Western Union Starlight

"Baba, I found another joke book at the library. This one has to work," Neda said, dropping her backpack on the kitchen counter. She pulled out a worn paperback with a cartoon elephant balancing on a ball. "Look, it's called 'Trunk Full of Laughs.' That's funny already, right?"

Mahmoud Rahimi barely looked up from the pile of receipts he was organizing. "Very clever," he said without a hint of amusement. His weathered face remained stoic, the crow's feet around his eyes evidence of smiles from long ago.

"You didn't even look at it!" Neda protested, her teenage exasperation filling their small apartment kitchen. She opened the book dramatically. "Knock knock."

"Neda-joon, please. I have inventory to finish before tomorrow."

"Just one joke, Baba. Knock knock."

Mahmoud sighed, placing his pencil down with careful precision. "Who is there?"

"Interrupting cow."

"Interrupting cow wh—"

"MOOOO!" Neda bellowed, throwing her arms wide.

Mahmoud blinked twice, his face unmoved. "Very educational. Now the cows in America interrupt conversations. This is good to know."

Neda's shoulders slumped as she closed the book. Seventeen attempts over three weeks, and she hadn't managed even a smile. Not since The Call.

She pulled open the refrigerator, her voice deliberately casual. "Did you hear anything about Mom today?"

Mahmoud's hand tightened around the pencil. "No. The Red Cross still has no information."

"But the embassy said—"

"The embassy says many things," Mahmoud interrupted sharply. Then, softer: "Your mother is a resourceful woman. She has survived worse."

The unspoken truth hung between them: Soraya Rahimi had already been missing in Damascus for forty-three days, twelve hours, and—Neda glanced at the clock—twenty-six minutes. And the nightmares had started again.

"I need to go to Western Union," Mahmoud announced, standing abruptly.

Neda frowned. "The one downtown closed last month, remember?"

"Then we must find another." His voice was firm, but his eyes avoided hers.

"There's one on the east side, near the community college. Google says it's open until eight." She didn't ask why they needed to send money again or who it was for. Her father's monthly Western Union trips had started right after her mother disappeared.

"We will go now," Mahmoud said, already grabbing his jacket.

Neda checked her reflection in the hallway mirror, adjusting her hijab slightly. "Baba, how do non-hijabi girls manage bad hair days? At least I can just cover everything up and nobody knows."

Her father didn't respond, already halfway out the door. Neda sighed. The jokes weren't working, but she wasn't giving up. Her mother always said laughter was the best medicine for fear, and right now, her father was drowning in it.

The bus crawled through traffic as sunset painted the city gold and red. Mahmoud sat rigid beside her, his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the smudged windows.

"Hey, Baba," Neda tried again. "Why don't scientists trust atoms?"

Mahmoud remained silent.

"Because they make up everything!" She nudged his arm gently.

"Very clever," he replied, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.

A man with a bushy beard sitting across from them snorted. "That's a good one, kid."

Neda beamed at him. "Thanks! I've got more. What did the ocean say to the beach?"

The bearded man raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"Nothing, it just waved!"

The man chuckled, his beard bouncing slightly. Mahmoud shifted uncomfortably beside her.

"You've got a funny daughter," the man said to Mahmoud, who nodded without meeting his eyes.

"I'm practicing to be a comedian," Neda declared. "My mom says I inherited her sense of humor. She's a journalist, but she's really funny too."

"Is that so?" the man said, glancing at Mahmoud's stiff posture.

"Yeah, she's overseas right now, covering the—"

"Our stop is next," Mahmoud interrupted, pulling the cord.

As they exited, Neda caught her father's expression—the tight jaw, the slight tremble in his hand as he gripped the railing. She knew what was coming next.

"You must not tell strangers our business," he whispered fiercely once they were on the sidewalk.

"He was just being friendly, Baba."

"Being friendly is not the same as being a friend." Mahmoud quickened his pace. "Not everyone wishes us well in this country."

"This is our country too," Neda reminded him. "I was born here, remember?"

Mahmoud's face softened slightly. "Yes, but you must understand—"

"Hey!" a voice called from behind them. The bearded man from the bus jogged toward them, holding something out. "You left this."

Neda's joke book. She must have dropped it when they stood to exit.

"Thank you," she said, taking it.

The man smiled. "No problem. Good luck with your comedy career." He glanced at Mahmoud. "And I hope your wife returns home safely soon."

Mahmoud stiffened. "What do you know of my wife?"

The man looked startled. "Nothing, just what your daughter mentioned—that she's a journalist overseas."

"She didn't say anything about returning," Mahmoud pressed, stepping closer.

"I—I just assumed. Sorry if I—"

"It's okay," Neda intervened. "Thank you for returning my book."

The man nodded awkwardly and hurried away.

"What did I tell you?" Mahmoud hissed. "Now he knows about your mother."

