Footsteps

by Umm Zakiyyah

  Obviously disgruntled for being disturbed, Maha said something in Arabic to her mother, upon which Umm Muhammad replied sternly in the language. Maha began preparing tea but hurried back to the television set as she waited for the water to boil.

  Alika and Umm Muhammad talked until the imam came downstairs after Alika had finished her tea and cookies. He greeted them both and asked Alika and his wife to join him downstairs in the basement, where he had a computer desk and couch set up in a make-shift office that doubled as a laundry room, Umm Muhammad had told her once.

  “Now, I want to be direct with you,” Alika’s wali began a few minutes after they sat down, Imam Abdul-Quddus on the rolling computer chair and his wife and Alika on the couch.

  “And, inshaAllaah, when Brother Ali arrives, I’ll tell him the same.” The imam took a deep breath and leaned back, stroking the thickness of his beard as he considered how to say what was on his mind. “I’m going to have to end your correspondence at this point.”

  Alika was taken aback, but she avoided showing it openly and instead kept her gaze down, concentrating on her hands that were folded in her lap. But she could not keep from furrowing her brows as she waited for an explanation.

  “You’ve been corresponding for four months now, and I understand the situation is somewhat,” he paused to think of the appropriate word, “unique. And I know you’re still getting to know each other. But I’m going to have to ask that you stop speaking on the phone.” He exhaled audibly. “And I won’t be arranging anymore meetings here.”

  Alika nodded in compliance, biting her tongue. She wanted to protest. Shouldn’t that be her and the brother’s decision?

  “I’m sure you understand that this proposal will be very difficult on his family. This isn’t exactly their…culture, so to speak.”

  She nodded again.

  “When he arrives, inshaAllaah, I’ll give him this to think about too, but I wanted to mention it to you first because most likely my suggestion will be more foreign to you.”

  She listened.

  “As you know, in Islam, there are strict limits on male and female interaction if they are not relatives. And given the brother’s family, I think you can see how this applies even more in your case.”

  Alika wanted to disagree, but she knew the imam was right. She had thought of the same thing herself. When she learned about the brother’s family, she doubted they could ever marry, or if she wanted to. The whole situation would give new meaning to “culture shock”—for his family and for Alika herself.

  “So my suggestion is that if you both want to go forward with this, use this time to consider doing a written contract. I’m sure Brother Ali is familiar with it.”

  “Writing down what I would want if we marry?” Alika asked, raising her head to look at him momentarily.

  Imam Abdul-Quddus shook his head. “This would be like the nikaah itself.”

  “You mean get married now?”

  “No, I mean consider getting married, at least Islamically. That gives you both time to find the best approach to telling his family and the community about the marriage. This type of written arrangement is common in Egypt although some people incorrectly refer to it as engagement. Once the marriage contract is witnessed by the wali and two witnesses, even if it’s only verbal, the two people are married according to Islam. If the couple agree to postpone living together until they finish school or for any other reason, that is their choice. But they are married, either way.”

  Alika sighed and her gaze fell to the monitor behind her wali.

  “This is what I plan to say to the brother, inshaAllaah, but I need to know if this is something you’re open to.” He rubbed his beard again. “Otherwise, I’ll just have to suggest you stop communication indefinitely until you are. Or perhaps it is time for you to decide if you really want to go through with this.”

  Alika didn’t know what to say. She had taken her wali’s advice and prayed the Istikhaarah prayer when she first learned of the brother’s family, and since then she had prayed the prayer several times after she continued to have doubts. But each time when she had finished praying, she felt at ease and certain this was something that would be good for her, and her soul. And the brother had said he felt the same after praying, and talking to her. Still, she had never envisioned herself in such a complicated situation, and definitely not from this vantage point. As a child, she saw how difficult marriage could be, and she didn’t want marital struggles herself. Of course, as an adult, she now understood they were unavoidable, but she couldn’t help feeling the irony of her predicament.

