You Can't Tell by Looking

by Russell J. Sanders

  “No, babe. You’ll know when the time is right.”

  “I hope the time is sooner rather than later.” He stifles a yawn, then says, “I plan to have very sweet dreams tonight. And BTW—now you’ve got me saying ‘by the way’ with only the initials; I’m becoming a typical kid instead of ‘that Muslim’—I liked you calling me babe.”

  “You go night-night, babe”—I punch it for his sake—“and I’ll see you tomorrow. If not at school, then certainly after school. I don’t have swim tomorrow, so I’ll come with Mom for the big meet. I want to hear all about this fantastic dress Aysel has ordered.”

  “Oh, really? You’re into wedding dresses? I was hoping you were coming just to see me.”

  “That too, babe, that too.” I flash him my patented wicked smile. “Sweet dreams.”

  “I hope yours are sweeter. Although I don’t see how they could be,” he counters.

  “Enough. Gotta get my beauty sleep. We all aren’t naturally beautiful like the neighbor boy.”

  He giggles at me, and then his face leaves the screen.

  I can’t stop thinking of him as I lie in bed. His piercing black eyes flash in my brain. They are like black diamonds. Although, I’ve never seen a black diamond. But if they are supposed to be the most exotic of jewels, Kerem’s eyes must put them to shame.

  My thoughts roam back to earlier. The pond. The kiss. There were others after it, and there will be thousands more to come. But none will compare to that first one.

  I feel that kiss, deep, deep down. It makes me so happy. And so turned on.

  I reach down. Slowly I caress myself. I usually jerk and jerk and jerk until I get off, using whatever fantasy comes to mind.

  But tonight I don’t need fantasy. I have reality. And I stroke, gently and slowly. His eyes, his lips, his voice, his whole being fill me, and the eruption begins. Electricity sparks within me. Over and over and over. I feel the lightning strikes within will never stop. I hope this feeling never ends.

  Thank you, God. Thank you, Allah.

  I fall asleep, spent—and wrapped in a cocoon, a cocoon spun by Kerem, my beautiful god.

  NEXT DAY, school goes well. But I’m distracted the entire day. All I want to do is find Kerem and kiss him all over. But that’s not cool. So I continually check my watch, waiting for the final bell.

  He’s already on the path home when I catch up to him. When he stops in the woods for afternoon prayers, I stand and watch him, gazing at this now familiar ritual performed by this beautiful man. A man who is mine. I pray myself, thanking God for bringing me to him.

  Finished, we head straight home. No dawdling. I’m looking forward to the big wedding gown conference. The Uzun women have never met a force like Mary Dillon.

  A quick “Salaam Alaykum/Wa-Alaykum” between us, and then Kerem goes into his house and I into mine.

  Mom’s standing there, tapping her foot, her tape measure around her neck, her pincushion on her wrist—although I don’t know why she would need pins at an initial planning meeting—and pencil and notebook on the kitchen counter, waiting to be scooped up.

  “Where have you been? We’re going to be late. I don’t know why you want to go anyway. This will be strictly girl talk. You’ll be bored, I predict.”

  “Believe me, Aysel’s never boring. And I’m not late. I have it on good authority Ker just got home for the big meet and greet.”

  “Whose authority? Your own? Have you two finally made your connection?”

  I love the way she asks her question that way. So refined; so detached. Inside, if her upbringing would allow it, she wants to scream, did you two finally hook up? “Maybe,” I answer coyly. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  “That means ‘yes.’ I’m so happy for both of you. Kerem’s such a great kid. And he’s quite a looker.” For all her enthusiasm about sewing, cooking, and the like, when it comes to my love life, she plays it calm, cool, and collected.

  “Don’t I know it. But he’s not out to his family yet, so don’t spill the beans. ’Kay?”

  “What happened to ‘I won’t date a man who is not out and open’? I knew you’d wind up eating your words.”

  “And very delicious they are. I’m giving him time. It’s a hard thing to do, coming out.”

  “Nothing I don’t already know. I can’t recall how many times I wanted to shout at you, ‘okay, tell me already.’”

