digging through a bed of oysters, pulling out clumps of muddy scales. The deck reminded

Hasham of a ball-pit, except grayer and malodorous—still he had a childish desire to

jump in the pile.

“Little shells, you throw back in the water,” Hasham repeated, leaning over the

railing, seduced by zaftig patches of land plush with citrus groves, soaked by streams.

“Best tasting oysters are at least three years old,” Louis said, tossing a gamete

overboard. Flocks of white birds sprouted from tufts of stalk. The basins, Hasham

thought, were brave waters, unguarded by mountains, replete with foible sediment. Any

shortcoming eroded. He couldn’t help but recite Langston Hugh’s in his head. I’ve known

rivers. I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in

human veins.

“Some of us like the young ones,” Antwan said—his voice buttery, slightly

feminine. “Svoboto almost ran us into that yacht back there, staring hot-eyed at some

girls sun bathing. Couldn’t keep the damn wheel straight.”

I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New

Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

“You’d think differently if you liked women,” Louis said.

Marks 90

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

Hasham gasped, surprised by a bottlenose dolphin, who was swimming alongside

their boat.

“Hello there,” he said.

A second fin surfaced. Then a third. A calve. Clicking, a language like Morse

code. Diving, clapping their fins on the water. He’d heard of Navy officers using

dolphins to locate sea mines. What else can they do?

The trawler came to a dramatic halt. Hasham fell into the pit of oysters. Shards

grazed his skin like glass.

“What was that?” Louis asked, lifting Hasham up.

Mr. Svoboto came flying out of the cockpit, crazy-eyed.

“They hit,” he said starkly.

“You mean you hit something?” Louis asked, sneering.

“Fucking terrorists hijacked some planes and hit the World Trade Center.”

“Come on man. We don’t have time for this,” Louis said. “Someone’s got to

watch where we’re going.”

“I’m not joking Louis, listen to this,” Mr. Svoboto slammed the radio in Louis’s

hands. Louis turned the volume up. What appears to be a deliberate attack on the world

trade center…Chris are you still on? What are you hearing…I’m at national airport in

the parking lot? I heard a loud boom, looked over to the pentagon…

“You boys having a fais-do-do?” Babic smiled, coming out of the gully.

“Shut up, shut up,” Louis said. “We’re trying to listen to this.”

Marks 91

Air travel in this country has come to a halt. We’re trying to figure out what is

going on…from what we can tell it looks like a major terrorist attack. We also have

reports of one thousand injuries that are not confirmed…smoke billowing out of the trade

center…floors of the building are just crumbling. You can see people jumping from the

windows…

Louis twirled the volume knob until it was silent. Nothing but the chopping of

waves and seagulls. He leaned against the railing, took his hat off, and held it against his

chest.

“I still don’t get it,” Babic said. “What’s going on?”

“Planes crashed Babic,” Hasham answered. “Into the World Trade Center.”

“And the pentagon!” Mr. Svoboto hollered, frenetically smoothing his blond hair.

“Flight 93 was leaving New Jersey, heading for San Francisco, and some terrorist comes,

and hijacks the whole damn plane. Same in Pennsylvania.”

“This for real?” Babic asked. His rosy cheeks sagged. He looked at the sea with

his hands on his hips, trying to imagine the unimaginable. Belly poked out of his white

tank. It was strange to see him sad. Babic never seemed anything but goofy.

San Francisco. What if it was Sree? Sree has family in San Francisco. How’s

dad? He imagined Yasser sitting in his armchair, too close to the TV.

When Yasser was still living in Sana’a, his friend, a Norwegian diplomat, and his

nine-year-old son were kidnapped. There were shoot-outs in congested streets. Houses

were destroyed. Young women were flogged in the markets. Slowly, everyone Yasser

knew began disappearing. With grave reluctance he stepped down from his position as

ambassador, and hid with his pregnant wife in a guesthouse in Bohro.

Marks 92

“I have to get home,” Hasham mumbled to himself. “I don’t think my father can

handle this.”

When the civil war broke out, Yasser refused to run the store. He stayed in his

study, listening to reports of tank battles, and bombings in Aden. Hung newspaper

clippings of President Saleh, wrote letters to his brother who was involved in the

resistance. Chanted her name. Melina, Melina, Melina. He stitched a map of Yemen on a

white bed sheet and hung it on the wall. With red yarn he sewed x’s on oil fields.

Cindy took over the business and kept Hasham out of Yasser’s way. She left his

dinner outside the door. He’d grab the plate through the crack like a prisoner. Hasham

drew him pictures on the napkins. Ma. Me. Pa. Pa sat on the far side of the paper, alone.

Yasser stored the napkins in his books. I’m sorry Hasham. I’m sorry Cindy.

They found each other at Enterprise. Cindy was bringing back a rental car. He

worked behind the desk, nodding, and smiling, gently gifting receipts and keys. Patient.

Slow. Oval glasses magnified maple eyes. Long lashes. His voice poured from his mouth

and prickled her neck. It didn’t matter that his accent inhibited her from understanding

regulations. She wanted to hear more. Rent more. Could I take out a Chevy astro van?

Cindy became a regular at Enterprise. Yasser, still grieving over his ex-wife, didn’t care.

His boss told him, “Better ask that girl out before she goes broke renting cars.” Yasser

didn’t understand. Broke? Like hurt? Cracked? She is broke. He made her a prayer rug

out of old curtains. Use this, this will mend you.

As the trawler bounced across waves, Hasham helped Louis kick the oysters

overboard. He imagined the oyster’s happiness, returning to the cool blue waters. Home

again.

Marks 93

“No way we’re running the restaurant tomorrow,” Louis said. “When a country

gets wounded, everyone’s got to rest, cause in due time the people are the ones who got

to repair it.”

“Mhmm,” Hasham said. Thinking of his mother, how lonely she must have been

sleeping in their bed alone, eating by herself, listening to him chant. Melina. Melina.

Melina. The woman before her. A woman she could not become.

Louis put his hand on Hasham’s shoulder.

“You all right Hash?”

“Nervous, sir,” Hasham said. “My father…”

“Hasham, you do what you got to do,” Louis said. “Take the week off.”

“Thanks sir.” Wanting to cry out of joy and horror. Sentiment pounded his mind

like waves on the boat. “That means a lot to me.”

“And we’ll get your flight,” Louis said. “You’ve been working too hard to blow

all your savings.”

Hasham nodded, too grateful to speak.

