by Kim Barnes
“So you would protect Alireza,” I said, “but let your mother and your sister die.”
“Or my son,” he said simply. “It is against our teachings that Alireza would take his daughter from the milk of her mother’s breast, but he is not an honorable man.”
“And what about you?” I asked. “What kind of man would let Alireza do such a thing?”
Abdullah looked up in a flash of anger. “What do you think would happen if I had denied Alireza his child? Do you think I would be seen as some kind of hero?” The muscles of his face tightened against the anger he didn’t want to show. “Alireza is a powerful man. If I tried to fight him, I would bring punishment down upon my head and upon the heads of my mother and sister.”
I leaned in as close as I dared. “Alireza would have had to shoot me dead before I’d have let him take that baby away.”
“And then you would be dead,” he said, “and he would still take the child. You could be proud of that.” He pulled back into himself. “Your husband is right when he says that we must resist revenge, aggression, and retaliation.”
“He’s always saying stuff like that,” I snorted.
“Martin Luther King said it first,” he said.
“You and Mason and your Martin Luther King,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me what the reverend has to say about the rights of women?” I asked. When he didn’t answer, I snorted and pushed back against the seat, crossed my arms, and propped my knees against the dash as though I meant to stay awhile. I saw his eyes settle on my legs for a moment before cutting away, and felt a twinge of satisfaction until he reached for his tea, drank it in one swallow.
“Thank you,” he said, and handed the empty cup to me.
I hesitated before screwing down the lid, dropping my shoulders. “I just can’t stand it,” I said, my words nearly lost to the sound of the storm, “feeling so helpless. I don’t want to think of myself that way.” I looked at him. “And I don’t want to think of you that way either.”
“To be humble is not to be helpless,” Abdullah said, “but to submit to the will of Allah.”
“I don’t need another sermon on humility,” I said.
“It is life that will teach you what you least want to know,” he said.
“And what if I want to know it all?” I asked.
“Then your life will be long,” he said.
I looked out my window, saw a weak flicker through the sand, the porch light flashing on and off.
“I’ve got to go,” I said.
“Wait,” he said, and reached into his shirt pocket, brought out a small braid of horsehair. “I made this for you.”
I took the fob, running my fingers over the silken strands of Badra’s mane. “It’s beautiful,” I said. “Thank you.”
He flushed, pleased and embarrassed, and I wondered for the first time whether Yash had been wrong, whether Abdullah had come to my door of his own accord. The possibility buzzed in my chest, filled me with a furtive anticipation.
“Do you like chili?” I asked. “I mean Texas chili, no beans, so hot it will burn the hair right off your chest.”
Abdullah stifled a smile. “Yes,” he said, “I like chili.”
“I’ll bring you some,” I said. “Tomorrow for lunch?”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “I will be here.” He started to say something more, then tightened his lips.
“What?” I asked.
He took hold of the steering wheel, lowered his voice. “I am glad for your company,” he said.
I smiled, slipped the fob into my pocket, then dropped my shoulder and opened the door. A choking gust blew up around me, and I leaned into the wind. Yash met me in the entryway, but I ignored his scowl. He was right: the last thing I needed was another man telling me what I could and could not do.
I flopped down on the couch and turned on the television, trying not to think about Abdullah and Nadia and her baby, unable to think about anything else. When Yash came in with his feather duster and began another round of attack against the sand that had become his life’s battle, I looked up.
“You didn’t have to flash the porch light,” I said.
He lifted the crystal ashtray, kept his eyes on his work. “You did not have to take my tea to the Bedouin.”
“He was thirsty,” I said.
“Bosh.” He repositioned the lamp, straightened its shade. “In your perception of him, he can suck honey from the rock, I’m sure.”
I noted the sharp movement of his elbows, the blade of his back turned to me. “You’re mad at me,” I said.
Yash’s movements slowed for a moment and then became more purposeful, the feather duster whipping up a current of air that fluttered the curtains.
“It is inappropriate,” he said, his voice tense.
“That you’re mad?” I said.