  “Moms know everything, don’t they?”

  “Not all, maybe, but this one does,” she says. “Now, let’s get our butts across the street.”

  It’s like Aysel’s been at the door, peering out the peephole, wondering when we’ll arrive. I no sooner punch the doorbell before she opens the door.

  “You must be Aysel. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m surprised we haven’t met before,” Mom says.

  “I spend a lot of time at the college, but I’m glad we’re meeting now,” Aysel says.

  Yeah, a lot of time at the college where Hasan works, I almost say.

  Aysel leads us into the family room.

  Kerem jumps up from the couch as we come into the room. “I know you,” he says to me. “Long time, no see.”

  “Yeah, right. How long has it been? Seven minutes?” He motions me over, and we sit together on the couch.

  Maria Uzun arrives from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. Aysel has gone for her, and from the shrug she gave before she left the room, Aysel’s a little pissed that her mother was not there waiting.

  “Forgive me,” Mrs. Uzun says as she goes to Mom. “My children are prone to leave unwashed glasses in the sink. I was just tidying up. Sit, sit.” She motions to one of the recliners. Mom sits, and Mrs. Uzun sits in the other chair. Aysel takes the chair to the left of Mom, but she drags it close to the recliner Mom’s in.

  “Aysel, love, you don’t have to crowd Mary. Give her some breathing room, dear.”

  “I’m fine,” Mom says. “I’ve got tons of questions, and I want a lot of feedback, Aysel. This is your dress we’re creating. A girl’s wedding gown is the most special garment she’ll ever wear. I understand you have some pictures to show me.”

  Aysel reaches into her pocket and pulls out a balled-up mess. She unwads it all, then presses each clipping against the edge of the coffee table.

  I poke Kerem in the side and look at him sideways. He rolls his eyes. I stifle a laugh.

  Kerem’s mom says, “Aysel, love, how is Mary going to make much out of that mess?” She’s speaking with a touch of anger and a whole lot of love.

  “Don’t scold her, Maria,” Mom says. “I don’t blame her for keeping something so precious near her. Now, let me see these, and you explain what features you want in your gown.”

  Aysel points as she shows Mom each of the three pictures. “I want the headpiece of this one, the arms of this one, and the skirt from this dress.”

  “Aysel, love, Mary’s doing this as a favor to you. Could you give up just one thing to make her job easier?”

  Aysel looks as if she’s about to cry. Her mother jumps up and puts her arm around Aysel’s shoulder, comforting her. “I didn’t mean to upset you, love. I simply don’t want Mary to think you are so demanding.”

  “Brides are supposed to be demanding, Maria.” Mom leans over to Aysel and speaks directly into her face. “This is not a problem at all. I can do everything you want.” And Mom begins sketching while Aysel and her mother look on.

  I’m fascinated by this whole interchange. I’m so proud of my mom, I’m amused by Aysel, and I’m impressed that her mother can remain so calm amid all this turmoil her daughter brings on herself.

  But my fascination’s quickly dispelled, because Kerem, obviously seeing that the ladies are distracted, starts making light circle eights with his finger on my upper thigh. A tingle wells inside of me. I brush his hand away. All I need right now is a stiffy. He puts his hand right back. I push it away, and mouth, “Stop it.” He cuts his eyes to me and imitates my wicked smile I’m so proud of. Again
his finger’s back. I grab his hand and stuff it under my leg and sit on it.

  I guess my movement’s distracted Kerem’s mother, because she glances our way. She gives her head a tiny shake, and a wisp of a smile crosses her face.

  At that point, I hear, “So have you figured out this one is hard to please?” He walks across the room toward Mom. “I’m Timur, Aysel and Kerem’s cousin.”

  “Good to meet you, Timur.” Mom puts out her hand for him to shake, and she’s left hanging.

  I quickly throw out, “Mom, I forgot to tell you. The Uzuns don’t shake hands.”

  She smiles and nods at Timur, then returns to her sketching. My mother is unflappable.

  Timur turns. “I’ll leave you to it.” As he walks past Kerem and me, he looks down and sees me sitting on Kerem’s hand. He shakes his head in what I can only believe is disgust, then walks past us.

