Rearranged

Pictures Continued

Jenny began walking, then stopped. Why did she feel like one of the pushy salesmen Mrs. Patel always shooed out the door?

On any other day, Jenny's walk home from the shop was her daily trip around the world. She could chart her course by storefront signs – Hindi, Arabic, Spanish, and Korean. If she got lost, all she had to do was close her eyes and follow her nose - incense for two blocks, halal meat for one, turn right at onions and finish off with nail polish.

But today, she had no interest in travelling the world. She was lost in her own, trying to figure out why Neha had rushed her out of the shop.

She headed for the video store, ignoring the Muslim man dressed in white selling books from a folding table on the corner. A few weeks back she had bought a paperback Koran from him, in part just to see his reaction. He wouldn't touch her hand as he passed her the change, but since then he nodded discretely in her direction every time she rounded the corner. This time, his nod went unanswered.

She didn't even see Malcolm, the neighborhood delivery guy with a soft spot for Mrs. Patel's cooking. He hit the shop early in the morning, just in time to sweet talk her into handing over a taste of whatever was on the stove for the day. At least, that's how Malcolm saw it. Mrs. Patel was no fool. "I give him food, he makes me first stop," she confided to Jenny.

Malcolm tapped Jenny on the shoulder and kept walking.

"You got samosa in that bag?" he asked when she spun around.

"Maybe."

"You tell Mama Patel to save some for me!" he said, rubbing his tummy while walking backwards.

The packages under his arm slipped an inch. Jenny wondered what, or who, would arrive for Neha on Monday.

At the video store, a middle-aged Indian man with thinning black hair and gold chains swinging from his neck greeted her.

"Jen-nay ba-bay!" The man swayed over to her like the owner of the hottest nightclub in town, arms open and fingers snapping the beat of a Bollywood tune. A disco ball shot specs of light onto life-size posters of India's hottest stars. Jenny recognized the faces from Neha's bedroom walls.

"Hey Naz," Jenny said as she placed the Patels' DVD on the counter. She always felt a tinge of sadness for Naz. He must have dreamed of belonging to the Bollywood world he now peddled in compact discs. And even that was a sham. Everyone knew he illegally downloaded all of his videos from the Internet.

Naz brought his hand to his heart and asked, "Did you love it?"

"Not really," Jenny said. Sensing his disappointment, she added, "But Neha did."

"Neha loves all my movies," Naz said with a wide smile. "So, you want another?" He raised his eyebrows and pointed to rows and rows of DVDs.

"No thanks."

"Come on, it's Saturday night!"

Jenny was already at the door. "Maybe next week," she called back.

A fire truck whizzed by, and for a second Jenny thought maybe her father was on it. He was somewhat of a hero since September 11, rushing into the towers to save people before the buildings fell. It was over ten years ago now, but people still stopped him on the street to thank him.

Jenny was eight at the time, but still remembered the funerals – the stench of vomit in the bathroom, toddlers watching Disney movies, too young to understand their loss.

Then she began to lose her father, too.

There was no funeral, just silence, then fighting, then he would come and go, and then he was gone.