Suddenly, one of the middle aged women, emerged from the circle, took a short half step and dipping her shoulder, swooped on to the rug, her feet, hidden by her long dress, moving in little, almost invisible steps, opening and closing her shawl in front of her face in rhythm to the clapping, a move both flirtatious and modest at the same time. She moved her heavy body gracefully, dancing backwards along the length of the rectangular rug before stepping off onto the wooden floor, slightly out of breath, to the high pitched ululations of the others. She was followed by another woman, who took her long shawl from her shoulders and held it around her rear to emphasize her hip movements as she danced sideways in a seductive way.
The poetess resumed the Buraanbur, chanting how Osman’s family talent for dancing had won the hearts of many young girls, and their children’s children now danced the new American dances and forgot the old ones, but not Osman who remembered everything, respected his parents, was well educated, had a good job, and was handsome with beautiful even white teeth, even though, and at the pause, all the women sang out, he has big ears. They clapped and ululated loudly at the end of the poem, praising the aunt as truly a great poet.
The clapping and music continued. Amina, caught up in the joy and laughter of the party, skipped on to the dance rug, and clapping her arms to the left above her head, slid sideways to the right, her long legs moving sinuously, until she sensed rather than saw the edge of the rug, turned and continued along the width and down the opposite side. She sat down at a table with a few of the younger women.
“My brother-in-law is a little taller than you,” the woman next to her said. “He’s also a good dancer and he doesn’t have large ears.” She smiled and introduced herself as Safia. “Bashir, your brother, knows him and his family.”
“I assume he is unattached,” Amina said playfully.
“Of course. Handsome, too. You will see for yourself. He’ll be here tomorrow night.”
“Well,” Amina replied. “I will just have to dance with him and find out if he is clumsy or not. What is his name?”
“Hassan. He is such a good dancer that his nickname is Kelly. As in Gene Kelly,” Safia said, just in case Amina was unfamiliar with the reference.
“Ahh. Hassan Kelly. That is an elegant name,” Amina cooed. “Maybe we can celebrate St. Patrick’s Day together,” she said, recalling with a twinge of annoyance Mariam’s reprimand at the airport. She wondered what Mariam would say if Amina brought her a father named Kelly.
“I love the old American movies. Especially the musicals. They are so clean and innocent. I can watch them with my daughter Mariam without fear of their corrupting her with sex and violence. “Do you have children?” she asked Safia.
Although she looked a little younger than Amina, she said one of her girls was 14 and the other 11. They talking about the problems of raising girls in what they both agreed was an American environment of loose morals, continuously assaulting their daughters with fashion ads of half naked women and even worse, young models who were barely 16, movies and tv shows, magazines, and musical lyrics that emphasized sex and promiscuity. Some of the other women at the table joined in the discussion, complaining about the pressure on their daughters from their American girlfriends to see movies they deemed inappropriate or invitations to unsupervised sleepovers at which who knew what went on.
By the evening’s end, Amina realized that her problems with Mariam were not unique. None of the mothers, aunts or grandmothers knew, with certainty, where to draw the line. They were all coping with the difficulties of raising children surrounded by American culture, cautious not to provoke teenage rebellion but aware that some things could not be tolerated. And who was she to be so strict with Mariam. She had defied her family, ignored her brother’s advice, married outside the faith and run away to live what most of these women would condemn as an immoral life. Maybe, she thought, she was trying to prevent Mariam from making the same mistake she had by controlling her too much. Once they returned to Virginia, she resolved to have a mother and daughter discussion and try to treat Mariam as a mature young adult. Tomorrow night, at the party, she would dance with Hassan Kelly, and Medina’s cousin from Vancouver with the Mercedes, and the three or four others, whom some of the women had discreetly mentioned to her tonight. She would enjoy herself, turning the tables at the camel auction into her audition of them. She would flirt with all of them and commit to no one. Perhaps, one of them would strike a spark and follow it up with a long distance courtship. But she would be busy. She would have her talk with Bashir, promise him she would start classes this summer and see what Northern Virginia Community College had to offer.
