The Fish Whistle

THE GIRL AT the next table was supposed to be dead.

Sarah Ayana Jones. Leda would recognize her anywhere. The smooth brown skin, the faint patch of freckles on the bridge of the nose, the perfect dark ringlet curls. The bright eyes, light brown bordering on hazel. The pointy chin that reminded Leda of an elf.

Sarah was sitting with a woman who also had cocoa skin and beautiful curly hair, both of them in leggings and big sweatshirts. Both were eating oatmeal and reading books, stressed out, not speaking to each other. Sarah read with concentration, frowning, turning a page forward and then flipping back a few. Of course she was reading. Leda wondered what kind of book Sarah Ayana Jones read in the airport cafeteria: something important about politics, maybe, or was it a fantasy novel like the one Leda was reading?

It had to be a sign. 

Just a minute ago, Leda had been obsessing about how the plane was going to crash and her whole family was all going to die. Now she was obsessing about how Sarah Ayana Jones, or the ghost of Sarah Ayana Jones, was sitting almost close enough to reach out and touch. 

Leda was six years old the last time she’d been in an airport, and that was three years ago. Her family used to fly to Pasadena once a year to see grandma. Then September Eleventh happened and Leda’s mom refused to fly anywhere. Ever since then, they’d been driving instead, seven hours with all four of them in the car, mom, dad, Leda and Freddy, everyone fighting and complaining and throwing snack wrappers all over the place.

This was the first year they were flying again. They had to go this particular weekend, because it was grandma’s sixtieth birthday, which was a very big deal, especially, Leda’s dad had explained, “to Chinese people,” as though Leda and Freddy weren’t Chinese people. And they had to fly, because Leda’s dad was presenting at a conference in four days. Leda’s parents got into a big fight about it before they bought the plane tickets.

“You’re smoking crack if you think I’m driving these kids back by myself,” Leda’s mom said.

“Why don’t we all just fly,” Leda’s dad said.

They were in the kitchen, mom cooking breakfast, dad grinding coffee beans. Leda and Freddy were on the couch in the living room, which seemed like a different room from the kitchen but really it was all the same long room that took up the bottom floor of their house.

“I’m not dying on an airplane,” Leda’s mom said.

Her eyes had that that cornered-animal look that had been happening a lot lately. She always looked glamorous, even in her pajamas and hair in a messy bun, but her face scared Leda when it was like that.

“The kids can fly back with me,” Leda’s dad said. “And you can drive on your own.”

“No,” said Leda’s mom. “If the kids are going to die, we all need to be together.”

“Flying is actually much safer than driving.” Leda’s dad was always calm when Leda’s mother was angry, when anyone was angry. He talked in the same way to all of them, mom, Leda, Freddy. “We’re much more likely to die in the car.”  

Freddy leaned over on the couch.

“We won’t really die,” he whispered to Leda. “They’re exaggerating.”

“I know,” Leda said.

Usually she hated it when Freddy acted like the older sibling when he was really two years younger. But it was kind of nice that he wanted her to feel better. Lately he was staring at his Gameboy a lot more than talking. He’d gotten it for Chanukah, and Leda thought maybe it had stolen his brain, like it had turned him into a zombie and now she had to take care of her parents all by herself.  

In the treasure box on Leda’s bookshelf, there were two newspaper clippings about Sarah Ayana Jones. One was about Sarah’s famous letter to Saddam Hussein, right after the war started.

“Look at this, Leda,” her father had said one morning before school, holding out a page from The New York Times. “This girl is just a year older than you.”

The whole letter was printed, first a photograph of the real letter in Sarah’s neat handwriting, then re-printed in the caption underneath.

Dear Saddam Hussein,

I am seven years old and I live in Brooklyn, New York. I am writing to say that I am sorry for the bombing America is doing to your country. I know it is very bad to have someone bomb you. It was really scary here when the World Trade Center building got attacked. Two people in my school know someone who died. One person who died was on the plane and one was in the building. I do not want that to happen to anyone in Iraq. I hope in the future our countries can have peace and not do bombings or terrorist attacks on each other or on other countries.

Sarah Ayana Jones

And next to that, a photograph of what made this all worth printing in the newspaper: the letter that Saddam Hussein had written back. It had been sent directly to Sarah as well as printed in three newspapers in Bagdad.

