LITMIR.BIZ

      DAUGHTERS OF MANĀT

      She woke to the same slight wind drifting through the drapes. Again the early dawn shadows spread across the ceiling, gray forms that appeared to be reflections of other shadows, a mirrored image from time primordial, its source erased. Outside, the ensemble of birds grew louder. A quavering tangle of notes. Who else do they wake?

      In the bathroom she brushed her teeth, combed her hair, and in the mirror saw only the outline of her face. With the lights off she dressed, a long dark skirt and a light blouse, thick tights and high boots. She passed a makeup brush across her cheeks and with her moistened fingertips smoothed her brows. The sound of her heels on the stone floor crushed the birds’ chorus, and when for a moment she stopped moving, only a single warbler’s interlude reached her ears. A thin melody that trilled and rattled. She walked to the window and opened the drapes, lifted the pane. Stepped onto the windowsill and jumped.

      As she fell her skirt unfurled and blossomed, and those who saw her from beneath said she glided across the sky. Her body blocked the rising sun but her sheer blouse absorbed the early rays so that she glowed. A baker opening his shop watched her beam brighter as she moved, until she was an orb ablaze, a burning Venus. A pastor on his way to the day’s first service paused in the street to cross himself and plead the precious blood of Jesus. The Lord of Phosphorus was again in their midst.

      She felt as she fell that time had slowed. Before her the earth spread indefinitely and though she knew she hovered high above the ground it seemed to her that there was but one plane and that it contained land and sky alike. This flattening allowed her to see far beyond her street, her city. She could make out the curve of Africa’s horn and the blue of the Red Sea. What else did she see? A Simien fox hunting a mole rat, a masked butterflyfish searching for its mate. She realized the earth was smaller than she had been led to believe, that only its curvature had made its parts seem discrete.

      **

      By the time she was twelve, my aunt Zaynab was taller than her father in stature and fuller than her mother in shape. Her hair was black and bright and reached down to her waist. Her lids were rimmed in double rows of lashes, a genetic mutation that made her eyes gleam like polished sunstone. Boys she had grown up with, neighbors’ children, who used to tackle her to the ground in games of tag and give her piggyback rides up and down the narrow, hilly streets of East Amman, now moved out of her way with quiet reverence, with mild hostility.

      After months of turning away suitors who stood at the front door with sweaty palms gripping boxes of sweets, and chasing away others who trailed their daughter home from school and hissed at her heels, my grandparents decided something had to be done. Zaynab herself had learned to not mind the stares and catcalls. She had a quick wit and a serrated tongue that could raze the confidence of even the most cavalier suitor and to her the boys were more like feral cats, skittish and afraid. But, as they say, it was a different time, and girls like that had to be looked after in measured ways. And so by age twelve, my aunt was married.

      The man was in his twenties and came from a devout family that agreed to my grandmother’s demand that Zaynab remain chaste until she reached womanhood. The first time I heard Zaynab’s story I wondered how they could tell. Would it be when she grew taller? Was that how I, too, would become a woman? My own mother was shorter than some children. Was she not one?

      Child or not, Zaynab was put to work in her in-laws’ home, sweeping the courtyard and scrubbing the tiles, pulling hair clots from drains and chopping onions for soups. Crates of onions, pyramids of onions. So many that even in her old age my aunt despised them, would cover her nose with her sleeve, curse the day she was born and rush outside to escape their smell.

      I don’t know how long young Zaynab had to endure her husband’s family – my grandmother would say two weeks, Zaynab claimed two months – but every day at sunset my aunt would escape her in-laws and return to her family. Each night she stayed later and later in her parents’ house, cursing both families and bemoaning her fate, crying hot tears and spitting at the floor, promising misfortune for them all. Each night she was dragged back to her new home, her hair wild and voice hoarse.

      When the neighbors intervened, it was with prayers and support, teas and ointments, but nothing worked. Zaynab remained ferocious, going so far as to cut off her black, bright hair – so short that the tops of her ears protruded. ‘Like a boy elf!’ my grandmother would say. Zaynab threatened to do more, to take to the streets and humiliate them, to scream their names to strangers. Finally it was agreed that a mistake had been made, and to everyone’s relief, the marriage was annulled.

      **

      My aunt Zaynab looked after me while my parents were at work. She was seventeen years older than my mother and her own children were grown and gone by the time I came along. I spent more time with her than I did with anyone else and for years I thought this meant I was destined to become as ugly as she was. Arthritis gnarled her fingers into claws and too much bleach made her scalp look like parched earth. ‘You think it matters how shapely your mouth is, how long your nails are?’ she would say to me, leaning in close enough for me to taste her cigarette breath.

      On my tenth birthday she made white cupcakes frosted purple and dropped them off at my school after lunch. As she stood in the classroom doorway holding the tray, she peered around the teacher to find me, her squinted eyes darting among the rows of children. I gave her a quick look of thanks and turned away, hoping no one would see her. That afternoon we had a classroom party and wore pointed hats. Beneath colorful streamers and floating balloons my friend Oni kissed me on the mouth in between bites of cake. Disney songs played from a small cassette player on the teacher’s desk and the teacher, Ms. Nolan, was busy showing a student how to properly take Harry the hamster out of his cage, how to hold him with cupped hands so he felt safe.

      Licking frosting off my lips, I giggled at Oni, who smeared more frosting on her mouth and leaned in to kiss me again, but within inches of my face she was snapped back by Ms. Nolan’s hands and led outside. I put down my cupcake and looked around at the other kids. I wondered if they had been watching us. What had they seen? Some of them crowded near the window, pushing and pulling one another to get a look. Through the glass I watched Ms. Nolan’s mouth move rapidly as she spoke and Oni’s lips tremble like she might cry.

      A sudden scream caused us to turn away from the window to see the kid who had been holding Harry chasing the hamster across the room. Soon, more than two dozen students were on the hunt, trying to catch Harry and put him back in his cage. But the hamster was frightened and wouldn’t stop scurrying, kept weaving his way between backpacks and books, desk legs and human

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