Where Jasmine Blooms

by Holly S. Warah

  He stood and turned the television off.

  “You think it’s okay,” she asked, “to just kill others in the name of a cause?”

  He crossed his arms. “We’re at war with the Israelis.”

  She shuddered. “I guess I’m a pacifist. I hate anything to do with killing.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” He looked at her. “Just roll over and die?”

  “It’s not like you’re doing anything about it.” She stood and faced him. “I don’t see you helping your sister Yasmine.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw how she lived in Dheisheh Camp.” There was nothing fair about Alison’s words, but she couldn’t stop herself. “What are you doing to help her?”

  “You told me not to send money.” He glared at her. “You said we couldn’t afford it.”

  As her thoughts flew back to their vows at the mosque, Alison twisted the wedding ring on her finger, the cheap one they had planned to upgrade as soon as possible. There was no chance of that now.

  “Why did you give me only one dollar?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “When we married. You gave me one dollar.”

  “You could’ve asked for more.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “You could’ve said—”

  “You put me on the spot!”

  “It was a token—a symbol. Lots of couples do it that way.” He grabbed his car keys. “I’m going out.”

  As he said good-bye, she closed her eyes. There was no use trying to stop him.

  The days turned colder, and when the wind blew, it hissed through the front door. Alison wore thick sweaters and the silver bracelet she had bought in Jerusalem. She hung the kilim on the living room wall, where its deep colors dominated the space.

  She entered her third trimester just before Ramadan and realized she should’ve been thinking about the baby and how to get ready for it. Margaret had called that week and offered to throw a baby shower, asking Alison to make a list of the items she needed.

  Sitting at the table, Alison stared at the kilim. The sound of raindrops hit the windowpane, and she turned back to her list: car seat, bedding, sleepers, diapers …

  Her mind returned to the soldier, calmly lowering his gun. You don’t have to live here. She couldn’t imagine raising a baby in that refugee camp. Nor could she imagine Khalid growing up there. When she tried to conjure up a picture of it, all that came to mind was Yasmine’s clingy mass of children.

  That evening, when Khalid came home from work, they ate mjeddera, the same meal of rice and lentils Huda had prepared in the West Bank and her Teytey Miriam had prepared when she was alive. As they were finishing their last bites, Khalid’s phone rang. He spoke in Arabic for a moment and then hung up. “Ramadan’s tomorrow,” he said.

  “Ramadan Mubarak,” Alison said, then paused. “Did you ever throw rocks at Israeli soldiers?”

  “Of course.” His eyes widened. “Actually, I did worse.”

  “Like what?” For a second she felt as if she were with Belal back in Aida Camp.

  Khalid opened his mouth to speak and then stopped. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  She looked at him, his white button-down shirt, his clear eyes, and clean-cut look. If he hadn’t gotten out when he did, he might’ve ended up like Belal’s brother—in prison.

  For the rest of the evening, Khalid watched the news coverage of the war in Iraq. His cell phone continued to beep. “Ramadan messages,” he explained.

  In the kitchen, as Alison cleaned up the dinner dishes, she had mental flashes of her old life: attending Arabic classes, studying in the coffee shop, and giving her opinion on events in the Middle East. Now she avoided political topics with Khalid, since they often ended up in some uneasy place she didn’t want to be. Plus, she had Ramadan to think about. Khalid would be fasting and depending on her to prepare suhur, the predawn meal.

  The next morning, the first day of Ramadan, she awoke at 4:30 a.m. and prepared a suhur of tea, scrambled eggs, nuts, sliced fruit, Arab bread, and sweet sesame halawa. Margaret had given her tips on what to serve, and the food looked appealing spread out in small dishes. It was pitch-dark outside as Alison poured Khalid’s tea and watched him eat. She wondered if Teytey Miriam had made a similar effort for Grandpa Sam. Had he even observed the holy month? Alison didn’t know.

