His Other Wife

by Umm Zakiyyah

  Aliyah forced laughter as she heard her words rephrased in that manner. “Just so you know,” she said, humor in her tone, “I wasn’t talking about God or religion when I said that.”

  “I know, I know,” Robin said with a grin, waving her hand dismissively. “And I wasn’t thinking about God or religion when you said it either,” she said. “At least not at first.”

  “Well, I’m glad it helped clarify some things for you.” Aliyah lifted the box from her desk, pulled out her chair, and kneeled to put the box on the floor under the desk.

  “My dad is Jewish, and my mom is Methodist,” Robin shared, her voice sounding more relaxed.

  As Aliyah stood, she heard Robin chuckle self-consciously.

  “So I think I’m just more confused now,” Robin said.

  “I’m sure you’ll figure everything out,” Aliyah said, cautious not to say anything that could be construed as proselytizing. Though she was fairly certain that Robin had no intention of accusing her of actively trying to convert her to Islam, Aliyah was aware of how even the most innocent comment could be misunderstood or interpreted as intimidating.

  There was an extended pause. “You converted to Moslem, right?”

  Aliyah paused thoughtfully as she walked around her desk and reached up to remove her coat from a hook secured into the wood of a wall cabinet. “Yes…”

  “What were you before?”

  Aliyah’s lips formed a thin line as she slipped her arms into her coat, weighing the wisdom of responding. “Christian,” she said finally, glancing down as she pushed each button through its hole.

  Robin stood and walked out the door and waited in the hall as Aliyah lifted her handbag from the desk and pulled the straps over her shoulder.

  “I was wondering…” Robin said hesitantly as Aliyah walked toward the door and turned off the lights. “…do you know of anything I can read to learn about the Moslem religion?”

  Aliyah was silent as she pulled the door closed and locked it. The hall was quiet, and it seemed that everyone else had gone home. But she headed toward the stairs, not wanting to chance Robin continuing her line of questions in front of Aliyah’s colleagues in the elevator.

  “What sort of thing do you have in mind?” Aliyah said as Robin fell in step next to her.

  “Anything,” Robin said eagerly. “I mean, anything about the Moslem God and how you guys believe in Him.”

  “Do you like to read?” Aliyah said. “Or are you looking for a small pamphlet or website with quick FAQs?”

  “That’s fine,” Robin said quickly. Clearly, she hadn’t expected the conversation to progress this far.

  “But do you prefer a book?” Aliyah said as she opened the heavy exit door leading to the staircase. “You know, something lengthy you can read over the holidays?”

  “Um…it doesn’t matter,” Robin said, and Aliyah couldn’t tell if this was Robin’s way of politely declining. “But a few books would be nice. I plan to read what I can during the break.”

  Aliyah was quiet as their footfalls fell heavy on the steps. “Do you have your phone with you?” she asked. “Or an iPad?”

  “Yes,” Robin said, quickly opening up her purse and rummaging inside with one hand.

  “Then I’ll use your Notes app to input the names of some books and websites you might find helpful.” College policy strictly forbade interactions between professors and students outside of school, and Aliyah sensed that Robin felt a bit disappointed that Aliyah wasn’t making an exception so that they could exchange numbers. But Robin tapped in the passcode and handed her phone to Aliyah.

  Aliyah slowed her steps as she typed in the information then handed the phone back to Robin as they stepped through the exit door leading to the first floor.

  Aliyah’s phone chimed and vibrated just as Robin thanked her and waved goodbye in the main lobby of the math and science building. Aliyah swiped her badge at the console near the security desk before reaching in her purse and looking at her phone.

  Running late, Jacob’s text said. Just picked up Younus and Thawab. Stuck in traffic.

  ***

  It was nasty outside, Aliyah noticed with a frown, the cold air stinging her face as she pushed open the exit door. A thin layer of freshly fallen snow covered the walkway and the mostly vacant faculty and staff parking lot. In the main street that ran along the front of the college, cars crawled cautiously forward in the foggy late afternoon, headlights glowing bleakly ahead of them and crimson break lights turning on and off intermittently.