The strange man was back in her room. Helen tried to see him with her good eye. It was difficult because he had stuck colored paper on her wall to the left of the easy chair. Without even asking for permission. It was her room. Her name was on the door. But she had been polite to him even though she didn’t understand what he was saying. “Thank you very much sir,” she had said. “You’re very kind to visit.” Mama had taught her to always be polite. Now he had returned. She thought he came every day, about the same time, late in the afternoon when she was just dozing off, visiting Mama and Lillian.
“Amina will be back in two more days,” Maynard said, peeling the red square of paper he had scotch-taped lightly to the wall. “See, only two squares left.” He pointed at the wall.
“It’s very kind of you to visit me. Thank you very much.” Why was he telling her Amina was coming back. Who had taken her away? There were troubles in the neighborhood. She knew that. But were they going after Muslims too? Was it because they also believed in Abraham and Moses? It was too confusing for her. She would ask Mama tonight.
Today was worse than usual, Maynard thought. Sometimes she was alert. On other days, like today, she had a vacant look and responded as if she hadn’t heard what he said.
“All right, Ms. Plonsker. I’ll see you again tomorrow. Same time, same station.” He leaned down, put his face close to hers, noticing the long white hair curling under her chin. He removed a pair of scissors from the pocket of his uniform, gently held her face, and snipped the hair off. “Ok? Tomorrow.” She nodded.
When Amina returned, he planned on asking her out for coffee, just to talk about Helen’s behavior and condition, of course. Strictly professional. Those were her terms. He accepted them for now. She was driving him crazy with her aloofness. When he went out on dates, he found himself comparing the lady he was with to her. The present company always came up short. He chuckled to himself, because Brenda, his current lady friend barely came up to his shoulder. He started thinking of other ways Brenda compared unfavorably but dropped the idea quickly. No sense spoiling this evening when he would be out with her.
Helen was sitting in Mama’s kitchen. She was no longer a little girl. Her hair was white so it must have been after Vittorio died. But there was no wheelchair so she wasn’t old yet. Admiral Rickover, his silver mane a gossamer halo in the sunlight streaming through the apartment window, sat ramrod straight in his pressed Navy uniform with the gold buttons, sipping tea from one of Mama’s china cups. Senator Ribicoff, wearing a dark grey suit with wide pinstripes, was on the other side of the small oilcloth covered table. He was eating some pastry with powdered sugar, holding it at arms length, and being very careful to keep the white dust off his sleeves. Helen could hear but not see her mother in the living room. She was whispering to Helen to listen carefully. Helen heard her but the Admiral and Senator did not.
“These are very dangerous times,” Senator Ribicoff said in his deep, stentorian voice. “I need your help.”
“We can’t fit all the Jews of New London, let alone Connecticut into my submarine,” Rickover responded.
“You could call up the fleet. Take them all to where they will be safe.”
“What about Amina?” Helen asked the two men. “She’s Moslem but believes in Abraham and Moses.”
“Abraham is my first name,” Senator R
ibicoff said to the Admiral, not looking at Helen.
“Shh. I told you to listen,” Mama whispered again from the other room.
“Where will they be safe?” Rickover asked, looking up. Helen followed his gaze and noticed for the first time, there was a map of Europe on her mother’s kitchen ceiling. The name Poland was in small type next to Germany in large menacing black letters, the German border oozing into Poland.
“No. Not Poland. Not Germany. Nowhere in Europe” she shouted at them.
“Actually, I was thinking of Canada,” the Admiral replied calmly. Helen was surprised he hadn’t yelled at her for interrupting. Everyone knew he had a terrible temper. That’s why they hated him at the Pentagon. A brilliant, short tempered Jew. A short, short-tempered Jew, she added to herself.
“How will you get there?” Senator Ribicoff asked.