  When Khalid finished, she cleared the table while he sat on the sofa. The Qur’an open in his lap, he recited from it in an unfamiliar voice. Then he closed the book, left the room, and returned with a prayer carpet. He spread it at an angle across the floor and began to pray. Before that moment, she had only seen him pray with his family.

  Later in the evening, the iftar meal took place at Ahmed and Margaret’s, where everyone had gathered to break their fast, including Mona and her family. They waited in the living room looking at the clock. Alison excused herself to the kitchen, where Margaret was stirring a large pot of soup.

  “New tiles?” Alison asked. Above the counter and around the backsplash were rows of new blue tiles, the same shade as in the Palestinian pottery.

  “You like it? I installed them myself.” Margaret set a plate of dates on the table, and Jenin filled the water glasses. They continued to glance at their watches.

  “It’s time,” Khalid called out. Everyone, except Alison, reached for their water and a date, muttering a du’a in Arabic. Margaret dished up the lentil soup. In silence, the family consumed it with concentration.

  Next, the prayer carpets appeared. For the second time that day, Alison saw Khalid pray. She had always considered him a secular Muslim, but seeing his recent religious zeal, she wondered.

  With sighs of relief, the family returned to the table. The dishes were brought out one by one in ceremonial fashion. During the meal, Ahmed made an announcement. “I just bought Nadia’s ticket. She’ll arrive in a week, inshallah.”

  The family spoke all at once, a mix of English and Arabic. Alison’s thoughts turned to Nadia back in Jordan. Of Khalid’s five sisters, the girl was the closest in age to Alison. She was pretty, Alison would admit, but she was also the most modern. Not only had Nadia managed to learn English—the only sister who had, as even Mona, who lived in Seattle, spoke very little English—but Nadia was friendly and funny and the least judgmental. She probably couldn’t wait to get on a plane and out of Jordan.

  When the meal was over, Alison followed Khalid to the living room. Everyone was there except for Margaret, Jenin, and Mona, who were clearing the table.

  Khalid nudged Alison. “Why don’t you go help?”

  As soon as he said it, the reality of the arrangement became clear—the men relaxed while the women cleaned up. She asked him, “Why don’t you?” and he shot her a wide-eyed look of astonishment, signaling an end to any more discussion on the matter.

  Alison took a deep breath, heaved herself up from the sofa, and went to the kitchen. “Need any help?”

  Margaret, who was wrapping leftovers, gestured to a stack of dirty plates. Alison took her place at the kitchen sink, loading the dishwasher until Khalid appeared in the doorway.

  “We’re going to tarawih prayer,” he said. “You take the car. I’ll meet you at home.”

  Alison dried her hands and went to him. “Babe, you already prayed twice today.”

  “My family always prays tarawih.”

  “I know,” she whispered, “but that doesn’t mean you have to.”

  Khalid’s mother came down the hallway in her thob. Mona put her coat on and began to gather her children. Khalid handed Alison the car keys. “I’ll see you at home.”

  Alison returned to the kitchen, where Margaret, her sleeves rolled up, was scrubbing a greasy pan. Alison nearly yelled, “How can you stand it?”

  Margaret looked up. “Tomorrow we’re eating at Mona’s,” she said, missing the point.

  “I mean, all this work and everyone just leaves.”

  Margaret put the pan in the d
rying rack. “I like having the house to myself.” She slipped some tea glasses in the dishwasher. “This won’t take long. Then I can relax with my coffee.”

  Alison stared at Margaret and wondered how she could be so cheerful with so many dirty pots and pans in front of her.

  “The first day of fasting is the hardest,” Margaret said. “After iftar, it’s like I’ve been let out of prison.” Her use of the word prison struck Alison. Wasn’t Margaret’s life already a prison?

  The next evening, the family iftar was at Mona’s apartment, which was in a complex similar to Pine View. Sixteen family members squeezed into the small space, and the routine repeated itself: dates, soup, prayer, and back to the table for the main course.

  Then all at once, the gathering ended when Khalid tapped his watch. “Tarawih.”