  Aliyah tucked her chin toward her chest to protect her face from the cold, and she pushed her hands into the deep pockets of her coat. Her gaze was on the round toe of her low-heel patent leather boots, where snowflakes fell then melted from the warmth of her body heat as she tried to remember when her last menstrual cycle had been. She couldn’t remember whether it was before or after the weekend trip she and Jacob had taken. She was on birth control, so either way, it wasn’t necessarily a cause for alarm.

  Aliyah’s birth control regiment included placebo pills that allowed her body to menstruate according to a 28-day cycle, but it sometimes took a couple of days before she saw the initial spotting. But this week, she hadn’t seen any spotting, and she was five days beyond her normal start date. The prescription she was on currently was different from the one she had used when she was married to Matt, so Aliyah couldn’t be sure whether or not the extended delay was due to the hormonal difference in the pills. When giving her the prescription, her obstetrician-gynecologist had told her not to be alarmed by any variation or abnormalities in her cycle.

  Yet Aliyah had been feeling different for the last couple of weeks, and she couldn’t shake the fear that sat in the pit of her stomach, telling her that she was pregnant. There was no nausea or significant mood changes, and she wasn’t having unusual food cravings. But there was this heavy, dreary feeling that permeated her every morning, making her want to stay in bed. It wasn’t melancholy or dread, but something else. It was like a gnawing sense that the comfortable world she had just settled into was shifting beneath her feet and she didn’t have the capacity to comprehend the change or the wherewithal to face it. So she would lie still reciting adhkaar in soft whispers until the feeling passed.

  In front of her car, Aliyah halted her steps and pulled her handbag in front of her then removed her keys. She thought of Deanna as she pointed the remote toward her car and unlocked it before opening the door and climbing inside. Early that morning before Fajr, Aliyah had awakened from a dream in which she’d seen herself lying asleep next to Jacob only to wake and go to the bathroom and find Deanna in there brushing her teeth. In the dream, Aliyah had felt familiar irritation, as if she wasn’t surprised to find Deanna there. She had been tempted to complain to Jacob but decided against it, knowing he’d just tell her to leave Deanna alone, as she didn’t have a bathroom of her own.

  The air in the car was stiff with cold as she inserted the key into the ignition and turned on the engine. She leaned forward to adjust the heat settings and to activate the window defroster, reflecting on the odd sensation that continued to linger even then, following the dream. It was as if she and Deanna had recently spoken and spent time together and that there was no lurking animosity between them. There was no joy or sadness, just the acceptance of the sober reality of life.

  “She says she’s sorry,” Jacob had told Aliyah a few days after the tense meeting at Benjamin’s house, his tone devoid of emotion as he recited this news with a detached sense of obligation in passing on a message.

  Aliyah’s first instinct had been to ask why Deanna couldn’t simply tell Aliyah herself, until she remembered she had never taken the block off of Deanna’s contact information in her phone and email. But that morning, after praying Fajr, Aliyah had cleared the block, accepting that she and Deanna would have to be in contact since Aliyah was now the stepmother to Deanna’s children.

  The vents blew out cold air as the car lazily heated itself, and Aliy
ah glanced toward the main street, overwhelmed with a sense of dread for the journey home. Sighing, she reached for her handbag and withdrew her phone then connected it to the auxiliary port, knowing she would need something to distract her during the drive. As she scrolled through audio options, her phone chimed and vibrated, the chiming magnified through the car speakers.

  Streets are really bad, Jacob texted. Be careful. Interstate is at a standstill, and the snow keeps coming. I’m near Jamil’s exit, so I’ll wait out rush hour there.

  Is he home? Aliyah texted back.

  Yes, alhamdulillah.