Marks 94

Willowbrook Apartments

7001 Bundy Rd

New Orleans, LA 70119

June 23, 2010

Marma used the bottom of her Bad Brains tee to dry sweat from her forehead. The

end of her velvet dress was stained and torn from getting caught in her bike chains. She

pulled out a small newspaper clipping from a pleat in her turban. She reread the title,

Body Found in Little Woods, and description: olive skin, tribal tattoo on left, upper arm.

Hasham could have gotten the tattoo after they left.

TV lights flickered in the first floor windows of a townhouse. Air conditioning

units buzzed. A hummer with a missing bumper rested its front wheels on a block of

yellow concrete. Trash formed a tiny trail where parking spaces hit a long stretch of

goldenrods and cypress trees. The body was found next to an unopened Surge and a dog

collar. There were three bullets in his frontal lobe and one in his knee. The police

couldn’t identify him. Marma tried to imagine what it felt like to have a gun aimed at her.

Or what if I was the one holding the gun?

She folded her hands into a rifle and aimed it at her victim. All it took was the

absence of reality. The notion that the person in front of you isn’t worth anything. They

are one out of trillions. There is no significance to a human body. Her eyes watered.

A gray, solemn shadow inched down his porch steps. He left his door cracked

open. Faint piano and percussion drifted outside. He stood a few yards in front of her,

snapping. The man shimmied in the alley, rolling his shoulders back, nodding his head. A

Marks 95

large dog scampered down the steps, barking, wagging his tail. The man grabbed the

dog’s front paws, and two-stepped.

Marma laughed. He let go and the dog growled.

“Get! Go on now. Get!” He said, pushing the dog towards the house. After a few

reluctant snarls, the Pinscher trotted inside. Light melted through the entrance,

illuminating the cracked bricks. Marma tilted her head, trying to get a peek of the interior.

There was a hallway cluttered with books and crab cages. Perhaps the collar belonged to

the Doberman.

“Sorry. My dog. He’s harmless. Just loud,” he mumbled in a Jamaican accent,

shifting weight from hip to hip. What if he’s the one that killed Hasham?

There wasn’t any signs revealing an impending attack. His hands didn’t hover

around his waistband. Fists weren’t balled. Feet weren’t in a dominant position. No

nervous twitching, or pacing. The man was gracefully box stepping, lifting an invisible

partner through a bridge of Spanish-moss. Maybe him and Hasham were friends and he

got jealous of Hasham’s music, so he killed him.

“Come on,” he said through euphoric laughter, offering his hand to Marma,

“come dance.”

He was blown up. Sweating, unable to chill out. Stuck in his records with

clenched teeth and giant eyes. Both brains distorted. Marma tried connecting to the

moment. How did I get here? Dancing with a possible killer? Not by way of train, but

upon a wave carrying her father’s skeleton to shore, by way of wind curling around her

mother’s neck, through the marsh grasses where she learned to pick wings off junebugs

Marks 96

and eat their antennas. There were so many points that her feet started twitching, and her

mouth opened to kiss the particles that hung in the air.

“Thanks,” she said, inconsolably wrought.

He ran his finger along her collarbone.

Don’t do it, the good voice said.

“You want to come inside?” he asked.

“Sure.” She’d never learned to say no.

Marks 97

Lemoine Oyster Bar

345 Earl Lanes

New Orleans LA, 70038

October 2, 2001

Ryan and Hasham went to the Circle Grocer to pick up motor oil for the trawler.

Hasham set a pack of gum near the Pennzoil and the clerk knocked it off the counter.

Hasham, thinking it was some sort of accident, grabbed it and put it back. The clerk spit.

It was warm, as if he’d been storing it in his cheek.

“What the fuck?” Ryan took a step back.

Shocked, Hasham smeared his hand over his jeans. It left residue like a snail.

Glittering. Hasham gazed at the linoleum. It needed swept. Sprinkled with dirt. Filthy, kin

to the man’s expression. His lips sat like a line of debris near a dustpan. Patches of gray

collected like dust around his jaw. Hasham wanted to brush the fragments. Remove his

face.

“Did you just see that?” Ryan confronted a girl managing a parallel checkout.

“Let’s just go,” Hasham said.

“Yeah.” Her mouth hung open like a trout. “So what? I’d spit too if you

brought that thing in my line.”

Ryan laughed, looking around to see if anyone else was watching. “There a

manager round here?”

“Our boss don’t want terrorists in here either.” The guy walked round the

register, like a cowboy strutting through a western saloon. “Better just get out of here.”

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He pulled his apron back, enough to show a blade poking from his pocket. Grinnin’ like a

baked possum.

Ryan cackled, shaking his head. Autozone felt like a skit from Buckaroo

Bugs. Staged with train robbers and Pony Express. Plus, the knife was smaller than a

shucker. Probably duller too. Poor thing probably doesn’t cut through gravy.

“Can you believe this Hash? We got Butch Cassidy over here…”

Hasham wasn’t amused. The shop didn’t remind him of cartoons. He couldn’t

make a propeller out of bigotry and fly away. If someone dropped a piano on his head

he’d die. Ryan’s reaction undermined his terror. It cut deeper. Made less sense. What

about Prisha? He’d heard stories. Spit was the least insidious. There were Muslim

women in Alabama, pushing strollers. A stranger attacked them, ripped off their hijabs.

In his nightmares, torn cloth waved like white flags. How much can they peel? Would

they wear our skin like a cloak? Hasham pointed his feet towards the door, ready to

sprint. Rescue her. Save them. Prisha’s thin knife swayed on a delicate chain. When

Hasham moved, it traced the bottom of his heart.

“Let’s go,” Hasham said.

“Pussy,” the girl murmured.

“Thanks sweetheart.” Ryan winked, pilfering two packs of gum on the way

out.

*

Marma sat like a Russian doll, wrapped in a knitted blanket. Hasham found her

sitting on the edge of the dock, plucking the sad rubber bands on her makeshift violin.

He’d made it for her before the attacks, promised he’d teach her to play.

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When he approached she leapt in the water and refused to come out. I want to

drown, she told him.

He hadn’t been in the mood to swim, but he dove in.

“What can be so bad?” he asked, thinking of his own situation—engulfed with

worry, unable to see his father or Prisha. He’d tried twice to go to the airport, once to the

train, and was refused entry, stripped, and searched, cussed out.

“I did something awful,” Marma said.