When he turned, I saw his mouth drawn down. “Do you think that this is a game, Mrs. Gin? A story from one of your romances?”
The sharpness of his tone sat me up straight. The hurt hit me first and then the anger. Who did he think he was?
“I don’t think you should be talking to me that way,” I said.
Wind rattled the door, pelted the windowpane with sand. He held my eyes for a moment, then dropped his gaze to the floor. “Dinner at six, memsahib,” he said quietly, and turned for the kitchen.
I sat for a long moment, listening to the familiar sounds of his work, smelled the first warm waft of garlic and bay leaf, but I refused to feel bad about any of it. I rose, turned off the television, then stood in the silence of the living room, thinking of Mason somewhere in the middle of the sea, and felt a sharp resentment that he had left me here alone, a houseboy and a Bedouin for company.
I moved to the dining room and waited for Yash to serve me, which he did without comment. I didn’t ask for my water to be refilled but simply expected it, and it was. My dinner plate disappeared, replaced by a caramel custard that I ate with a dainty spoon. As I drank my cup of coffee, I looked toward the swinging doors that separated me from the vibrant utility of the kitchen, then down at the diamond ring. Maybe I’m being cruel, I thought, a coward, or maybe this is just the way it’s supposed to be.
I left the dishes to Yash, sat on the couch with the novel he had found for me at market. He moved quietly into the entry, rested his hand on the doorknob. “Good night, memsahib.”
I lifted my head to the racket of the shamal. “You’re riding your bike?”
“Not riding,” he said. “Pushing.”
I lowered my eyes. “Be careful, then,” I said.
When the door clapped shut against a gust, I shivered in the room’s sudden chill, rose, and turned down the AC. I thought about Nadia, the wind wailing through the seams of the tent, her arms empty.
If I could drive beyond the gates, I thought, or if I had a horse, I would find some way to rescue the baby from Alireza. I considered Carlo, but even if he agreed to drive me out into the desert, what did I expect him to do? Draw his dagger, be the pirate he only pretended to be, some swashbuckling hero from one of the novels I read? Maybe Abdullah was right—maybe it was more about pride than it was about honor, but where did one end and the other begin? No matter how much MLK and Mason and Abdullah and Yash complained about their various inequities, none would ever know what it was like to be a mother whose child had been stolen away.
I worried myself into a headache, finally took a shower, put on my nightgown, went to bed, and waited for the hours to pass. I wasn’t sure what I would say to Mason, but knowing that Ruthie would be home soon brought some comfort. I wondered what she would think about Abdullah waiting outside my door—if, like Yash, she would believe that Mason had stationed him there, or if she would think he was flirting with me. One way or the other, she would tell me to keep Mason guessing. Because I was learning, wasn’t I? How to hide my hand. How to keep myself from folding too soon.
It wasn’t the wind that woke me the next morning but Yash rattling down the ha
llway. I looked to the window, saw the light still muted, the air thick with dust, the gale just beginning to wane.
When I heard Yash’s knock, I pulled myself up in bed. I didn’t look up as he positioned the breakfast tray across my lap but kept myself formal and composed like I thought Scarlett O’Hara might, the mistress of the manor. I flapped open my napkin.
“Has Ruthie called yet?” I asked.
“The lines are down because of the storm,” Yash said. “There is no reception of any kind.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m going to make chili for lunch,” I said.
He didn’t respond but poured the fragrant tea, then straightened, his face perfectly blank. “When you are ready to receive her, Mrs. Fullerton is waiting.”
“Oh, no,” I groaned. “She’s here now?”
“She will wait.”
I sighed, pushed the tray aside. Yash looked away as I pulled on my robe. “She probably wants me to join some club,” I said.
Candy sat prim in her Sunday best, knees together, teacup balanced. She scooted forward when she saw me.
“Oh, Gin, it’s awful,” she said, her eyes brimming. “I’m so sorry.”
I stopped, my knees gone soft in their sockets. “What?” I asked. “What has happened?”
