Hiding Out

by Tina Alexis Allen

  “‘The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.’”

  Eyes wet, he takes my hand and kisses it.

  “You’ll love the desert, too.”

  Dad’s in charge of everything when we travel—even holding my passport and itinerary. Eventually, he’ll have to hand them over when we part ways, but for now, I’m very happy to let him be my tour guide. After landing at Queen Alia Airport, Dad marches us through customs as if he’s on speed. I’m half asleep, dragging my bags behind me. One of Dad’s many travel edicts is never pack your jewelry in your suitcase and always have a change of clothes with you in case they lose your luggage. Dad presents our passports, and I search my bag for my sunglasses. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Dad removing a red handkerchief, like the one I saw him put away at Dulles Airport. As if he wants the customs officer to notice, he dangles it and then places it back inside his sport coat. And as if it were a magic trick, without opening any of our bags, the customs officers whisk us through, giving Dad a familiar nod. In return, Dad offers a playful salute as he marches away, carrying his bag and briefcase. Was that some kind of code? I’ve never given Dad’s frequent trips to Jordan much thought until now. Why Amman? From the contents of Dad’s annual brochure, Jordan isn’t a popular destination like Rome or Jerusalem.

  We find our driver smoking a cigarette in the main terminal, holding a sign with our names on it.

  “Good morning!” Dad puts his bag down and extends a hand, introducing himself. “Sir John.”

  “Welcome to Jordan, Sir John. My name is Sahib.”

  His shirt is mostly unbuttoned, revealing a thick gold chain hanging against his chest, black hair sprouting like pea shoots on his mocha skin. His tight flared pants and leather sandals seem to be a popular look with the guys in the airport. Sahib takes my luggage—Dad never traveling with more than a carry-on—and we begin our twenty-minute ride into Amman.

  I take off my beige linen jacket—wrinkled as a lizard—and catch the driver’s brown eyes glancing at me through the rearview mirror. I’m too jet-lagged to flirt or give him attitude. Instead, I stick my face out the back window as Dad snoozes next to me. Strange lands are probably old hat to him, but my senses are in overdrive. Odd music cries out from the car radio; a voice whining over a steady jangling, as if someone’s banging pots and pans. The air, dry as a sauna, smells new, more complicated than Europe. Even through my Ray-Bans, the sun is blinding white. There’s not a tree in sight, just endless waves of sand. It’s swimming weather, but I purposely didn’t ask Dad if our hotel has a pool. Those kinds of questions make him snap, usually labeling the asker “selfish” or “entitled.”

  Arriving at our hotel, I step out of the backseat and immediately hear a girl’s voice: “Tina!”

  Precious, my secret high school girlfriend before Nic, and her Jordanian girlfriend, Noor, rush the car. Precious, a statuesque beauty, hugs me, squeezing the way one does when they are still in love with you. A few extra seconds in an embrace can tell a whole story. Noor gives me a tomboy’s backslap.

  “How was your trip?” Noor asks, her highly educated Jordanian accent so proper, she could almost pass for British.

  “Long, but I just watched movies and listened to my Walkman.”

  “Don’t let her fool you. She slept and then slept some more after quite a few vodka tonics,” Dad teases. “Now, who do we have here?”

  He eyes Noor the way he eyes busboys. Maybe he thinks she’s a young man. I wonder if her masculine Arab features remind him of his long-lost Omar.

  “Dad, this is Noor and Precious—you remember, Precious and I went to Immaculata together.”

  “Of course,” he says, distracted, turning back to Noor. “Now, are you Jordanian, my dear?”

  “Yes, sir, my family name is Kawar. I attend Georgetown University with Precious.”

  “Kawar. That’s familiar.”

  “My grandfather opened the first hospital in Jordan.”

  Braggart.

  “Wonderful. If I catch a fever, I’ll know who to call! Shall we find the bar, ladies?”

  He grabs all the bags, still holding his briefcase, and strides toward the entrance in search of a porter. Dad’s energy has rebounded after his catnap. As we follow our leader inside, I do my best to dismiss my nerves and embarrassment over my father’s wanting to socialize with my friends.

  “We’ll just have one drink with him, okay?”