  Mom finishes her sketch, and she presents it to Aysel. Kerem’s mom’s still standing above her.

  Aysel lets out a yelp. “Oh my God, this is exactly what I wanted. Mary, you’re a genius!”

  “Mind your manners, love. It’s Mrs. Dillon to you,” her mom admonishes.

  “Mary is perfectly fine,” Mom says. “I was telling Kerem just last night that he should call me Mary.”

  His mother looks at him questioningly.

  “Gabe and I were on Skype, Mama. Mary came in Gabe’s room, and she joined our conversation. That’s when she told me.” He turns to Mom. “I could tell by my mother’s expression she was wondering when we met last night.”

  “Oh, Kerem, my love,” his mother answers, “you know I’m almost helpless with computer things.” She then turns back to Mom. “It appears that my daughter is in love with the beautiful dress you’ve designed. What is the next step?”

  “How about we take some measurements, and then we can discuss a trip to the fabric store.”

  “Can we go tomorrow? I don’t have a class until eleven. Fashion Fabrics opens at nine thirty.” Aysel is bubbling over with excitement.

  “Aysel,” her mother says, “I have appointments until 2:00 p.m., and those will most likely run a little late. If I hadn’t cleared my afternoons, I’d be working until six or later, so be glad, my love, that I could make time for us.” To Mom, she says, “I spend far too much time with each patient, but I love each and every one of them.” She adds, to her daughter. “Now, not only do I want to be with you at the fabric store, but if you want me to pay for it, I will have to be there. You know your baba won’t let you have free rein with his credit card.”

  Aysel is suitably contrite.

  “Let’s just say my lovely progeny here is a bit loose with her father’s money,” Mrs. Uzun says to Mom. Then she laughs. “But darling—and Mary—he won’t be there, and I will authorize the funds for the finest finery money can buy.” She laughs again, a hearty laugh that is aimed at herself, it seems.

  “Wonderful,” Mom says. “Shall we head out about three thirty?”

  “Perfect. That will give me time to get home from the office and Aysel home from school. We will do our afternoon prayers and then pile into my car.”

  “Okeydokey. Now the measurements.” Mom turns to Kerem and me. “You boys must be bored stiff, and it’s only going to get worse. The hens’re gonna be clucking here for quite some time. Why don’t you two skedaddle? Do some guy things.”

  “But, Mom, we haven’t seen the sketch yet. That’s what we’ve been waiting for, and now you’re trying to get rid of us before you show it to us.”

  “Like you two care about a wedding gown. But if you must see it, here it is.” She passes it to Kerem, who is nearest to her.

  He holds it so we both can examine it.

  “This is exactly what my sister has been talking about for ages. No wonder she’s so happy. You’re a magician.”

  Aysel sits, beaming.

  “Mom, you’re a true artist. I’ve seen things you’ve made before, so I know you can pull this off. But none of your creations has ever been as elaborate or magnificent as this.”

  Mom gleams with happiness, and I am bursting with pride.

  “My finished product will echo that exactly, God willing.”

  I smile, thinking of how Mom has just prayed inshallah in English. Our two families are not as far apart as some might think.

  “Allah will will it, Mom.” I look to see how Mom reacts to my using Allah instead of God. She flashes me a look of love.

  “Listen to you, Gabriel. My son’s rubbing off on you,” Kerem’s mother says.

  “How could he not, Mrs. Uzun? You’ve got quite a son here.” I smile at Ker, and in a flash, I think, I hope my face is not as full of the love I have for him that’s welling inside me right now. If so, the jig’s up if his mother notices.

  “Now, now, now, you may call me Maria,” she says. “No more Mrs. Uzun. I’m not that formal.”

  “Very well. Maria it is. And, Maria,” I say, using her name again on purpose, “if you don’t mind, your son and I could benefit from a walk.” Kerem, almost motionlessly, pokes me.

  “How very polite you are, Gabriel,” Maria says. “You are excused.” And she gives us a queenlike dismissal with her hand.

  Outside, I immediately pounce. “Kerem, were you trying to out us? What was with the finger thing?”

