When Wings Break

Damnation and Salvation?

Damnation and Salvation?

Saleh carefully ate each bite with a growing wariness of the situation. He sat on one of the kitchen island stools with Arif on one side and Jaiyana on the other. None obstructed his view of his soon-to-be wife. She was as he remembered from just this evening.

He'd arrived drenched, forced to preen his wings in the downstairs dry area. The dry area was a measly portion of space provided by management; on one side were the email slots, the other the meters. Jaiyana could barely fit half her wing along its width, which spoke volumes. She was still only twice her arms when spread out.

He was sure there were four other feathers he could adjust. All in all, he was not pleased with the ambush. So much for home. The dining table was occupied by his mother, Mama Arif, Baba Arif, bin Salma, and the mousy girl, their daughter.

She was his betrothed.

The soup tasted bland in a way it hadn't tasted for years. He could count how many times binjari and potato and beef stew had ever felt less. A dollop of extra butter remained in a puddle within the centre in a now cooling mess. Jaiyana would pick up that nest of extra fat soon enough. All in all, the room smelt of an array of foods and the scent of the perfume stall he avoided going near that one trip back to Iraq.

"And Jayeed, that lunatic, still carries around the tiny little tail as if it's the greatest thing in the world," bin Salma concluded her list of things still the same, including a fallen sweet shop they'd frequented as children, the street Mama Arif nearly kissed that boy, much to Baba Arif's disgruntlement, and then there was the old woman that had always teased them about her age. She had survived more bombings than they believed, she claimed.

All three women had been children together, had worn their hijab days apart. And Saleh felt the shackles clink as he moved his hand to grab some cayenne. Jaiyana's eyes widened at the public display.

"Saleh, is the curry too bland, baby?" Mama Arif asked. It had been her soup. Before he could feel bad about it, she sighed in a forelone way, smacking Baba Arif on his arm. "You know the boy eats more than that. What were you thinking?"

"Ah. Woman, you beat me better than they beat those meats," he clicked. Mama Arif's stare was intense with a warning. "Ah. Ah. Eh. I apologize, Saleh. But I thought it unwise to spice too much because others have slight..." he pulled his arm away, laughing.

Mama Arif clicked her tongue and turned to bin Salma. "This boy I married never ceases to amaze me. Saleh enjoys it spicy. A little like you, Salma. Ooh, Baba Arif you must make him the one Salma likes."

Mama Jaiyana laughed. "He'll beat you to the pot, Salma, and that will be how you know your future son-in-law."

Bin Salma did not take offense. She looked rather pleased as she considered Saleh, a little like the trinkets Bunny delighted in inspecting regardless of a heavy pouch or not. Saleh swallowed a little thickly.

"That's a relief." Bin Salma lifted a dainty hand to her chest, light winking off a golden ring. "Between Abdul and Amina, I'm stuck with mildly spicy food. Do you prefer one spoon, or two?"

Saleh lowered back down his spoon. "Three would be nice, as red as possible."

The adults laughed as if he'd made a really funny joke. Saleh's gaze clashed with that of his betrothed; this time she held his for a second longer before turning away, her cheeks growing rosy. Saleh blinked. Before he could turn his gaze away, Mama Jaiyana met his having noticed the too open moment.

Saleh returned his focused intent to his food, refusing to offer an excuse. He knew it was childish to think so, but he couldn't stand the thought of liking her. It would mean they had won. An excuse for a friend was quickly turning into a terrible proposition.

"So?"

So what? Saleh continued the motion of his hands as he wiped down the plate in his hand. The next-door neighbors were having an argument again. A young couple, Jaiyana and her had a running bet over how long they would last. Downstairs, Mr. Patel was coughing again. He was old.

Instead, Saleh kept his eyes on the counter full of dishes, holding in the urge to flap his wings. Mama Jaiyana smelt of soap as she picked up another cotton cloth, waiting patiently for his answer. It was a rare occasion where she didn't have her headscarf.

"I won't bite," he said. He expected a rebuff. It was surprising, that he drew his brows down when she laughed instead.

"I know," she placed her plate on the space beside her, picking up another. She had a firmer and thus quicker handle in this from working long hours in kitchens when in college. "You do have big teeth."

Saleh scoffed. "You should see Christophe then." In a flash, he thought of that morning. Christophe had kissed him. For a split second, he'd wanted to kiss Christophe back. Saleh shoved the thought away and carefully placed down the glass bowl in his hand.

"Christophe?"

Saleh didn't answer. Mama Jaiyana sighed. Was that disappointment? "She'll warm up to you. Still new to the country. Remember how you were when we came?"

"How can I forget?" he glanced towards a brown wood picture frame where Saleh stood between his mother and father like a small stick between the massive wings of his father and brother behind him. Even between his wings, he was absurdly small.

"Oh, it wasn't bad," she laughed. It was the deep throaty kind she left for when she grew surprised over something. "I didn't think so."

"You're my mother," Saleh picked off the spoons one by one, remembering a steak knife was in there somewhere. "Mother's opinions don't count." He caught her pursed lips, but her eyes gleamed with amusement. "Has Imran called?"

She pressed her lips together for a different reason this time. As the silence stretched between them, he pulled open a drawer above the cabinets below. It jammed; it was no doubt due to the potato masher they still hadn't figured out a better place to put. Each spoon in came with a different thought.

