IV
The front door squeaked, and Naboro staggered into the living room. She did not see him as she wobbled by. His voice in the darkness arrested her.
“Where are you coming from?”
She froze in her tracks and turned to face the voice.
“Out.”
“There are rules in my house,” he said quietly.
“Rules work best in prison.”
He stood up and walked over to her, sniffing. “You have been drinking.”
She looked up without speaking.
“You forget your religion,” he spoke quietly. “No child of mine desecrates this house by drinking alcohol.”
“For what it’s worth, you should take your ass out of the ’70s and face life. Times have changed, and you need to re-adjust your thinking.”
Nasser raised his hand and slapped Naboro hard. She landed on the red polished, cemented floor. The slap resounded in the room. His hand hurt, and he turned away. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He only wanted to talk to her, to make her see that she was wrong. He only wanted to assert his place as a father-figure in her life. But she was disrespectful. She was spoiled. She dared to answer back defiantly. She made him do this.
As Naboro stood up slowly and tottered to her room, he felt something tear at his heart. Nasser was a crushed man. For the umpteenth time that day, he asked himself whether accepting the pardon was the right thing to do. After all, he had adjusted to life in detention and felt happy. Almost happy. He had resigned himself to his fate and moved on with his life. Now, back in the free world, he couldn’t even manage something as basic as parenting. Perhaps he had rushed his decision; perhaps it was foolish. No, he made the right decision, he told himself. Things had to work out within the limited time he had left.
Suddenly, a pain seared through his right side. He doubled over, staggered, and collapsed in the chair.
Naboro slammed her door and fell on her bed. Her cheek still felt hot when she brushed her hand over it. How dare he slap her? Her mother had never raised a hand at her, and now this absolute stranger walked into her life and, out of nowhere, hit her. She envied her older brothers. They were out of the house and didn’t have to suffer this outrage. One of them was studying to be a lawyer so that he could represent condemned men. Naboro smiled at the thought. The damned man in the living room did not deserve any representation. He was guilty as hell, and she didn’t care whether he was her father or not. She felt no warmth toward him—and embarrassed each time she had to face people she’d known her whole life and admit, “Yes, I know him,” and then hurriedly explain, “My mother kept the secret from me.” She felt the need to apologize for things she hadn’t done—and for even being born. And she constantly reminded people that she wasn’t like that man. She had been brought up proper. Why had this happened?
