Three Daughters: A Novel

by Consuelo Saah Baehr

  A man on television had said that beautiful women live in an unreal world where all their wishes are granted and they can’t face reality. What a thing to say! But might it be true? No one had ever wondered if she would turn out well or have a successful life or even if she would be happy. It was taken for granted. She was not only beautiful but also Samir Saleh’s only child. She had learned how to cope with physical hardship and how to conquer fear, but not how to face reality and get what she wanted out of life. It was sad to be beautiful, though no one would believe it. It was an edge that everyone begrudged her yet were eager to have themselves. It was like having an unbelievable skill and being told it was criminal to use it.

  Walking through the outer reaches of Dupont Circle, she came upon more humble territory that turned her mind in a different direction. There were two blocks of identical yellow-brick attached houses that were grimy with years of soot but sat high up to take advantage of breezes and views. They were nicely proportioned, with large front porches and gracefully pitched roofs. Her grandfather Nadeem had seldom passed a structure without mentally purchasing it and making a fix-it list that would bring the building to optimal health. That roof needs rolling or it will leak by spring, he would say. That door isn’t hung properly. Look how it rubs the sill. That whitewash was applied with the wrong tool. As she passed the blocks with the yellow houses, she, too, began to refurbish them mentally. The brick would look better painted white. Replace the concrete walks with brick. Put in planters along the narrow stoops. Install more graceful front doors.

  It kept her absorbed, but when she returned home her will sagged and she saw herself as dangerously foolish. As if her mind were off the track.

  The events of the last four months collapsed in time like a long, vivid dream. Surely she would wake up to see her familiar room and hear their old dog barking and her parents’ soft voices echoing against the tiled walls of the sheik’s cavernous kitchen. Her life had become alien, as if a malevolent eye had searched and—gratuitously—settled on her. But who would listen with sympathy? She was considered a very lucky woman. She was married but she didn’t feel married. She already had a future and it was her own immaturity that kept her searching for a different one.

  Dear Mama,

  I’ve made a terrible mistake and perhaps Paul, too, would be relieved if this marriage could be dissolved by some magic wand, or better yet, had never taken place. I want to work and do something worthwhile. Not this emptiness.

  She never sent such a letter to her mother. She never even wrote down such words, knowing she would tear them up. She never even willingly allowed such a condemning string of sentences to find a place in her thoughts. They were just bizarre random words that popped up out of nowhere. Human nature was unpredictable. Outwardly, life was orderly, but people’s thoughts weren’t orderly. At times they were destructive.

  Dear Mama,

  Paul sent me to buy things for the house, but truthfully I had no idea what to buy. They had quilted covers to put over the toaster and the bread box. What a waste. I bought dish towels and a soap dish and a metal utensil for mashing potatoes. Paul likes them mashed and I’ve learned to make them with butter and milk.

  That sounded much better. That’s what they wanted to hear.

  She wrote regularly to her parents and grandmother and occasionally to Aunt Julia, describing what was unique about Washington. Certain sights lingered—the throngs of laughing young girls in summer dresses pouring out of government buildings, stepping daintily onto buses and trolleys. They seemed so innocent and eager. The wives, on the other hand, were cold and efficient. They took command of their houses and their maids and their children.

  Department stores—one was named Woodward & Lothrop—contained every item one would need in a lifetime. You could buy a nightgown or a bed or a lawn mower—oh, did her mother know what a lawn mower was? Then there was television. It was against her nature to sit in the house during the day and be entertained. She wrote a three-page letter to her grandmother trying to describe Beat the Clock:

  It’s so silly. Imagine two adults crossing a room, each twirling a pie plate at the end of a stick while their ankles are tied together. Oh, and they only have thirty seconds to do it. This is a serious country, but this show is on every night. People love it.

  She could imagine Miriam trying to make sense of such a complicated letter, but she would be pleased that Nijmeh thought she read that well.

