Gardens of Water (27 page)

Marcus turned his head in his son’s direction, but he didn’t even seem to consider calling out to him.

Then Sinan said it—the words that acknowledged his debt to the American—in an awkward moment of silence that he wanted to reclaim for normalcy: “We are like brothers, you and I.”

Marcus smiled. “That’s kind of you to say.”

Chapter 19

“
A
NNE,”
REM SAID. “I HAVE TO GO TO THE W.C.”

It almost killed her to stand in that stupid tent and serve tea and not be able to talk to him.

“
rem,” her mother said. “Wait until our guests leave.”

Allah, Allah!
She would explode if she had to stay here!

“
Anne,
it’s an emergency.” She bent over to indicate the seriousness of the situation.

“More tea,
rem,” her father said.

Nilüfer looked at her as if to say, What can I do?

“
Anne,
” she said. “You saw all the tea I drank this afternoon!” She squeezed her knees together.

“All right, all right,” Nilüfer said. “Go quietly. I’ll serve them.”

rem ducked under the fabric at the back of the tent, thankful to have a rear escape. At the apartment, the only way out had been through the front door, past her father and his inquiries.

She saw Dylan walking down the hill toward town. She looked back at the tent to make sure no one was watching. The wind was down today, so the fabric was still. She couldn’t see in, so she figured they couldn’t see out. She ran down the hill and caught up with him near the old, crumbled walls of the town.

“Dylan.”

He stopped and wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve before turning around.

“That asshole,” he said. His eyes narrowed to arrow points.

She touched his forearm.

“Shh,” she said. “It’s okay.” But she knew it wasn’t. Why was she out here comforting him while his father was inside comforting her brother?

“We should have been in New Hampshire, but
he
wanted to stay.” He threw an angry hand in the direction of the tent. “How can he be glad she’s dead?”

She knew that he wished it was her brother that had died. As for her, if one of them had to die, she preferred it was his mother. That was natural, but still, it felt dangerous.

“Shh,” she said. He paced back and forth, occasionally looking back at the tent. “Shh, shh.” She took his right hand and pulled him toward her. She felt the round muscles in his palms, the warm blood pulsing through his fingers. “Your mother did a brave thing.”

He was looking at her now, rage in his eyes.

“She honors your name,”
rem said.

He laughed sarcastically and she let go of his hand, hurt by his disdain.

“I don’t care about that,” he said. “I just
want her back.
”

His eyes were as wide as a child’s and she felt something snap inside her chest. She took both of his hands and pulled him toward her, wrapping her arms around his waist. He dropped his head on her shoulder and cried. The heat of his breath pushed the fabric of her scarf against her neck. She felt his rib cage expand and contract. The tips of her fingers brushed the muscles on either side of his spine and she wanted to stay here, wanted to feel each muscle and tendon heave against his bones; she wanted to feel the whole composition of his frame, but then he stopped and lifted his head.

“There they are,” he said.

She let go of him immediately and brushed her hands across the fabric of her blouse, trying to smooth away the wrinkles pressed in the shape of his body.

“
WHAT WERE YOU DOING
with that boy?” her father said as Dylan and his father walked away, down the hill.

“He was upset,” she said.

“I thought you went to the W.C.”

She self-consciously tucked a strand of hair beneath her head scarf.

“I did,” she said, “and when I came back I saw him there.”

“Everyone can see you touching him,” Sinan said.

She looked around, briefly embarrassed, until she realized that there were a half-dozen people here, huddled under handmade tents, wondering how they were going to get their next meal. How could they care?

“His father doesn’t love him,” she said.

“A father always loves his son.”

“He leaves crying over his mother and his father just stays inside sipping tea; just leaves him alone.” She hesitated before saying it. “A father should care more.”

“Go inside,” he said quietly. He sounded hurt.

She waited a few moments, even a moment or two longer than she should have, before entering the tent. Inside, she joined her mother in the makeshift kitchen and washed the teapots and cups in buckets of gray water. Her father didn’t come in for a few minutes and she started washing the cups she had just washed, rubbing the edges with the mildewy rag over and over again. What would he say to her mother? Had he gone to get Dylan to do something horrible? When he did come inside, she watched him sit down on the pillows and finish his tea.

“
rem,” he said. “Please get this cup, too.”

He almost never said please, and she came to him silently and took the cup, expecting something else, some retribution.

“Thank you,” he said, and stared out the door of the tent.

Chapter 20

A
FTER THE CHILDREN HAD FALLEN ASLEEP, SINAN AND
N
ILÜFER
argued in whispers.

“I don’t like these people,” he told her. “They’re going to want something.”

He bent over his foot and untied the laces. As he did, the swollen skin expanded and pushed open the tongue of leather.

“The only thing he seems to want is to help,” Nilüfer said, washing the tea glasses for the third time.

“He could bring doctors here if he wants to help,” Sinan said. It felt like shards of glass were embedded in the foot, so he cupped the sole of the shoe in the palm of his hand and pulled it off the stump by centimeters. “Why do we need to move down there?”

“What do we have here?” Nilüfer said. “All day we breathe this brown air, all day we listen to car horns. We hide from the sun under a sheet of fabric, while you go off…” She stopped herself.

“While I go off and what?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I—”

“You think I go spend the day in the
k
raathane
drinking tea and playing games?” he said, his voice rising now.

“No,” Nilüfer said. “No,
can
m,
that’s not what I meant.”

“All day I’m carrying televisions on my back like a donkey!” He pulled the sock off his foot. The foot was marbled, like rotten mutton. “Look.”

She put her hands to her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Please quiet your voice.”

“Don’t tell me to be quiet,” he said, but he was already whispering again. “I’ll make things better,” he said, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

“I know you will,” Nilüfer said. Her voice was tinged with doubt, but she filled a bucket with fresh water from one of the jugs.

“No,” he said. “We need the water to drink.”

She ignored him and he was glad for it because the water cooled the pain.

“Haven’t I been a good man?”

“Yes,
can
m.
”

“Haven’t I taken care of you?”

“Yes.”

He clutched at the necklace around his neck and held the bullet out for her to see, as if she would forget such a thing. “You remember what happened to my father, don’t you? You remember the other men, the boys?”

Looking at the shard of metal in his hand, she wearily sighed.

“Simply celebrating Nowruz,” he said. “Just a new-year celebration, and they shoot them!”

“I remember,” she said, nodding her head. “They were yelling slogans, too.”

He almost screamed at her, but he knew she was right. With the guns pointed, he had often wondered, why would the men provoke the Turkish soldiers? He knew, also, that his father had joined the yelling, and his participation in that mass suicidal gesture infuriated Sinan.

“You don’t kill over slogans,” Sinan finally said, though he recognized the naïveté of his statement.

“What if
smail is bleeding inside?” Nilüfer said.

He didn’t have an answer to that. The boy looked fine, but some harmful things, he knew, could not be seen.

“You are no less a man if you accept help,” she said. “Especially at a time like this. Marcus Bey and the American government are not the same thing. Remember what Sarah Han
m did, Sinan.”

He knew she was right, but going into that camp felt like giving up. A man gives up and anything can happen to him.