Sometimes It Snows In America

by Marisa Labozzetta

  It was time to stop using condoms and try to have a child, Daniel said. He was eager to fulfill a final promise that Auntie had made to Fatma’s mother. Since Daniel had let Fatma decorate the penny house the way she wanted, she accommodated him. She let his penis dig deep into her while she held her vagina open as far as she could.

  “What in the world are you doing?” Daniel asked when he saw her lying on her back the next morning, her legs in the air.

  “Keeping seeds from slipping out.”

  She drank milk and ate broccoli and soda crackers, even though she hated them, because Daniel’s mother said this would take away the morning sickness. But the bleeding came month after month, until one month it stopped, and her breasts became larger and sore, and she could no longer zipper her pants. Her belly swelled faster than a sail at sea, and it became difficult to sleep at night or even to get out of bed. This was what her sister Ayasha had been desperate to have happen to her? This was supposed to have made marriage worthwhile? But no promise had been made concerning Ayasha’s pregnancy. Carrying a child had not been a gross inconvenience for her, as it was for Fatma; she had been able to keep her son. Fatma, on the other hand, would be forced to give up hers. Because the only way Auntie could get Fatma’s mother to agree to Fatma’s non-Islamic marriage that day they sat in Auntie’s parlor had been to promise that Fatma’s firstborn male would be turned over to the family to be raised Muslim. The only way Fatma’s mother would agree to her marriage had been to punish her for it.

  Nature, however, had a trick up her sleeve. Her doctor was concerned about the amount of weight Fatma was rapidly putting on, so he ordered a test that confirmed what he suspected: she was carrying twins, a boy and a girl. Her family would never separate the two infants, nor would they take both of them, since they wanted only a boy; the promise thus became null and void. Daniel admitted he never really believed they’d hold them to the promise anyway. Fatma was free then to embrace the babies growing inside her. The bigger she got, the better she felt – except for the fact that Beverly insisted on accompanying her on doctor’s visits and showing up at Poplar Street unannounced, with pink and blue fuzzy sleepers, undershirts the size of her hand, and coupons for diapers. The furniture store where Daniel used to work gave them a big discount on two cribs and a twin carriage.

  *

  In the last trimester of her pregnancy, Fatma became terribly homesick. Beverly said she should be nesting instead of dreaming of faraway places. Perhaps Fatma did need to make a nest, but the tree in which she wanted to build it was Mombasa. She quit working at Gemtek, since she had planned to leave when the babies were born anyway. Also, she no longer needed a job to feel productive. She was doing nothing these days, yet she was amazed that she was not only still creating, but twofold! She ignored her doctor’s advice and left for Africa for Auntie’s summer feast, hoping to see Ayasha and say, Look what I’ve done! Just like you! She knew the chances of Ayasha being able to leave Somalia were now remote.

  Over the years Fatma and Daniel had become sloppy about taking their malaria prevention pills when returning to Mombasa. Uncle Oliver financed their trips, which he considered to be more about reviewing his American business endeavor than visiting with his daughter. On the other hand, Auntie fussed over Fatma more than she had when Fatma returned from Katundu. But in her time away from Kenya, Fatma had become more American than she realized. More susceptible, she came down with malaria on her return to Rockfield, and the babies arrived early. Her daughter was stillborn; her son died three hours after birth.

  Daniel was quick to suggest that they have another child as a way of coping with the loss. Fatma, adamant that there would be no more babies, returned to Gemtek, stepping out of what now seemed to have been an eight-month nightmare. She was allergic to the birth control pills her doctor prescribed. Her body rejected an IUD. Daniel promised her that he would go back to using protection. But Daniel wanted another baby.

  *

  In December, Fatma’s father phoned. She hadn’t seen him since before her marriage to Daniel, over seven years ago. Now he was at the Somali embassy in Washington, and he wanted to see her.