  * * *

  Hours later, we sit under the black sky, stars flickering along with my buzz after three rounds of drinks. Dad and Noor have exhausted the topic of Israeli-Palestinian relations. Thankfully, they are on the same side of the conflict. The Arabs’ side.

  I’ve seen Dad’s political conversations turn ugly and mean if someone supports the “bloody Jews” or “their bloody occupation.”

  “We should get going,” I announce.

  Dad slowly licks his lips, eyes rolling toward me in slow motion. He’s bombed, as usual.

  “Slowly . . . slowly, Christine. There’s no rush,” he slurs.

  “Noor and Precious told some friends we were going to meet them for dinner, so we should go and let you relax.”

  “Relax?”

  I stuff my swollen feet back into my heels, ignoring his edgy tone. His sad droopy face stares at mine. I play light in front of my friends—not wanting things to become any more uncomfortable. Like a highly trained surgeon removing a bullet, it takes great skill to excuse oneself once Dad crosses into the land of incoherence. I’ve been handling him since I was a small child, taking his mood temperature. When he would pass out in the driveway late at night—engine running, convertible top down, a Gregorian chant blasting—Mom would say, “Someone needs to go wake him. We don’t want to disturb the neighbors.” And like a fierce brave warrior, I would attach armor over my fear and go gently shake the crusader, without setting off a war. Mom must feel she’s part of a threesome: Dad, her, and booze.

  “Do you guys want to go get the car while I run up to my room quickly?” I suggest to Precious and Noor.

  “‘You guys’? I only see one ‘guy’ at this table.”

  Precious and Noor gather their things.

  “Thank you so much. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Worthington.”

  Noor extends her hand.

  Dad leans in, kissing her on both cheeks, nearly falling over. My stomach twists with shame and anger at him for getting so drunk. For behaving in an oddly seductive way toward Noor. He would sometimes do that with Nic, too. Of course we ignored it. But maybe there’s something to it—Noor and Nic both with their dark features, short hair. Who the hell knows, maybe Dad does find them attractive? It’s just another thing I don’t want to think about.

  “Good night, Mr. Worthington,” Precious says as they walk away.

  In silence, I gather my jacket and feel Dad’s drunken stare.

  “Dad, you should get some rest, go to your room.”

  “Go on. Your friends are waiting,” he says with deep hurt in his voice. “I didn’t realize you had friends in Jordan.”

  “I told you on the plane. I didn’t know they were going to meet me here. But I can’t be rude . . .” Defensiveness and guilt pour out of me.

  “Not to worry, I know you prefer not to have your old man around. That’s fine.”

  He looks at me like I’m breaking up with him. A frustrated sigh slips out of me, as if the kid I’m babysitting won’t eat his applesauce.

  “There’s someone they want me to meet,” I lie, knowing full well I don’t want Dad coming with us and making a bigger fool of himself.

  “‘You are sixteen, going on seventeen, fellows will fall in line . . .’” he sings, voice cracking, losing notes in his throat.

  I soften, too. He reaches for his blazer on the back of the chair, clumsily. After a few tries, he finally gets his hand inside his breast pocket and pulls out his wallet and my blue passport. A second passport slips out along with
his mouth spray. I reach under the table to retrieve it. It’s different from mine. Darker, maybe black.

  “Leave it!” he insists.

  He puts his foot on the passport, masking what I’m pretty sure reads jordan.

  “No need to get dinars, everyone takes the dollar,” he explains as he hands me the usual hundred-dollar bill from the thick wad in his wallet. I lean over, and we kiss on the mouth.

  “I love you, Dad.”

  He puts his thumb on my forehead and makes the sign of the cross, blessing me. “In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti, amen.”

  Dad would have made a great priest. His passion for ritual and prayer—so ingrained in him—is heightened when he’s drunk. But so is his gut-wrenching sadness.

  “I’m the loneliest man in the world,” he stammers, reaching for his wineglass like a blind man. “Someday I must write the book.”

  * * *

  After a night of dancing at an Amman disco—where the cool Jordanians hang out, supposedly—I roll into the empty hotel lobby at nearly 5 a.m. I stumble toward the front desk, in desperate need of aspirin and food—too wired to sleep. The employee, a twenty-something Arab, smiles, discreetly glancing over my creased sundress.