  Letters were written back. The rain was plentiful or it was scarce. The crops were lush or skimpy. Horses foaled. Cousins had babies. Diana’s granddaughter married Mr. Saleem’s son and—after the ceremony—Mr. Saleem (remember, he was the plumber) dropped dead. They finally were drawing up plans for a large modern house at the farm. It would be two stories with a mezzanine overlooking the living room. We’ll break ground next year, after the rains. They never mentioned the political troubles, but they didn’t need to. She could read about them in the local papers.

  Delal wasn’t surprised when he came to her house in late July. He had been home two weeks and she had been expecting him, but she hadn’t counted on the emotional punch of seeing him in person, with his rugged face enhanced by the exuberant healthy look of exercise and summer sun. Momentarily she was as tongue-tied as any uncertain girl facing an attractive, self-assured man.

  This was the moment that made her stomach tighten and her blood run too fast. “Are you looking for me?” She said it so pointedly that he had to smile. She sounded unabashedly hopeful.

  “I don’t know. Are you the famous Delal?”

  “I am. The one and only. Come in.” He seemed larger in the room and she looked for a place they could sit down. “Let’s go out in the garden. There’s a bench. You’re so tall . . . I’ll strain my neck looking up at you.” She laughed nervously and led the way out and they both sat down. “Now. What can I do for you? Is it about the newspaper?” She knew it wasn’t about the newspaper. “You didn’t like something I wrote?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Well, if not the paper”—she lifted her shoulders and threw him a puzzled smile—“what?”

  He looked around. “I’m James,” he said slowly and then eased into a smile so enchanting she could do nothing but stare. He flexed his fingers then chose a point fifteen degrees to his left—it happened to be an oleander bush—and stared with unfocused rueful eyes. “Nijmeh never answered my letters. Not once. Not a word until she wrote to tell me she was getting married. I read the letter several times but”—he brought his eyes back to her—“I can’t accept it. I don’t quite believe it. Am I being dense? I want you to spell it out for me.”

  There was such poignancy in his voice that she swallowed hard and looked grave, as if she were trying to explain a death caused by carelessness. “James . . .” she breathed out, “no word from her? I gave her your letters.” She looked away, plucked a leaf off the bush, and smoothed it against her palm. “Nijmeh’s had an unusual upbringing, so you mustn’t judge her too harshly. Emotionally, she’s like a child. She was always told what to do and what to think. She might not have known what she felt.”

  “Is she gone?”

  “Oh, yes. Married and gone.” She lifted her arms to simulate swift flight and watched his face. He was sitting bent over, his arms propped on his thighs. Each time she spoke he lifted his head and gave her a penetrating look. The open collar of his shirt grazed a tendon on his neck and she wanted to run a finger over it. When he looked down again, his hair slid over his forehead.

  “I’m sorry. That’s not what you were hoping to hear.” She waited a decent interval, then slapped her hands down on her knees as if to signal that they needed to clear their minds. “You’re all through with law school?”

  “No. I have a while to go.”

  “Is it your own choice? Or Papa’s?” The tone of her voice invited confessions.

  “Half and half. It’s a good
profession.” She knew he liked it. Hadn’t he said so in his letters?

  “My father wanted me to study law, but I told him I didn’t want to be a trailblazer. A woman lawyer—it’s like waving a red flag at the establishment. I’d rather choose communications, which is definitely the coming thing, and I’ll be right in there. Anyone who stops to figure it out can see that you can influence the ordinary man when he’s relaxed and susceptible. When he’s listening to his radio or television. In England and America, television’s already the big thing and it’s going to be big here, too.” He was recomputing her worth and coming up with a different total every minute she kept talking. Oh, this is a different sort of woman. She’s avant-garde. She’s intelligent. Incisive. Fun.

  She had to leave for work, but she was thinking of ways to keep things going. He probably would be happy to keep on discussing Nijmeh. After all, that’s what had brought him here . . . but she’d give him more time to dwell on Delal before reminding him of his lost love. “I was just about to go to the paper. Care to come along? I have to hand in some copy and then cover a speech at Government House. Come along, if you like.”