“It’s okay. You can tell me,” Hasham said. Maybe she got in another fight?

Swore? Joined an online chat room.

“Promise you won’t hate me.” Marma sniffled.

“I could never hate you,” Hasham said. “You were my first friend here,

remember?”

Marma started shaking, sobbing in her hands.

“Hey, Marma. Hey, it’s okay.” Hasham squeezed her. “I promise, nothing you can

do will make me hate you. Okay?”

She took a deep breath. Wiped her snot with the edge of the blanket.

“You know Daddy’s friend?”

“He has a lot of friends.” Hasham smiled.

“The scuba diver.”

“Mr. Svoboto?”

Marma nodded, wrapped the blanket over her head, disappearing in the fleece.

“Did you take something of his?” Hasham asked, lowering the blanket. “It’s okay.

I won’t say anything, as long as you…”

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“No.” Her face grayed. “I didn’t take anything.”

“Okay. So what happened?” Hasham asked, resting his cup, watching her face.

Pupils empty of light. His mother’s eyes when she left. Yasser, sitting motionless for

hours. He thought of Prisha. The goats.

“He wanted to show me something,” she said.

“Oh Marma,” Hasham said softly, afraid, wishing he would have paid more

attention. But he’s such a nice guy. He couldn’t have…

“He told me I had to take a bath with him.”

Hasham released his grip, and pulled away from her. I’ll murder him. I will. I

swear I will. I swear on Allah if he hurt this girl…

When she refused Mr. Svoboto dragged her to the bathroom. He turned the water

on. Tore her dress off and threw her in the tub. While he unbuttoned his shirt Marma

grabbed tweezers off the ledge.

“I stabbed him,” Marma said, gasping. “As hard as I could.”

Hasham turned his head to the side, wondering if he heard her correctly.

“I was scared! I was so scared! And I didn’t want…”

“Did you get away?” Hasham panicked.

“Yes.”

“So he didn’t…he didn’t touch…”

“No.” Marma said shamefully.

“Oh thank God,” Hasham rose off his seat, and swooped her into a hug.

“I stabbed him,” she repeated, confused. “And then I just, ran away.”

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“You were defending yourself Marma. What he did was wrong. Incredibly,

incredibly wrong.” His adrenalin kicked. He wanted to flip Mr. Svoboto’s boat over. Flip

the press over, empty the rigs. Make it all go away. “You must have been so scared. I’m

so sorry.”

He wanted to create a song she could sneak into. A song that would filter cruelty

and preserve beauty in a bubble.

“Daddy’s going to kill me.”

“No, Marma. You did nothing wrong. He’s the bad one. Okay? Not you.”

“But I stabbed him.”

“You saved yourself,” he said. “I wish I was as strong as you.”

Marma pierced Mr. Svoboto’s pupil. The metal shot through the vitreous body,

bursting blood vessels. Blood splattered on the shower curtain. He shrieked. Dropped to

the floor, holding his eye. Marma leapt over him, ran naked from his boat, down the dock

to the Sea-Ray. She startled Ryan, who burst out laughing—bewildered. Locked her-self

in the bedroom, peed in her sheets, convulsing.

“Zari told me about the monsters in his bedroom,” Marma said. “She said he kept

jars of mermaids and dragon heads. She said he wanted her head in a jar.”

He had sharkskin hanging in his bathroom, parallel to the sink, on a rod meant for

towels.

“Zari, Keon’s little sister?” Hasham felt bilious. Fury clambered through his veins

like fuel whirling through a turbine. “Why was Zari in his bedroom?”

“She loved him,” Marma said. The words tasted strange on her tongue, like they’d

sat in her head too long and spoiled. “She said he was her boyfriend.”

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“Marma,” Hasham knelt, grabbing Marma’s hands. “That isn’t love.”

“I’m sorry,” Marma said, tearing up. “I didn’t know.”

“I know, I know,” Hasham said, combing her hair. “You couldn’t have. You’re

just a little girl. Fuck!” He slammed his hand against the table. “I’m so sorry.”

*

They were eating boiled peanuts and moonpies in a canoe, a half-mile from shore.

“Does it hurt?” Marma asked.

“Yeah, but if I don’t cry he gives me something.” Zari pulled a baroque pearl out

of her shorts pocket.

“I have lots of those,” Marma said.

“Bet you don’t have this.” Zari pulled out a small bracelet. Yellow gold with

Victorian scrollwork, and green jade. “He found this in a pirate ship off shore.”

“Wow,” Marma gasped. “That’s beautiful! Looks like something Queens wear.”

“That’s cause I am a queen,” she said proudly. “I’m gonna give it to Mama.”

“You’re mama’s going to love that,” Marma said, jealous.

“I got something for you too.”

Antiqued brass filigree, with iridescent, green Swarovski pearls. A necklace.

“Put your head down,” Zari said. “I’ll clasp it for you.”

Marks 103

Bon Temps Café

1505 Saint Phillips St.

New Orleans, LA 70116

June 24, 2010

Marma's eyelids closed. Her hands slid off her mug. Flossy spotted her usual June

skin: varying white patches offset by sunburnt rolls. Banana pancakes stacked on a cake

stand, untouched by a mug of Baileys and espresso. Plum lipstick kissed around the

edges.

When she first moved into the house, Flossy felt overwhelmed. She was use to

motorhomes, boats, and remote highway motels. One bathroom. Shared everything. Too

much space. What the hell am I supposed to do with a loft? Aniyah brought her to a

junkyard in Venice. The owner had damaged furniture she looted after the storm. Sold

cheap. Easy to fix up. There were mountains of chairs, three-legged tables, and lamps.

Flossy bought more then she could take home. Came back for seconds. Became obsessed

with collecting, finding relics that belonged to her past, to her husband, and son when

things were whole.

“What about this?” she asked, showing Marma an advertisement for a bar cart.

“This guy says it washed up somewhere in Iberville. Still gold and everything.”

“I don’t think we need that,” Marma said, imagining an excuse to purchase more

whiskey.

Flossy wrangled her fro into a bun, saying, “No. Well what about this oriental fish

bowl?”

“No.” Marma picked at a zit on her chin.

“Everything is no,” Flossy huffed. “Where were you last night?”

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“Little Woods, dancing in an alley. You know they still don’t have street lamps?

It’s just dark there. Super creepy,” Marma said, using a bit of pancake to clot her zit.

Flossy closed her laptop. “With who?”

“A fisherman.”

