Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul (18 page)

Bear groaned as Sunny flopped over onto her back and gave him a shove toward his side of the mattress. The room was dark and chilly. She pulled the covers up to her chin and stared at the ceiling. She didn't even want to know what time it was, how many hours she'd been lying awake. She was still a bit reluctant to shut her eyes, worried that the images of the devastation on the coffeehouse patio that had plagued her all week would return. For nights, all she had dreamed about were the blood-spattered pebbles, the broken furniture, the nicks from the bullets freckling the walls and doors, the customers injured and scared. Not one of them would ever pass through those gates again. And, if Candace was right, neither might she.

On top of it all, Candace would be leaving in the morning. Sunny was so tempted to go as well, to just hop on that ferry as it chugged away from the shore and kiss this place goodbye. So what was stopping her? What, really, did this island hold
for her? She took a silent inventory: a half of a house she didn't really want. A half of a crumbling barn, a half of an old shed, a half of a ton of grapes that would turn into a barrel of wine that, in all probability, nobody in their right mind would want to drink. And, of course, let's not forget the whole dog and whole cat.

But there was even more she'd been left with. There was Layla, for one. It was true that she needed a home, for now. And what about Kat? She had been spending so many nights on Sunny's couch lately that it felt as though she had practically moved in. And how could she bring herself to abandon the girl without a job, especially after convincing her to leave the one she had to come to the island? And while she was at it, what about Joe and Sky, and those grapes on the hill growing fatter and riper by the day? Was she going to be the one to jeopardize their dreams of having their very own harvest, as iffy as it might be?

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to concentrate on something soothing, a pleasant scene or a comforting memory. Jack's strong arms around her body, his cool skin against her bare back, the feel of his calm, even breath whispering across the base of her neck. How many nights had she spent in this bed summoning up that dream? But now, thinking about Jack made her think about the house, which made her think about Joe and Sky and Layla and Kat, which made her think about Rick and the dilemma she was in, which made her bolt upright and curse Jack out loud for getting her into this mess in the first place.

Now Sunny was wide awake. Getting up and out of bed appeared to be the only option, so she padded into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. As she flipped on the light, Sangiovese appeared at her side, rubbing up against the plaid
flannel pajama bottoms she'd swiped from Jack. Maybe Joe had the right idea, she thought as she waited for the kettle to boil. Maybe she didn't need to commit to staying on Twimbly Island forever. What she really needed was to buy herself some time, to buy them all a little time. And Candace might have had a point. It wasn't all that bad here, as long as you knew you'd be leaving someday. She'd stick it out through the harvest. She'd find a way to convince Rick to either buy or sell, and in the meantime she'd shut him up with that “good faith” money the asshole was asking for. But she wasn't about to take Joe's money. She'd figure out a way to do it on her own. She was Sunny Tedder, and she was going to make this happen. Somehow. And then she would decide where to go.

“Shit!” Out in the hallway Candace was pale and makeup-less in her yellow silk pajamas, hopping up and down on one bare foot while rubbing the other with her two hands. “I needed a blanket. You call this summer? It's colder than my poor lonely hoo-ha in here.” The door of the linen closet was open, and a grey metal box lay on its side on the floor next to Candace. “Damn thing fell off the shelf and onto my foot.”

Sunny bent down to retrieve the offending object, a strongbox, just like the ones they'd make change from at a carnival or a street fair. As she lifted it from the floor the top swung back on its hinges, causing everything inside to scatter across the hallway. Typical Jack, she thought as she tried to brush the cat away from the mess. So trusting, he never even bothered to buy a damn lock for his lockbox. She and Candace knelt down together without a word to clean it all up. There didn't seem to be much of value—a few afghani bills and coins, a checkbook in a leather case, an expired driver's license, a yellowed ID card, some old bank records. But when Sunny glanced at a wrinkled
piece of paper she'd managed to wrestle from under Sangiovese's paw she had to stop for a second. She scooted back on her rear and leaned up against the wall, smoothed out the creases and read the words to herself again.

“What?” Candace asked, pulling a blue blanket down from the shelf and wrapping herself up tightly in it. “What's that?”