  He thought it over. “All right.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “You drive?”

  “I’ve been driving since I was seventeen. Driving is a funny thing. If you’re too smart, you tend to be a bad driver. But I’m smart and a good driver.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said good-naturedly and slid into the bright-red MG with an appreciative whistle.

  “You’ll see,” she said, putting the key in the ignition. “You’ll apologize before the day is over.” When they were seated, she was so overstimulated that she put the car in reverse by mistake and they went backward. “Oops! See. You’ve got me on the defensive but just wait. I’ll surprise you yet.”

  Later that evening she went into her father’s study and sat on the arm of his chair. “Papa, I’ve decided to continue with school. I want to study international law and perhaps combine it with communications.”

  “Delal, you know that’s my heart’s desire for you. I’ll call the dean at the American University in Beirut. You could start in the fall.”

  “I don’t want to go to the American University. I’ve thought about it carefully and the best place for me is Edinburgh. The university there is exactly right for what I want.”

  “But it’s so far and what if it’s too late to apply? Are you sure? Edinburgh? Why not England? I’ll take you myself to look around.”

  “Edinburgh will take me. It’s not too late. I’ve asked for advice from several men at the paper. If you want to make me happy, Papa, send me to Edinburgh.”

  “Of course, habibty. I want to make you happy. Anyway, it’s not so far away. In a plane you can be home in a matter of hours. Will you be able to take care of yourself? Have you thought it out?”

  She slid onto his lap and put her arms around his neck. “You know very well I can take care of myself, and yes, I’ve thought it out. You’ll see I’m right. Edinburgh is the best place for me.”

  36.

  HAS ANYONE HELPED YOU GET YOUR BEAHRENS?

  MY WHAT?

  YOUR BEAHRENS. HAS ANYONE SHOWN YOU AROUND?

  She met Larraine on the floor of Ginny Hargrove’s kitchen. Larraine was down on her knees picking up miniature hot dogs wrapped in dough that were scattered over the polished linoleum. “Help me pick these up,” she drawled. She didn’t bother to look up. “They just sailed off this damn tray.”

  “Sure,” said Star, kneeling down.

  “Ginny’s floor is so clean”—she strung out the word, cuhleen—“you could lap up soup off it.” She curled her tongue down and then up as if she were slurping up liquid. “So what’s the difference, right?” She wasn’t asking for reassurance. She was merely sharing information.

  “They look fine,” said Star. Ginny’s house (and yard) was as scrubbed as an operating room and she could not get herself to lounge back and deflate the cushions. Paul, to her surprise, was very much at home. He sank right into the Hargroves’ damask Lawson sofa, punched down a throw pillow to stick behind his back, and asked for a Scotch on the rocks.

  “You drink and joke around. It’s just fun. They’re nice people,” he had explained when the invitation came. “I’ve played golf with Sterling and the guys and enjoyed myself, but I could have as good a time with three other doctors. Friendship is superficial here. The bonds don’t last forever. They’re nice people, though. It makes life at the hospital more pleasant.”

  She couldn’t think of Ginny Hargrove as nice. Efficient, well groomed, capable, and remote was more like it. The house, however, was charming. Nasturtiums at the mailbox in a wooden tub, a gravel driveway cushioned with small white stones. To the right were a swing set, slide, sandbox, and wading pool. To the left was a toolshed with a mansard roof and a rooster weather vane. Straight ahead was a lovely gray clapboard house with white shutters and a slate-blue door. Ginny greeted them wearing a long gingham skirt, a sleeveless shell that buttoned up the back, and white ballerina slippers. Her hair was bobbed, with pixie spikes coming down the forehead. Her hands were long and slim and her nails polished. “Hello. Welcome.” Then there was a shift in expression but Star was used to that. Women reacted to her looks, so she wasn’t surprised when Ginny Hargrove gushed that she was really happy to have them while at the same time her mouth turned down with disappointment.