“Marma, take the pancake off your chin. For Christ’s sake.”

“I didn’t see any tissues!” Marma screeched, as her mother slid off the barstool.

She disappeared into the bathroom, and came out with a roll of toilet paper.

“Catch,” Flossy said, throwing it to her. “Tell me about your date.”

“Said he hasn’t caught a lobster since the ocean caught on fire,” Marma said. He

didn’t want to sleep with me. He wanted to listen to James Brown and talk about “those

son-a-bitches. Though she knew the sex would make her feel guilty, his rejection made

her self-conscience. Is it my eyebrows?

“Daddy is probably rolling in his grave with all this shit going on,” Flossy said.

“Breaks my heart.”

“He said BP brought their own guys to clean up the oil. All these fishermen are

out of work, and BP brings their own guys. I don’t get it,” Marma said.

“Money, baby,” Flossy said. “That’s all there is to get.”

Agwe, the lobster fishermen, said they added fire to the oil. Despite the risk of jail

time he paddled a canoe to the rig. Saw the imposing towers of black clouds, billowing

from orange flames. I saw this thing, drop from the sky. A bird maybe… The oil looked

like syrup. You know? Like some giant kid squirted chocolate syrup over the ocean, like

he thought it was a big scoop of ice-cream. It was nice, almost, the look of it. But I knew

Marks 105

it was bad. Very bad. Killing everything. Me too in a way and the smell…I still can’t

smell very well.

“Let’s do something fun today, huh? Get our fortunes told, bring champagne to

the singing oak! I’ll have Aniyah run Bon Temps. What do you think? Will you horse

around with your old mother for a while? ”

“I have plans Mom,” Marma said, disappointed in herself. They hadn’t hung out

for a while, just the two of them having fun. Not since Durham.

“Going back out with this new guy?” Flossy asked with a mouthful of pancakes.

“You better bring him over to the house before a third.”

“No. Not him,” Marma said. “Rob.”

“Isn’t that the asshole who dumped you?”

“Yup,” Marma said.

“Why the hell would you go see him?”

“He says he has something of mine,” Marma lied.

“Like your violin?” Flossy said, pleased.

“Maybe,” Marma grinned, basking in her mother’s pride.

“Well how about that! You need a ride?”

“No,” Marma said, warmed by her mother’s care. “That’s okay.

“Okay baby.” Flossy patted Marma’s hand. “I get it. Some things you’ve got to

take into your own hands.”

Marks 106

Harrison Residence Hall,

107 MacArthur Dr

West Lafayette, IN 47906

February 16, 2010

She wanted to go back to a time when she didn’t feel like throwing jugs of water

at cars, or dumping her organs on the sidewalk—doing circus tricks in public spaces that

involved dying in front of an audience. The rage she felt scared her. Sometimes she had

to run. Stomp hard on the ground. Push past all the people. Get to wherever the hell those

feelings didn’t exist, but they crept up everywhere.

Laughter infuriated her. Rob infuriated her. The Graduate poster made her want

to punch pillows. The group of them sitting happily on a hard plastic sofa, drinking

poorly made cocktails. Marma knew it didn’t make sense. Why should I be angry? These

are really nice people. She caught Rob staring at Judy’s smooth, unblemished face, with

her honeyed voice, leaning her enormous breasts over the table. How could he resist?

“Got to pee,” Marma said.

Marma slouched against the bathroom wall, next to the garbage can. Banged her

head repeatedly on the tiles. “Fuck you!” she screamed. “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.

Fuck you!” Vodka shots did nothing. Cigarettes did nothing. Usually the only thing that

helped was banging her head against a wall until the pain externalized. She wondered

how many brain cells she lost. What thoughts did I waste on being pissed?

Louis had a temper too. Frightening sometimes. One summer, Babic got a puppy

named Jupe. He chained her outside because Jupe wasn’t potty trained. Marma could

hear her whimpering. Marma asked to bring Jupe inside. It could sleep with her. “No,”

Louis said. “It’s not your damn dog to take care of.” The puppy yipped. Cold maybe. The

Marks 107

thought of a lonely puppy disturbed her. Marma quietly got up from her chair. Louis

slammed her against the wall. “What is wrong with you?” he asked, squeezing her wrist.

“Jesus Christ. When I say no I mean no.” Marma sat back down, wishing her mother was

home, or Ryan. Tears pressed her eyes, but she knew she couldn’t cry. Not in front of

him. Tears would make it worse.

Judy. Cool Judy. Making Danish cookies and building stain glass fish tanks.

Marma wanted to slam Rob against a wall, squeeze his wrist. Rescue the lonely puppy.

“We can’t all be fucking cool Judy,” Marma said. Who the hell makes lye soap

from scratch in a dorm room? Does she really use that loofa? Tempted to dump out all of

Judy’s lotions, she pulled Robs wallet from her bra. She’d taken it earlier, without him

knowing. Too distracted by Judy’s wicked green eyes.

Shit stained, just like everyone else’s. She dropped his bankcard in the toilet. It

floated on the surface. Sprinkled his twenty-two dollars in cash. Penny’s plunked. One

dime. A silver dollar. Flushed. Took satisfaction in the gurgling sound. Clog bitch clog.

She took out the school pictures of his nieces, medical insurance, LSU ID, coffee-punch

card, social security. Dumped it. Flushed. Let the water rise. Found a random phone

number. The girl wrote with a green pen. Big, wide loops. So nice talking to you--Abbey.

Marma tucked it back in the wallet and left it on the sink. Elegantly strutted out the

bathroom, waved good-bye like a beauty queen gliding on a float, and slammed the door

shut, knocking off a dry erase board.

Marks 108

2926 Cambronne St

New Orleans, LA 70118

June 24, 2010

Marma stood outside his door wearing blue lipstick. Robby found goths

bewitching. Alternative women who linked chains from their peirced nipples to the

bedpost. Waxed thighs in fishnets. Her legs were shaved, but she could feel a long hair on

her neck. She rubbed her thumb over the strand, annoyed.

Robby lived in a one level house, with a white door in the middle of two

windows—the sort of house children draw in family illustrations. Except this house

didn’t have a green yard. His father considered everything a weed, even grass. One foot

below the door was a block of concrete, home to myraid bird baths. Robby’s mother,

Sonya, collected them. Some had fountains or drippers. Some were tall with layers of

pool. Others were low to the ground. Copper basins. Pedastals with cherubs. Gravity

powered and heated.