“Up the St. Lawrence Seaway, of course. It’s so obvious, our enemies wouldn’t think of it. Besides, I’ll use submarines. It is called the Silent Service for a reason,” he said emphatically and with pride. Rickover stood up. Helen noticed that while his feet had been touching the floor when he had been seated, he had shrunk and now was half the size of the Senator, who was also standing.
“Well. Then it’s settled,” Ribicoff said, bending down to shake the Admiral’s hand.
“Yes. It’s all taken care of,” Rickover responded and the two of them walked through the wall and out of the apartment.
“Wait,” Helen screamed after them. “Wait. What about Amina? You forgot Amina. We have to take her with us. Amina. Ameeenaaa.”
Some one was shaking her. She opened her eyes but didn’t see.
“Poor dear lost soul,” the CNA, said sadly. “She misses Amina so much.”
Chapter Fourteen
Neither of them thought the conversation was going well, but for different reasons. Amina felt she had been clear, in their conversation before the wedding. They would meet at the Home. Instead, Maynard had invited Amina to have coffee with him on a Sunday, away from the Home, to talk about Helen. He had named a small diner, in Alexandria, convenient for her to get to by bus, if she didn’t want him to pick her up. Amina had given one excuse after another, anxious to avoid a confrontation and any semblance of a date. Now, almost two weeks after she had returned, they were in the Staff Room, on a Thursday afternoon, drinking stale coffee in mugs they had to wash before using. His pretense of filling her in on Helen Plonsker’s behavior and physical condition made no sense now. Amina had observed Helen for herself.
Amina wanted to keep their relationship professional, which to her meant a chat at the Home, discussing patients. She also wanted Maynard’s advice on courses to take. Now, she was uneasy about getting him too involved in her future. Yet, she had to admit to herself, she was glad to see him.
“You never told me about the wedding,” Maynard said. “What was it like?”
“I do not see how that is appropriate for us to discuss.”
“Ahh, come on,” he coaxed. “I’m interested.”
Reluctantly at first, and then more enthusiastically, she described the women’s party on Friday and the Western style wedding and dance on Saturday.
“The couple just exchanged vows and rings in front of everyone?” He said incredulously. “There was no priest? No one said ‘I now pronounce you husband and wife’?” He dropped his already deep voice mimicking a preacher.
“No,” she laughed. “The real wedding was the day before. There wouldn’t have been a priest anyway. In Islam they are Imams or Sheikhs.”
“Oh. You mean on Friday. When the bride wasn’t even there?”
“Yes,” she said somewhat defensively. “But, the couple decided they wanted to begin the party with their friends by promising to take each other as husband and wife. They put the rings on their fingers and cut the wedding cake together. The bride fed her husband the first piece, just like at your weddings. It is not Somali but something some Somalis in the United States feel they want to do. It is an addition to our religious and cultural ceremony.”
“Very interesting,” Maynard said, dragging out the word while stroking his goatee in mock seriousness. “So, what kind of wedding would you like?”
“Oh,” she said quickly. “A traditional Somali one of course, followed by a party with dancing. No white wedding dress for me, but exchanging rings is romantic. I like that.” She stopped suddenly and stared into her half empty mug. Why am I talking to him about what type of wedding I would prefer, she thought.
“I told my brother that I will start nursing courses in the fall,” she said, steering the conversation to a safer subject. “Northern Virginia Community College offers a degree for an Associate of Applied Science in Nursing. Upon completion, I can take the State Licensure Exam for an RN.”
“So you’re not going to go for an LPN first?”
“If I have to spend the money and time at school, I may as well become an RN. As you know, Maynard, RNs earn more. And there are better job opportunities.”
“Sounds like you’ve made up your mind. I’m glad. Can you handle the cost and work a full-time job while going to school?”
Amina paused, thinking about how much to tell him. “Cost is the least of the problems. I have saved some money. Bashir, my brother, said he would help, and I would qualify for the lower in-state tuition. It is a total of 69 credits in four consecutive semesters, plus extra charges for textbooks, uniform and other incidentals- almost $9,000.”
