Pray for the Girl Page 10

  “I always put ketchup on my burger.”

  “Not on this one.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ll ruin the subtle flavor of the lamb. Besides, it’s got tzatziki sauce on it.”

  “What the hell is Suzuki sauce?”

  “It’s tzatziki sauce, Dalton. Just open your mind and try it.”

  He takes a bite.

  “It looked like they scribbled the message in red marker,” I say.

  “This sauce is kinda tangy.”

  “It’s supposed to be tangy,” I say. “Did you know that the star inside the crescent moon is the symbol for Islam?”

  “Is that so? Well, whoever wrote it did it in red lipstick,” he says before taking another bite.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because it was your lipstick. Do you usually leave a tube in your ashtray?”

  I nod.

  “We need to be discreet about this, Lucy. Some people in town might think you wrote that message in order to attract attention to yourself.”

  “That’s insane. Why would I do that?”

  “You’re new in town and dress different than most of the women who live here. People in Fawn Grove notice such things.”

  “Wow, you make it sound as if I’m one of the Afghanis.”

  “I suppose so, when you put it that way.”

  Sadly, I know he’s right. The people in Fawn Grove are a tight-knit clan, distrusting of most outsiders, and beholden to past traditions. They must feel as if I’m showing them up by strutting around town, dressed like a celebrity, which is the last thing I want to do. If they only knew that I’m an insider, too. But how could they possibly know that unless I told them?

  A fresh tube of lipstick sits buried in my purse, and in the ashtray of the truck. I always keep one nearby in case I run out. Maybe it’s a result of the trauma I suffered because of that IED. Or the fact that my legs—what’s left of them—are scarred and hideous to the eye. Because of that I always want my lips to look luxurious on a moment’s notice.

  “Why else would they draw a symbol of Islam on your windshield and call you an infidel if they weren’t one of these Muslim thugs?” Dalton says.

  “You’re the detective. You tell me.”

  “I can’t understand why anyone would want to try to intimidate you like that.” He snarfs down a fry dipped in chipotle mayo. “No one knows you went down to the murder scene with me. Or that you’re interested in the girl’s death.”

  I bite my thumbnail. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Brynn and I went to that Afghani grocery yesterday. That lamb burger you’re eating is halal.”

  “Halal?” Dalton drops the burger on his plate as if it’s blowfish sushi. “What the hell’s halal?”

  I try not to laugh for fear of pissing him off. “Easy, Dalton. It’s just a method of butchering the animal. It’s similar to Kosher.”

  “It’s not goat or horse meat?”

  “Of course not. The reason we went down to the market was to talk to a classmate of Brynn’s. A girl named Nasreen.”

  “Why did you want to talk to her?” He holds out his cup. I grab the pot of Yanni’s institutionally bland coffee, but he stops me. “Any more of that Turkish stuff you made earlier?”

  “You liked that?” This flatters me more than anything else he’s said.

  “Yeah. That coffee was great.”

  “Maybe there’s hope for you after all.”

  “I’m not the cretin you think I am, Lucy Abbott. Just because I stand up for the rights of Americans doesn’t make me a racist.”

  “Every American citizen came from immigrants,” I say, topping off his cup. He pours cream and sugar into it. “Nasreen and Sulafi were cousins. My theory is that she talked to me because I’m a girl.”

  “Talked to you about what?”

  “About the fact that her cousin was possibly dating one of her classmates and that she was communicating with him over the Internet.”

  “Sounds harmless enough.” He stuffs the last morsel of burger into his mouth. A smear of tzatziki sauce clings to the side of his lips, and I want badly to wipe it away.

  “Think she was legit?”

  “I have no reason to think otherwise.” Two elderly biker types wearing bandanas walk through the door.

  “There’s another thing I think you should know.”

  “There’s more?”

  “She carried our bags out to the truck but then seemed frightened when one of her bosses saw her speaking to us.”

  “At one of our sensitivity training classes, we were told that Muslim women are reluctant to speak to men or look them in the eye. We’re supposed to be aware of this if we ever pull one of them over for a traffic offense.”

  “The girl seemed eager to keep talking until her boss came out and saw us.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I have no idea, because he was speaking in his mother tongue. But I did notice that his voice was raised and he was waving his arms in the air.”

  “Could she have been goofing off instead of working?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “You think someone in the Afghani community threatened you because of that conversation? Left a warning on your windshield for you to stop digging into the case?”

  “Possibly, but I don’t really know.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” He sticks two fries in his mouth.

  “How the hell should I know? You’re the cop.”

  He seems to mull it over. “Okay, I’ll go over to the market and have a talk with someone. What’s the girl’s name again?”

  “Nasreen. I don’t know her last name.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t think there’s many Nasreens living in Fawn Grove.” He jots the name down in his spiral notebook. Then he closes it and stares up at me. “You said you found the threat scrawled on the passenger side of your windshield?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this was before you went inside the pickup?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I never asked you this, Lucy, but where are you staying while in town?”

