A Thousand Splendid Suns

"Anyway," he said at last, fingers drumming his belly, "I can't be
blamed. I am a husband. These are the things a husband wonders. But
he's lucky he died the way he did. Because if he was here now, if I got
my hands on him…" He sucked through his teeth and shook his head.
"What happened to not speaking ill of the dead?"
"I guess some people can't be dead enough," he said.
* * *
Two days later, Laila woke up in the morning and found a stack of baby
clothes, neatly folded, outside her bedroom door. There was a twirl dress
with little pink fishes sewn around the bodice, a blue floral wool dress
with matching socks and mittens, yellow pajamas with carrot-colored
polka dots, and green cotton pants with a dotted ruffle on the cuff.
"There is a rumor," Rasheed said over dinner that night, smacking his
lips, taking no notice of Aziza or the pajamas Laila had put on her, "that
Dostum is going to change sides and join Hekmatyar. Massoud will have
his hands full then, fighting those two. And we mustn't forget the
Hazaras." He took a pinch of the pickled eggplant Mariam had made that
summer. "Let's hope it's just that, a rumor. Because if that happens, this
war," he waved one greasy hand, "will seem like a Friday picnic at
Paghman."
Later, he mounted her and relieved himself with wordless haste, fully
dressed save for his tumban, not removed but pulled down to the ankles.
When the frantic rocking was over, he rolled off her and was asleep in
minutes.
Laila slipped out of the bedroom and found Mariam in the kitchen
squatting, cleaning a pair of trout. A pot of rice was already soaking
beside her. The kitchen smelled like cumin and smoke, browned onions
and fish.