her pipes. She’d been farting for miles.
“That is awful!” Kathy wailed. The kids giggled more. Mekay continued to suffer. She was hiding under the seat.
They passed Slidell and soon met up with I-190, a smaller road Kathy figured would have less traffic. But it was just as bad, an endless stream of brake lights. Ten thousand cars, twenty thousand lights, she guessed, extending all the way to Baton Rouge or beyond. She had become part of the exodus without entirely registering the enormity and strangeness of it. A hundred thousand people on the road, all going north and east, fleeing winds and water. Kathy could only think of beds. Where would all these people sleep? A hundred thousand beds. Every time she passed a driveway she looked at the home longingly. She was so tired, and not even halfway there.
She thought again of her husband. The images she’d seen on the news were absurd, really—the storm looked like a white circular saw heading directly for New Orleans. On those satellite images the city looked so small compared to the hurricane, such a tiny thing about to be cut to pieces by that gigantic spinning blade. And her husband was just a man alone in a wooden house.
Zeitoun called again at eight o’clock. Kathy and the kids had been on the road for three hours and had only gotten as far as Covington—about fifty miles. Meanwhile, he was watching television, puttering around the house, enjoying the cool night.
“You should have stayed,” he said. “It’s so nice here.”
“We’ll see, smart guy,” she said.
Though she was exhausted, and was being driven near-crazy by her flatulent dog, Kathy was looking forward to a few days in Baton Rouge. At certain moments, at least, she was looking forward to it. Her family was not easy to deal with, this was certain, and any visit could take a wrong turn quickly and irreparably.
It’s complicated
, she would tell people. With eight siblings, it had been turbulent growing up, and when she converted to Islam, the battles and misunderstandings multiplied.
It often started with her hijab. She’d come in, drop her bags, and the suggestion would come: “Now you can take that thing off.” She’d been a Muslim for fifteen years and they still said this to her. As if the scarf was something worn under duress, only in the company of Zeitoun, a disguise she could shed when he was not around. As if only in the Delphine household could she finally be herself, let loose. This was actually the command her mother had given the last time Kathy had visited: “Take that thing off your head,” she’d said. “Go out and have a good time.”
* * *
There were times, however, when her mother’s loyalty to Kathy trumped her issues with Islam. Years earlier, Kathy and her mother had gone to the DMV together to have Kathy’s license renewed. Kathy was wearing her hijab, and had already received a healthy number of suspicious looks from DMV customers and staff by the time she sat down to have her picture taken. The employee behind the camera did not disguise her contempt.
“Take that thing off,” the woman said.
Kathy knew that it was her right to wear the scarf for the photo, but she didn’t want to make an issue of it.
“Do you have a brush?” Kathy asked. She tried to make a joke of it: “I don’t want to have my hair all matted for the photo.” Kathy was smiling, but the woman only stared, unblinking. “Really,” Kathy continued, “I’m okay with taking it off, but only if you have a brush …”
That’s when her mother jumped to the rescue—in her way.
“She can wear it!” her mother yelled. “She can if she wants to!”
Now it was a scene. Everyone in the DMV was watching. Kathy tried to diffuse the situation. “Mama, it’s okay,” she said. “Really, it’s okay. Mama, do you have a brush?”
Her mother barely registered Kathy’s question. She was focused on the woman behind the camera. “You can’t make her take it off!
“That is awful!” Kathy wailed. The kids giggled more. Mekay continued to suffer. She was hiding under the seat.
They passed Slidell and soon met up with I-190, a smaller road Kathy figured would have less traffic. But it was just as bad, an endless stream of brake lights. Ten thousand cars, twenty thousand lights, she guessed, extending all the way to Baton Rouge or beyond. She had become part of the exodus without entirely registering the enormity and strangeness of it. A hundred thousand people on the road, all going north and east, fleeing winds and water. Kathy could only think of beds. Where would all these people sleep? A hundred thousand beds. Every time she passed a driveway she looked at the home longingly. She was so tired, and not even halfway there.
She thought again of her husband. The images she’d seen on the news were absurd, really—the storm looked like a white circular saw heading directly for New Orleans. On those satellite images the city looked so small compared to the hurricane, such a tiny thing about to be cut to pieces by that gigantic spinning blade. And her husband was just a man alone in a wooden house.
Zeitoun called again at eight o’clock. Kathy and the kids had been on the road for three hours and had only gotten as far as Covington—about fifty miles. Meanwhile, he was watching television, puttering around the house, enjoying the cool night.
“You should have stayed,” he said. “It’s so nice here.”
“We’ll see, smart guy,” she said.
Though she was exhausted, and was being driven near-crazy by her flatulent dog, Kathy was looking forward to a few days in Baton Rouge. At certain moments, at least, she was looking forward to it. Her family was not easy to deal with, this was certain, and any visit could take a wrong turn quickly and irreparably.
It’s complicated
, she would tell people. With eight siblings, it had been turbulent growing up, and when she converted to Islam, the battles and misunderstandings multiplied.
It often started with her hijab. She’d come in, drop her bags, and the suggestion would come: “Now you can take that thing off.” She’d been a Muslim for fifteen years and they still said this to her. As if the scarf was something worn under duress, only in the company of Zeitoun, a disguise she could shed when he was not around. As if only in the Delphine household could she finally be herself, let loose. This was actually the command her mother had given the last time Kathy had visited: “Take that thing off your head,” she’d said. “Go out and have a good time.”
* * *
There were times, however, when her mother’s loyalty to Kathy trumped her issues with Islam. Years earlier, Kathy and her mother had gone to the DMV together to have Kathy’s license renewed. Kathy was wearing her hijab, and had already received a healthy number of suspicious looks from DMV customers and staff by the time she sat down to have her picture taken. The employee behind the camera did not disguise her contempt.
“Take that thing off,” the woman said.
Kathy knew that it was her right to wear the scarf for the photo, but she didn’t want to make an issue of it.
“Do you have a brush?” Kathy asked. She tried to make a joke of it: “I don’t want to have my hair all matted for the photo.” Kathy was smiling, but the woman only stared, unblinking. “Really,” Kathy continued, “I’m okay with taking it off, but only if you have a brush …”
That’s when her mother jumped to the rescue—in her way.
“She can wear it!” her mother yelled. “She can if she wants to!”
Now it was a scene. Everyone in the DMV was watching. Kathy tried to diffuse the situation. “Mama, it’s okay,” she said. “Really, it’s okay. Mama, do you have a brush?”
Her mother barely registered Kathy’s question. She was focused on the woman behind the camera. “You can’t make her take it off!
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