The Orange Tree

by Martin Ganzglass

  “It’s too bad we couldn’t bring a coffee back for Amina,” Aunt Helen said after they were back in the car. “That doctor is a nice man. Do you think he’s Italian? He served espresso.”

  “No, Aunt Helen. He’s Greek.”

  “Even better,” she said, without explaining what she meant.

  Mitch double parked in the entrance way, got Aunt Helen into the wheelchair and left her in the lobby while he rushed to park the car. He took the chance of leaving her alone hoping she had forgotten about the attempted rape. By the time they were in the elevator, she had remembered.

  “What will I do tonight if they come back?” she said anxiously.

  “I’m going to speak to Molly as soon as I leave you. She’ll make sure it won’t happen again,” he said, helping her out of her coat. “I’ll see you before I leave. Just to say goodbye.” He glanced at his watch. It was a little before 5. He hoped that Molly hadn’t gone home early because of the bad weather. She was on the phone in her office and waved her hand, motioning him to come in. “I’ll just be a minute” she whispered, covering the mouthpiece with her hand. “Don’t worry. It’s not confidential.” He threw his overcoat on the chair and sat down.

  “Tough afternoon to take your aunt to the doctor,” she said sympathetically, after she had hung up. “We’ve had three people on the evening shift call in they can’t make it because of the snow. That’s the problem when our staff lives so far out. They’re reporting five to seven inches north of the city, between Germantown and Frederick. We’re going to be short-handed tonight,” she said holding her forehead as if she had a headache. “I’m going to hang around for a few hours and help out. So, how’d it go?”

  Mitch told her about Dr. Pappas’ exam and Helen’s cataract operation scheduled for next Wednesday. He was more concerned about her mental state. “Today, she seems really out of it. She thinks someone tried to rape her last night. She’s imagining rampant sex in the Home, describes the other women patients as sluts and goes on and on about it.”

  “One of the CNAs, before she went home today, told me your aunt has been acting differently for the past few days. She said she seemed more distracted, less grounded in reality and much angrier toward everyone around her. I asked Amina to pay some extra attention to your aunt. Helen has been confiding in her, so I trust Amina’s judgment.”

  “Thanks for having someone spend more time with my aunt. It was nice of you to do that,” Mitch said. “Is this Ms. Jackson?” he asked.

  “Yes. Did you meet her?”

  “Just briefly, this afternoon on the way out.”

  “Amina suggested that we test your aunt for UTI. Sometimes that affects a patient’s behavior.”

  “What’s that?” Mitch asked.

  “Urinary tract infection,” Molly answered. “It’s true,” she said in response to his skeptical look. “It doesn’t seem logical that something wrong down there could effect her mentally, up here.” She tapped her temple. Mitch wondered whether she had pointed to her crotch hidden behind the desk. “But any infection can make an elderly person, already discombobulated, more mixed up. I’ve put in an order to run a test in the morning. So what did you tell her you were going to do to protect her from being raped tonight?”

  “The only thing that I could think of at the moment. That I would meet with you and you would take care of it. What else could I say?”

  “Well, at least you didn’t argue with her that she was imagining things.”

  “No, I saved that for when she told me the other female residents were selling themselves for extra food and cigarettes.”

  Molly laughed. “It sounds like the plot of a bad movie about women in prison. It’s interesting that she’s so focused on sex and sad that she believes it. We could have the psychiatrist talk with her.”

  “What’s the point,” Mitch said a bit peevishly. “He’s not going to cure her. Maybe we should be seeing her more, or taking her out of here more frequently.”

  “The Home’s psychiatrist is a woman,” Molly corrected him, with a bit of an edge in her voice. “Dr. Rita Spanowsky is very good. It’s just a suggestion,” she added. “Why don’t we both go back and see Helen. Let’s catch her before dinner. I’ll try and reassure her and then we’ll see if she has a UTI. If she does, clearing it up may help.”