“Hey Marma,” Robby said, swinging the door open. He was wearing a burgandy,

sweater, with a military jacket. Marma loved that he dressed for snow in summertime.

His beard was fuller. Skin tanned, probably from working in the community garden. She

loved that he gardened.

“I missed you,” she said.

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” he said.

Marma pulled her hair in a bun, but the rubberband snapped in half.

“I told you Kurt’s over, right?” he asked.

“Yeah! I don’t care. Does he care?” she asked. “I just can’t be by myself

anymore. My anxiety, you know?”

Marks 109

The blue lipstick impressed him. Kinky. Brought out the blue in her hazel eyes.

Complimented her piecy red hair.

He embraced her. She smelt like fresh tar and cat litter.

“I’m always here for you. You know that,” Rob said.

Marma grinned, pressing her palm against the gold latch, letting herself in like

she’d done so many times before.

*

Kurt was not one of Rob’s grungy band-friends. Not like Kurt Cobain, but Kurt as

in kurtā, the hindi word for tunic, a pet name the girl’s grandfather gave her. She sat

cross-legged on the granite counter, sipping Sake. Violet hair was cut to her chin, with

bangs an inch above her naturally arched eyebrows. Her baggy tee and Adidas shorts

humbled her lithe body.

“I’m a writer,” she said, pouring a glass for Marma.

“Oh. So cool,” Marma said, though she hated books. Stories took too long to tell.

“What do you write about?”

“I don’t know, nature, I guess. I’m really into relativity verses someone’s

threshold.”

“What’s that mean?” Marma asked.

“Tell her about the piece you published in Slice. Marma, do you remember my

Uncle Don? She got a poem published about him,” Rob said, wrapping his arm around

her waist.

They kept laughing about his uncle’s zip-line in Maryland, and the brilliant essay

Kurt wrote. All Marma heard was Kurt’s laughter during sex: This low snort, like an old

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bus coming to a stop. Why wouldn’t he warn me that Kurt is an exotic Sake drinker who

knows more about porn than he does?Did he want to surprise me?Did he want to show

me what I was supposed to be like? What he wanted me to look like, act like?

“Building a zip line across the Potomac. It’s insane.” He swooned, ignoring

Marma as she thought of excuses to leave. Kurt got to it first.

“Well guys,” Kurt said randomly, picking her bag off the floor. “I have to go.

Some of us actually have deadlines.”

“What a great excuse,” Marma muttered. She wanted to be someone with

deadlines.

“Come on baby, stay,” Robby whined, rubbing her bitty thigh with his meaty,

shovel hands. “You barely ate dinner. At least let me feed you.” He turned towards

Marma. “I keep telling her to eat more, but she doesn’t listen.” Only, he didn’t seem

aggravated or worried. He seemed proud.

She doesn’t eat because she’s trapped under patriarchal bias bullshit. Her and

Betsy should start an organization together.

Kurt slid off the counter as if she was sliding off his dick. Marma could see the

space between her thighs. Nothing was touching. She probably has a deadline to throw

up that Sake. Not that I have a problem with that. The way she dragged her hips down the

hallway—bitch probably has a hairless pussy. Probably has pretty blisters and keeps

fucking floss in her purse.

“How long have you been fucking her?” Marma asked, gazing at the various state

magnets attached to the fridge.

“A little abrasive, don’t you think?” He laughed as the door slammed.

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“I want to know. Every day? Once a week? Once a month?” Marma asked.

“What?” He said, still chuckling.

“Answer it.”

“Are you serious?” he asked. “Kurt and I? We’re just friends.”

“How much sex?” Marma asked.

“Your being ridiculous.”

“I’m sorry,” Marma stated, sliding off the table like she was sliding a sword

through her chest. “You’re right. That’s none of my buisness. It’s not like we ever fucked

on this table or anything…It’s really cute your mom still has that photo of us.”

Marma lifted one of the magnets off and let the photo fall on the floor.

“You asked to come in.” Rob walked over the photo and grabbed a beer from the

fridge.

“Ha! So it’s my fault. You’re right. I came in. It’s my fault. It’s my fucking fault.”

“Keep your voice down,” Robby said.

“I AM A PIANO!” she yelled, “I LOVE SOUP!”

“Jesus Christ Marma,” Robby said, pouring ale into a glass. “What do you want

me to say? I thought I was being nice. You said you wanted to come in. I let you in.”

Nice?

“I’m sorry if you came hear thinking we’d get back together. I really am. That

wasn’t my intention. I was just trying to be a good friend,” he said.

“Just say it. Say you wanted to fuck a girl with an eating disorder, with

intellectual prosperity bought by her parents, who probably gets along great with Judy

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and all your other friends. Does dating an Indian girl make you feel hip, more liberal?

Like you’re promoting world unity?”

“If you’re going to be a bitch, leave.”

“So sorry I’m not an ettiquete bullshitter. Just your average fat-ass, crazy white

girl! I mean, she’s wearing a t-shirt from Free-People. There’s nothing free about a sixty

dollar tee-shirt! And there’s nothing peaceful about her stupid peace earings!”

Your skin use to bend into my skin. I use to share your deoradant and take walks

with you around Cypress Lake. You use to lay in orchards with me and watch the bees

buzz around the magnolia trees, you wouldn’t let anything sting me, or get to me. And

now you’re looking at me, like I should go.

Marks 113

Hasham Rahal

345 Earl Lanes

New Orleans LA, 70038

October 31, 2017

Dear Hasham,

You can’t imagine how happy I was to receive your email. After spending monotonous

hours on the computer, I decided to pick up stationary. It’s homemade. Dried from

willow bark and lavender. I’ve also included photos of all the things I thought you might

miss.

I hope you like them. The clerk at CVS said disposable cameras are going extinct. I hope

for my sake that’s not true. I’ll always enjoy the surprise.

You’re father’s okay Hasham. Scared like we all are, but okay. He hasn’t brought up the

Civil Wars, though; he keeps mumbling the name Melina. Either that is your mother, or

his wife from Yemen. I’m not sure you’ve ever told me either of their names.

I’ve been teaching Yasser how to write English. He wanted me to remind you that Islam

teaches tolerance, not hatred; and not to be discouraged by acts of injustice.

He misses your music in the house. I do too.

I enjoy making up stories about you. I told him you are traveling in Manakha currently,

climbing the Haraz mountains, drinking Ismail coffee, eating full traditional Yemeni

meals. He’s worried that you might convert to Judaism. The star of David is still above

the doorways in Al Hajjarah.

