There’s no cure for the dead

sixteen women, gathered around a dining table
go ahead, the hostess said, and then they begin
they all wore dresses, the scent of their nylons mingling
with the fragrance of the cowhide and patent-leather slippers
a cloud of estrogen over the elaborately carved chairs, apple cookies
bulgur salad—with pomegranate syrup—stuffed meatballs, the hostess is from Antep
colorful sweaters and shoulder-padded blouses, their hair permed
or highlighted, they all go to the same coiffeur anyway, mother-of-pearl
nail polish, only the women from Adana painted their nails blood red
                        sixteen women’s children shake each other’s hands
                        all right, off you go, play in leyla’s room, they said

in leyla’s room the boys and girls stared at one another
in discontent, some of them sat on the bed lined
with cabbage patch dolls and played house, while the boys
dumped the cookie plate and turned it into a steering wheel,
they went into the hall to race, grown up games of house or dolls
had already spoiled their fun and leyla’s room was just so pink,
but leyla was enthralled with one of them because he was blonde,
she’d do anything he asked, and there was little baby Elfiye
caught between joining a game or running through the hall
but curious as to what the women in the living room were up to
                        all sixteen women began to talk at once
                        well mine is a marvel in the bed, the blondest one said

Elfiye snuck out of the noisy hall, “don’t get too hot now, sister!” yelled
the women, who didn’t notice Elfiye when she positioned herself
behind a column near the dining table, she always liked listening to big talk
huriye had just come back from Germany, my müslüm, she said, slurping
her tea, wraps me up like a snake in a sack, and everyone burst forth
with their own eager accounts of how their husbands acted in bed,
rocking her slipper from her toes müzeyyen told them how she chose her
underwear, and sevda said she’d always wanted to try it from behind
but never had, which earned everyone’s vociferous reproach
                                    sixteen women racing their husbands like thoroughbreds
                                    Hulusi named our apartment building after me, said the darkest one
 
Elfiye held her stomach over the itchy dress
she’d been forced to wear, these things she heard always
reminded her of birds, winged but still getting on her nerves
the way these tea-stirring women called out to their sons,
savaş, honey, look what I made you, come have some paşa çay
he was six years old but starting school next year, and Elfiye
was aware of all the dynamics of the established system there
when her mother stood to add some liqueur to her tea
she knew the main event would soon begin, most of the women
brought along their varieties of homemade liqueur, cherry,
banana, orange, chocolate, mint, raspberry, Elfiye loved orange best
secretly sipping it off the top of the bottle, which she
discovered she could just refill with water.
                        sixteen women would take sixteen liqueurs from their purses
                        here, sweetie, mine is weak, have a taste, they’d say to each other

her mother’s mouth watered as she told them how her father
ate directly from her hand, a spot of cherry liqueur-flavored Turkish coffee
on the corners of her lips, then she’d lick it away and look at her protégés
she claimed a streak of harem etiquette ran through her roots, she’d traced it to the palace,
garnishing her stories with ottoman words, which made her a master at
shutting everyone up so she could tell them her story like she wanted to, there was
something venomous about the way she spoke of her father’s masculine
frailties, as if settling accounts, which was why Elfiye’s father
seemed weaker to her, no different than a puppet calibrated to perform
the wishes of his wife, this woman so skilled at winding up
the apparatus, and as she fiddled with her gold necklace she’d explain
how there was nothing revolting about being a slut between the sheets
and the new brides would gape at her strategies for whoring in the bed
                        all sixteen women were half-stewed, most of them
                        tugging at their collars, overly effusive with their affection.
 
the boys were soldiers now, battlelines drawn, which Elfiye
walked between on her way back to the tired girls putting
their dolls to sleep. you cook dinner, they said to her
she stared at the plastic set of hot pink kitchenware,
opened the top of a pan, tore up some papers and threw them in
here, Leyla said as she handed her a phosphorescent green ladle,
you have to stir the soup with this, or else it’ll burn,
was that the day Elfiye realized she didn’t speak Turkish, or
had it been earlier, she couldn’t remember, there’s also the image
of a plastic first aid kit in her mind, a red crescent on a white box
she’s giving birth, ezgi shrieked, and she was caught in a panic between
her and çiğdem, who’d doubled over in pain and spread her legs
stick the scalpel in the stomach, they said, she did but she didn’t know
what to do next, stupid, leyla shouted, pull the baby out, now look, it’s dead
                        sixteen women took out sixteen gold coins
                        lined them up on the table and wished the hostess many blessings

Elfiye ran off to the bathroom, away from the stress of the maternity ward,
and locked the door, she’d only planned to wait for things to
blow over, but she sensed a rustling behind the shower curtain and
then saw one of the girls stretched out in the tub, her dress
was also made of wool and she wore a satin pink ribbon in her hair
what grade are you in? she asked and slid back so Elfiye
could get in the tub, she said she wasn’t starting school until next year
Elfiye was happy to have found someone different from the others
but, she said, I know how to read, and she rattled off to Eda all her
favorite fairytales. Eda’s family was Armenian, she had a yaya living
in Kurtuluş, but Elfiye couldn’t tell anyone what she said
                        sixteen women poured cold paşa çay into water glasses
                        and gave them to their sons

Eda had a dot at the corner of her lip, Elfiye was filled with a desire
to paint that wide face with its dot and cheeks, she reached over
and touched her ribbon, my mom never does my hair, she said.
she’s not my real mom, she lied, because if she were she was sure
she would have done her hair. eda undid her ribbon and her hair fell
around her face, Elfiye propped her legs on the edge of the tub
and pulled her skirt above her stomach, and eda set it right on top of her belly
keep it, I have more at home, she said, revealing herself to be a child
already privy at that young age to the gratification conveyed
by a pair of shining eyes. the tub, sink and toilet were baby blue
                       fifteen of the sixteen women stared with envy for forty-five minutes at
                       that hussy whose husband müslüm never let her sleep

the boys had made a goal out of the bathroom door,
tiki-taka just shoot the ball, they cried, idiots, eda moaned and
Elfiye indicated her agreement with a nod of her head
she’d never remember when they’d thought to inspect each other’s underwear
but they wiggled out of their white wool tights
entwined their legs and peered in at the area
in between, they wore the same thing
it was Elfiye who leaned in for the first kiss on her lips and nest,
she hadn’t quite turned the key, it was slackening with every shot
and when she opened her eyes all the boys began to shout
mom, eda’s showing Elfiye her hoo-hoo! and Elfiye’s kissing Eda!
                        the sixteen women sobered up fast and left their lewdness
                        in the living room, two of them disgraced by their own children

what made the spanking so unforgettable was her sense of shame,
it would be years before the two girls understood
how that day had shaped their lives, they were brought to the middle of
the living room while the boys giggled and fourteen women
consoled the other two, there’s no cure for the dead, they said
but a good doctor can treat this, or maybe they’re possessed
by djinns, sweetheart, you’ve got to teach them, they clucked their tongues.
                        fourteen women stared at the sick children of the other two
                        thank god this didn’t happen to us they thought.