  I hesitate for a second before telling him. “Russ and Wendy Petersen’s house.” This gets his attention. “Wendy’s my cousin.”

  “Really? Small world.”

  “So you’ll go down there and talk to the manager?” I say, trying to change the subject. I place my hand over his and stare deeply into his eyes, hoping he’ll make no mention of Wendy or Russ.

  “Sure, although I’m not sure what good it’ll do.” He puts on his cap. “You do realize they’re not going to tell me anything, especially about who threatened you. Or who killed that girl.”

  “Maybe not, but at least they’ll be on notice in case they try to pull that shit again.”

  “By the way,” he says, standing, “that burger you made was off the charts.”

  “You really liked it?” My spirits soar, and suddenly I want to jump over the counter and hug him.

  “I did. And the fries with that spicy mayo were great too.”

  Flattered beyond belief, I watch as he walks out of the diner. I look down at his plate; he’s cleaned it better than any of the Mexican dishwashers I’ve ever worked with. Even the chipotle mayo and tzatziki sauce are gone. It’s my first success at The Galaxy, although it might be my last.

  “Looks like you had at least one happy camper,” Stefania says, picking up Dalton’s plate. “I bet he would have asked for his money back if he wasn’t so madly in love with you.”

  “Dalton’s not in love with me, and he wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

  “Wow, you know nothing about that moron. And yes, he is too in love with you, Miss Fancy-Pants.”

  I grab my packet of knives, except for the boning knife; tuck the sack under my arm; and head for the door.

  “You think you’re all that because you sold one lousy burger? Ha! Gue
ss you’re not as talented as you think you are.”

  I turn to her. “I never said I was that talented.”

  “You should go back there and apologize to my papou for making fun of him, and for saying his cooking sucks.”

  “I did not make fun of him. And yes, his food does suck.”

  “Then why don’t you just go back to where you came from and leave us alone?”

  “Maybe I will. I don’t need you or this place.”

  “No one here likes you or your crappy food. No one but that loser boyfriend of yours.”

  “I already told you, Stefania. He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “We don’t like outsiders like you coming into Fawn Grove and telling us how to run things.”

  “Are you for real?”

  She rolls her head and crosses her arms in defiance. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  “Why do you have so much hostility toward me?”

  The girl laughs. “Maybe you should look in the mirror and ask yourself the same question.”

  What does she mean by that? Does she sense that I loathe myself as much as I loathe this town? Maybe at one time I did, but not so much anymore. Or not to the same degree I once did. I scan the parking lot before making my way out. A lone car sits across from my truck. I hobble toward the pickup, hand in pocket, gripping the boning knife while looking from side to side. If someone wants to come after me, they’d better be prepared. I’m battle-tested and can hold my own in a fight. Many days have passed since that fateful day in Afghanistan, when those voices were conceived, but I pity the asshole who thinks he can take me down.

  * * *

  I walk through the living room, and for once Russ is not in his usual seat. It seems odd, but then again he must have to get up once in a while to snack or go to the bathroom. The odd silence in the room makes me realize that the TV is not on.

  I take the opportunity to hobble upstairs and toward my room. My thighs ache from standing all morning. Because of the diner’s funky layout, I’d been forced to work in a highly inefficient manner, moving from side to side like Serena Williams playing Wimbledon with a frying pan. It took a toll on my joints and caused my prosthetics to unnecessarily torque beyond what they were designed to do. Yanni’s kitchen is disorganized and poorly designed for a chef with my unique disability. It’s almost a blessing in disguise that the diner was not busier. Making matters worse, I spent half the morning cleaning out the grease traps, scrubbing that nasty oven, and scraping off burnt food from the flattop so that I could properly sear my burgers.

  My head hurts and my vision remains blurred from the diner’s harsh light. Vertigo threatens to derail my brief recovery. I place my bag of knives down on the bureau and collapse on the bed in exhaustion. Something stabs me in the leg, and I shout out in pain. For a moment I think I’m being attacked by a rabid vermin. I jump up, fists clenched as if to defend myself from its hoary fangs. A sharp pain shoots through my leg. Reaching down, I feel a wet spot on my chef’s whites. Blood! I turn on the light and see the stain spreading over the fabric. And then it suddenly hits me—the boning knife in my pocket. I pull down my chef’s whites and see a two-inch gash over one of the hideous scars running across my thigh.

  There’s a knock at the door. I quickly shut off the light and ask who it is.

  “It’s Nadia. Wendy said I could come up and see you.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to see how you did today.”

  “Stefania didn’t tell you?”

  “She texted me that you worked this morning and that a threat had been made against you.”

  “Someone left a nasty note on the windshield of my truck.”

  “That’s terrible,” she says. “Would it be all right if I came in?”

  “Sure. But could you go into the bathroom first and get the medical kit out of the top drawer?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I cut myself.”

  “God, no, Lucy!”

  I laugh. “Not like that.”

  “Thank God. Of course, I’ll go grab it.”