  More Promises

  As Fatma rode the train to Washington, she kept the image of her tall and handsome father, General Muhammad Hakeem, before her. No sooner had she stepped from the train at Union Station than an elderly black chauffeur removed his cap and bowed his head in respect, saying, “Come with me, Miss Fatma. I’m here to take you to the embassy.” His voice was melodic, with the texture of velvet. He picked up her suitcase and led her down the platform, through the busy terminal, and out the glass doors to a limousine parked by a fountain flanked with flags from different nations. She was still wondering how he had been able to identify her so easily when he opened the door with such haste that she knew she should get in quickly.

  “Fatma,” her father said, smiling. He bore only a faint resemblance to the man she had adored all her life. She dove, nevertheless, into the backseat as though it was the Indian Ocean, and the essence of Africa swallowed her whole.

  He wore his dark dress uniform, with tassels at the shoulders and medals on the chest. He lifted her small chin with his large fingers, callused by years in the military. He studied her, then pulled her face, warm from excitement, to his own perfumed skin. “How beautiful you are, daughter,” he said in Somali. “America goes well with you.”

  She forced a smile. His words couldn’t be farther from the truth. All the safaris and plane rides with him now seemed concentrated into a moment, a short journey, a drive up Massachusetts Avenue.

  Massachusetts. It was as though she had traveled all day to wind up where she had started that morning, as though her father and the land he represented had been consumed by the country she hated. She half expected to find her very white mother-in-law waiting for her at the door of the Somali embassy. She would be hanging a Christmas wreath and fretting about the words for her greeting to her Muslim daughter-in-law, just as she had the first day they met. Only on this day Fatma would have to introduce Beverly to her father, and Beverly would become even more flustered, more confused, and look even more foolish confronting this imposing black man. They turned onto Connecticut Avenue – still too close. To Fatma’s relief, they next pulled onto a street called Wyoming and into the driveway of a house whose entrance was marked by the blue Somali flag, with its large white star in the center, hanging above it. Her cousin Ali, the ambassador, stood waiting at the doorway.

  *

  They ate in the embassy dining room, at a table draped in white cloth and set with fine china and silver. Now she saw her father clearly for the first time: he was old, not so much with age as from weariness. His hair had turned gray, his onyx skin was cracked like the worn leather of his finest saddle, and his stature appeared diminished. He was not quite as powerful as she remembered.

  “So, you are an American now, my daughter,” he said. “Never. I will never be an American.”

  “Are you not a citizen yet?” “I am. But I will never be an American.”

  He and her cousin Ali smiled. “You will become an American,” he acknowledged, “but you will always be Somali, even before you are a Kenyan.” The pinkish tips of his fingers tapped his heart which had transported, from continent to continent, all the troubles of his homeland.

  “Why have you come?” she asked. “To see my friend President Reagan.”

  She knew that, but she would have liked him to say that he had come to see her, that Washington just happened to be a more interesting place in which to meet than Rockfield, Massachusetts. She also knew that he would speak to her of their family through politics, because politics was their family. Whether he was explaining how to approach an animal before the kill or how to feed a country of starving nomads, her father had always spoken eloquently, uttering every word as though it were falling upon the ears of thousands. Today was no different.

  Ali nodded, affirming every utterance he would later translate when he
r father delivered the same speech to the president of the United States. She felt proud that her father was sharing his work with her. She knew that it was his medium for communication, and that he rarely separated himself from it. What she didn’t know, however, was the imminent danger he was in.

  He plucked several purple grapes from a cluster in a dish in front of him and placed one after another in his mouth. He chewed them slowly, then swallowed, taking in a deep breath that would allow him to go on. “We fear the drought will extend into Somalia soon. The country is at the brink of civil war – disaster. That is why I have been unable to come see you during your visits to Mombasa. That is why I have come to Washington. To ask for the military aid America has refused to give us in the past. Only I have come to ask it for myself.” “I don’t understand.”

  “I have broken with Ahmad. I have been hiding out in Uganda, forming my own resistance to his rule. Ahmad has brought only ruination to our land, and I intend to overthrow him. Ali is on my side.” Ali’s expression remained fixed, neither confirming nor denying his allegiance this time.

  “Why always bloodshed?” she asked, not expecting a reply. “Because war has no eyes,” he said sadly. Then, turning upbeat, perhaps in an effort to make her feel better, he added, “Do you know that your mother is pregnant?” Ali looked up in surprise.