  They found Helen in the tv room recounting to Mr. Paul the blizzards she had experienced in New London. “And I always opened my shop. No matter what. So I could be there for my customers.” As they wheeled Aunt Helen away, Mitch didn’t know if the peaceful smile on Mr. Paul’s face, was from relief or his enjoyment of the conversation. In the privacy of Aunt Helen’s room, Molly told her how concerned she was about this “incident.” She would investigate and let her know. In the meantime, she reassured Helen that the Home had taken extra security measures. The night receptionist on duty was a Montgomery County policeman moonlighting at the Home, (which was true, except he had been employed by the Home for the past year), there were security cameras which were monitored throughout the night (also true but the same was true during the day) and she had instituted other measures which she was not at liberty to divulge (not true).

  Aunt Helen thanked Molly for ‘her trouble,’ kissed Mitch and told him what a good nephew he was. Her parting advice was that Mitch and Molly should not leave together because the other women would assume they were having an affair. Mitch felt himself blushing. Molly laughed, winked at him, waved goodbye and sauntered into the hall.

  He sat in the Taurus, letting the defroster melt the snow and ice on the windshield and rear window while he called Ell.

  She sounded stressed when she answered. He told her he would be home soon.

  “Your son is upstairs in lockdown for hitting his sister with an ice ball. He really could have seriously hurt her. You’re going to have to talk to him and you can’t let him off easy this time,” she said, with an accusatory reprimanding tone in her voice.

  “Whoa, whoa. I’m not even home yet.” He sensed from her distraught tone, this was not the time to respond to her accusation that he was not a firm disciplinarian with their son. “I’ll check with you before I do anything with Josh. I promise. I’m on my way.”

  “Drive carefully,” Ell remembered to say before hanging up. Now she would worry about him driving home in the snow. It wasn’t that bad. The main arteries had been plowed and salted at least once. He passed two dump trucks parked on the shoulder. Their orange snow plow blades were at the ready, salt piled high in the bays, their round yellow bug like headlights illuminating the big white flakes falling more thickly now. Maybe the weather forecast was wrong and it was the District and the suburbs that would get five to seven inches. He stayed on Rockville Pike, avoided the shortcut he usually took around Bethesda Naval Hospital and came across on Western instead. His hunch that Western had been salted and plowed was correct. The tricky part was their street, a steep hill ending in a T at their corner. When Marion Barry had been Mayor, the side streets in Ward Three were never salted, let alone plowed. Their Ward, predominantly white, middle class and Democratic, had been overwhelmingly against Barry, even voting Republican to show it. They were repaid for their apostasy by denial of services. The Mayor didn’t cut off their garbage collection. That would have been too obvious. But the snow would stay on their streets until the sun melted it. Sort of the reverse of “until Hell freezes over,” he thought. So far, the new city administration had been better. But this was D.C.’s first major snowstorm of the winter. When he cautiously turned on to their street, he was relieved to see a plow had been through. A low wall of still clean snow was pushed against the parked cars and a line of green salt marked the place where the snowplow had turned around in the driveway to the alley.

  Oliver greeted him in the alcove, wagging his tail and licking at the snow that was quickly melting off his shoes in the warmth of their home.

  “Hi, Mitch, I’m in here,” Ell called, as he hung his overcoat on the hook. He went into th
e kitchen and kissed her hello.

  “Is it getting icy?” she asked, giving him a paper towel to wipe his hair.

  “Not yet. But I’m glad I don’t have to drive any more tonight.”

  “Before you go upstairs let me tell you what Josh did.” She recounted her hectic afternoon. The kids’ school had closed early because of the snow. She had arranged for the mother of one of Amy’s friends to drop Amy and Josh off at the house. She had left work early and walked from Metro in the snow, rushing home because she didn’t want the kids alone any longer than necessary. She had arrived home to find Josh watching tv alone, and Amy walking Oliver because ‘his son’ had refused to do so, even though it was his chore. She had sent him out to catch up with Amy and takeover. Amy had come running back into the house crying hysterically that Josh had hit her with an ice ball and broken her back. She had calmed Amy down and given her a hot shower.