“Listen to this.” Sunny read out loud, “
I, Rick Stark, hereby acknowledge the receipt of $325,000 from Jack Scott for the purchase of my existing share of Screaming Peacock Vineyards, and all property included. Jack Scott is to be the sole owner of said property. The official transfer of deed will occur at Twimbly Bank at the earliest convenience of the two parties involved.
” Sunny let the paper fall to her lap. “Huh.”

“That's all you have to say?
Huh
?” Candace asked, plopping down beside her friend. “Rick's signature is right here, in black and white.” She grabbed the agreement from Sunny's lap and shook it in her face. “This was signed and dated last year, before Jack died. It was all going to be made official when Jack got back to the island. And he didn't.”

“And?”

“Don't you see, Sunny? The place is all Jack's!”

“You mean it's all mine?”

“Well duh, of course that's what I mean.” She rolled up the paper and swatted Sunny on the head.

Sunny snatched it back from her friend and crammed it into the pocket of her pajamas. “The guy's been playing me, Candace. What a dirtbag! Lying through those big old shiny teeth.” Sunny could feel her nails dig into the flesh of her own palms. “He just sat there, with a straight face, telling me Jack would have wanted this, Jack would have done that, you should do this, blah blah blah. Why did I ever even listen to that guy?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I knew something was wrong. I should have trusted my gut.”

“Yep.”

“Taking advantage of a good man's good will, after he is dead and buried.” Sunny kicked the hardwood floor with the back of her bare heel.

“Well,” Candace added after a beat, “maybe not quite so buried.” She reached for the small, square cardboard box that sat on the floor of the closet. “Is this what I think it is?”

Sunny nodded absent-mindedly.

Candace cradled the box in her lap and gave it three little pats. Now Sunny was paying attention, her eyes moving back and forth between Candace's face and the box, the box and Candace's face.

Candace lowered her own gaze to her lap. “He tried to screw us, Jack. What are you going to do about it, huh?” She jiggled her thighs a little. “You just gonna sit there?”

Sunny's mouth dropped open.

“Big help you are, Jack-in-the-box,” Candace continued. Sunny reached for the box but Candace wasn't through. “Whatever happened to Jack-be-nimble, Jack-be-quick, huh?”

Now Sunny couldn't help but laugh. “Yeah, you're doing jack squat just sitting there in that box,” she added. “Can't you see we need a little assistance around here?”

Now the two of them were giggling like schoolgirls, and it wasn't long before Sunny felt a tear slipping from her eye. But for once, it was the good kind, the kind that comes from the relief of letting go.

“Well now, we don't need Jack to help us, Sunny. We're not going to let old Rick get away with this,” said Candace, her southern attitude and the accent that went along with it taking
over. “That man doesn't seem to know who he's messing with, does he? I'll just bet he's never tangled with a couple of down-home girls before, cause I'm sure they don't make them up here like they do over in Arkansas or in ole Missouri.” She folded her arms across her chest and gave a sharp little nod.

Seeing Candace like this made Sunny crack up even more, and it felt good. It was as if being with her friend had opened a pressure valve that had been sealed shut for months. Above all she loved to hear her laugh, the same laugh that had let Sunny know, back in Kabul, that deep down, behind the bluster and glitz of Candace's la-di-da exterior, there was another Candace, one who was a lot more like Sunny and the girls she knew growing up back home than anyone would ever guess.

They laughed so long it got to the point where she didn't even know what they were laughing at anymore. “Shhh, shhh, we're gonna wake the girls.” Sunny managed between giggles. “They need their sleep.”

Finally they wore themselves out. Candace yawned. But to Sunny, sitting there on the cold wood floor with her best friend, in their pajamas as the early morning light began to peek through the living room shutters, sleep was the last thing in the world she wanted. For the first time in ages, she was excited for it to be tomorrow.

The white sack was lifted with care from the back of the battered SUV and hoisted onto the shoulders of the six bearded men, each one wearing a mask of sorrow beneath the
pakol
on his head. Zara's father led the way, his heavy eyes cast downward toward the scrubby soil below. The group snaked through the field of graves, stepping gingerly around each jagged slab of rock that stood as the only sign of a body below, until they reached the hole that had been prepared for their grievous load.