  “May I help you?”

  “Can you tell me what room Mr. John Worthington is in . . . please?”

  The night’s festivities put my head in a fog. I can’t remember the rooms my father and I checked into yesterday. Only that mine is across from his and I have no idea where my key went missing. I’m too embarrassed to admit it.

  He smiles in recognition.

  “Sir John? He is staying with us. Would you like me to call him?”

  “I’m his daughter. I just need his room number.”

  “Very good. I will be happy to call him.”

  “Can you just tell me the room number?” I snap, more harshly than I’d intended.

  The man flinches at my tone, but politely dials. I don’t like it when people don’t realize I’m important, too. I turn my back to him, leaning up against the front desk, looking around the barren lobby. A few travelers sit on an upholstered bench with their luggage piled in front of them. The cool marble feels good against my back. My stomach gurgles with hunger pains.

  “I’m sorry, Sir John’s not answering.”

  I walk off, irritated with him, and head over to the restaurant, hoping for some breakfast. As I settle into a table too big for one, I see Dad rushing out the front door of the hotel, carrying a briefcase, dressed in his usual suit and tie. A blue glow illuminates the parking lot, the sun threatening to rise. I start to go after him, but seeing two Middle Eastern men greet him, I decide to watch instead. They exchange professional handshakes and nods. I can’t tell if they’ve met before, and their faces are mostly blocked by a large pillar. After a few minutes, Dad passes the briefcase to one of the men, who walks away briskly, now out of my sight. Is that Hassan from the University Club parking lot? Dad and the other man continue their conversation. After a few moments, they walk toward a waiting dark car, light rising in the distance. A driver gets out and opens the shiny back door for Dad, who slips into the backseat, while the Middle Eastern man gets into the front passenger seat. The back window opens and Dad’s arm appears, resting on the door, as the expensive car rolls away.

  My stomach begs for some food to absorb my all-nighter. I can’t help but wonder how on earth Dad is able to appear so pulled together, after I left him hours ago slurring his words, still drinking. How does he function? As a family, we’ve done our best to cover for him in public, Mom making excuses, my older siblings having concerned and loving one-on-one conversations with him about his drinking—only for him to blow up, storm out, and give them the silent treatment for weeks. But what about the Vatican? What about Archbishop Magni? Does Dad control his drinking around him? As far as I can tell he’s never had a stopping point, drinking until he’s nearly passed out, eyes rolling back as if he’s possessed. I’m worried that one day he might wake up from a drunken slumber facedown in St. Peter’s Square.

  * * *

  Out my twenty-first-floor hotel windows, the Nile is as lightless as onyx. After a few days in Cairo, if I had to describe the mood in two words, I’d say sexy and black—the eyes of my private driver and the luxury sedan he picks me up in, the lobby of my hotel, the bellman’s uniform, and this placid river below me. Very sexy. Very black.

  The rush in my throat has been charging nearly nonstop since the Middle Eastern pilot advised us to fasten our seat belts for landing in Cairo. The adventure of being in such an exotic place—having my own room in this five-star American-style hotel all alone—feels tantalizing and mysterious. I love it. I want more. Dad warned me that the summer temperatures in Cairo are a good fifteen degrees hotter than home, but desert air doesn’t drain me the way Chevy Chase humidity does.

  Slipping on my best black dress and open-toe high heels, I ride the glass elevator to the top floor of the hotel, which opens onto a glitzy circular bar buzzing with mostly men with dark-caramel skin, sipping cocktails, engaged in passionate conversation, hands active in the air. I slide onto a tall leather chair at the bar. If not for the harsh clip of Arabic and the piped-in music—a mix of clanging and humming—I could be among the University Club set. A man of about sixty, sitting one seat over, smiles, lifting his drink to me. I smile back and order a vodka tonic. The view behind the bar is breathtaking, overlooking all of Cairo—the Nile River stretching as far as the eye can see.

  “Put on mine, please,” the older man tells the bartender, pointing to my glass.

  “Thank you, sir,” I say.

  “I’m Ahmed,” he announces.