  “Well,” Imam Abdul-Quddus said with finality, glancing at his watch, “I’ll be meeting with the brother in another hour, inshaAllaah. You’re welcome to stay until he comes if you want to talk one last time before thinking over what I said. But I’ll be meeting with him privately, as I did with you, and you can meet afterwards. But I can’t say what time we’ll be finished.”

  Alika nodded.

  “Nagla,” he said, looking at his wife, “if you don’t mind having lunch with the sister until I’ve finished with Brother Ali.”

  Chapter Six

  With a heavy heart, Ismael Ali walked through the door of his home Monday evening tugging at his necktie to loosen it from his neck. He set his briefcase on the floor of the foyer as he removed his shoes. Sarah had called him on his cellular phone to let him know that she and Maryam Gonzalez were just leaving Faith’s, who was off from work today, and that she should be home soon. Normally, he would be somewhat disappointed to come home to an empty house, or at least if not empty, one without his wife. But he had so much on his mind, he was grateful for the time alone. Besides, he was pleased that his wife was spending time with Sister Maryam. Ismael often worried about the sister since she lost Durrah, her oldest daughter, to a tragic car accident two years ago. Durrah had been like a second daughter to him, and he still remembered his frequent irritation at hearing her and Aminah’s childish giggles or loud laughter coming from Aminah’s room during a sleepover while he was trying to rest. He had seen the many photographs of Durrah—“Dee”—in numerous local newspapers chronicling her beauty pageant crowns and budding singing career in the three years she was in college before she died. Even then he had seen her as a little girl, his daughter’s childhood friend, playing dress-up. Certainly, this was not the Durrah he had known since she was barely five years old. This was not Brother Jamil’s daughter.

  “As-salaamu’alaikum, Abi.”

  Ismael was passing the foot of the steps about to enter the kitchen when he heard the sound of his daughter’s voice. “Wa’alaiku-mus-salaam, pumpkin,” he said as she met his gaze from where she stood at the top of the steps. “How’s everything?”

  “Okay.” She started to come down the stairs. “Ummi said to tell you she’s at Sister Maryam’s.”

  “She told me. Jazaakillaahukhair.”

  Aminah met him in the kitchen. “Is it okay if I e-mail Zaid tonight? I never got to finish my last e-mail.”

  Ismael held the refrigerator door open and looked at his daughter. Her hair was tousled about her head, and she wore a large white T-shirt, most likely his or her brother’s, that hung to her mid-thighs, where a pair of faded navy blue running pants showed themselves and stopped where the elastic ends caused the baggy pants to bunch up and cling to her pale shins. A bleach hole was on one knee, near two other white dots from the same cleanser. Her feet were bare except for the fluorescent pink flip-flops she wore, the pink plastic coming together between her big toes.

  “If you get married,” he said with a smirk, pulling yesterday’s left-overs from the refrigerator and closing the door with an elbow, “promise me you won’t dress like that at home.”

  “Abi,” Aminah whined playfully, but he could tell her mind was not on his joke.

  “Okay, you can e-mail him, but I need to eat first.”

  “Can you just tell me how to log in?”

  Ismael shot his daughter a
disbelieving glance, but she was not looking at him, apparently too shy to make eye contact after her inquiry. She was pulling at her fingernails instead. “Absolutely not.” His tone was mockingly stern, but he knew his daughter knew he was not joking.

  She nodded, indicating that she understood, but Ismael knew she did not. After a moment’s hesitation, as if she wanted to ask something else but decided against it, she slowly made her way out of the kitchen and up the stairs, where he heard her slow footfalls, as if she were still contemplating her inquiry.

  After heating his food in the microwave, Ismael sat down to eat at the kitchen table in wry amusement at the parallels of his and Aminah’s predicament. Partners in crime, he thought dryly. But he couldn’t bring himself to laugh. There was really nothing funny about it. After he talked to Sarah, he imagined her disappointment with his mishandling of Aminah and Zaid’s correspondence would pale in comparison to what he would divulge. He imagined her growing furious at him for keeping this from her. But he had no idea how to be open about something like this.