You should email Sree or get a cell phone! Everyone has one now. You are the only

luddite left. His cousin Zuhair died, volunteering at the World Trade Center. Sree said he

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rescued three people before he got crushed by crumbling debris. We might be going to

candlelight visual in San Francisco. It’s for peace. I’ll light a flame for you.

It broke my heart to hear about Marma. I can’t imagine her grief. What comforts me, is

that you’re there with her. Remember the goats, Hasham. Let her tell the story her own

way.

I hope you are finding happiness despite all the tragedy.

Love always,

Prisha

*

prisha.punjabi@gmail.com

12/13/2001

My Dear Prisha,

You are an angel. Had you not written me I might have died from resentment. Your a

reminder of everything good. I’ve read your letter every night before bed and carry your

photos in my pocket. You are beautiful. I think, even prettier then me now ( ;

Thanks for placing me in the Haraz Mountains. Ephemerally, I invisioned myself

divigating between basalt villages, meandering along the terraces, following livestock up

a hill side. One day, when all of this is over, we’ll hike there together. You and I.

Forgive me for not writing sooner. I’ve spent so much time trying to understand what

happened in September and how it relates to the Koran.

I’ve found that it doesn’t. Muhammad has only gave me patience, which is potent

currently.

Marks 115

I told Marma’s father about the assault. He’s convinced she’s lying. I imagine it’s too

hard for him to believe. Everything is beginning to feel imaginerary. One of the

fishermen, Babic, thinks I’m a member of the Taliban. Louis knows he’s delusional, but

sometimes I wonder if Louis thinks I’m delusional, if he thinks we’re all trying to trick

each other. I guess, he has reason to believe.

Ryan keeps talking about the military. I’m scared for him. He’s trying to find answers in

a ruthless system. He said I should join too, prove my patriotism. How to explain that

I’m not a patriot of any one country, but for all countries? I believe tolerance is the

globe’s elixer and if I’m right, war will not restore it.

Melina was his first wife in Yemen. My mothers name was Cindy. My brothers name

would have been Hasham. I wonder often if my father can separate us, but then again,

I’ve begun to think we’re one person. I get the feeling he’s watching over me, protecting

me.

Did you know Melina means honey?

Love always,

Hasham

p.s. Hug Sree for me. Tell him I’m sorry for his loss. I can’t imagine the pain he must be

feeling. Please be safe in this world Prisha. I don’t know what I would do if anything

were to happen.

Marks 116

Abandoned Lot

Plaquemines, LA 70116

June 28, 2010

The girls sat in the backseat of Lena’s 1978 Chrysler Cordoba. They draped their

unshaved legs out the window. Mist dampened the suede seats. It smelt like hair yanked

from a drain. Cigarettes slowly grew smaller on the door handles. Marma walked her

fingers across Lena's stretch marks.

"They're like tiny trails," Marma said. "On cinnamon rolls. It's like walking across

a giant, baked good."

"I am a baked good," Lena said, smirking. She stared at the open field, slick with

mud. They left their clothes on 2nd island, and paddled back in their underwear.

“I have to do something,” Marma said, climbing into the drivers seat.

Before Lena could oppose, the engine rumbled, and they were mid-donut in the

wet field. Mud splattered on the windows. Rocks shot through the hubcaps like lottery

balls. Lena blasted Return of the Boom Bap from the radio, screaming the lyrics as she

clenced the console.

“Turn on the fucking windsheild whipers!” Lena said, giggling. Rain poured by

the buckets. Globules cascaded over the windows. Outside looked like a running Dianne

Park painting. Treetops bubbled over. Lightning burst like a cork.

“Lasso me a ciggarette,” Marma spoke with a western drawl. “Bubble-Boy's

hungry.”

Marks 117

"What did you just say?" Lena asked, laughing. Somehow it all managed to be

funny: them, finally together in a storm, two scantily clad nincompoops. Their abdomen's

hurt from squeezing.

The car skidded in circles, almost hitting a tree.

“Oh shit. Oh my God. Marma slow down!” Lena pointed towards the swamp.

Marma slammed on the breaks, sending the car backwards down an incline.

“Fucckkk!” Marma laughed hysterically. Lena grasped the door-handle. The rain,

the mud, the lightning created one big melting-pot of pandemonium. Marma was

constantly blurring the line between taking life too seriously, and not seriously enough.

They called the police. Said it was an accident, and that the donuts weren’t theirs.

Lena wasn’t pissed, just amused. Fuck cars anyway. That thing was old.

“You,” Marma said in the police car, wearing an extra large STATE TROOPER

shirt. “Are my life. You make everything perfect.”

Lena grabbed her hand and nuzzled against Marma’s shoulder.

“Thanks for coming,” Marma said. “I really missed you.”

“Well, I knew things had to be bad if you were seeing Rob.”

“Fucking Rob.” Marma pulled the shirt over her knees.

The trasmit cackled. An orotund voice came over the speaker. We got a 58 on our

hands. 10-3B. 10-33.

“Shit.” The officer mumbled something in his radio, turning the Toyota around.

He flipped on the hi-lo, aquaplaning. After gaining control, he zipped around a utility

vehicle, nearly crashing into a sedan.

Lena mouthed “what the fuck” to Marma.

Marks 118

“He drives like me,” Marma whispered.

The transmission vomited police codes. A scratchy, robotic language emerged

from the console. We got two trawlers that overturned near the rig. We’re going to need

the coast guard.

“Isn’t it illegal for them to be so close?” Marma asked.

“It sure is,” Officer laughed. “If they didn’t drown they’re gonna get billboed.”

“I can’t believe someone would actually go out in this storm,” Lena said.

“Yeah,” Marma said, wondering who would be crazy enough to take their trawler

to the rig. My dad would have done it. The rig isn’t too far from 2nd Island. She looked at

Lena, wondering if she’d go with her.

