Words in the Dust by Trent Reedy Page A

was slow. They seemed to be waiting for us. Malehkah brought a pitcher of water, a metal basin, and a towel that I carried around so that everyone could wash their hands. After that, we laid all the food out on the cloth — all our hard work through the long day. First the naan, then four big bowls of rice. Two roast chickens for everyone to pick pieces off. Bowls of spiced mutton in heavy red gravy, along with two large platters of roasted potatoes. I even put out a few plates of pickled cucumbers.
    Finally, I could sit down. The women all ate, talked, laughed, and ate some more. Even Malehkah seemed a bit less grumpy. I was quiet, and I didn’t eat much. Gulzoma and the others were already staring at my mouth enough. I didn’t want to make it worse by letting them see the strange way that I had to eat, tilting my head back and using my fingers to help hold the food in while I chewed. Instead I took food to Zeynab, who wasn’t supposed to move around.
    “How are you doing?” I whispered when I brought her some chicken and naan. Gulzoma was holding everyone’s attention with a story about one of her nieces.
    Zeynab accepted the food. “I think everything is going well. The food is delicious and —”
    “Zulaikha!” Malehkah called me back to her side with a little jerk of her head.
    “You look wonderful,” I whispered to Zeynab. “And the party is great.” Then I went back to sit next to my father’s wife.
    Gulzoma and Jamila dominated the conversation. They talked about their relatives and laughed about stories from weddings they’d been to in the past. They even had a few stories about Hajji Abdullah’s second and third wives. Several of these stories made some of the women blush and keep their eyes focused on their food.
    During a rare quiet moment while Gulzoma helped herself to a choice piece of chicken, Isma spoke in a high soft voice. “Zulaikha, I hope the Americans are able to help you.”
    Everyone in the room turned their attention on me. My face felt hot. I had been about to sneak a little bite of a piece of naan, but I put the food back down. “Tashakor,” I said.
    “Yes,” Gulzoma pointed with a chicken leg at the woman. “Isma here no doubt wishes they could give her a new leg the way they said they could give Zulaikha a new mouth.” She chuckled. “Too bad for her!”
    Everyone else sat in silence at her rudeness. It was Malehkah who finally spoke. “Not a new mouth. They simply wanted to fix the one she already has.” She smiled, but there was an unmistakable firmness behind her words to Gulzoma.
    Gulzoma looked at Malehkah and picked her teeth with her fingernail. Then she went on as though Malehkah hadn’t said anything at all. “Well, let’s hope it works.” She turned to a woman sitting at the other end of the room nearZeynab. “What was it that your spirited son used to call Zulaikha, Mariam? Donkeymouth? No. Ah! Yes, of course. Donkeyface!” She clapped her hands, as if she was pleased that she’d remembered. Then she frowned and put a finger to her lips. “What a mean little boy. You should try harder to keep him in line.”
    My cheeks burned hot at the mention of that hated name. I pressed my chador tightly over my mouth. How could any guest be so cruel to her host?
    Anwar’s mother, Mariam, the young third wife of Hajji Abdullah, looked down, picking at her food. Gulzoma smiled and took more chicken. “Mmm, Malehkah, this is wonderful.” She noticed me staring at her. “Zulaikha, you haven’t got a new mouth yet, dear. Now close it.”
    But my mouth was closed. As much closed as it could be with my cleft lip. I wanted to throw my water in that fat old lady’s face.
    “Zulaikha. Zeynab.” Malehkah leaned back and held her hands over her belly. “Will you please go inside and get the tray of sweets?”
    Gulzoma sat up straight. “Does Zeynab need to go? Surely Zulaikha can —”
    “I think Zeynab needs some air. The heat and all,” Malehkah said, locking