  He had been turning over in his head the idea of going ahead with marrying Alika and telling his wife later when Imam Abdul-Quddus called to say they needed to talk. Listening to his imam and long-time friend explain his concerns about him and Alika continuing correspondence, he knew this was an answer to his Istikhaarah on how to broach the subject with his wife. He would have to tell her, if only to let her know what he was considering. He had even asked Abdul-Quddus what he suggested regarding informing Sarah, and his friend had told him that he really couldn’t say. It was Ismael’s situation, and there were pros and cons on both sides. Either way, in the initial stages, the cons would seem to heavily outweigh the pros regardless of how he decided to approach it. That was man’s test from Allah regarding plural marriage, and there was really nothing he could do about it. It was natural, the imam had said, to get frustrated and wish women were different, more understanding, in this respect. But Abdul-Quddus cautioned Ismael that the frustration with women, though normal, was unwarranted. Allah had created a jealous nature in the woman just as He had created a polygamous one in the man. If a man was unwilling, or unable, to accept the nature of women, he was not mature enough to act upon his own.

  Ismael wanted to ask what Abdul-Quddus felt about attempting polygamy in today’s society, given America’s open repugnance to the arrangement. As far as Ismael knew, the imam had only one wife, and Ismael wanted to know if this was due to wisdom, or reluctantly accepting what he already had over what he naturally desired. Perhaps it was both.

  There was a part of Ismael that couldn’t help feeling guilty, as if he were betraying his wife in some way. He knew it was his American and Christian background stirring these feelings, but he couldn’t help wondering if part of his guilt was man’s nature. He and Sarah had discussed the topic before, as he imagined all Muslim couples had, but it was only hypothetical at the time, even for him. Then, he had agreed with his wife, that it was something better left alone, especially in America where the matrimony was technically illegal. But he later recalled hearing a Mormon woman say on television that polygamy was not illegal in this country, but possessing more than one marriage license was.

  Ismael remembered pondering her words for a long time after, and it made sense. How could the country regulate a marriage that was not an actual “marriage” to them? Could the US really forbid two people from marrying according to their faith if they never legally claimed marriage or asked for government benefits available to married couples? The country turned a blind eye to men’s countless mistresses, and even romanticized adultery on television and in movies. Talk shows thrived on exploiting the relationships, and some women openly said they expected their men to cheat. With such a social backdrop, did the nation really frown upon a man having multiple partners, or was it God obligating men to do it responsibly and take care of the women that accounted for its repulsion at the mere mention of polygamy?

  As a Christian, the subject of polygamy was non-existent except for the occasional reference to the “backward” Mormons or the historical reference to it in some stories of the Bible. Subconsciously, Ismael had thought of even the prophets’ practice of it as indicative of the lack of civility that plagued people of the past. But upon becoming Muslim, he was forced to accept that it could be practiced in modern times so long as certain conditions were met. At the time, he had thought like most Western Muslims, that it was mainly for times of war when there were countless widows and orphaned children, or for women in “dire” need of men due to being divorced with several children. Never did he think of it as a type of marriage itself, no better or worse than monogamy. He never imagined it should be embarked upon like one embarks upon singular marriage, the marriage of two compatible people willing to love each other for the sake of Allah.

  Sarah would accuse him of hiding things from her again, he already knew. She would think he was pushing her out of his life, devaluing her as a partner and friend, and pursuing whatever he wanted with no care or second thought to what it would mean for her, what she would have to sacrifice in the process. If she only knew how far that was from the truth. She meant so much to him that it terrified him that he might actually lose her if she had any idea what was on his mind, not to mention what was already in motion. He already knew he could not do this without her by his side. Surely, if he had to choose, he would choose his current wife, though he would feel as if he had sacrificed part of himself in the process. But that was just it, he didn’t have to choose, did he? Abdul-Quddus said he did, or at least that he may end up having to.

