Birds of Paradise: A Novel by Diana Abu-Jaber Page B

careening drunken driver—her heart seized up, throbbing in her chest. One day Avis cut short a phone conversation because of a racket outside. She went out to the front lawn to see a police helicopter hovering almost directly over her house: some neighbors told her that a “fugitive” was on the loose: she and the children stayed inside, doors locked for hours, waiting for an all-clear. After Felice had left, Avis had to stop watching the local news because it was too awful, more than she could stand. Her teenage daughter was out there.
    How is she supposed to endure this, she wonders, nearly in a trance. They meet only at Felice’s whim, on Felice’s terms. The psychotherapist, the police counselor, the family social services counselor said, No: don’t agree to these conditions. “You’re giving her too much control and no incentive to come to you,” the girl at the runaway crisis line told her. Brian seemed to have instinctively understood this principle—coolly, systematically shutting down all attempts at seeing Felice within months of her final disappearance. But two months ago, Avis was standing in the produce section at Publix when a woman approached her. Her round face was clear, just a wrinkle at the corner of each eye: she took Avis’s hand and studied her for a moment before saying in cadenced English, “I heard you go to see your baby whenever she calls. I would do exactly same thing as you. Exactly.”
    She squeezed Avis’s hand and Avis realized that this was Marina, the housekeeper for Mrs. Grigorian, down the street from them. Avis stared at bunches of guavas, hunched as if her center had caved in.
    Nina clears her throat and Avis realizes they are already done with the freeway and are now taking Coral Way to beat the Dixie backup. “Do you have anything in the house for dinner? Do you need me to stop—we get some rice and chicken, empanadas or some postres ?” Nina insists on certain Cuban interpretations in her own cooking, uses lard in her pan Cubano and boils condensed milk in the can for dulce de leche .
    “No, we’re fine,” Avis mumbles. She presses the window button and accidentally hits the lock instead. “ Postres, why would I want postres ? Do you not know what I do for a living?”
    “You need more air?” Nina reaches for the climate control panel.
    “No, please, nothing.”
    They make a left on Douglas and stop at the intersection with Bird. The traffic is torturously slow with the erratic, newly-arriveds—immigrants and tourists—prone to rolling to a distracted stop mid-lane. As they wait, about eight cars from the light, a homeless person materializes between the cars near the intersection, wafting up the street toward them, flashing his wrecked, hand-lettered sign on a panel of cardboard box: Pleese help. I have wife and kid and no— He turns toward a white Cadillac several cars ahead before Avis can finish reading. Cadillac stuffs some bills into his jar. He turns back and begins drifting back toward them, a tall black man so emaciated Avis can see the fine bones of his scapula, the ribboned, muscles of his forearms; he looks burnt down to a shadow, a cinder in the blast of August sunlight.
    Avis picks up her handbag.
    “Oh no,” Nina says. “Please don’t.”
    “Oh, for heaven sakes,” Avis mutters, rummaging in her bag. “I only want to give him a buck.”
    “Too late,” Nina says, because the light’s changed, but they have to wait for the usual procession of yellow and red light–runners in the cross street. When they finally move, it’s only to inch up a few spaces before the light turns again, so they’re now a car length away from the man and his sign: job or hous. Im good person —
    “Please, querida . I really do understand, but it’s better if you give the money to a homeless shelter or some sort of something . . .”
    Avis ignores her, digging out her wallet, in which, she discovers, she has no small bills, only the fifties for Felice.