  The next few iftars continued in the same manner, alternating between Margaret’s and Mona’s. Meanwhile, the suhur meals before the crack of dawn got simpler. When Saturday arrived, Alison served a suhur of milk and cold cereal. As they sat at the table, she told Khalid, “I don’t think I’m getting up with you anymore.”

  Khalid clicked his tongue. “It’s depressing getting up alone. It’s sad.”

  “Well, it’s exhausting me and so are all these family iftars.”

  “You get a break tonight.” He explained that Ahmed and Margaret had other plans, and Mona had guests coming to her house.

  Alison felt elated at the thought of an evening free of his family. “I have an idea,” she said. “I’ll make iftar, just you and me.” He agreed and she added a condition. “You have to skip tarawih prayer. Okay?”

  He nodded, and they decided on a menu. That afternoon they drove to the supermarket and slowly walked the aisles together, Alison’s arm hooked inside his elbow as he pushed the cart. It was Sunday, and the outing reminded her of when they were dating.

  Except that Khalid wasn’t entirely himself. He insisted that fasting was easy, a mercy from God. However, just like the Muslim students in Alison’s university classes, Khalid looked drained and pale when fasting and was sometimes slow to respond.

  On the way home, he turned onto Highway 99. Alison still despised its ugly urban sprawl but said nothing about it. Instead she said, “Soon we’ll have a third person with us.”

  “Who?”

  “The baby, dummy.” Clearly, his mind was elsewhere. “It’s going to be a girl for sure.”

  “Inshallah.”

  Alison could hardly imagine this small child, her daughter. “I wonder what she’ll be like.” She fixed her eyes on Khalid’s sturdy hands gripping the steering wheel. When he didn’t respond, she said, “Maybe she’ll be artistic. Or sporty. I was on the track team in high school.”

  “When our daughter is in high school, there’s no way she’s doing that.”

  Alison stared at him. “She will if she wants.”

  “She won’t be wearing shorts for everyone to see her body.”

  “You’re going to keep her from sports because someone might see her legs?”

  “If she wants to do sports, she can go to an all-girls school.”

  “You’re kidding—right?”

  He took his eyes off the road and looked at her. “You know the culture.”

  “Just because I know it doesn’t mean I have to follow it.”

  “It’s about respect,” he said.

  She remained quiet and stared out the window, where gray clouds were forming overhead. Had Khalid changed because of Ramadan, or had he always held these traditional views? Alison looked down at the door handle and envisioned opening it and jumping out. They missed a yellow light, and Khalid slammed on the brakes.

  He turned to her. “I hated your wedding dress. The sleeves, they were too small.”

  Alison stiffened. The sound of his voice, his accent, which used to be charming, now grated on her ears.

  “And the back,” he said. “It was too low. Everyone saw your back.” The light turned green, and he drove on.

  She said nothing for a while and then simply, “Well, I liked my dress.” Alison wiped away a tear and inhaled. She was aware of her protruding belly, the grocery bags in the back, and the sprinkle of rain outside. They passed a casino and a pawnshop. Why did he have to come this awful way?

  At the next intersection, he screeched to a stop again and she lurched forward. It seemed he was getting his frustrations out by way of the car brake. So childish!

  Without warning, she opened the door and bolted from the car. “I’m walking home!” She slammed the door, then hurried to the side of the road without looking back. The cool October air was energizing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw their car creep next to her.

  Khalid unrolled the window. “Get in the car!”

  Alison put her head down and walked quickly. He followed her for another moment and then yelled, “You’re crazy!” and finally drove on.

  Walking briskly, she breathed in the misty air and looked at the road ahead, realizing it would take at least an hour to walk home. She passed a tattoo parlor and another casino. She touched her belly. Now in her seventh month, she was still fit and could keep a quick pace. At the next intersection she turned right, and the landscape shifted to strip malls.

  Thirty minutes passed, and the mist turned to sprinkles. Khalid still hadn’t come back for her. What would he say about her jumping out of the car and walking home? Alison pushed on. Forty minutes of walking, and she wasn’t even tired. She could walk across Seattle. She could do anything she set her mind to. And so could her daughter. That’s what Alison would teach her.