Marks 119

Our Lady of Peace Shelter

Kinston, N.C

August 17, 2005

Lena’s mother believed homosexuality was a curse put on earth by ancient

witches. This didn’t frighten Lena. She liked making potions out of mud and kept bird-

eating tarantulas in jars. Being a lesbian was like getting a ticket to Hogwarts. She called

her mother a muggle, and viewed gender confliction as “magic.” Secrecy was necessary

in order to maintain her sorcery. It was Marma, a ragamuffin from New Orleans, who

cemented Lena’s creed. Her hair was orange, like her Papaws tabby. Marma didn’t cry

when she heard her dad died and her brother went missing, along with most of her

neighbors. She laid on her cot, staring straight up. She’s been turned into a stone, Lena

thought. She asked her mom if she’d accidently dosed the ginger. No, Isidora responded,

I’m an anesthesiologist not a drug lord. Lena pointed to Marma. Then why is she a

stone? Lena was looking for proof, trying to convince Isidora that she wasn’t alone in

having a curse. Isidora looked at the child, an emaciated Snowhite in a coffin, a couple

years younger than her daughter. There wasn’t an adult nearby. No parent. She isn’t on

drugs Chiquita. She’s alone. Go talk to her.

Marks 120

Lemoine Oyster Bar

345 Earl Lanes

New Orleans LA, 70038

March 15, 2002

Keon didn’t say much at first, but after a week the news settled.

“I’ve got to do something Hasham. I’m going crazy,” Keon whispered, shucking

oysters next to Hasham. “That’s my sister Hasham. My. Sister. Fuck, if I don’t…I need

you to help me with something.”

“Anything,” Hasham said.

“I know that mother-fucker is loaded. Zari told me he’s got about thirty shoebox’s

full of jewlry he found diving. You should see the shit he gave her…Mother fucker.

Jesus, I can’t even…how didn’t I know?” Keon slammed his knife on the table, then ran

his fingers over his face. “After they leave, I’m breaking in that boat and I’m taking what

he owes us.” He picked the knife back up and sliced into an oyster. “Can you stand by?

Make sure no one’s on the docks?”

“Keon, I know you’re hurting,” Hasham said. “But this is a bad idea. He’ll come

back to his boat, see that everything’s been stolen, look in your boat…”

“No man, I’m getting that shit and then I’m getting the hell out of this place. I’m

going somewhere. Take my mom, take Zari, and get the hell out of here. Take my boat all

the way to Florida, make a good life for us.”

“He’ll find you. You’ll get arrested,” Hasham said.

“No I won’t . If he calls the police, they’ll come check out his crib and see that

he’s got endagered fish all over his cabin. Dude’s an illegal fisherman.”

Marks 121

Hasham turned the shucker in his hand. He felt the wet blade, no longer afraid of

being cut.

“Hasham, we got to get out of here,” Keon said. “You can come with me man. I’ll

split it with you.”

Hasham shook his head.

“I couldn’t do that.”

“Why? You know you aint going to be some famous fiddler out here,” Keon said.

“No one cool’s been here since Frank came. Oyster bars are everywhere now.”

“No, it’s just. We can’t leave Marma.”

“You know I love that girl, but I’ve got to take care of my family, and you do too

man. Your dad’s batshit crazy.”

“Prisha can take care of him.”

“You’re just going to drop all your baggage on that girl? Don’t you think she

wants to live her own life?”

Hasham never pressured her to help him. She swept into his life like waves

conflating. Their lives became one tide.

“She wants to be there.”

Keon cracked up.

“Are you serious?” he asked, smirking.

“I know how it sounds.” Hasham smiled. “But, trust me. She doesn’t do anything

she doesn’t think is important.”

Marks 122

“I don’t know,” Keon said, shaking his head. “Maybe it’s your culture or

something…So, you’re going to raise Marma then? What about your dreams? The

music?” Keon sprinkled tumeric over a tray of green chilis.

“Listen, so long as Svoboto is here, I am too,” Hasham said.

Babic walked through the kitchen door, late to work.

“Evening Keon,” he said, hanging his jacket up.

“Man, if you don’t start greeting both of us…” Keon muttered, discarding sea-

vomit in the slop bucket. “Hasham’s done nothing to you. You’re all…”

“It’s fine,” Hasham said, not wanting a riff. “Let it go.”

Marks 123

Lemoine Oyster Bar

345 Earl Lanes

New Orleans LA, 70038

February 13, 2004

All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.

Toni Morrison

Not even neurologists, analytical philosphers, men and women patted with

decades of studying, could explain how people came to be from nonentity. But Marma

had an answer.

You start off with a seed that could have been trampled on, washed away, or

eaten by toads. You let the seed grow into a decent sized Willow Tree. If the tree isn’t

burnt in a forest fire, chopped, or plagued by crown gall, then cut it down. Carve the core

of a body with a long neck. Form ribs using iron bouts. Drill it with holes. String wires.

Gently attach the bridge. Find a horse. Clip off thirty of it’s tail hairs. Boil one of the

horse’s bones. Collect the marrow to make glue. Glue a chin rest on. Weave the hair

through a bow.

Hasham watched her fingers, making sure her ques weren’t sloppy, and wrist not

lazy.

“I have my answer!” Marma lowered her instrument, tip-toeing across the dock.

Her legs were longer. She wore a bra. Trimmed her pubic hair. Had twenty different

kinds of perfume and could knot a cherry-stem with her teeth.

“Go ahead.” Hasham’s mind was elsewhere. He had a plane ticket from New

Orleans to Fresno. Prisha informed Yasser Hasham was going to visit from Yemen. The

plane left in a month.

Marks 124

“It’s a relationship, ” Marma said, believing at the age of thirteen, that everything

was about kissing and romance.

“Brilliant. Exactly. You and your violin have a really special relationship…Keep

playing. Try increasing the tempo. Lets enhance the rendition.”

Marma was standing on the wood closest to the riparian, enjoying the spray of

mist. Tides became metaphors for lascivious thoughts. There were softer places liquid

could splatter. Guilt rose in her chest. She imagined her barefeet in the lubricious puddles

as an allusion. She’d proved herself valid.

“Hasham,” Marma placed the violin between her legs, “can I play you something

different?”

*

She was on the Sea Ray alone eating gumbo, wearing her fathers robe, and

mothers eyeshadow—watching The Christmas Story.

“Marma,” Hasham said, knocking on the cabin door. “Let me in.”

“Get out of my fucking boat,” she said, turning the volume up.

He let himself in.

“Please, ” she said, pressing the palms of her hands to her eyes. “Leave.”

There was a part of her that wanted him again, hooked in those sinewy curls,

pierced or bent in his long-fingers. He made her feel special, older, more mature. Words

like brilliant and beautiful. She felt fooled.

“I want you to know, you can talk to me,” Hasham said. “I’m here for you. I will

always be here for you.”

