One Half from the East Read online

  “Please, mister, I know you are upset about your leg, but I just—”

  “Upset about my leg?” Now I’ve really gotten his attention. He stops and takes a step toward me. I take a step back. “What does my leg have to do with anything?”

  “I thought that’s why you’re so grumpy.”

  The man throws his head back and laughs, but not in a happy or funny way. Rahim is right next to me, and I’m really glad for that.

  “I’m grumpy because it’s cold and two little . . .” He takes a closer look at us and ignores that we might not be boys. That’s what people do, I’ve learned as a bacha posh. “Two little boys are chasing after an old man to tease him about his groceries falling out of his bag.”

  “Oh.”

  “But that’s what you think when you look at me, eh? You see only what’s missing. You don’t see the rest of me.”

  I could apologize, but I’d rather keep my mouth shut. I’m afraid I’ll only upset him more.

  “And what if I did the same? What if I look at you and see only what you’re missing? Would you like that, little boys?”

  He’s looking at both of us. Rahim’s so close to me I can feel his breath on the back of my ear. We get it.

  “Mister, my father lost his leg. I want to see him walking in the street like you. Please, I just want to know where you got this walking stick.”

  He is quiet for a second.

  “What does he use to get around now?”

  “Nothing.” I shrug. “He doesn’t go anywhere at all. I think if he had a walking stick like yours maybe he would.”

  The man’s voice is much gentler now. I am not as nervous.

  “This stick,” he says looking down at the pole in his right hand, “is nothing much, but it’s the best thing I’ve found. Look at it. Nothing but a long branch. My son made it for me. He made this little ledge here and covered it with cloth.”

  There’s a Y-shaped fork in the branch and right in the crook of that fork sits a carved little ledge wrapped thick with fabric. It is a really simple thing, actually. I look at Rahim, who breaks out into a smile.

  “Thanks, mister! Sorry we bothered you!” I am bursting with energy. I grab Rahim’s sleeve and start jogging back down the road, where a patch of chinar trees grows away from the small shops and stands.

  The old man shoos us off with a chuckle.

  “Obayd, you think we can do it?”

  “Rahim, I think we can do anything!”

  Fourteen

  We walk through the trees. I look up through the branches for one that would work. It’s Rahim who spots it. My friend’s got a good eye for these things.

  “That one there!”

  I see the branch he’s pointing at. With the old man’s walking stick fresh in my mind, I can see it’s the perfect shape. It’s long and straight and thick enough for a man’s hand to wrap around. There are smaller branches shooting off in different directions, but some of them are thick enough that they can be the fork where the little bench will sit.

  There’s only one problem. The branch is about halfway up a very, very tall tree.

  “How are we supposed to get up there, Rahim?”

  “We’ve got to climb up. Then we’ve got to cut the branch down. I don’t know how we’re going to do that part.”

  “I think I know how to do it!” I’m nervous, but I have to make this work. “Give me a boost.”

  Rahim locks his hands together, making a step for me. I put my right foot on his hands and grab on to the lowest branch I can reach. I pull myself up and get my belly onto the branch, then my knee.

  “I did it!” I call out. I stay as close to the trunk as I can. I’m about six feet off the ground and don’t want to fall off. The branch is still another eight feet over my head. I reach up and grab on to the next big branch.

  “Be careful,” Rahim shouts from below. “If you break your leg, I’m not carrying you home.”

  “Very funny,” I mutter. I know I shouldn’t look down, but I do. My stomach does a flip-flop when I see how far up I am. I like climbing trees, but I’ve never gone this high up before. I climb, higher and higher, until I’ve got my hands around the branch that’s perfect because it’s thick and straight. I tug on it, as hard as I can, but it doesn’t budge.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t get it to break off,” I say. “I’m going to try something else.”

  I take a deep breath, but not before I look down once more. My head spins to see how small Rahim looks. This might be a mistake.

  I grunt, pulling myself to the next branch. I get my right leg up but am afraid to pull up my left since my weight might throw me all the way over and off the branch. Rahim isn’t saying anything, which I know means he’s really nervous for me. My palms are sweaty.

  I move slowly, bringing my left leg up carefully so I won’t topple over in any direction.

  I stop where I am. I’m right above the branch I want for my father’s walking stick, but it’s too early to celebrate. With my arms around the trunk of the tree in a giant hug, I kick at the branch right where it comes off the trunk. It doesn’t budge.

  “Ugh!” I really want to be back on the ground. I’ve discovered, being this high up for the first time in my life, that I’m very afraid of heights.

  “You can do it, Obayd! I know you can kick stronger than that!”

  Kick, kick, kick.

  I hear a snap.

  The branch is nearly knocked off! It’s hanging by a skinny piece, like a loose tooth. I give it one last determined kick.

  Crack!

  Rahim, who’s been staring up, throws his hands over his head and runs for cover. The branch crashes to the ground.

  “You did it, Obayd! Now get down!”

  I shimmy my way back down, finding branches to step on to get myself lower and lower until I’m close enough to the ground that I can jump down without thinking I’m going to break a few bones.

