Khosi?”
And so I walked home, listening to the sound of my footsteps on the concrete sidewalk. When I turned around to look at them at the end of the block, they were standing there, on the edge of thestreetlight’s illumination, huddled close together, holding each other despite the heat. My shadow passed underneath me as I walked. A truck downshifted on the interstate. The sound of it carried out across the valley.
As I neared my house, I stopped at the Millers’ garden, a garden that I knew to be infested with walking onions. They’d built trellises for the onions, and right now they were blooming—small purple flowers almost invisible in the inky dark. I stood at their fence and felt the roughness of the boards in my hands. I heard something behind the house, rummaging around the trash bins, probably a feral cat or a raccoon. They must have lonely lives, these nocturnal creatures, digging through the remnants of other people’s trash, negotiating a darkened world.
The Loving Shambles was dark again, but by now the moon was out and illuminated the front porch. I made my way through the still-unlocked front door. It was just before two A.M . Sure enough, sitting at the dining room table in a circle of illumination, in a spotlight of illumination from a dozen candles, was my mother. She had a cup of tea on the table in front of her. The steam rose into the air, hanging near the chandelier.
“There you are,” she said. “I was wondering where you might be, my love.”
“Mom,” I said. “Are you holding a séance?”
My mother laughed. She stood and walked over and hugged me, wrapping me in her stalklike arms. She was wearing a black pashmina. The fabric of it draped over me and gave off the sweet redolence of mothballs.
“Of course not, Khosi,” my mother said. “The ghosts of the deadare all around us. There’s no need to summon them with artificial stagecraft.”
This was exactly the sort of thing she was prone to saying.
“Did you turn off the power, Mom?”
She took my chin in both of her hands. “I needed peace,” she said. “I needed tranquillity.”
The Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon Him) once said:
Never once did I receive a revelation without thinking that my soul had been torn away from me
. My mother’s face seemed a little sad. Her forehead folded into a set of horizontal lines.
“Khosi,” she said. “Your father’s back. Or rather, he was. He just left.” And then she pulled me into a fierce, smothering hug. “Tell your mother congratulations,” she added. “She is officially divorced.”
I often dream that I’m a contestant on
Jeopardy!
Alex Trebek welcomes and introduces us. Then he turns to the board and says, “These are the categories: Cornish Mining Methods. The Panic of 1907. The Anaconda Mine and Amalgamated Copper. The Western Federation of Miners. And finally, Pinkerton Detectives.” He stands back and gestures to us, the contestants. “Khosi,” he says, “please make your selection.” The camera pulls back, and now it’s a montage. I answer everything: $200 and $400 and $600 and $800 and $1,000 questions. I amass a fortune. The other players stand there, silent, flummoxed, dumbfounded, as I surge into the lead. Finally, the board is empty. “Time for Final Jeopardy!” Alex Trebek says, and then he reveals the topic.
I can’t quite see the words, but as Alex Trebek reads them—hisvoice deepening and lengthening each syllable—I’m pitched into a sickening awareness: I’ve just lost the game. I’m finished. I have no hope. “The Emotional Life of You and Your Family,” he says, and I realize that this is not a subject that I know anything about. The game continues without me. My score is forfeit. Zeroes flash in front of my monitor. A comforting young woman in a pantsuit and a headset comes to lead me away. There will be no fortune, not for me.
On that night, I walked to the kitchen and poured myself a Scotch and soda. Then I
And so I walked home, listening to the sound of my footsteps on the concrete sidewalk. When I turned around to look at them at the end of the block, they were standing there, on the edge of thestreetlight’s illumination, huddled close together, holding each other despite the heat. My shadow passed underneath me as I walked. A truck downshifted on the interstate. The sound of it carried out across the valley.
As I neared my house, I stopped at the Millers’ garden, a garden that I knew to be infested with walking onions. They’d built trellises for the onions, and right now they were blooming—small purple flowers almost invisible in the inky dark. I stood at their fence and felt the roughness of the boards in my hands. I heard something behind the house, rummaging around the trash bins, probably a feral cat or a raccoon. They must have lonely lives, these nocturnal creatures, digging through the remnants of other people’s trash, negotiating a darkened world.
The Loving Shambles was dark again, but by now the moon was out and illuminated the front porch. I made my way through the still-unlocked front door. It was just before two A.M . Sure enough, sitting at the dining room table in a circle of illumination, in a spotlight of illumination from a dozen candles, was my mother. She had a cup of tea on the table in front of her. The steam rose into the air, hanging near the chandelier.
“There you are,” she said. “I was wondering where you might be, my love.”
“Mom,” I said. “Are you holding a séance?”
My mother laughed. She stood and walked over and hugged me, wrapping me in her stalklike arms. She was wearing a black pashmina. The fabric of it draped over me and gave off the sweet redolence of mothballs.
“Of course not, Khosi,” my mother said. “The ghosts of the deadare all around us. There’s no need to summon them with artificial stagecraft.”
This was exactly the sort of thing she was prone to saying.
“Did you turn off the power, Mom?”
She took my chin in both of her hands. “I needed peace,” she said. “I needed tranquillity.”
The Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon Him) once said:
Never once did I receive a revelation without thinking that my soul had been torn away from me
. My mother’s face seemed a little sad. Her forehead folded into a set of horizontal lines.
“Khosi,” she said. “Your father’s back. Or rather, he was. He just left.” And then she pulled me into a fierce, smothering hug. “Tell your mother congratulations,” she added. “She is officially divorced.”
I often dream that I’m a contestant on
Jeopardy!
Alex Trebek welcomes and introduces us. Then he turns to the board and says, “These are the categories: Cornish Mining Methods. The Panic of 1907. The Anaconda Mine and Amalgamated Copper. The Western Federation of Miners. And finally, Pinkerton Detectives.” He stands back and gestures to us, the contestants. “Khosi,” he says, “please make your selection.” The camera pulls back, and now it’s a montage. I answer everything: $200 and $400 and $600 and $800 and $1,000 questions. I amass a fortune. The other players stand there, silent, flummoxed, dumbfounded, as I surge into the lead. Finally, the board is empty. “Time for Final Jeopardy!” Alex Trebek says, and then he reveals the topic.
I can’t quite see the words, but as Alex Trebek reads them—hisvoice deepening and lengthening each syllable—I’m pitched into a sickening awareness: I’ve just lost the game. I’m finished. I have no hope. “The Emotional Life of You and Your Family,” he says, and I realize that this is not a subject that I know anything about. The game continues without me. My score is forfeit. Zeroes flash in front of my monitor. A comforting young woman in a pantsuit and a headset comes to lead me away. There will be no fortune, not for me.
On that night, I walked to the kitchen and poured myself a Scotch and soda. Then I
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