entire family had been at Aunt Samia’s apartment to celebrate Eid al-Adha, Abraham’s sacrifice, the only holiday the Druze celebrate. I loved Eid al-Adha. Kids got money from adults during theholiday. All I had to do was walk up to any relative and smile, and I would get coins that jingled in my pockets.
“Why would God ask him to do that?”
She poured démaquillant onto a cotton ball and delicately wiped her face, sliding her hand from top to bottom. “It was a test,” she said, looking in the mirror. “He wouldn’t have let him kill his son.”
“Did he pass the test?”
“Yes, of course, dear. That’s why it’s a holiday and we get to eat so much and get fat. Two whole lambs, and nothing left. I think that’s a record.”
I propped myself on my elbow to watch her more easily. Usually when I moved around in bed, she would tell me to keep still so I could fall asleep faster, but not tonight, probably because of the holiday.
“But what if God didn’t stop him? Would he have killed his son?”
“Is that what’s worrying you?” Finally done, she walked to her side of the bed. She looked quite different without makeup, more girlish. “It’s just a story, Osama. It’s not real.” She slowly got into bed. “Stories are for entertainment only. They never mean anything.”
“Grandfather said it happened on a mountain and God stopped Abraham’s hand just as he was about to cut Ishmael’s throat. He was on a mountain that was close to the sky, and it was a clear day, too, so God was able to see everything.”
“Your grandfather says many things that aren’t true. You know how wild his stories are. You know he never went to school or anything like that. It’s not his fault. But you don’t have to believe the same things he does. If you think something he’s saying is too foolish to be true, then it is.” She stretched, clicked off the light switch on the wall. “Don’t let his stories trouble you. Don’t let any story trouble you.” She turned me around and hugged me. We were together like quotation marks. “Now go to sleep.”
“I don’t like Abraham’s story,” I said to the dark. “It’s not a good one.”
After a slight pause, “I don’t like it, either.”
I thought about the story. “If God asked you, would you kill me?” I felt her shudder.
“Now you’re being silly,” she said. “Of course I wouldn’t do such a thing. Go to sleep and stop thinking.”
“But what if God asked you to?”
“He won’t ask me.”
“What if he asked Dad to kill me? Would he do it?”
“No. Now, don’t be annoying.”
I could not stop thinking. “What if God told someone to kill another person—would that be okay? You couldn’t put the killer in jail if God told him to do it. What if God told someone to kill a lot of people? Like how about the Turks or the French? God tells a man to kill all the French, and he goes out and shoots every Frenchman he sees. Bang, bang, bang. Is that okay? Does he get blamed? What if—”
She shushed me. She covered my mouth with her left hand. I could smell verbena, her moisturizing lotion. “God doesn’t talk to people,” she whispered in my ear. “God doesn’t tell anybody to do anything. God doesn’t do anything.”
“But people believe God talks to them.”
“Stupid people, only stupid people.”
I heard a mosquito’s buzz. I sat up, announced its presence to the room.
“Damn,” she said. “I thought the room was sprayed.” She stood up, considered ringing the buzzer for the maid, then opened the nightstand drawer and removed one Katol. Without turning on the light, she pushed the green spiral insecticide into its stand, struck a match to it. In the sudden flare, she looked like a movie star, her dark hair falling around her face.
“You don’t believe in God, do you, Mother?” I asked.
She looked at me as if I were a stranger, then blew out the match, throwing her face into darkness. “No,” she said, “I
“Why would God ask him to do that?”
She poured démaquillant onto a cotton ball and delicately wiped her face, sliding her hand from top to bottom. “It was a test,” she said, looking in the mirror. “He wouldn’t have let him kill his son.”
“Did he pass the test?”
“Yes, of course, dear. That’s why it’s a holiday and we get to eat so much and get fat. Two whole lambs, and nothing left. I think that’s a record.”
I propped myself on my elbow to watch her more easily. Usually when I moved around in bed, she would tell me to keep still so I could fall asleep faster, but not tonight, probably because of the holiday.
“But what if God didn’t stop him? Would he have killed his son?”
“Is that what’s worrying you?” Finally done, she walked to her side of the bed. She looked quite different without makeup, more girlish. “It’s just a story, Osama. It’s not real.” She slowly got into bed. “Stories are for entertainment only. They never mean anything.”
“Grandfather said it happened on a mountain and God stopped Abraham’s hand just as he was about to cut Ishmael’s throat. He was on a mountain that was close to the sky, and it was a clear day, too, so God was able to see everything.”
“Your grandfather says many things that aren’t true. You know how wild his stories are. You know he never went to school or anything like that. It’s not his fault. But you don’t have to believe the same things he does. If you think something he’s saying is too foolish to be true, then it is.” She stretched, clicked off the light switch on the wall. “Don’t let his stories trouble you. Don’t let any story trouble you.” She turned me around and hugged me. We were together like quotation marks. “Now go to sleep.”
“I don’t like Abraham’s story,” I said to the dark. “It’s not a good one.”
After a slight pause, “I don’t like it, either.”
I thought about the story. “If God asked you, would you kill me?” I felt her shudder.
“Now you’re being silly,” she said. “Of course I wouldn’t do such a thing. Go to sleep and stop thinking.”
“But what if God asked you to?”
“He won’t ask me.”
“What if he asked Dad to kill me? Would he do it?”
“No. Now, don’t be annoying.”
I could not stop thinking. “What if God told someone to kill another person—would that be okay? You couldn’t put the killer in jail if God told him to do it. What if God told someone to kill a lot of people? Like how about the Turks or the French? God tells a man to kill all the French, and he goes out and shoots every Frenchman he sees. Bang, bang, bang. Is that okay? Does he get blamed? What if—”
She shushed me. She covered my mouth with her left hand. I could smell verbena, her moisturizing lotion. “God doesn’t talk to people,” she whispered in my ear. “God doesn’t tell anybody to do anything. God doesn’t do anything.”
“But people believe God talks to them.”
“Stupid people, only stupid people.”
I heard a mosquito’s buzz. I sat up, announced its presence to the room.
“Damn,” she said. “I thought the room was sprayed.” She stood up, considered ringing the buzzer for the maid, then opened the nightstand drawer and removed one Katol. Without turning on the light, she pushed the green spiral insecticide into its stand, struck a match to it. In the sudden flare, she looked like a movie star, her dark hair falling around her face.
“You don’t believe in God, do you, Mother?” I asked.
She looked at me as if I were a stranger, then blew out the match, throwing her face into darkness. “No,” she said, “I
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