  Rahim throws his arm around my shoulders and squeezes me. He’s got the walking stick in his left hand. It’s so perfect.

  “You did it! And thanks for aiming this thing right at my head, buddy.”

  “You could have made yourself useful and caught it.”

  We can make jokes now that I’m back on the ground.

  “How tall is your father? We need to pick the right height for that ledge.”

  I imagine my father standing next to me and point out how far up I think the ledge should be. We snap off that branch, leaving enough of a Y to hold the bench. We snap off the extra offshoots right where they are attached to the branch. Already, the stick is looking like the old man’s.

  Rahim’s got an idea for the ledge. We go back to the market, where we find some beat-up cardboard boxes near the shops. He takes one and tears off a bunch of rectangles that would fit the fork of the walking stick.

  “That looks like it’ll work!”

  I start to tear off pieces too, to match the ones he’s made. We stack about ten of them to make a piece that’s thick enough to give support. We tear out little notches on either side to make room for the branches, and it sits perfectly in place.

  “Now we just need to wrap these in some cloth to bind them together and it’ll be perfect! Your father’s going to love it.”

  I break out into a smile. This crutch could be it. This could be that thing that my father needs to get him out of his room and back into life. He might just try it out and realize he can get up on his own. That’s what I want to believe.

  But deep down inside there’s a tiny part of me that’s worried my father won’t love it at all and that when he looks at it, he’ll see nothing but a dead tree branch.

  Fifteen

  We hid the unfinished stick at Rahim’s home until I found the scraps of fabric I needed in my mother’s sewing basket. Yesterday, I wrapped the little cardboard ledge in layers of brown velvet until it was soft with padding. I pinned the fabric on the underside of the ledge so it would hold.<
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  Rahim agreed to come with me to give the walking stick to my father. We’re both kind of nervous about this. He’s never been inside my home before, and I think it’s because he doesn’t want me inside his. I know about his mother and sisters, but I’ve also noticed he doesn’t talk much about his father, even when I talk about mine. As a friend, I’m not sure if I should be asking him why that is or if I should let it be. I let it be, though it’s probably not because I want to be a good friend. It’s probably because I’m too afraid of what he might tell me.

  Rahim’s standing with the walking stick in his right hand. He tries to put his bent knee on the ledge, but it’s too tall for him to rest it there. He stands on his tiptoes and barely reaches.

  “I think it’ll work. You did a good job with the material.”

  “Thanks. I don’t know if that pin is going to hold the fabric, but I think it looks almost as good as that old man’s stick.”

  “Are you kidding? It looks so much better than his. Have you ever heard of a velvet walking stick? It’s the kind of stuff kings probably use.”

  I don’t know of any one-legged kings, but Rahim’s energy is contagious. I start to feel flutters in my stomach. I’m anxious to get this into my father’s hands. Maybe he’ll want to try it out right away. I open the gate that leads to the house.

  “All right, let’s do it. My mother and sisters are inside. I haven’t told them anything about this.”

  “Did you tell them you were bringing me?”

  “No.” We’re inside the wall that separates my home from the street. “But I think my mother is going to really like finding out my friend Rahim is another boy like me.”

  Rahim takes a deep breath and straightens his Wizards cap.

  “Hope so. If not, I’ve got a plan.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  He touches the rim of his cap and shows me a cunning grin.

  “I haven’t told you this, but I can do some pretty special things with my lucky magician’s hat. If things don’t look good, I’ll just make myself disappear.”

  I roll my eyes, but I kind of believe what he’s telling me. There’s always a small truth to what Rahim says, even if it sounds too wild to be true.

  We walk into the everything room. My mother is sitting on a floor cushion. She’s got her back against the wall. Her knitting needles are crossing and uncrossing.

  “Madar?” I’m holding my surprise behind my back. “I brought a friend home. This is Rahim.”

  My mother puts down her knitting. She’s been making sweaters for my cousins. It seems kind of silly to me since it’s the end of winter, but I know she’s trying to find a way to pay my uncle and aunt back for all the food and stuff they’ve brought us in the cold months.

  “Salaam,” Rahim says loudly. He’s put on his polite face to greet my mother.

  “Hello to you too.”

  My mother looks from him to me. I know she’s wondering how I could have brought a strange boy, an almost teenager, into our home with my sisters around. It’s one thing for me to play with the boys in the neighborhood but pretty inappropriate to bring a boy into the privacy of our home since I’ve got three sisters to think of.

  “Obayd, why don’t you boys play outside? Your sisters are in the back hanging up the laundry and . . .”

  Before I can open my mouth to say anything, the expression on my mother’s face changes.

  “Oh.”

  She sees Rahim for what he is. Or, more important, for what he’s not. She breathes a sigh of relief.

  “For a second, I thought you had . . .” She shakes her head. “Never mind. What are you boys up to?”

  “I’ve got something for Father. We made something for him.”

  “You made it. I was just there,” Rahim says.

  I stand a little taller, hearing him say that.

  “What is it?” my mother asks.

  I set the walking stick in front of me. Her eyebrows go up.