  “Tina. Nice to meet you.” I offer my hand.

  His kind eyes and soft speech put me at ease. The bartender, Rashid, joins our conversation. I’m eager for everything they can tell me about Egypt and the Middle East. I learn Ahmed is from Oman, here frequently on business, and the playful Rashid is studying law, bartending to pay for school. Rashid’s dreams are all about going to America, while I’m hungry to know what I should expect on my Nile cruise. I’m thrilled for tomorrow, when I’ll fly to Aswan to board the small ship that will sail me down the river to Luxor.

  I tell them about my day of sightseeing with the driver and my own tour guide—a smart Egyptian woman, Fatima. While I scaled the steep ladder inside the Great Pyramid of Giza; rode a camel; happily exchanged my dollars for Egyptian pounds near the Sphinx, where Dad told me I would get the best rate—“They are hungry for dollars in Egypt”—Fatima waited patiently, beautiful silk scarf covering her head.

  Ahmed announces he must retire for the night, but I stay until closing with Rashid, who offers to take me to a nightclub nearby. We dance for a while to mostly old disco music, then lose each other in the crowd, stumbling back together later in the night. Drunk and sweaty from nonstop dancing, I am happy he takes me back to the hotel with no expectations, no detours. It’s nearly 4 a.m., and the only thing I feel like lying on is my Egyptian cotton sheets.

  As I pass by the front desk, doing my best to keep to the semblance of a straight line, the hotel worker calls from behind the front desk, “Miss Worthington?”

  I immediately feel guilty—the muscle memory of bad behavior and secrets. What did I do now?

  “Yes?” I ask, avoiding his eyes.

  “There was a man here to see you, a friend of your father’s,” he announces.

  I immediately run through Dad’s list of who I was scheduled to meet and when. I know I’m going to be seeing one of the brothers who runs Happy Tours here in Cairo—Dad’s Middle East agent. But that’s after I return from the Nile cruise. Another brother from Happy’s runs the ship, and I’ll be meeting him tomorrow when I arrive in Aswan. But who could have come here to the hotel?

  “A friend of my father’s?”

  “Yes, he waited for a while in the lobby.”

  “I think it was a mistake,” I assure him.

  “No, he came t
o take you to the airport,” he explains.

  The clock behind the desk reads 4:10 a.m., and I know there’s been a mistake.

  “My driver said they’d be picking me up this afternoon, but thank you,” I mumble sleepily, and drag myself up to my room.

  Too tired for makeup removal, I strip off my dress and climb under the clean-smelling sheets. Lying in bed, I consider the odd airport pickup. Baffled, I recall my driver’s exact words when he dropped me off after our sightseeing today.

  “I’ll be picking you up at three thirty tomorrow for your flight to Aswan. Get some sleep,” he said.

  No way he could have meant a.m. I lie in bed, praying to go to sleep and forget how strange all of this seems. I cling to the impossibility of a middle-of-the-night pickup with all my might, till finally the looming slim chance that I’m wrong, and Dad’s wrath if I miss the Nile cruise, scares me into picking up the phone.

  “Front desk.”

  “Hi, this is Tina Worthington in 2120.”

  “Yes, Miss Worthington.”

  “The man who came to pick me up—could it be possible he would get me that early for a flight to Aswan today?” I ask incredulously.

  “Certainly, ma’am. Our airport is very busy and one must arrive many hours before the flight in order to get a seat,” he explains.

  “So, that’s normal? Three thirty in the morning? You think that guy was definitely for me?”

  “I’m quite sure, ma’am.” He sounds confident.

  I hang up. Bone tired, I stay in bed, cataloging possible lame-ass excuses I can give Dad for missing the cruise—the whole reason I wanted to come to Egypt. I’m fucking dead in the water. Then, all at once, I’m called to action, kicking off the covers and bouncing out of bed, grabbing the phone.

  “Front desk.”

  “Hi, it’s me again. Do you think I can still make the flight if I leave soon?”

  “The flight to Aswan leaves at eight, so I’m not sure.”

  Like all those times with women, and men, and basketball, when I refused to take no for an answer, I keep pushing.

  “Can you send someone up to my room right now to help me pack, and get me a car to the airport?” I beg.