  The rain was falling harder. She thought of Khalid and how he had never missed an iftar with his family. It occurred to her as she twisted the gold band on her swollen finger that his big fear was offending someone, but he didn’t mind offending her. He didn’t mind storming out of the apartment and leaving her alone. He didn’t mind letting her walk home on the roadside, in the rain for more than an hour. Why hadn’t Khalid come for her? Didn’t he love her?

  All at once, an Arabic word popped in her mind—waheeda. Lonely. They hardly spoke Arabic anymore. She missed its syntax, so orderly and predictable. She tried to summon up other Arabic vocabulary: anger, sadness, and worry, but her mind couldn’t recall any of those words. Somewhere she had lost her reference.

  Just a few more turns, she thought, and she would reach the Pine View sign, then their white apartment, the kilim on the wall, her books on the shelf, and the Arab-style teapot on the stove. By then, the wind had picked up and the rain was coming down hard, pelting her like hail. She picked up her pace, and when she saw the sign, she jogged.

  By the time she got to the stairs, she was soaked through. Then fatigue hit her. Each step was shaky, her legs heavy. What made her think she could walk so far? She got to the door of their apartment and caught her breath. Inside, she stepped quietly into the bedroom where Khalid was in a deep sleep. Maybe he hadn’t known about the rain.

  Silently, she changed her clothing and dried off. In the kitchen, the bags of groceries had been left on the counter. After she put them away, she wrapped herself in a blanket and sat on the sofa. Soon she would have to cook.

  A few hours later, it was iftar. Alison sat at the table across from Khalid and watched him consume his soup. She had cooked for more than an hour, carefully set the table, and arranged the dates in a crystal bowl that had been a wedding gift.

  Khalid finished his soup and looked up. “Where’s the rest of it?”

  “Aren’t you going to pray?” She tilted her head to where he prayed fajr each morning.

  He shook his head. Alison got up, cleared his soup bowl, and went to the kitchen. With care, she placed the dishes on the table: rice pilaf, an Arab salad, tiny stuffed eggplants, and a pan of baked chicken legs rubbed with lemon and sumac.

  He heaped his plate. His fork sat untouched as he took large bites with his soup spoon.

  Alison broke the silence. “So, how is it?”

&n
bsp; “Good.” He didn’t look up. “It’s our turn to do iftar.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The exasperated expression on his face showed how dumb her question was. “You think we can eat at everyone’s house without them coming to ours?”

  “We can’t fit everyone here.”

  “Yes, we can.”

  “I can’t cook for that many people.”

  “I’ll help you,” he said. “I told them tomorrow’s the best day.”

  “Tomorrow? Why didn’t you talk to me?”

  “You weren’t here,” he said slowly. “I didn’t know where you were.” He took a bite from his spoon, and she looked away. Why couldn’t he eat with a fork like a normal person?

  “I was walking home,” she said, “in the rain.”

  “A crazy thing to do.”

  “No more crazy than you leaving every time you’re angry.”

  His jaw tightened, and he said nothing. Later, as they were drinking tea in the living room, she wanted to say something to make amends, but couldn’t bring herself to speak.

  He glanced at his watch. “Tarawih is soon.”

  “You said you weren’t going tonight.”

  “Sorry, but I need to go.” He got up and reached for his coat.

  “Wait.” She touched his sleeve. “What are we cooking tomorrow?”

  His face softened. “We’ll talk when I get back.”

  After Alison watched him go out the door, she got up to take care of the dishes. She didn’t break any this time. Instead, she channeled her resentment into clearing, rinsing, and washing. When the dishes were done and countertops wiped down, the phone rang.

  “Hi, sweetheart.” It was her mother.

  “Hi, Mom.” Alison’s eyes welled up with tears.

  “Do you have time to chat?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “Sweetheart, I can tell something’s wrong.”

  Alison swallowed and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “What’s wrong?” her mother asked.