  Aliyah wondered if she should head to Salima’s herself. Then maybe she and Salima could go to Carletta’s together later that night for Muslim Marriage Monologues if the weather had improved and the streets had been cleared. But Aliyah dismissed the idea, however tempting it was. Her apartment was closer to the college than Salima’s house, so if she went anywhere besides home, it should probably be the masjid, which was down the street. But the idea of sitting in the masjid alone filled Aliyah with even more dread than the extended drive home. So she decided to take the long way home, avoiding the interstate altogether.

  ***

  “No, I’m home,” Salima said, smiling into the mobile phone from where she sat cross-legged on the bed in her room, a mus-haf in her lap. “Haroon’s school dismissed the students at noon, so I left work early to pick him up.”

  “Our school let out early too,” Carletta said, “but hardly no students were there anyway.”

  There was a thoughtful pause. “How do you like your new job?” Salima asked. “I know you don’t prefer teaching public school.”

  The extended silence on the other line made Salima realize that something heavy was on Carletta’s mind. She heard Carletta draw in a deep breath and exhale before responding.

  “It’s going fine…” Carletta said tentatively. “But I don’t think I’ll be able to participate in Muslim Marriage Monologues anymore,” she said apologetically.

  “Teaching fulltime is a bit overwhelming, huh?” Salima said, humored admiration in her tone. “I don’t know how you teachers do it. I substituted a few times, and it was the worst job experience of my life.”

  “I’ll have to cancel tonight.” Carletta spoke as if she hadn’t heard anything Salima said. Her tone was firm in resolve, making Salima wonder if she’d offended her friend somehow.

  “Because of the weather?” Salima asked, confusion in her voice.

  There was a thoughtful pause, and Salima sensed that Carletta was trying to find the best way to explain. “I had a meeting with the principal today.”

  Salima drew her eyebrows together, unsure how the statement was related to the Friday night gatherings about marriage.

  “Remember all that fuss the LGBTQ community made about my ‘Relationship Woes Among Judgmental Muslims’ topic at Muslim Marriage Monologues?”

  “Yes…”

  “I have no idea how,” Carletta said, irritation in her voice, “but somehow my new job heard about it and they asked me outright if I was homophobic.”

  “What?”

  “I know,” Carletta said, clearly perturbed.

  “What did you say?”

  She grunted. “I wanted to tell them, not homophobic, Hell-ophobic.”

  Salima burst out laughing. “I have to use that one,” she said as she recovered from laughter.

  “But of course I had to act all prim and proper and dutifully appalled,” Carletta said.

  “But how did they even find out?” Salima said.

  “Who knows?” Carletta said. “This is the internet age, so anything posted on Twitter, Facebook, or some random blog is accessible to anyone with some free time on their hands.”

  “So you think they just randomly googled your name?”

  “That, or someone told them something about me.” She huffed. “Probably both.”

  Salima shook her head in disbelief. “This is crazy…”

  “You’re telling me,” Carletta said in agreement.

  “But is it even legal?” Salima said. “To hold someone accountable for what’s posted online about them? Isn’t that hearsay?”

  “Does it matter?” Carletta said. “Today, most people view it as their patriotic duty to mistreat religious people. We don’t have any rights as far as they’re concerned.”

  “I remember reading about a teacher who lost her job because of something she posted on Instagram,” Salima said.

  “A teacher?” Carletta said. “There are dozens, if not hundreds, of others losing their jobs because of stupid stuff like this.”

  There was a thoughtful pause. “Are you going to fight it?” Salima said.

  “Fight what?” Carletta said. “They didn’t take any action against me. It was just a meeting. I’m still employed.” She grunted before adding, “For now.”

  “Do they know you’re Muslim?” Salima said. Carletta didn’t wear hijab and would often mention that she didn’t feel someone’s religious affiliation should be officially revealed for a job.

  “They do now.” There was a tinge of frustration in her tone.

  “SubhaanAllah.”

  “You can say that again.”

  A thought came to Salima, and she hesitated briefly before putting it into words. “Did you tell them…” she said, intentionally leaving her thoughts unfinished. “…you know?”