  “You made this for your father? How?” She is curious enough that she’s on her feet. Rahim and I shoot each other proud looks as she touches the ledge, pinches it between her fingers, and steps back to admire our work. “Boys, this looks wonderful!”

  “Do you think he’ll like it?”

  She purses her lips together.

  “He should. He really should. It’s a very thoughtful thing to do for him.” She laughs. “And I thought all you did was play games and look for ways to get dirty.”

  “We can do much more than that!” Rahim says with a grin.

  “You certainly can. And do you know why? Do you know what’s special about the two of you?” my mother asks softly. “You are the best of both worlds—one half from the east and one half from the west.”

  Rahim and I are not quite sure what she means by that, but it sounds like a good thing to me. I think I notice her eyes get a little moist, but before I can be sure she takes a deep breath and puts her hands on her hips.

  “What are you waiting for? Go on and take it in to him.”

  Rahim hangs back when I walk toward the bedroom. My mother nudges him forward.

  “It’s okay, dear. You can go with him. He should thank you both for the work you’ve put into this.”

  We stand in the doorway. My father is resting on his side, his back to us. Rahim looks a little uncomfortable but mostly excited. We’ve been imagining this moment since the day we spotted the grumpy old man in the market.

  “Padar?” I call out softly. When he doesn’t answer I turn and whisper to Rahim. “He doesn’t hear very well because of the explosion.”

  Rahim nods in understanding.

  “Padar,” I say loudly. “I’ve got my friend here with me. We’ve got something for you.”

  My father rolls onto his back. It’s a huge effort.

  “My boy, I’m resting,” he says flatly. “Another time.”

  “But, Padar, we’ve worked so hard on this. I think you’re going to like it. Please look, Father!”

  I can already picture him standing with it, running his fingers down the stick and laughing, like my mother did, at how we must have made this fine crutch. He turns his head in our direction. His eyelids look heavy.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a walking stick. We made it ourselves. I climbed a tree to get the stick and then we got some cardboard and folded it up and cut these parts out so it fits right here. Do you want to try it? We didn’t measure it exactly, but I think it’s the right height for you. Please try it, Padar-jan!”

  “A walking stick?”

  “Yes!”

  My father lets his head fall against the pillow. He takes a deep breath.

  “Just go.”

  I think, for a second, that I’ve heard him wrong. I look at Rahim, but his eyes are on the ground.

  “But, Padar, I think if you just try it . . . We saw a guy . . .”

  My father’s eyes are closed tight, like he’s trying to squash the storm that’s rising in his chest. It doesn’t work. He props himself up on his elbows and his words explode into our silent little home.

  “Did you bring your friend here to shame me? You want him to see your broken father? You want to put me on display like an animal? Where’s your respect for your father? That’s what I need from you, not some stupid walking stick!”

  My stomach drops.

  “Get out!” the storm continues. “Get out, get out, get out, both of you! You boys think you’re men? You think you know what it is to be a man? You don’t know a single thing about it, you weak little freaks . . .”

  My mother is by my side.

  “Enough!” she thunders. Her arms are on my shoulders. “That’s enough shouting. You haven’t eaten. It’s doing nothing for your pain to go hungry. Let me fix you something and we can leave the walking stick for another time.”

  “I need to be left alone. Out, out, out, all of you!” He flops back onto the flat floor cushion with a sad groan. He’s run out of fuel.

 
I take a step backward. For some reason, I don’t step on Rahim’s toes. I spin around, my face burning red to have brought my friend into this mess.

  Rahim’s not there.

  My mother turns to look for him too.

  There was no puff of smoke. There was no sparkle of lights. There was no twirling cape. There was nothing dazzling or spectacular about it, but it was as close to real magic as I have ever seen. I’d had my back to him for just a moment, blown over by my father’s rant. I look around, but there’s not a trace of Rahim, not even the sound of footsteps or the slamming of the metal gate outside of our house.

  Sixteen

  Yesterday was the first day of spring, which is Nowruz. It’s the first day of the year and always comes with a lot of excitement. When we lived in Kabul, Nowruz meant coloring hard-boiled eggs, eating white rice with seasoned spinach, and getting lots of sweets and even some money from the adults. I was looking forward to it again this year, but it ended up not being as festive as I hoped. My uncle asked us to come over, but my father didn’t feel up to going, and my mother didn’t want to leave him alone, so we stayed home.

  We boiled some eggs but didn’t bother to color them, deciding to play our egg-fighting game behind the house. My sisters and I tapped our eggs against one another’s to see whose would break first. I thought I might win this year, as if my egg would somehow be stronger than theirs in my boy hands. It doesn’t seem to work that way, though. My shell was shattered by Neela’s egg, and both Neela’s and Meena’s eggs surrendered to Alia’s. She was so happy that she almost forgot all the other fun Nowruz activities we were missing out on.

  Today, the day after Nowruz, is the first day of school and it is starting to drizzle. Not enough that they will call us in from recess but just enough to settle the dust on the playground. The other boys have splintered off into small groups. Most of the girls are huddled under an awning. Rahim showed up today in a very unmagical way. He walked onto the schoolyard as if what happened in my home last week was something I imagined. But I can’t not say something about it.