  “Mitch, she has a deep bruise just below her neck. A little bit higher and he would have hit her in the back of her head. He could have killed her. When he came back with Oliver, I was furious with him. He gave me the usual argument that she had started it, said he hated her and hated me for always siding with her. I lost it. I grabbed him by both shoulders and shook him and sent him upstairs. I actually said, ‘Wait until your father comes home.’ My God, I’m beginning to sound like my mother. What are we going to do with him?” Eleanor asked, exasperated, her hands on hips.

  “Well,” Mitch sighed. “This certainly makes Aunt Helen’s claim that she fought off a rapist last night, pale by comparison.”

  “What? Is Helen all right? Who would do such a thing?” Ell gasped, shocked.

  “Ell. Calm down. She imagined it. I’ll tell you about it later,” he said. “Let me go upstairs and change, look in on Amy and deal with Josh. You better slow dinner down a little. This may take awhile.”

  Chapter Eight

  They were in the basement family room. Amina and Mariam, Mohamed and his parents, Jama and Medina. The younger children were upstairs in bed. Medina and Mariam sat on the sofa, Mariam with her legs folded underneath her, leaning against her aunt. Jama was in the middle and Amina sat at the other end, propped up against the sofa arm. Mohamed was by himself, hunched over on an ottoman, opposite his father. The room was furnished in typical Somali-American fashion, a thick, richly patterned rug on top of pale wall to wall carpeting, a long low sofa, stretching the twenty foot length of the entire rear wall with deep seats to allow a person to sit cross-legged, and crenellated upright support cushions, sculpted like a miniature castle parapet. A few large round leather ottomans, with alternating light and dark brown triangular wedges, opposite the sofa substituted for the traditional Somali gumbaars, four legged stools made of cow hide and wood. In front of the sofa was an ornately carved coffee table with a glass top. The silver tray on the table held several flowered cups and saucers, a large sugar bowl and a fresh thermos of Somali tea, flavored with cardamom and cloves. It was after 10 pm and Amina was tired. She could see that Medina was weary too. Mohamed and Mariam were frightened. Only Jama was fresh and serene. She looked at him. He seemed a different person tonight.

  Jama had been a Lieutenant in the Criminal Investigation Division of the Somali National Police Force, before his family had fled Mogadishu. There was a photo of him on the mantel upstairs, looking crisp and efficient in his khaki uniform, his police officer’s hat tucked under his arm, with the large horned kudu emblem on the peak, a silver capped baton in his hand. It had been impossible for him to become a police detective in northern Virginia. So he became an immigrant with no employable skills. He had driven cab for a while, worked as a security guard and night watchman in a few office buildings in Arlington and Alexandria, and finally, a relative had given him a job in a small convenience store, catering to the Somali community. Amina knew he hated the work but appreciated the steady income, meager as it was. He spent his spare time either in the mosque or with his friends, including a few other former Somali policemen, in the neighborhood Starbucks, which had become their American equivalent of the Somali tea shop.

  Tonight however, he was a changed man, analytical, confident, patient and indefatigable. He had shed his persona as store clerk and become Lieutenant Jama Hussein of the CID. This time, unlike his work in Somalia, he was questioning his son.

  Amina had come home around 6 pm, to find the normally happy bustling household solemn and subdued. Medina would not say what had happened other than that Mohamed was in trouble with the police. Mohamed had been driving one of his friends and Mariam home from school when he had been stopped by a police officer. He had come home shaken and angry. Medina had called her husband who had rushed home and questioned first Mohamed and then Mariam separately. They had all eaten dinner in silence. After evening prayers Jama had questioned Mohamed alone again. When it was Mariam’s turn, Amina had insisted on sitting in and Jama had agreed but only on the condition that she not speak to either Medina or Mohamed about what questions he asked or what answers Mariam gave.