Candy looked from me to Yash. “Doesn’t she know?” When Yash lowered his eyes, she slid back to the sofa, turned her gaze on me. “The plane went down last night in the storm. They found it this morning in the bay.” She folded her fingers as though in prayer. “Forty-two dead, all from Dhahran and Ras Tanura, excepting Ruthie Doucet. They say she got the last open seat out of Rome.” She looked at me and blinked against her tears. “God was calling her home.”
The muscles of my cheeks bunched, but the cry didn’t come, just a hoarse expulsion of air.
“You poor thing.” Candy rose, steered me to the chair, and took the tray of tea from Yash. I numbly accepted the cup she offered, let her tuck the napkin beneath my chin. “As soon as the wind dies down, they’ll bring in the Dive Club. At least they’ll find her,” she said, and pleated her lips. “I passed Lucky on the street, drunk as a skunk. Someone should call security.” She pulled a scarf from her purse and floated it over her hair. “I brought my Irish casserole. Tell Yash it’s already seasoned.”
Yash waited until she was out the door before coming to stand beside me, his voice low and earnest. “I’m so very sorry, memsahib.”
I stared at the window, felt as though my language had left me. “I hate her,” I said, and began to cry. I thought of the people going about their familiar routines, survivors smug in their good fortune—not them this time, but someone else. I knew that if I had gone to Rome with Ruthie, I might have been on that airplane too, but the idea that I had escaped some awful fate brought no comfort. I looked at the photo that Carlo had taken of me and Ruthie and the boy, all of us smiling so openly into the lens, and remembered Ruthie telling me about Lucky’s plane going down, how nothing would ever happen to him. Instead, it had happened to her.
My head felt too heavy for my neck, and I rested it back against the chair, closed my eyes. “I need to find Lucky,” I said as though to myself, “before Candy calls the guards.”
“It may be better for you to rest,” Yash said gently. “Take some tea.”
I rocked my head. “I don’t want to just sit here and cry,” I said. I looked up to see the helplessness on Yash’s face. “I’m okay,” I said, but it was a lie that neither of us believed.
I stood and made my way down the hall to the bathroom, where I washed my face in cold water and changed into my clothes. Yash held his silence as I stepped out the door into the still-gritty air, startling a hedgehog from my path. The compound seemed muted, the only sound the faint bark of a dog let out to howl into the dregs of the storm, the Arab workers sweeping the sidewalks clean. As I walked the few blocks to the recreation center, I checked the vacant side streets and yards for any sign of Lucky, then stopped at the empty pool laced with sand, where a Bedouin boy ran his long-handled sieve through the water, undaunted by the endlessness of his task. It was too early, but I pointed to the theater and asked anyway. “Cinema?”
When he nodded and pointed, said, “Yum Yum Tree,” I stepped to the lobby, cracked the swinging doors, and peered in, the bright screen illuminating the emptiness. As my eyes adjusted, I saw Lucky’s silhouette, dead center, as though he had ciphered his way through the rows. I felt my way through the dark aisle and folded down the seat beside him, but he didn’t look at me, his face flat as putty in the reflected light.
“This is the scene where he goes after the little blonde,” he said, his words thick and cadenced. I smelled his breath ripe with moonshine, saw the pistol rested on his thigh. He tipped his head. “Tommy, back there on the projector, second time he’s played this through. He’ll do that for his old buddy and a riyal.”
“Lucky,” I said.
“Shhhh,” he said, the darkness of his eyes lost in the hollows of his face. We sat in silence for a long moment, listening to the heightened voices, the rollicking music, until he pulled a flask from his pocket and lifted it to the screen. “Sadiqi, my friend.” He took a swallow, clucked his tongue. “When I first came to Arabia, you could buy real Kentucky bourbon right off the street,” he said. “There’s never enough anymore.” He coughed, a quick spasm, lowered his chin to his chest. “J’ai gros coeur. I feel like crying, you know?”
He sat very still, then tilted forward, hunkering in on himself. When I touched his back, he winced as though his skin were bruised. He took a deep breath, lifted his face to the screen, transfixed by the catapulting color, Jack Lemmon’s scarlet smoking jacket, the turquoise sheaths and golden chiffons of the girls.