  Nadia walks to the bathroom, gets the first aid kit, and enters my room. The blood flows freely from the wound, ruining a good pair of chef’s whites. Nadia gasps when she sees the dark stain spreading along my thigh. Or maybe it’s the red cicatrices that cause her stunned reaction. Her eyes go from my legs to my eyes, and a profound look of sadness falls over her face. Her pity makes me regret ever inviting her in.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Wait a few seconds if you’re repulsed, because you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  She removes some moist wipes from the kit and dabs at the wound. She asks if she can take off my chef’s whites, and I nod in approval. Grabbing the trousers by the hems, she slowly pulls them down until they fall to the floor. Her eyes remain glued to my prosthetics as I wait for her to say something.

  “Seeing it makes it so real to me.” Tears fall from her eyes.

  “It’s been all too real to me for quite some time now.”

  “You should have come home and let us help you.”

  I watch as she cleans the wound. “Did you notice that I’m taller with them on?”

  “I didn’t, although I probably should have.” She laughs and wipes away a tear. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you that I’ve forgotten small things like that.”

  “I’ve grown in more ways than one.”

  “How did this happen?”

  “Roadside IED.”

  “I’m so tired of wars and countries fighting each other.” She dabs medicated ointment over the two-inch gash using her middle finger. “We’re all God’s creatures. Why can’t everyone just get along?”

  “It’s what I signed up for when I joined the army.”

  “Is that how you got all these scars?” She places a bandage over the wound.

  “Didn’t get them from leaning over hot stoves all day,” I say, pushing myself back on the bed. “That cut you see on my thigh was from the boning knife I’ve been carrying around.”

  “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “Because of the threat made against me this morning.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Someone warned me to stop digging around into the girl’s death. They also drew a star and crescent moon above it.”

  “The symbol for Islam?”

  “Yes.” I lift my legs and place my hands under my butt. “Thanks, but I can rub in the lotion myself.”

  “No, let me do it. Just tell me what you’d like me to do.”

  I instruct her, and with the utmost care she removes the prosthetics and lays them down on the floor. She grabs the tube and gently rubs the medicated ointment into the irritated folds of skin. Her hand moves in slow, circular motions, and I can’t begin to show my gratitude for the kindness she’s showing me, especially after all these years apart. This is the girl whom I was smitten with so many years ago, when we were teens and on the brink of everything, and hiding our friendship for fear of being found out. It was a forbidden romance in many ways, although in retrospect it now seems kind of silly.

  And yet I don’t know how I feel about Nadia anymore. I don’t know how I feel about anyone in this town. Or anyone in my life. My confusion confuses even me. Things have changed in Fawn Grove and not all for the better. Everything feels situational and fleeting since I lost these limbs, and I can’t seem to understand what I like and dislike anymore. I’m not even sure if I ever actually loved her in the truest sense.

  Once Nadia finishes rubbing in the medication, she places the tube down on the nightstand and lies down next to me on the bed. She rests her head on my shoulder and squeezes my hand. Her hair smells lovely against my nose. She leans into me and gently kisses my neck.

  “I’m so glad you’re back.”

  “It may only be temporary,” I say.

  “You never told me how it went this morning.”

  “Ask Stefania.”

 
; She laughs in that girlish way she used to do when she was sixteen, and we’d be sitting in my car overlooking the site where Angus Gibbons’s plane crashed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You called her Stefania. I was just thinking how much she hates being called that.”

  “I’ve noticed that too. Why?”

  “It was my grandmother’s name, and it’s so pretty,” she says, snuggling closer to me. “She’s had a rough go of it these last few years. My faltering marriage hasn’t helped matters, and being forced to work at the diner has put a strain on her time.”

  “But why does she hate being called Stefania? It’s such a beautiful name.”

  “She’s embarrassed by her Greek heritage. Maybe she feels like people in town might mistake her for a foreigner. She’s always wanted to fit in and be one of the popular kids.”

  “Like every other kid in this town.”

  “I told her that our Greek heritage is nothing to be ashamed of, but she doesn’t want to hear that from her mother. So when she turned eleven she demanded that everyone call her Stef. She thought it sounded like a normal girl’s name.”

  “Remember how we used to sneak around back in high school because you were afraid your parents might see us together? You dating a townie.”

  “Being a young Greek immigrant made it hard for a girl like me to fit in here. That is, until I met you. You never cared that I didn’t speak perfect English or wasn’t from Fawn Grove.”

  “It seems so silly to think about now. How times have changed.”

  “Not entirely. Many people here still feel hostile toward immigrants, and that’s certainly not progress.”

  “But I would assume many more are accepting.”

  “I really want to believe this is a better place to live in than when I grew up, if only for my daughter’s sake. I’d do virtually anything to protect Stef and keep her safe. She means the world to me.”

  “Then you woke up one day and learned that an Afghani girl was murdered, and all your worst fears came flooding back.”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “I really wish Stef liked me,” I say.

  “She will. I know she’s stubborn at times, but she’s a great kid with a good heart. Thank you for trying to get along with her and for helping my father out at the diner.”