  “I couldn’t help it. You were so close to me, and no one was watching, so I took the chance.”

  “Well, don’t think for a minute that no one was watching. You don’t know what they were seeing from the corners of their eyes.”

  He looks at me, deadpan. “Do you think for even a millisecond that Aysel saw anything? She was glued to your mom and her sketch pad. And my mother was intent on appeasing Aysel, keeping her in check.”

  “And what, pray tell, do you think Timur was thinking? I saw that look he gave when he saw me sitting on your wayward hand.”

  “Timur can think what Timur wants to think. He and I have never been close, and a newly formed bond is not likely. Although, lately, I have been thinking more highly of him—or at least, seeing him more clearly.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ll tell you at the pond, when we’re on our bench. It’s a long story.”

  “Well,” I say, looking ahead, “we’ll be there before you know it.”

  We arrive at the pond and sit on the secluded bench, the one where we are not likely to be seen as easily as the one at front. The weather is much milder today. The bitter cold windchill has left—at least for one day.

  “Okay, give me the scoop,” I say.

  He fills me in on all things Timur.

  “Your uncle actually killed your cousin with Tim looking on?”

  Ker nods. “It’s called an honor killing. It happens a lot in the old countries. Not so much here, but every so often you see a news item that makes you think ‘honor killing.’”

  “And your uncle turned himself in right afterward?”

  “That’s the custom. The perp, as they call them on TV, goes straight to the police to tell them what he’s done.”

  “It’s always a dad who does it?”

  “No, it could be a brother, a cousin, an uncle, sometimes even the mother, but they always turn themselves in. Well, I take that back. I heard of a case in Houston where the police had to investigate to find out who did it. That father was a coward, and he certainly wasn’t following the old customs.”

  “So the daughter who’s killed? What does she do to deserve this? I know you said your cousin had been roaming the street and her new husband didn’t think she was still a virgin, but are there other reasons?”

  “The virgin thing is usually why. But girls have been decapitated, shot, stoned to death for things as innocuous as having men’s phone numbers in their cell phones.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “So the guy who does the deed. He’s executed, right?”

  “That’s the thing. In a lot of those countries, they are given light sentences because the poor g
irl, now dead, had brought dishonor to their family. And honor is everything in those crazy countries. But this is the US. In some states, the death penalty is very much alive.” He chuckles at his oxymoron. “My Uncle Sivan was tried, convicted, and died of lethal injection. And that was that.”

  “Not really. Your poor cousin must still bear the scars of what he saw. And of his mother’s death, his brother’s death, his sister’s death.”

  “I’ve had years to come to that conclusion myself. And I guess because Tim’s not one of my favorite people, forgive me, Allah, I never thought of it that way. And here that’s your first thought. I’m such a bad person.”

  “No, you’re not, babe.” I touch his cheek. “You’ve just been too close to the situation. If I know you, you will set yourself on a path to redemption as soon as we get back to your house.”

  He takes my hand and kisses it.

  “But first, I think we need to take advantage of our time, here, on our bench. The bench where yesterday’s dirty deeds were done.” I twirl the ends of an imaginary mustache. He looks at me like I’m crazy. I guess he’s not into old-timey mellerdrammer.

  I grab him and make him forget all about his cousin Timur and his woes. At least for now.

  Chapter 14

  Kerem

  SUNSET PRAYERS completed, Mama and Aysel, with Mary trailing along, have gone to meet Hasan and his mother at a bakery for a cake tasting. I’m not sure why the mothers are needed. No doubt Grandma, who tagged along as chaperone on the first date, could be there for her official duties—to keep the young couple pure and chaste. But nevertheless, both mothers are going. It’s the bride and groom’s cake that is being chosen, so no input is needed from the mamas, but I suspect the women will be there to referee if a fight breaks out between Hasan and Aysel. If you ask me, Hasan already knows that he needs to just go along with whatever Aysel wants.

  Amazingly, in the two weeks since she took measurements, Mary has finished Aysel’s gown. Neither Gabe nor I have seen it, for Aysel has declared it will be a surprise reserved for the wedding.