Page 114 of Two for Roughing
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
She made a dismissive sound, guttural and sharp. “I want what is best for you.”
He nodded, though she couldn’t see it. “Could I…is it all right if I still call on Thursdays?”
“Damyasha.” There was such chiding hidden in her voice that he felt stupid for asking.
“Right. Yes. Maybe someday you could visit?”
“That would be nice,” Mama said. “Not right now, I think. But maybe someday. And maybe some other day, you can bring your boy here.”
Emotion closed Damir’s throat. “He would love seeing Moscow.”
“Good. He looks like a nice boy.”
Damir wanted to tell her about Kilian’s earnest, fumbling desire to care for him and his surprising competence in the driver’s seat or with a toolbox. He wanted to tell her how much Kilian loved figure skating, how hard he tried in the face of Valeria’s disdain, how teasing and prodding on the ice only encouraged his joy in the game, how he asked questions about Damir and his life and listened, really listened, to the answers. He wanted to tell her he’d started to pray again because the emotion Kilian awoke in him reminded him the world was a beautiful place he could be a part of without sacrificing any aspect of himself.
“He is,” he told Mama.
“I’m glad.”
He swallowed hard, then asked, “Is Baba there?”
To her credit, she didn’t so much as pause before saying, “Yes, of course. Would you like to speak to him?”
Damir nodded and then realized she couldn’t see it. He tried to speak but found his throat too dry. Fortunately, Mama knew him too well because there was rustling on the other end of the line and then:
“I hear you are not coming home to us.”
He’d never heard Baba’s voice on the phone before. He sounded both so familiar and so far away, the voice Damir knew so well but had never brought to America with him.
“Yes.” Damir ran his thumb across one of the whorls on the arm of the chair. “I—” he began, and then cleared his throat. “I’ve thought about it a lot. Prayed about it.”
Baba gave an interested hum.
“Praying… It helped me make a choice. Do you think that’s…right?”
The richness of Baba’s laugh warmed his soul. “I certainly don’t pray because I think Allah will answer me one day. If it gives you peace of mind, that is all we can ask for.”
“Even though…”
“Son, you do know I’m not an Imam or a theologian, right?”
“You’re my father though.”
Baba remained silent for so long Damir would have been worried if he hadn’t known his father his whole life and learned from a very young age the way he chose his words like the best praline from the chocolate box, deliberating with care. “I don’t know that it’s a father’s place to judge how his grown son lives his life. Not because I think anything about you is wrong, Damyasha, but because you know your own mind and heart better than I ever could, and I trust you to make your own choices. If religion can help you with that, it makes me happy since it’s one of the few things we share.”
After they hung up, Damir stared out the window at the pink-purple-beige of dawn in Los Angeles until disgust at the air pollution won out over the desire to cry. Then, he put on his clothes and went downstairs for breakfast.
He had plenty of time to make reservations for dinner and find a store for what he wanted before the team left for their flight. It was a short trip and easily spent listening to over-the-top tales about last night’s debauchery. Kilian was hailed as a miracle worker by both rookies for his abilities as a wingman, and even Rocky had managed to score a phone number.
“Hey, man, you okay?” Ketchup asked Damir, sliding into the seat next to him while Kilian loitered in the aisle, asking for more information about Matheson’s night for reasons Damir could not fathom.
“Fine,” Damir said.
Ketchup squinted at him. “You sure? You were pretty pissed last night.”
“Yes. I think it is stupid for you to—” Damir squinted up at the area of the plane where the coaches sat. “—do what you were doing last night, but it isn’t my decision.”