Dear Sarah,

Your letter was very moving to me. It serves as a reminder during this time of war that America is filled with good people like yourself, as all countries are, and gives me hope for peace. Some day in the not-so-far future, when this unfortunate conflict between our nations has come to an end, it would be an honor if you would visit our great Republic of Iraq with your family. 

Yours warmly, 

Saddam Hussain Abd al-Majid Al-Tikriti

The article talked about Sarah’s family, her mother who was an artist, her father a high school teacher. How they had encouraged Sarah to write the letter when she told them her feelings about the war, how they had found out how to send it to Iraq through the American State Department.

At the bottom of the article, there was a school photo of Sarah. Leda couldn’t stop looking at it. The pointy chin, the cocoa skin, the halo of curls. The bright eyes that felt like they were looking right at Leda through the gray newsprint.

Leda cut out the article and put it in her treasure box, tucked between the polished rocks and coins from other countries, the stone whistle shaped like two fish, the tiny tea cup that had belonged to her great grandfather. Every morning she unfolded the article, held it on her lap, stared into the shrewd eyes of Sarah Ayana Jones. She could stare at those eyes for five minutes at a time, more, feeling the psychic connection between herself and this girl on the other side of the country.

Maybe it was just because they were close in age, and they both had parents of two different skin colors, and they both hated the war in Iraq. But it seemed like there had to be something more to account for the way Leda felt when she looked at Sarah’s picture. Like they were right here together in the same room. Like even if they weren’t in the same room, even if they were all the way across the country from each other, their souls were connected, their fates intertwined. When she talked to out loud to Sarah, told her about her life, how much she admired her, how she hoped someday to do something so great like Sarah had done, she was sure Sarah could hear.

Leda chose the fish whistle from her treasure box to infuse with protective powers for the plane flight. The whistle had been lying around the house in various bowl and trays for years, until Leda had claimed it for the treasure box. Now she wrapped it in a piece of pink velvet left over from a pillow her mother had made during a crafty period and carried it in her pocket to give it extra energy. Every night she enclosed it in both her hands and said a spell over it. The spell didn’t really have words, but if it did, they would be something like: Fish whistle, please protect me and my family from danger on the plane flight.

Leda and Freddy sat at their own table in the airport cafeteria, so they wouldn’t have to listen to their parents fighting. There was no food on the table, just Leda’s book and Freddy’s Gameboy. They were supposed to be getting breakfast before the flight, but Leda’s mom was freaking out too badly. She’d been crying all morning, in their house, in the car all the way to the airport. Now she was angry-whispering at Leda’s dad, not such quiet whispering since Leda could hear her three tables over. You don’t care about me. I didn’t choose this, I was coerced. You want us to all die.

Leda’s book was the latest novel in her favorite series, Dominion Athlusan, and she’d been waiting months for it to come out.  She read the first page once, twice, a third time, her eyes skimming the words without getting any meaning from them. Her stomach kept growling, loud enough for people around her to hear if anyone were listening. She couldn’t stop thinking about whether her parents would remember to buy some breakfast before the flight, whether her mom would even get on the plane or make a big scene and refuse, whether the plane would crash and kill them all just to prove Leda’s mom right.

She took the fish whistle out of pocket, watched the light skim over its smooth stone surface as she moved her hand back and forth, listening to her stomach growl. Then she put it back in her pocket so she wouldn’t lose it before the flight. That would be a definite jinx, to lose the whistle. The plane would crash for sure.

That’s when Leda looked over to the left, and saw Sarah Ayana Jones sitting there with her mom, both staring at books and looking as stressed out as Leda.

She poked Freddy in the ribs.

He didn’t look up, just kept staring at the Gameboy. She poked him again.  

“What?” he said, without looking up from the screen.

Leda leaned forward so she could see his eyes. All she could make out in them was the glowing reflection of the game he was playing, flashing dots and explosions.

Leda decided she didn’t want to share the ghost with him.

The second newspaper clipping about Sarah Ayana Jones in Leda’s treasure box was the one she had fished out of the recycling bin a few days after the accident. She almost didn’t find out about it. Her mother was watching the news on TV one night, which she only did once in a while. The news was about regular things like football and the stock market and whether Arnold Schwarzenegger would really run for governor. Then, offhand like it wasn’t anything especially important:

Investigators are still trying to determine the cause of the plane crash that killed Sarah Ayana Jones and her father as they returned from a speaking engagement at a camp for girls in North Carolina last weekend. Jones’s father was the pilot of the small aircraft. Viewers may remember Jones from her controversial letter last year to Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein…

The story kept going, but all Leda heard was a rushing sound. It got louder and louder. She covered her ears to keep it out, but it was coming from inside her head.