“Wasn’t but fifteen the first time I pitched off a rig,” he said. “You get used to it. Sand don’t hit no different than dirt.” He rolled his shoulders, leaned back, and closed his eyes as though he had fallen into prayer. “Just a few more years, I’d have had enough money to buy my way right out of this desert, take my Ruthie down to Florida, buy us a place in Sun City.”
I looked at my lap, laced my fingers together, and had a sudden memory of my mother teaching me to make the church and the steeple, all the people folded inside. Lucky opened his eyes, stared blankly at the screen.
“When Brother Bodeen went down,” he said, “I thought I was okay. Figured I’d just lay low for a while, you know? Let things smooth over.” He nodded once. “Only thing I didn’t plan on was Mason McPhee.”
I looked at him through the smoke that rose into the projector’s beam, remembering the bottle passing between us, how I had told him the details of Mason’s crusade, never considering that Lucky might be the wrong person, and felt my stomach knot.
“I told him, ‘McPhee, you’d better leave it alone,’ but that boy never listen, never know when to leave good enough alone.” He grew still, his voice almost wistful. “Then they come, they say, Doucet, this your doing, they say, you got to fix this. They think I’m the one who busted the game.” His breathing became faint, a raspy exhalation. “Then no one would listen to Lucky no more.” He moved his hand over the pistol, and I saw his fingers tighten. He pointed it at the screen, breathed out a little puff of smoke. “Pow,” he said softly. “Pow, pow.” He sat still for a moment, then tucked the gun at his waist, lifted his chin, called out, “Shut her down, Tommy.” When the screen went dark, he pulled himself to a stand.
“Wait,” I said. “Where are you going?”
“Back to the swamp,” he said. “This desert’s got all it’s going to get out of Lucky Doucet. I ain’t got no more to give.” He looked down at me, and rested his hand on my head like a blessing. I felt the rough calluses, the broken knots of his knuckles as he stroked my hair.
“Petite soeur,” he said, his words so quiet I could barely hear them. “Little sister, that’s what she called you.”
“Please, Lucky,” I said. “Tell me what is happening.”
He
held my eyes for a moment, then focused on the wall behind me, nothing there but the faint red glow of the exit sign. “Always doing the right thing,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Never once saw him turn tail and run, not even when them pipes exploded, blew them Arabs sky high.” He moved his head back and forth as though in wonder. “I’m saying, We got to get out of here, but he marches right in, dragging that piece of scrap metal like God’s holy shield, telling me to stay back, stay back.” He paused as though in wonder. “Did he tell you how hot it was?” he asked. “Did he tell you how that fire sucked the air right out of our lungs?”
“No,” I said. “He never told me.”
“I thought we was going to die, sure as hell,” Lucky said, “but he just hunches down, goes right at it, like he’s got some devil to kill. What choice I got but to tuck in there with him, piss running down my leg?” He snorted, then nodded in grave assessment. “He’s a bigger man than I’ll ever be,” he said, and I saw his shoulders rise and fall, the hinges of his jaw loosen as though he were fighting to set loose the words. “Maybe,” he said, and let out a long breath. “Maybe me and the Arabesque got one last race to run.” He let his hand drift from my head, then started up the aisle. I heard the door open, turned to see him looking back at me, but I didn’t have time to ask him anything more before he let the door clap shut. The air conditioner kicked on, and I sat alone in the humming quiet of the theater for a long time, then rose from my seat and walked out into a morning shocked by sun into stillness, the light burning white enough to blind me.
Chapter Fifteen
What can I say that I knew for sure as I walked those few blocks home? Only that Ruthie was dead and that Lucky’s words had filled me with a dark foreboding that I had no way to make sense of, while all around me Abqaiq went on about its daily business. The school bell rang, calling the children to their desks. Soon the noon whistle would blow, the muezzin’s song would fill the air, and we would eat our lunch and take our coffee and imagine our evening meals.