They came to a halt and, without a word spoken, the two men in the back began to lower their end of the shrouded figure into the ground, as if the act were a dance they had done many times before. The pair in front followed, until the motionless form was completely prone, at rest atop a bed of gravel and dirt.
Bismillah,
they softly chanted. In the name of Allah and in the faith of the Messenger of Allah.

Halajan stood in silence well behind the rest of the small circle of mourners, trying to remain confident that she was in no danger of being recognized beneath the white
shalwaar kameez
and turban she wore to pass as a man. She had been determined to attend the burial, to witness it for herself and to report back to Yazmina the details of the ritual in which only men were allowed to take part. From her location, she watched through a thick-framed pair of Rashif's old eyeglasses as two of the men positioned the covered shape onto its right side, against the wall of the grave, to face the
qiblah
in Mecca. Then Zara's father reached down to undo the ties at the head and the foot of the shroud, which he did as if he were performing a delicate surgery. As he stood to allow the others to place a thin piece of wood on top of the lifeless figure—to prohibit dirt from falling directly on the body when the grave was filled with earth—Halajan noticed a heave of his shoulders. Yet still the man remained silent, as did everyone else around her. There would be no crying, none of the wailing she had seen in some of the western movies Sunny had rented to show at the coffeehouse. Here in the Kabul cemetery, the only sounds to be heard were the birds in the sky, and the occasional airplane heading south to India. Death was a serious matter.

She closed her eyes for just one moment, to accept the comfort of the early afternoon sun on her wrinkled face, and by the time she opened them the men in Zara's family were already scooping up dirt from the ground and tossing it into the grave. Three handfuls each, according to the tradition. Within minutes, the rest of the hole had been filled with sand, and the burial complete. For it was important to put a body to rest quickly, to allow the soul to lie in peace.

The mourners stood by the grave to make
dua
to the deceased. Halajan imagined that
namaaz jenaaza
had been performed
earlier, as normally the funeral prayer would take place in the women's section of the mosque, after the midday prayer.

O Allah
, Halajan mouthed silently along with the men,
forgive her, have mercy on her, give her peace and pardon her. Receive her with honor and make her entrance spacious. Wash her with water, snow, and ice, and cleanse her of her faults like a white garment is cleansed of stains. Requite her with an abode better than her abode, with a family better than her family and a spouse better than her spouse. Admit her into Paradise and protect her from the torment of the grave and the torment of the Fire.

As they continued with their supplication, Halajan's eyes wandered to the brown hills rising from the edges of the cemetery, and the houses that seemed to grow from the craggy rock, their windows offering a daily dose of mortality to the inhabitants within. At the far edges of the burial grounds, she could see little clusters of blue moving in packs—burqa'd women visiting their deceased. Still there was no sound; no talking, no weeping among the graves that stretched out as far as the eye could see. Suddenly all the sorrow she'd been holding inside came rushing out in a sob. She quickly turned her face away and coughed into her hands to cover her blunder. When will it ever end? she wondered as the anguish pumped through her veins, this madness that has taken so many from those they loved, and who loved them, this insanity that rips families apart and turns devout men into instruments of evil? And for what? If there was a larger purpose for this, it was a purpose that Halajan failed to see.

It wasn't until she calmed herself a bit and brought her focus back to the scene that she saw him, standing there to her left, with his crisp green-and-white
chapan
and blacker-than-black beard. She'd seen those dark eyes with no end before, in the
coffeehouse. And now, just as they had then, those eyes caused a chill to climb from the base of Halajan's spine right up to the top of her head. Her knees suddenly buckled, and she fought the temptation to sit, for she could not afford to draw the slightest bit of attention to herself. There was no mistaking who he was. Zara's father must have noticed Faheem as well, as Halajan could have sworn that for one split second her eyes connected with his in a shared solace, before they both quickly turned away.

Halajan placed a rock of her own to mark Zara's grave. Then the girl's father and the others left as swiftly as they had arrived. Halajan remained behind, until the last mourner was gone from sight. It was then that she finally allowed herself to fold into a pile on the hard ground, the strain of the day and all that had led up to it rushing in with the rallying cry of a tribal drum.