Sarah Ayana Jones was sitting at Leda and Freddy’s table. She had just walked over, pulled up a chair, and sat down. In real life, her eyes were as amazing as in the newspaper picture, a mythical creature joining them at the ugly plastic table.

“You’re lucky,” Sarah said, as a way to say hello. “At least yours are still married.”

Leda looked over at the table where her mother was quietly sobbing, head in her hands. Leda’s father had gone somewhere.

“Those aren’t my parents,” Leda said. “I don’t even know those people.”

“It’s okay,” Sarah said. “My parents used to fight all the time like that, too. But it was still better when they lived in the same place.”

The florescent lights glowed off Sarah’s hair like a halo. Of course she was wise, reminding Leda to appreciate what she had. She’d never even thought about divorce. That would definitely be worse.

“Does anyone know you’re here?” Leda whispered. She looked around to make sure no one was listening.

Sarah raised her eyebrows.

“Just my mom and dad,” she said.

“Your dad’s dead,” Leda said.

“No, he’s not,” Sarah said. “Well, my other dad is dead, but I meant my stepdad. But him and my mom aren’t married any more. But he’s still my dad. He lives in Argentina but we’re going to San Diego first.”

Leda couldn’t follow Sarah’s point, whether her dad was undead or secretly not dead, or whether the dad she was talking about a different person all together.

“Did he move to Argentina so people wouldn’t find out he wasn’t dead?” Leda asked.

Sarah shook her head. “He moved there because my grandma is sick.”

“Dang!” Freddy said.

Leda looked over at him, but he was just angry at something on his Gameboy. He was hitting two buttons with his pointer finger, one and then the other back and forth, scowling at the screen.

“It took over his mind,” Leda said.

Sarah nodded. Leda wondered if she had a brother. The articles never said anything about that.

“Are you scared of flying?” Sarah asked.

Leda ran her fingers over the fish whistle in her pocket and thought about the answer. Was she really scared of flying, or was it just that her mother was?

“Not really,” Leda said. “Are you?”

Sarah nodded, a big nod that made her curls bounce so that Leda could smell something sweet coming from her hair.

“I have to fly twice a year to see my dad,” Sarah said. “I hate flying.” 

Of course she hates flying, Leda thought. That’s how she died.

“It’s not so bad.“ Leda didn’t really know—she could barely remember the last time she’d been on a plane—but she wanted to make Sarah feel better. “Flying is actually much safer than driving.”

Then she pulled the fish whistle out of her pocket in its protective cloth. She handed the pink velvet package to Sarah. Sarah unwrapped the cloth, took the whistle in her fingers, ran her thumb over the tiny carved fish scales.

“This is good luck,” Leda said. “It’ll keep you safe on the plane.”

Sarah gripped her fingers over it, held it to her chest, then put it into the pocket of her t-shirt.

Sarah’s mother called from her table.

“It’s time, babe,” she said to Sarah. “Grab your book and let’s go.”

Sarah reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a tiny packet of gummy sharks, small enough to fit in her palm, and handed them to Leda.

“You could take these,” she said. “They’re also good luck.”

Leda took the sharks, still warm from Sarah’s pocket, and put them in her own pocket where the whistle had been.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Leda lowered her voice. “I know who you are.”

Sarah gasped. Then she leaned in close, so Leda could smell her hair again.

“I know who you are, too.” Her breath was warm in Leda’s ear. “You’re Kylani Ramahana. Queen of the sky-pirates.”

Then, like she was scared of Leda’s response, she ran to the other table, grabbed her book and followed her mother out of the cafeteria.

Leda’s parents were holding hands as the plane took off. She could see them from across the aisle, her mother’s eyes closed, face white with terror.

Leda wished she had someone to hold hands with, but there was just zombie Freddy and his Gameboy. The flight attendant had told him to put it away before takeoff, but he just hid it under his jacket and took it out when she was gone.

Leda held the packet of sharks in her lap. They had a cartoon shark on the front, a flash of light drawn like a diamond on his big toothy smile. Her stomach was still growling, but there was no way she was going to open the packet and ruin its magic.

I’m queen of the sky-pirates, Leda thought, and she didn’t need breakfast.

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