  Carletta sighed. “I thought about it,” she said. “But then I figured it’s not fair to me or my husband. Why should I have to tell them my private business just to prove I’m not a bigot?”

  “You think your husband would mind if you told them?”

  There was a brief pause. “I don’t know,” Carletta said reflectively. “But when we talked about it before marriage, it was something we decided to keep between ourselves. It was never an explicit agreement or anything though.”

  “I understand,” Salima said sincerely.

  “Plus I don’t want it to get out,” Carletta said. “Especially amongst the LGBTQ Muslims. They’d try to either recruit me or vilify me.”

  “You think so?” Salima said doubtfully.

  “They don’t like success stories,” Carletta said. “They want everyone to believe that sexuality is an underlying orientation that’s impossible to control. So they’ll try to convince me I’m just denying who I, quote, really am. Or they’ll say I’m lying.” She huffed. “Or that it’s oppressive to ask other people to do what I’m doing.”

  Salima was silent momentarily. “I know it’s not my call,” she said. “But sometimes I wish you would share your story. I think it can help others.”

  “I don’t know…” Carletta said, uncertainty in her tone. “I just hate the whole concept of, quote, coming out.”

  “A’oodhubillah,” Salima said, seeking refuge in God. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “But how else could I do it?” Carletta asked rhetorically. “If I don’t, then they’ll just think I’m one more person who says people can be fixed.” She grunted. “Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer the closet.”

  “I hear you…”

  “Anyway, you can only help someone who wants help,” Carletta said. “Plus, I don’t want sisters giving me the side-eye. I’m just not into making people uncomfortable. Like you said in your poem, there are just some things that are better left untold.”

  “But what if you shared your story anonymously?”

  Carletta chuckled. “I’ve thought of that too. But still, I don’t see the point. Either you want to do what you’re supposed to, or you don’t. I don’t see how hearing my story will change the state of someone’s heart.”

  “But it can’t be easy for the people struggling alone,” Salima said. “And maybe hearing someone else’s story can encourage them.”

  “Is life supposed to be easy?” Carletta said. “I still have my private battles, but they’re nothing like they used to be.”

  Salima closed the Qur’an that was on her lap and set in on the nigh
tstand then shifted her position on the bed. “What helped you the most?”

  Carletta was silent as she considered Salima’s question. “I know this will sound crazy,” she said, slight humor in her tone. “But my parents.”

  “Really?” Salima said, surprised. “I thought you never told them.”

  “I don’t mean directly,” Carletta said. “I mean with how they raised me in the church. They would always say that sex was something sacred that was more about pleasing God than pleasing yourself.”

  “But it’s supposed to be pleasurable to you too.”

  “I agree,” Carletta said. “But the point is, worldly pleasure alone is not really pleasure. There has to be an underlying spiritual and emotional component to it.”

  “Can’t you just tell people that?” Salima said. “Maybe they’ll see it differently.”

  “You’re assuming people want to see it differently,” Carletta said. “Most people want what they want, end of story. I’m not saying they don’t go through a lot of hardships. Because I know they do. I’ve been there,” she said. “I’m just saying they see their struggle against sin as some gift they’re begrudgingly bestowing on God. And when it gets hard, they resent the struggle, and sometimes God Himself. So it’s easier to just change the script than to change yourself.”

  “SubhaanAllah,” Salima said. “That sounds like every sin we don’t want to give up.”

  “It is,” Carletta said matter-of-factly. “People who identify as LGBTQ don’t have a monopoly on personal struggle. But most of them want you to believe they do.”

  Salima was silent as she considered Carletta’s words.

  “They hype up this whole victim status thing,” Carletta said, “because their whole campaign hinges on appealing to people’s emotions instead of appealing to our sense of right and wrong.” She paused then added, “They want everyone to believe our struggle is so different from everyone else’s that right and wrong shouldn’t even apply to us.” She huffed. “And if you treat them the way they say they want to be treated, they label you a homophobe.”