Rachel Cantor - Good on Paper

I couldn’t visualize this, but let it go.

And we were off! Just three stops to the best borscht in all Manhattan.

I loved the Balalaika, the Dr. Zhivago soundtrack notwithstanding. Ahmad would flirt with gawky Anton, who’d mumble to hide his buck teeth: he’d ask about girlfriends, make Anton blush and smile and cover his mouth with his hand. After dinner, Ahmad would join Gorky in wild Russian dancing: he’d squat and thrust to the vast amusement of the Balalaika regulars, rough-looking chaps who drank their vodka neat at the bar. Breathless, Ahmad would laugh with the waiters, exchange jokes in Russian. Soviet humor, he’d say, wiping his eyes. Untranslatable.

We’d left Indian summer behind us and were back in steaming July; evening, if anything, had only made it worse. Ahmad was walking briskly; I could keep up only with an occasional hop, skip, and jump. Early years in Pakistan had taught Ahmad to love the heat; Manhattan hadn’t quite done the same for me. We descended into the subway and it became clear we should have cabbed it. The humidity was rainforest grade. Before we reached the platform, I was wiping sweat from my forehead and neck. Around us, everyone concentrated on not moving, their hair pasted onto their foreheads, or they fanned themselves without commitment.

I followed Ahmad to the end of the platform. Near us, a Columbia student huddled over a copy of War and Peace , marking the margins with a mechanical pencil. A mother with a double stroller hummed abstractedly with her Walkman while the younger of her children pointed excitedly at something on the tracks. I hoped it wasn’t a rat.

Moisture, moisture everywhere, and not a drop to drink. Ahmad wouldn’t look at me — not a good sign. He pulled a bottle of Evian out of his bag, took a swig, replaced it without sharing. Perspiration had accumulated inside my bra, on the small of my back. I wiped my face again and wondered why I never thought to bring water of my own. And watched Ahmad, as if I might find some clue to his coldness in the wrinkle of his shirt, the angle of his tie.

What’s wrong? I finally asked. I was tired, my blouse was sticking to my chest. I didn’t want to battle.

What makes you think something’s wrong? he said, still not looking at me, as our express roared into the station.

There’s obviously something wrong, I said, following Ahmad onto the train. The cool inside should have been a relief, but it wasn’t. Is it Mirabella? Something at work?

Not now, Shira, Ahmad said, sitting neatly in the one available seat, hands folded on his pressed-together knees. I clutched a steel pole as we started hurtling south.

What do you mean, not now? We need to talk about it, whatever it is!

Shira, he said, looking at me finally, you need to get off my back!

I won’t! I said.

He made as if he hadn’t heard, but the vein at his temple was pulsing.

Was that your final answer, by the way? he asked.

Was what my final answer?

You told Andi you weren’t going to Connecticut. I’m asking if that’s your final answer.

I told you already we weren’t going!

You were going to think about it, is what you said, for Andrea’s sake.

I’d never said that, but the car was screeching to a halt. Seventy-second Street. People pushed past me, squeezing right and left, some making a sudden rush for the exit when a local pulled in across the platform.

I waited till we’d pulled away. Ahmad was studying graffiti etched into the Plexiglas windows behind me.

Listen, I said, I know you’re in a tough spot …

Save the fake empathy, Shira. You want to be in New York so you can be with your boyfriend, even though being in Connecticut, being together, is better for our daughter.

My boyfriend? What boyfriend? What are you talking about?

You’d give up everything for him, wouldn’t you? You’d give up our family, you’d give up Andrea’s happiness. That’s the one thing we said we’d never do, or had you forgotten?

I don’t have a boyfriend! You’re out of your mind!

Ahmad shook his head — sadly, as if disappointed with me.

If you’re not willing to do what’s best for your daughter, Shira, then you don’t deserve her.

I wrapped both hands tight now around my pole, so Ahmad wouldn’t see them shake.

You don’t think I can raise Andi on my own? I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

Keep your voice down, he said, though I hadn’t been shouting. What I said was, if you’re not willing to put your daughter first, then you don’t deserve her .

What are you saying? I said. Say what you mean!

Ahmad said something I couldn’t hear over the crackling loudspeaker — then we were at Times Square. More pushing, more squeezing and shoving. When the train pulled away, I could see a seat some distance away, but I didn’t move.

What did you say? I asked.

I said , I had to go to Andrea’s school today.

You what? I maneuvered a few inches closer to his seat. You had to go to Andi’s school?

Mrs. Chao asked to see us.

See us? About what?

Ahmad drank some water, put his bottle back in his bag.

She sent a note home with Andrea.

Andi came home with a note?

You were on your hot date. She gave it to me this morning.

My hot date? Was he talking about Jeanette? I’d been tired and tipsy after the third Eve, it was Ahmad’s turn with Andi this morning, so I’d stayed over. Too late for me to call, but I’d had my phone with me had anyone tried to reach me, which they hadn’t.

I didn’t have a hot date! What’s going on here? I said. I sensed betrayal, smelled it, like old blood.

Someone has to be there for our daughter, someone has to be responsible. It has to be me, doesn’t it? It always has to be me.

Tell me why you had to go to Andi’s school!

Ahmad’s face was an infuriating blank; my arms and knees were shaking.

What is going on with my daughter? I said, my voice rising again.

I’m waiting for you to stop shouting, he said.

Fuck you! I shouted. The people around us went quiet, looked to each other for reassurance. If Andi has a problem, I said, lowering my voice, you need to tell me what it is.

Ahmad crossed his arms against his chest.

Tell me! I shouted.

Know this, Shira. I will do whatever it takes to make sure no one ever hurts our daughter. Do you understand me? Our stop, he said then, standing and smoothing his pants. You coming?

People began flowing out the door — people with suitcases, large bags, a woman with a cat box, young people, their hands locked, a Chinese grandmother holding a grocery bag in one hand, a child’s hand in the other. I stared at Ahmad, watched him shrug and exit without me.

I clung to my pole and pinched my arm, savagely, to keep myself from crying. He thought I was seeing Benny, and for this he was becoming crazy? Calling me a bad mother? Saying I didn’t deserve my daughter? Of course, I’d seen it before: Ahmad attacking — when he thought he was losing something, when he had lost something. It clearly wasn’t me he was worried about losing; if it was Andi, he might try problem-solving with me instead of issuing ultimatums and manipulating our girl behind my back — or, radical idea, he might wait till he’d heard about Hassan! It was nine months till summer: What was his rush? But then we were at Fourteenth Street. I allowed the crowd to carry me onto the platform. Hundreds of bedraggled passengers swarmed past me to this exit or that, many already checking their cell phones. Ahmad had gone to the Balalaika, I was sure of it; did he think I’d double back and join him? I wouldn’t.

I pushed through the turnstile. Seventh Avenue and Twelfth Street. The Village — well outside my Comfort Zone. The Stations of my Loss, I called it; I never came down here. It was just there, on Fourteenth Street, that Jonah walked in front of a cab, crossing the street to meet us. Ahmad had said terrible things to me that night as well. He waved at Jonah from across the street, but it was me Jonah watched as he stepped into that road, the picture of the flying girl in his hand, me he was looking at when he was hit.