"So what if he does?" Neda snapped, surprising herself with her boldness. "Maybe if we talked about her more, it wouldn't feel like she's already gone!"

The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. Mahmoud's face crumpled before hardening again, like clay briefly softened then fired in a kiln.

"The Western Union is three blocks this way," he said flatly, and began walking.

The Google directions led them to a strip mall sandwiched between a community college and a row of aging apartments. But where the Western Union should have been stood a shuttered storefront with a "FOR LEASE" sign in the window.

"No," Mahmoud whispered. "This cannot be."

Neda checked her phone. "It says it's open until eight. Maybe Google hasn't updated?"

Mahmoud approached the darkened windows, peering inside as if willing the Western Union counter to materialize. "There must be another one."

"Baba, what's so important? Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

Mahmoud didn't answer, already pulling out his phone. His fingers trembled as he searched.

"There's one in the Safeway on Madison Avenue," he said finally. "We must hurry. It closes in forty minutes."

"That's halfway across town," Neda protested. "We'll never make it by bus."

"Then we take a taxi." Mahmoud was already moving toward the street, arm raised.

A yellow cab pulled over almost immediately. As they climbed in, Neda noticed her father's hand slip inside his jacket pocket, clutching something.

"Safeway on Madison," Mahmoud told the driver. "Quickly, please."

The driver, a young man with thick-rimmed glasses, nodded. "Traffic's pretty bad heading downtown. Construction on Third."

"Take whatever route is fastest," Mahmoud insisted.

The cab pulled away from the curb, merging into traffic. Neda watched her father's profile, the sharp edge of his jaw, the deep furrow between his brows. Whatever he needed to send, it clearly couldn't wait.

"So," the driver said conversationally, "you folks from around here?"

"Yes," Neda answered when it became clear her father wouldn't.

"Cool, cool. I just moved here from Chicago. Much better weather, gotta say."

"That's nice," Neda said politely.

"Yeah, I'm actually taking classes at the community college. Film studies. Trying to be the next Spielberg, you know?" He laughed.

Neda smiled. "That's cool. I want to be a comedian."

"No way! Tell me a joke, then."

Before Neda could respond, Mahmoud cut in. "Please, just drive."

The cab fell silent. Neda pulled out her joke book, flipping through pages she'd already memorized. The driver caught her eye in the rearview mirror and gave her an encouraging smile.

"What did the janitor say when he jumped out of the closet?" she asked softly.

The driver raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"Supplies!" Neda made jazz hands for emphasis.

The driver snorted. "That's pretty good."

Mahmoud stared out the window, but Neda noticed his hand had relaxed slightly in his pocket.

"Why can't you trust the king of the jungle?" she continued.

"Why?"

"Because he's always lion!"

The driver chuckled. "Okay, I've got one for you. What's brown and sticky?"

Neda frowned. "What?"

"A stick!"

Neda burst out laughing, more from the driver's self-satisfied grin than the joke itself. From the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw her father's mouth twitch.

"One more," she said. "Why don't scientists trust stairs?"

"Why?"

"Because they're always up to something!"

The driver laughed, slapping the steering wheel lightly. "That's a good one. I'm gonna use that at school tomorrow."

They turned onto Madison Avenue, and Neda saw the Safeway sign glowing in the distance. Mahmoud leaned forward, eyes fixed on their destination.

"Almost there," the driver said. "Just in time, looks like."

As they pulled into the parking lot, Mahmoud already had cash ready. He thrust it toward the driver. "Keep the change."

"Thanks, man!" the driver called as they hurried out. "Good luck with the comedy, kid!"

Neda waved, jogging to keep up with her father's long strides. As they entered the store, she checked the time: 7:42 PM. Eighteen minutes to closing.

The Western Union counter was at the back, beside the pharmacy. A bored-looking clerk in a blue vest was scrolling on her phone.

"I need to send money," Mahmoud announced breathlessly. "To Damascus."

The clerk looked up, eyebrows raised. "Damascus? As in Syria?"

"Yes. Is there a problem?"

"We don't service that region directly," she said, tapping at her computer. "But we can send to Beirut. Would that work?"

Mahmoud's face fell. "No, it must be Damascus. It must be..."

"I'm sorry, sir. We have restrictions on certain regions due to—"

"Please," Mahmoud interrupted, his voice cracking. "It is for my wife. She is—" He stopped, unable to continue.

The clerk's expression softened. "Let me check something." She typed rapidly. "We might be able to arrange a pickup in Amman if your recipient can get there."

"No, that won't—" Mahmoud began, then stopped abruptly. "Yes. Yes, that could work."

He pulled out his wallet, extracting a worn slip of paper. As he handed it to the clerk, Neda caught a glimpse of a name: Farzad Tehrani.

"Who's Farzad?" she asked quietly.

Mahmoud didn't look at her. "A friend. He is helping your mother."

The clerk processed the transaction, and Mahmoud counted out crisp bills from an envelope in his jacket. The same envelope he'd been carrying for weeks, Neda realized.