  Even though it wasn’t guaranteed at this point that he would ever have to choose between Sarah and Alika, the imam reminded him, he did have to choose between living life as he knew it and opening up a world that perhaps Sarah, or he, was unequipped to handle. Abdul-Quddus warned him of the tremendous emotional burden that was upon him if he were to get what he thought he wanted. His financial responsibility would be the least of his worries if both Sarah and Alika were his wives. Men he had advised, and essentially counseled, lived daily in the constant tug-of-war polygamy naturally brought, neither woman feeling as if she were loved wholly or completely because of the mere existence of “the other.”

  Divorce was also a real threat, the imam said, and at the sound of the word itself, Ismael felt his heart recoil at the thought. Ismael could not, would not, divorce his wife.

  But would she divorce him? Abdul-Quddus’s question taunted him, forced him to evaluate himself as a husband, and father. Even if Sarah could see herself without him, could she go through with it when she thought of Sulayman and Aminah looking to them as examples and guidance in their own lives or marriages? No, she would not divorce him. How could she? He would never divorce her. Ever. He loved her more than anything in this world, and he would be lost without her. He would be nothing.

  But how could he make her understand? How could he make her see? Nothing, no one, could change how he felt about her.

  Then why? That would be Sarah’s question. Why the desire to marry someone else if that were true? Why? The question was a senseless one to Ismael because there was no why. He was a man. Allah created him with a polygamous inclination, and there was nothing to explain. A man needed no compelling reason to marry someone else. Of course, a woman wouldn’t understand that. Let alone believe that. So he would have to say something. More children? Desire for feminine company? It was all so trite. What if he told her the closest thing to the truth? That it was because he was so pleased with her, so complete with her, so at peace in their relationship that he wanted the same, even if something only slightly comparable, with someone else.

  She wouldn’t believe him. He already knew that much. But was it worth the try? She would think he didn’t want her anymore. But if that were true, it wouldn’t be polygamy he would be seeking, but a divorce. And he would never want that.

  Divorce.

  Ismael nearly banged his fork onto the plate as he dropp
ed it from his hand in frustration. He couldn’t imagine Sarah without him. Single—available to someone else. He would lose his mind. He could barely stand the thought of another man having the opportunity to marry her, let alone the union coming to fruition.

  He would talk to her. He had to talk to her, convince her. But he was at a loss for what to say.

  He would have to ask Allah. There was really no one else he could turn to at this time.

  The sound of the door opening interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up from the kitchen table to the foyer and saw Sarah coming inside smiling with a bag in her hands.

  “As-salaamu’alaikum,” she said, clearly in good spirits as she removed her shoes.

  Ismael stood and stopped in the doorway to the kitchen and beheld the incredible beauty of his wife, even as he could see only her face and hands. She wore a thin off-white khimaar, which was wrapped about her head, and a charcoal gray abiya. She was laughing at something as she removed the head cover to reveal her flattened hair that was all the more striking because it was hers.

  “Wa’alaiku-mus-salaam wa-rahmatullaah.” He folded his arms and leaned against one side of the entrance, taking in his wife with a smile.

  “You won’t believe what this is.” Sarah handed the bag to him as she took off her abiya to reveal a sleeveless floral summer dress that stopped just below her knees. She hung the garments over the back of a kitchen chair.

  “If it isn’t you, I don’t want it.”

  She laughed.

  “Faith was going to throw this out.” She took the bag from him and set it on the kitchen table before carefully removing a glass vase. “She got it from Egypt. Can you believe it?”

  He walked over to the table and held the heavy glass in his hand, unable to think of a flower holder right then. But he shook his head. “No, I can’t. This is an amazing piece of art.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Sarah walked over to the sink and opened a cabinet above it and removed a glass. She rinsed it then served herself some water from the dispenser on the refrigerator.