Silence usually meant either Imran had called or he hadn't. Saleh could imagine his thick-headed brother crooning right about now. He wasn't sure if he was happy for him, or angry. He'd returned different, as they always did. How Saleh wished he had someone to speak with.

He glanced towards Mama Jaiyana now. No. It never ended well. She was quick in her movements, slotting each plate in their preferred placement, before lifting the weight up to the cabinet above. Saleh moved to help her.

"I carried you, Saleh. I can lift a few plates on my own." The door did not slam shut, but Saleh knew a stern warning when he heard one.

"Yes, mama," he stepped back.

"As for Imran... No. Your stubborn brother is still keeping my grandchild away," she sighed. This admittance of sadness carried a heavy weight Saleh did not know how to handle. When she met his eyes, hers were clear and sharp once again, her focus not giving him room to question any emotion she had felt. "You're not like him, baby." Her hands felt as hot as Hell's fires on his cheek, but he felt as cold as the Arctic thermals he sometimes caught in the sky. "I know you will make me happy. Amina is a good girl and you'll learn that. I know she looks standoffish now, but there's no denying you both like each other."

Saleh frowned. "What?"

She scoffed, turning away to hang both towels, the other taken from Saleh's work position. "I saw you two, Saleh. I know when a girl blushes at her boo's look." Saleh sputtered for some words, an excuse at the tip of his tongue. Mama Jaiyana scoffed, casting him an amused look under lowered lashes. She shook her head as he decided he was going to keep his mouth shut instead. "I've asked bin Salma not to push too much. Amina needs time to get used to here, to learn to centre herself. Don't you think so, baby?"

Baby. It's a trap. "Yes."

"Exactly," she walked towards the exit, and stupidly, Saleh followed. "Which is why it's wonderful of you to take care of her tomorrow."

"Eh?"

"I told bin Salma you will show Amina around, take her to the places you like," Mama Jaiyana said as she straightened up a fallen pillow. She liked to finish up things before going to bed; being first to wake up, it was a peace offering for her to be the first on a clean chair. "Should be a nice way to know each other."

"I have work. Tomorrow." Was he upset now? He could feel the urge to fly crawling up from his gut as helplessness clawed at him. She nodded, but Saleh knew it was only the living room receiving that approval. "Tomorrow. Work. Me."

Mama Jaiyana's brows pulled down in a looming frown. "Don't be dramatic." She placed a hand on his arm. It was touch; the most grounding sense of wingkin. "Take pity on her, Saleh. She's so innocent in this world, or would you rather abandon her in her most pressing hour of need?"

Pressing? What about my hour of need? "But--"

Her eyes remained intense with concentration. It made Saleh believe he had her attention now. "Ah. So that's it?" Saleh paused, wondering. "It's alright, baby. Everyone gets nervous with these things." She cupped his cheek once again, her eyes softening with a look that made him warier. "But I know you will make a wonderful husband. Isn't that so?"

He couldn't answer. The words were a trap in itself.

"And you'll start showing her when you place her in esteem tomorrow. One day off work can't be that bad." With a pat on his cheek, she walked past him towards her bedroom. "I trust you will do what's right, Saleh. Good night."

What in hell?

Saleh paced the space she'd left, feeling confined. His skin felt tight, his wings heavy on his back as if restrained. Just as they had been the night he flew too far, illegally. He didn't remember it feeling this bad, though.

Tomorrow? He hadn't expected tomorrow. Hadn't the family downstairs taken ages to settle when their kin came from abroad? Weren't they even just now socializing? Why did he have to spend time with her so soon?

He'd thought he had time. Time to get used to the idea, time to figure out... a plan to get away. Just like Imran. Imran. Saleh turned towards the windows. He could talk to Imran, right? A few short strides took him to the curtained windows. When he pulled back the curtain, there was no more rain.

He'd been too agitated to check with his own ears. Saleh looked from the door to the kitchen window. Too narrow for him, enough for Jaiyana. He could do it, though. A little wiggling here and there and he would be out in the fire escape stairs, flapping off to find his thick-headed brother in whatever hole he'd buried himself in.

And then what? Tell him I don't want it anymore? And that's it'? Being the better son from a not so better ex-husband. Saleh could see the frown on Mama Jaiyana's face now. It would be small, her eyes clear and red rouged lips pursed. He could see the black dress she would be wearing, her scarf neatly clipped back in a professional and proud way. Mama Jaiyana was a staunch Muslim.

It was funny. All Imran had done was have a child out of wedlock while refusing to have a bride shipped to him. If the blood lineage was worrisome, denying his mother's blessing was something else altogether.

What about me? Christophe had kissed him that morning. What if he ran away, two minutes to the altar, with a man? Saleh walked to the television wall unit. A single picture stood out to him: Imran in uniform, Saleh in his junior Hermes Club uniform, Jaiyana still with more down than white wings, and their mother, smiling. She said smiling felt awkward; that smile had not been forced.

I trust you will do what's right. He didn't run. He never had even when being pummeled by a bully envious that an Iraqi had wings while he didn't. He didn't let things slide, either.

There was no way he was going to give up his life to make someone he just met happy. Saleh put back the picture. Life was getting more complicated by the second.