"Receipt?" the clerk asked, handing over a slip of paper.

Mahmoud nodded, carefully folding it into his wallet. "Thank you."

As they walked back through the store, Neda noticed her father's shoulders had relaxed slightly, as if a weight had been temporarily lifted.

"Baba," she said carefully. "Is Mom really just 'missing'?"

Mahmoud stopped in the cereal aisle, his back to her. For a long moment, he said nothing.

"Your mother," he finally said, his voice barely audible, "was following a story about weapon smuggling. She found something... something dangerous. And now there are people looking for her."

Neda's heart hammered in her chest. "Is she alive?"

"The money is for information. For protection." He turned to face her, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "Farzad says she is alive, but hiding. Each month, he asks for more."

"Do you believe him?"

Mahmoud's expression crumpled. "I must. The alternative is..."

A crash behind them made them both jump. A stock boy had dropped a box of cereal, colorful loops scattering across the floor like confetti.

"Sorry," the boy mumbled, scrambling to clean up the mess.

Neda looked back at her father, who was watching the spilled cereal with an odd expression.

"Your mother," he said suddenly, "once filled my shoes with Rice Krispies. As a joke."

Neda blinked. "What?"

"I put my feet in, and..." He made a crunching motion with his hands. "Snap, crackle, pop."

For a moment, neither spoke. Then, a small sound escaped Mahmoud—something between a choke and a hiccup. His shoulders began to shake.

"Baba?" Neda asked, alarmed.

And then Mahmoud Rahimi, who hadn't laughed in forty-three days, began to laugh. It started small—a trembling in his shoulders, a quivering of his lips—then grew until he was bent double, tears streaming down his face.

"She—she said—" he gasped between laughs, "she said now I had—musical shoes!"

The absurdity of the moment hit Neda like a wave. Here they were, standing in a cereal aisle, her father finally laughing after weeks of silence—not at any of her carefully selected jokes, but at a decades-old prank involving breakfast cereal.

And suddenly, it was too much. The worry, the fear, the desperate trips to Western Union, the knowledge that her mother was in danger—it all crashed down on her at once. Before she could stop herself, Neda was crying, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

Mahmoud's laughter stopped abruptly. "Neda-joon?"

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I just—I miss her so much, and I'm scared, and I've been trying so hard to make you laugh because Mom always said—"

"That laughter keeps fear at bay," Mahmoud finished softly. He pulled her into his arms, his chest still vibrating with aftershocks of laughter. "Oh, my little nightingale."

"I thought if I could make you laugh, maybe it would mean everything would be okay," she whispered against his shoulder.

Mahmoud stroked her hair. "Your mother also used to say that sometimes we need to cry before we can truly laugh again."

Neda pulled back, wiping her eyes. "That doesn't sound like Mom."

"No," Mahmoud admitted with a small smile. "That was me just now."

Neda stared at him, then hiccupped a laugh through her tears. "That was terrible, Baba."

"I am not the comedian in the family," he agreed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

The stock boy edged past them, eyeing them curiously as he swept up the last of the cereal.

"So what do we do now?" Neda asked as they walked toward the exit. "Just keep sending money each month?"

Mahmoud's expression grew determined. "No. Now we find out if Farzad is telling the truth."

"How?"

"Your mother has a colleague at the paper—David Simons. I've been avoiding him because I feared bad news, but..." He squared his shoulders. "It's time I spoke with him."

As they stepped outside, the night air cool against their tear-stained faces, Neda's phone pinged. An email notification. Probably just school stuff.

She pulled it out absently, then froze. "Baba."

Something in her voice made Mahmoud stop. "What is it?"

Neda held up the phone, her hand trembling. The sender: S.Rahimi@globalpress.net. The subject line: "Starlight."

Mahmoud's code name for her mother since their college days.

With shaking fingers, Neda opened the email. It contained only three lines:

Tell your father to stop sending money to Farzad. He's not helping me. I am coming home. Soon.

Mahmoud stared at the screen, his breath catching. "It's really her. That account—only she has access."

"She's alive," Neda whispered. "She's really alive."

For the second time that night, Mahmoud Rahimi began to laugh. But this time, his daughter joined him, their combined laughter rising into the starlit sky—fear temporarily banished by joy, and the promise of reunion hanging between them like a prayer.

Later, as they waited for the bus home, Neda pulled out her joke book one more time.

"Baba," she said seriously, "why don't eggs tell jokes?"

Mahmoud looked at her, the ghost of a smile still on his lips. "Why?"

"They'd crack each other up!"

And there, at the bus stop under the Western Union sign's flickering neon light, Mahmoud laughed again—not from shock or relief, but simply because it was funny, and because his daughter had finally achieved what she'd been trying to do all along.

Behind them, the Western Union sign blinked out as the store closed for the night, no longer needed as their beacon in the darkness.