  It had been twenty years since her mother was pregnant with Fatma. Her mother was fifty-one, and Fatma resented her for having got herself into this situation, when Fatma’s birth had seemed such a burden.

  “She hasn’t spoken or come to see me in nearly eight years,” Fatma told him.

  “Your mother is still your mother, though her legs be small.” He shook his head and laughed with wonder and pride at her mother’s capabilities – and his own accomplishment generating a child at their age. “She’s on her way to Riyadh shortly, to stay with your grandfather while she delivers.”

  “Will she keep this child?” Fatma asked.

  He leaned closer as though to focus on her better. “Fatma, you were given to your mother’s sister because your Auntie was infertile. That is the only reason.”

  His words were little consolation.

  “Your husband is well?” He changed the subject.

  “Daniel is fine.”

  “He is kind to you?” “Yes.”

  “His people?” “I hate them.”

  “Fatma! And this business I have heard about with your Uncle Oliver, the store?”

  “It’s going fine. Soon we will open up a second store,” she lied, as he nodded his approval.

  “Fatma,” he said sternly, “promise me something, daughter. If anything ever happens to me, you must never return to Somalia. Your life will be in great danger.”

  “But my sisters and brothers – ” she protested. “Never, I tell you.”

  “I promise.”

  He took her hands and held them with their palms up, looking down with satisfaction at the tattoos that lined the insides of her forearms, as though no matter where she went, she would always belong to him.

  “Never forget our family, and that your mother and I love you.” He would always be blind where her mother was concerned. “And babies?” he asked.

  She looked up at him in surprise. She was sure word about the twins had reached him.

  “Yes. Tragic.” He patted her hand in acknowledgment. “I mean more babies.”

  “Not yet,” she said. Never, she thought.

  When the meal was over, the chauffeur took her to the nearby Sheraton Park Hotel. After her father’s meeting with the president the following day, they would have supper again at the embassy before he departed. An accident must have occurred – a broken glass, a spilled bag of chips – because a bellboy was vacuuming the hotel lobby when she entered. In Mombasa, Auntie never let the maids sweep at night; it stirred up the evil spirits who would get into mischief that would plague you in the morning. She washed her face and brushed her teeth and slid her body between the stiff white sheets, unaware that she and her father had dined together for the last time.

  *

  The telephone woke her. At home she never answered the phone; she found it difficult to understand English without seeing gestures and facial expressions. It took her a few moments to get her bearings. After speaking Somali all evening, she hesitated to pick up the receiver, fearing her tongue would be paralyzed. A familiar nausea rose up into her chest. She swallowed in an attempt to trap whatever wanted to make its way out.

  “Hello.” She braced herself for the words that would come from nowhere into her African ears, concentrating very hard to understand them. It was not difficult; they were in Somali. It was Ali, telling her that her father’s plans had suddenly changed during the night. The civil unrest in Somalia had taken a turn for the worse; the country was in utter turmoil. His brother Ahmad had summoned her father and cousin to Mogadishu. He wanted to reconcile with her father; he needed his help to set things right, for the sake of the country and for his own sake. Ali and her father were to leave immediately for Somalia. A car would arrive in a while to take her around Washington or to the train station, whichever suited her. Had she eaten yet? Ali wanted to know. He would have room service deliver a nice American breakfast: sausage and eggs, toast, coffee. The thought disgusted her.

  She felt dizzy, and her nausea intensified. The train ride, the heavy meal, the excitement of the day before had got to her. She was still in her nightgown when breakfast arrived. She sat at the table and took a few bites of dry toast, sipping the tea she had asked the bellboy to bring in place of the coffee. When the nausea passed, she dressed and met the chauffeur in the lobby.

  “Wouldn’t you like to see our Capitol, or maybe the Air and Space Museum?” he asked. “How ’bout the National Zoo? It’s right up the street.”

  “No zoo,” she told him. “Where I come from, animals go free. I like train please.”

  “Whatever you say, Princess.”

