Free When the Moon Is Low by Nadia Hashimi

return.
    When two hours passed, I grew more apprehensive. I went through the courtyard and opened our front gate. Our quiet street offered no clues. A few children chased a feeble mutt, pelting it with scraps oftrash. An older man walked by with a cane. Nothing looked out of the ordinary.
    Padar- jan came home earlier than usual and found me beating the dust from the pillows in the living room. I couldn’t sit still.
    “Where is your mother? Don’t tell me she’s gone out to the market again.”
    “No, Padar- jan, she went to call upon a friend, I think. She didn’t say much—just that she’d heard some terrible news that she hoped wasn’t true.”
    “Terrible news?” He looked alarmed, both by KokoGul’s sudden departure and by the anxiety in my voice. “Did she say what the news was?”
    I shook my head.
    “She was in a hurry. She flew out the door without explaining.”
    My father sighed heavily and asked if I’d prepared dinner. He decided we would not get worked up before we knew what we were talking about. My father would swallow a spoon of salt smiling if it meant keeping the house in peace.
    Padar- jan was hungry so I summoned my siblings and set the table, wondering if KokoGul would make it back before we started to eat. Cumin steam swirled from the platter of hot rice I was carrying when she swept into the room. KokoGul threw her chador onto the back of a chair with a huff. Her voice boomed in the small space.
    “Ooohhh God, our merciful Allah! What horrible news!” Her head swayed from side to side as she sat next to my father. “What tragic and unexpected events have befallen us . . . I still cannot believe such a thing would happen!”
    Padar- jan furrowed his brow, impatient with her dramatic prelude.
    “Just say what it is, KokoGul. What happened?”
    KokoGul ignored his frustration and went on with her story at her own pace.
    “I was home today making sure these girls were doing their homework and on top of that there was a lot of laundry and cooking to doand I had my hands full, as usual,” she added. Padar- jan sighed heavily and I wondered when KokoGul had last washed so much as a sock or stirred a pot.
    “Habiba- jan came knocking on our door to borrow some flour—sometimes I think we could make a healthy living supplying her with all the ingredients she’s forgotten to pick up from the sundries store—anyway, I gave that foolish woman what she needed and she started to chatter about the unfortunate family arranging for a fateha in two days for their young son and what a sad story it was. I asked her who it was that had lost a son and she told me that it was that wealthy family from across town, Agha Firooz.”
    My fingers gripped the edge of the table tightly. I could feel the blood drain from my face. I waited for her to continue.
    “When she said that, my head spun and I just about fainted right there at her feet but I pulled myself together and asked her if she knew which of their boys it was and how it had happened. She was more interested in getting home with the flour and she didn’t know much else anyway so I told her to run along. I went to Fatana- jan ’s house since her brother-in-law lives next door to Agha Firooz’s family.
    “Fatana’s better informed than the KGB and she told me everything! My God, how this changes things for us! Just two days ago . . .”
    “Dear God, wife, please! Just say what happened!”
    “Unbelievable, truly unbelievable! The whole story is just unimaginable! Agha Firooz’s boy was walking from the movie theater to home with his friends. You know, they said he was studying engineering, but Fatana tells me he hadn’t been to any classes since high school and he wouldn’t have even graduated from there had his father not breathed heavily over a few shoulders.”
    Tragic or not, KokoGul would not leave out a single detail of this savory story. This was her first time telling it, a rehearsal of sorts as she would certainly be repeating