  Now, Amina sat and waited. Jama held the red criminal summons from the Alexandria Police in his hand and studied it. Mohamed shifted nervously on the cushion. At seventeen, he looked a lot like his father, the same short solid build and angular face. He had a neat ribbon of a thin beard outlining his jaw and chin, and a thick head of hair, cut square across the back of his neck and closely trimmed across his forehead. He was too young to have either his father’s poise and quiet confidence, or his receding hairline.

  “Mohamed,” Jama said. “Tell me again what happened.”

  “Aabbe. I’ve already done that. Why do I have to do it again?” Mohamed said, his tone pleading to be left alone.

  “Because I asked you to,” his father said sharply. He relented, observing his son’s nervous exhaustion. “Sometimes, when a person goes over a story and reviews the scene in the mind, certain facts, previously forgotten are recalled. And this is the first time Mariam has heard your version. Now concentrate. You and Mariam left school. What time was it?”

  “They let us out early because of the snow storm. Around 2:30, right Mariam?”

  “I want you to tell the story,” Jama said sternly. “I already know what Mariam remembers.”

  “Some of the kids’ parents didn’t know school was closing early. My friend John was standing around when Mariam and I came out of the school. He asked if he could get a ride home. He lives not too far from us and the streets weren’t bad yet, so I said sure.”

  “Did he ask you for a ride or did you ask if he needed a ride?”

  Mohamed hesitated, squeezing his eyes closed tightly, as if that made the encounter clearer. “He asked me.”

  “What is John’s last name.”

  “Ryan. I told you that before.”

  “How good a friend of yours is this John Ryan?” Jama asked, ignoring his son’s comment.

  “He’s in a few of my classes. We hang out together after school, sometimes.”

  Jama poured himself another cup of tea, took two heaping spoonfuls of sugar and stirred slowly, watching his son nervously folding and unfolding his hands. Mohamed, avoided his father’s gaze and self consciously put his hands on his knees, which forced him to lean closer toward his father. He quickly changed position, placing his hands under his thighs. He kept his eyes on the brown triangular pattern of the small part of the rug between him and his father’s sandaled feet. Amina felt sorry for her nephew.

  “Go on,” Jama said.

  “I was almost to John’s house, I was going to make a right turn on Seminary Road, when this cop pulled me over. As soon as I saw the flashing lights I stopped.”

  “You have been watching too much American tv, Mohamed,” Jama admonished. “He is a police officer entitled to respect. He’s not a ‘cop.’”

  “He was disrespectful of our faith and of you and mother,” Mohamed replied angrily. “You know that from what I’ve already told you.”

  “Whatever he said or however he acte
d, he is still a police officer.” Jama rebuked him. “Why did he pull you over?”

  “Officer Bloehm,” Mohamed said, emphasizing the title more as a sign of his contempt than respect for the police, “said he thought my left tail light was broken, but then he saw it was just covered by snow. I didn’t know his name until he gave me that,” Mohamed said pointing at the red summons in his father’s hand. “He asked for my license and registration. Then he asked John, who was sitting in the front seat next to me for his id and John gave him his driver’s license. I had the window rolled down to give him this stuff and it was snowing into the car. It was cold and I started shivering. I think the Officer thought I was afraid.”

  “Were you?”

  “Yes, aabe. But I didn’t want to show it.”

  “Did he say anything to Mariam?”

  “No, I don’t think so. No, he didn’t. He looked her over though.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I don’t know. She’s black, I’m black, John’s white. Like he was trying to figure out where she fit in, maybe.”

  Amina looked at Mariam who lowered her eyes.

  “Describe Officer Bloehm to me?”

  “I told you already,” Mohamed said with exasperation in his voice.

  “Tell me again.”

  “There wasn’t much to see because he was wearing a lot of clothing. A brown leather jacket. He had on his hat and leather gloves. He was white, big and beefy like a football player.” Jama was about to interrupt when Mohamed anticipated his question, “I mean American football, aabe, not soccer.”

  “Go on.”