  No one in America called her princess. He worked for the embassy; he had met her father. Ali had informed him of her family’s lineage; that was all there was to it. Still, for the first time in America, she was afraid for her life. Her father had frightened her about their family’s predicament. Why was he so trusting of this stranger? Enemies were masters of deception. At Union Station she grabbed her bag from him and, being much younger and quicker on her feet, she disappeared into the crowd.

  *

  Her mother and father died on the same day. It was only fitting: they had never been able to stay apart from each other for very long. The morning her father and cousin arrived in Mogadishu, Uncle Ahmad called all the powerful military and political leaders to a state-of-emergency meeting. He was taking no chance that his Revolutionary Socialist Party would be defeated in the forthcoming election, leaving Fatma’s father to take over the government because of his strong ties with the United States. Just as the lion lures the hunter and then circles back until he is trapped, her father and cousin were taken prisoners at the phony meeting, taken out into the street, and executed in public. Her mother went into premature labor on her flight to Saudi Arabia; she suffered a heart attack, and she and the baby died in the air.

  Fatma was numb. Oddly enough, her thoughts turned to Ayasha, who would be again welcome at the ranch in Mogadishu. Foolish Fatma, still unable to comprehend the magnitude of Somalia’s plight, failed to understand that the grandeur of her mother’s mansion would soon be a thing of the past, and that the building would soon resemble the remnants of the decaying Fort Jesus.

  Fatma went to Saudi Arabia to be with her family during their period of mourning. Unbeknown to Daniel and to her, she had conceived again, against her wishes; Daniel had tricked her. If she had been listening carefully, she might have heard the baby crying, and she might have changed her course. But then, a baby cannot be heard weeping in its mother’s womb. Surely it must have wept, knowing that her family had a way of making mothers out of aunties and strangers out of mothers, and that even
death couldn’t cancel the promise Auntie had made to Fatma’s mother in that living room years ago. Promises, based on duty and respect, were her family’s way of life.

  *

  Anger and resentment about the conception of the child she found she was carrying, coupled with the fear of losing another baby to some horrible complication during delivery made her desperate to get the birth of the monster over with. She believed she could detach herself from this one – just let it develop in her belly, concealed beneath the abundant fabric of a black abaya and matching hijab – and then see to it that there would be no more pregnancies. She would stay in Saudi Arabia after the mourning period was over and the rest of her family had gone back to their homes, and she would not tell Daniel about the pregnancy until she arrived back in Rockfield with his infant. She would not let him or Beverly help her grow this child like the last time, make her look forward to its birth, make her love it even before it was born. Her intent to punish them would backfire, however; in the end, she would be the one to suffer most.

  So many years had passed since she’d last seen Grandfather and been in this home that was as big as some hotels in the congested capital city of Riyadh. A child never thinks that one she considered so old could grow even older, but of course Grandfather had. He moved about slowly in his long flowing white robe with the help of a shiny black cane, his hand tightly wrapped around the carved gold handle. With each step, he dug the cane determinedly into the intricate designs of colorful silk carpets. His frame had curled forward, which caused the cloth of his white headdress to fall around his face like a theater curtain that couldn’t decide whether to open or close. But his mind was sharp, and what his eyes could no longer detect was seen by his loyal servants, who not only waited on him assiduously but also tended to Fatma day and night.

  An accident that had happened to their parents, Kamilah was as ugly as Fatma remembered her. It wasn’t that she had inherited all the bad features of their mother and father, because they had no bad features, and while some of the siblings had emerged as combinations of the two, Kamilah looked as if she couldn’t possibly have come from either. Her features were distorted, as was her personality. Fatma knew people from Mogadishu and Mombasa who were quite homely but whose looks went unnoticed because, Auntie used to say, unlike the rest of us, their homeliness freed their spirit from their body and allowed their temperaments to blossom. It was not so with Kamilah and her sour disposition. Fatma used to think that Kamilah felt bad about her looks, but this trip to Saudi Arabia convinced her that, despite what others may have thought of her, Kamilah felt quite superior to most people. Certainly she felt superior in every way to Fatma, living here in a luxurious palace, having Grandfather cater to her every whim.