  “What a lovely home you have,” said Star. The mouth stayed down. “The flowers, the shutters—everything.”

  “Well, aren’t you nice.”

  “I think that does it,” said Larraine and stood up. She was a woman in her late twenties, only five foot two but with a wiry frame and thick curly hair that boosted her height. Owlish tortoiseshell glasses covered half of her face but she still squinted. She squinted down at the tray. “We shouldn’t stuff ourselves with these and then sit down to dinner. Doesn’t make sense.” Star smiled but said nothing. “Want a pig in a blanket?” Larraine offered the tray. (She pronounced it peeugh.)

  “What?”

  “That’s what they call these things.”

  “Oh. No, thanks.”

  “Good girl.”

  Larraine giggled and then Star giggled. When they went back into the living room, Star accepted a drink and it made her giddy. Little slick remarks were passed that would make her glance at Larraine, who would wink back.

  Paul brought over a very tall man with such a boyish freckled face she thought he might be someone’s son, but he was another doctor. “Tom Haywood, this is my wife, Star.”

  Tom sat down next to her. He was grinning (at nothing) and immediately propped a leg on the ebony coffee table. “When Paul said he was going home to get a bride, I hadn’t expected him to come back with you.”

  “Why not?” She was concerned about his leg on the table and wanted to urge him to take it off. She glanced at Larraine, who in turn raised her eyebrows and her shoulders.

  “You know, a girl from the old country. The image is of a plain little thing with a babushka on her head and then that son of a gun—he pulls you out of the hat.”

  Across the room she heard Larraine mutter, “Oh, brother.”

  “Jerusalem is one of the most sophisticated cities in the world,” Star said. “It’s crawling with private schools for its girls . . .” Crawling. That was the word James had used the day he was trying to find her. Any thought of him still hurt. She lost interest in educating Tom Haywood. “What I’m trying to say is that babushkas aren’t so popular these days.”

  Paul returned with two fresh drinks and handed one to her. “Tom, why isn’t your wife here?”

  “She’s in the ninth month and wants to stick close to home. This is our fourth. My wife’s been pregnant for four years but she loves it. Happy as a pig in mud.” Larraine’s drink went down the wrong pipe and she began to ch
oke.

  Ginny rang a little bell to alert everyone that dinner was about to be served. When they gathered at the table, there was an incident that catapulted Star deep into Larraine’s camp. She took the chair next to Paul, but Larraine’s husband, Chuck (orthopedics), edged Paul out and said, “No fair. I’m sitting next to this ravishing creature.”

  Paul laughed. “Guess I’ll have to go after Larraine.”

  “Tough luck,” Chuck answered. There had been a lot of casual ribbing in the group, especially after the second round of drinks. When Jim Brent had patted his midsection and claimed not to need the fifth handful of mixed nuts, his wife had answered, “You sure don’t, Porky.” Afterward she had kissed him and assured him that she loved every chubby ounce.

  Chuck’s voice had a special hardness and no consoling reprieve. Star had assumed Larraine was tough and resilient, but her small angled face looked confused and embarrassed. She blinked behind her glasses. Star wanted to show support, but thought it might make matters worse. Paul looked at her sternly, as if reading her mind, and shook his head.

  The party had begun in early afternoon and it wasn’t quite dark when they reached their house. Paul called his service, took off his shoes, and went to sit in a chair by the window. He asked her to get him a drink, finished it quickly, and asked for a second. When she brought it, he pulled her down on his lap. “Tom Haywood thinks you’re quite a dish,” he said and his hand went under her dress and searched for the elastic on her panties. “He whistled at the memory of your shapely form and asked when I was going to bring you around to the hospital.” He waited for her to respond and, impatient with the tightness of her underpants, grabbed a portion of her buttock. She said nothing. “Were you flirting with him?”