She got up to refill her mug and Maynard followed her to the counter. She felt him near her. Even in the sterile staff room setting, he made it feel like a date.
She sat back down at the table, thankful that Maynard remained standing.
“I have two problems that other applicants do not have. I must provide my high school transcript but there are no records. Everything was destroyed in Mogadishu. I cannot even prove I graduated. Worse, the courses are taught on line with only the laboratory skills and clinical practice on campus. I am not very good with a computer. I do not know how well I will do with this ‘distance learning’ process. They also caution that it is very difficult to successfully complete the course if one works more than 20 hours a week and has family responsibilities. Both apply to me.”
“Have you ever heard of a GED?” he asked. She shook her head. “It’s a General Education Diploma. I think you take a test of high school courses and get that instead. I don’t know whether it shows how good you are in each subject, but we can check it out.”
Amina ignored his use of the word we, for the moment. “I have to take English and Math placement tests and a Nursing Pre-Admission Test. I had the highest grades in high school and I am certain I will do well on them. But, do you think I can work full time and do the course work? What did you do?”
Maynard chuckled. “My experience won’t help you. My grades in high school, by the way, were lousy. I hated school but my mom made sure I graduated. Then, I got into some trouble after and joined the Navy, served as a pharmacist’s mate and got my RN under the GI Bill.” He saw she was puzzled. “The US government paid for my education,” he explained. “I didn’t have to work and go to school at the same time. I did some odd jobs, just to have a little extra money.” He didn’t say that he was living with his girlfriend of the time. Living off of her, had been more like it.
He sat down at the table and noticed her staring at his tattooed forearm. He grinned sheepishly. He placed his arm palm up on the table, rolling it from side to side. The snake’s body, coiling around an anchor, its head pointing toward his thick wrist, seemed to move up his arm twitching just below his elbow. “A souvenir from shore leave in Manila. All the guys were getting it done. The younger you were the more elaborate the design.” He shrugged but Amina was both fascinated and horrified. Somali men did not get tattoos. It was a desecration of one’s body. Of Allah’s creation.
“Do you have others elsewhere on your body?” she blurted out. She tried to cover her embarrassment, “I did not
mean it that way.”
“Oh?,” he replied. “How did you mean it?” He waited for several seconds before letting her off the hook.
“No, I don’t. Just this one,” He watched her blush, her eyes downcast, looking at the floor. “So, how many hours you working now?”
“Almost 50. I work every Saturday,” she said quickly, relieved that the conversation had returned to her education.
“It’ll be hard for you to keep that up and do your course work. Even if it is on line. And then you’ll need time off for the lab and clinical work. You’ll have to drop Saturdays. Maybe you should talk to someone here about flex time.”
Amina sighed. “Why would they do that for me?”
“Because you’re the Heroine of the Hebrew Home. A beautiful Muslim woman and a symbol of their tolerance. They don’t want to lose you.”
“You are being nasty,” she said, and then understood, from his grin, he was teasing her.
“They’re good people here,” Maynard said, more seriously. “I’d start with Molly Bernstein. Maybe if you agreed to work as an RN after you were licensed, say for two years, they would cut you some slack on your schedule.”
Amina thought about his idea. She could at least discuss it with Ms. Bernstein and get her reaction. “Should I take a computer course to improve my skills?”
“Those courses are a waste of money,” he said dismissively. “They’re too impersonal and they won’t be tailored to your individual needs. I’d recommend one on one training for the next several months, a few times a week.”
“I suppose you also recommend yourself as the skilled personal instructor,” she said, arching her eyebrows.
Maynard recoiled in mock horror. “Certainly not,” he said with just the proper amount of righteous indignation. “I was thinking of your daughter, Mariam. Kids know so much more than their parents about computers. Although,” he said dragging the word out, “if she’s not available sometime, I’d be happy to substitute teach.”
The Orange Tree Page 27