His t-shirt smelt like sazerac.

Marks 125

“Can you get out.” Marma said. She wanted a narrative that exonerated shame.

Something innocent. Chop the head off a barbie. Quote Number the Stars. Take the

nosering out. I’m sorry. But her nails stretched like talons across her legs. Thin traces of

blood surfaced on her thighs. She thought he could save her. Make it right.

He put his hand on her cheek.

“You can’t do this to yourself,” he said.

“Fuck off,” Marma said.

“Aku tidak akan pernah jauh darimu.”

Marks 126

Belle Chasse Middle School

Belle Chasse, LA 70037

April 2, 2004

Mrs. Rolen kneeled next to Marma’s desk and put her hand on her shoulder.

“This is just between you and me.”

“I told you it’s nothing,” Marma said.

“Is it hormones? Did you start menstrating yet?” Mrs. Rolen asked, kneeling next

to Marma’s desk, with her hand on an essay titled, Hang Him.

Mrs. Rolen collected creatures because she believed adolscents liked creatures.

Tiny elves sat on windowpanes. Trolls littered the podium and slept on erasers. She

swore fairies made snow angels in chalk dust, and chewed on the TV cables. None of the

items made Marma feel jollier. She wanted to stick a pin in the elf’s head and eat a

million cookies. The smell of kettlecorn drifted from Mrs. Rolen’s table. Desks sat

contentedly in the room with bags of butterscotch balls wrapped in plastic, tucked

carefully by their school books.

“Okay.” Mrs. Rolen tried again. “I don’t think you understand the severity of

what you wrote. Honey, you could be expelled.”

Marma spent two weeks writing the essay. It was the first piece of writing she was

proud of. All the dark skin boys drink lime fizz and dance to reggae, some one sure ought

to tie their headphones around their necks and hang them.

“Emily told me,” Mrs. Rolen began saying, than paused to exhale. “Emily told

me something very disturbing.”

“Emily?” Marma asked, balling her fist, ready to swing.

“Does this have something to do with Mr. Rahal?”

Marks 127

“Hasham?”

“Yes, your violin teacher.”

How did Emily find out. Did she ask him? Did she actually ask him what

happened? How could she do this. Why is she doing this to me?

Marma was shocked that something so terrible could happen. Her biggest fear

was bursting its way through the parish. If Emily new, then the entire middle school

knew. Everyone would know she’d been rejected, confirming everyone’s opinion that she

was ugly and stupid.

“Did he hurt you?” Mrs. Rolen asked, as her eyes glistened with water. Perhaps

Mrs. Rolen was more sensitive, more keenly aware of the pain associated with

heartbreak. Perhaps these tears were a sign that she wouldn’t get in trouble or expelled,

that her parents wouldn’t find out, that life could possibly resume.

“Yeah,” Marma said, biting her fingernails, looking in the opposite direction,

“everything hurts.” I’m going to destroy Emily.

Mrs. Rolen quickly turned her head to the side, as if she was about to sneeze, but

she wasn’t sneezing, she was weeping.

“Mrs. Rolen?” Marma asked, almost laughing, “You okay? It’s okay.”

“What he did to you,” Mrs. Rolen grabbed the back of Marma’s head, “is not

okay. Taking away the innocence of a little girl…” she laid her palm on Marma’s essay,

“that does deserve death.”

They were not talking about heartbreak.

“What he did to me?” Marma asked.

“Honey, you are a survivor of rape. What he…”

Marks 128

No, Marma mouthed, no, no, no. that is not what happened. That is not what

happened, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it outloud because she felt as if it was

already too late, or that the tragedy would disapear, that she’d wake up, or that God

would fast forward. Mrs. Rolen couldn’t possibly belive that Hasham would do

something like that.

*

A dead crab landed on Marma’s scalp as she walked home from school. She

whipped around to find Emily, laughing. Her white kneesocks were always so white.

Oxfords always pressed. She never wore the same shoes, which was the thing Marma

hated most. Marma’s loafers always smelt like oysters but she wasn’t allowed a new pair

until her feet grew, and as far as Marma could tell, her feet were done growing.

“You know that terrorist probably has AID’s,” Emily shouted, “bet you he made

Bin Laden real happy, bombing you with all his gizz.”

Marma gave her the finger without turning around.

“Don’t worry though darling. There’s room enough on my uncle’s plantation for

the both of you. Soon enough we’ll get a whole bunch of oranges you can start picking.”

Marma laughed, kicking a shell towards the curb It shattered.

“Nothing to do about it now. Mrs. Rolen already called your daddy.”

Emily’s cousins were suddenly appearing, jumping off the limbs of Cypress trees,

and popping out of bushes, forming a tiny parade of arian clowns.

“Can’t expect your daddy will treat him too nice after he hears what he did to

you.”

Marks 129

“He didn’t do anything to me!” Marma whipped aroun. Anger about to rupture

from her pores like magma, as if the plates beneath her feet were shifting, ready to split

continents and spiral out of control. She tensed her shoulders, knowing her anger

wouldn’t go anywhere good.

“That’s not what you told Mrs. Rolen,” Emily laughed, dusting her slacks off.

A small, ape-like boy crawled out from behind a cypress tree. He crawled all his

fours, fast like a bull. Rammed into Marma’s ankles. She smacked her head on the

concrete.

Emily cackled.

“Serves you right.” Emily spit near Marma’s head. “Mama says girls like you go

to hell for being so loose.” The kid held her ankles down, as Rachel tied Marma’s wrists

together with a zip-tie. “Guess maybe your into that stuff. We’ll leave you good and

ready for the next sandmonkey.”

Marks 130

Bon Temps Café

1505 Saint Phillips St.

New Orleans, LA 70116

July 3, 2010

Emily was no longer the macabre seventh-grader who grilled Marma’s pet turtle

in a waffle-iron. In Facebook pictures she appeared normal—making kissy lips in

bathroom stalls, posting selfies with moody, irrelevant hashtags, such as “free yourself”

and “unicorn daze.” Her hair was no longer mousy brown, but platinum blond with

fringe. Emily worked as a Starbucks barista and was strangely proud of it. She only

updated her status when seasonal lattes came back. Marma took Emily’s friend-request

as an apology. She wanted the communication to end there but Emily wanted to hang

out, talk about coffee.

When she walked into Bon Temps wearing track pants, holding Tupperware

stuffed with treats, Marma slid into the pantry, hiding.

Marks 131

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