Harley felt a rush of relief. He had been afraid that he scared her off, and it felt good to hear that she wanted to see him. But his relief was immediately replaced by embarrassment as he thought about his dream from the night before. “Do not be afraid to take Leah as your wife!” He picked up the phone and Leah answered on the second ring; dinner at her place at six.
Leah’s condominium was at the top of the hill on the western edge of Occoquan, on the rocks high above the Rockledge Mansion. Harley arrived on time with a bottle of red wine. She welcomed him with a tentative hug, not sure where they stood. Harley immediately apologized for the way he treated her on the boat, saying that he had been struggling with anger and had a tough time controlling it.
“Harley, you deserve to be angry,” she said, taking the bottle of wine out of his hands. “If I had lost my family as you did, I’d be furious.”
“Still, I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” she agreed, motioning him into her living room. “But I am sure I said things that set you off. I can be pretty assertive, and that leads to some strong reactions.”
“Yeah, that thing about me being a bridge to Muslims, that was asking a bit much.”
“Oh, I meant that,” said Leah. “Still do. You are in a perfect position for that.”
Harley felt a burning in his neck, the return of his anger. Is she trying to provoke me? Or does she have some kind of fantasy about me? Why would she say such a thing? He rubbed the back of his neck and tried to calm himself. He told himself that she had a right to her opinion, and he didn’t have to agree with her.
“I’ll try to do better,” Harley promised, not wanting to get into a fight. “You are important to me. I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”
“Same here. That’s why I invited you over. Let’s drink this nice-looking bottle and have something to eat. This can be a reset for us.”
They sat together on a couch and ate the cheese and crackers that Leah had put out. Harley poured them each a glass. In a few minutes they were relaxed and enjoying each other’s company. Leah’s legs were as slender and tan as they had been in Harley’s dream. Harley thought of the Leah of his dream—young and beautiful and pregnant.
“Harley, you are blushing,” said Leah.
“Must be the wine,” he blurted nervously.
Moving into the dining room, they had a light dinner of chicken Caesar salad and continued to drink wine. Harley asked her about her work at the clinic, and she described how difficult it was to get people to change their behavior and make healthy choices. Harley said that the very same was true in the life of the church.
“The more I tell people what they should do, the more they push back,” he admitted.
“That’s natural,” Leah said. “Throw people off balance and they will try to regain equilibrium.”
“So, how can people be changed?”
“Persuasion. Appeal to their self-interest. Help them to see that a new course is going to help them.”
“Give me an example,” said Harley.
“I can’t be too specific, with healthcare confidentiality and all that. But a physician at the clinic recently talked with a grandmother about the babysitting she was doing for her grandchildren. The doc found out how much they meant to her and asked if she wanted to continue to be involved in their lives as they became teenagers and young adults. The woman said yes, of course, and then the doc said that she could achieve that goal only if she quit smoking. The woman is a chain-smoker, three packs a day. She agreed to join a smoking cessation class, based on her desire to be with her grandchildren.”
“Sounds like the key is to figure out the person’s motivation.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, I’ve got someone I need to figure out,” said Harley as he finished his wine. “I have no idea what is driving him. But once I do, maybe I can persuade him to change.”
CHAPTER 13
The morning rush was over when Harley opened the door of the Riverview Bakery and stepped inside. Only Fatima was behind the counter, sweeping the crumbs generated by a stream of customers on a busy Tuesday morning. She wore a colorful hijab and a white baker’s smock. The intoxicating aroma of fresh baked goods made Harley regret that he had never entered the shop. He paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and scanned the place. The display cases were picked over but still held a number of breads, pastries, and muffins, and behind the counter were shelves containing jars of jams and marmalades. To the left of the cash register was a carafe with a sign offering free coffee and to the right was a plate containing samples of the morning’s blueberry muffins. Harley stepped to the counter and introduced himself.
“Pastor Camden, so good to finally meet you,” said Fatima. Her round face glowed as she smiled, and the scar on her left cheek became more pronounced.
“Please call me Harley,” he replied, wondering if her scar was from her car accident.
“You were so kind to visit my husband in jail. You helped him very much. The article in the newspaper seems to be working.”
“He deserves a speedy trial.”
“Would you care for some coffee?” asked Fatima, washing her hands in a sink behind the counter.
“No, thank you. I had some this morning.”
“How about a piece of muffin?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Fatima handed him the sample plate, along with a napkin. He popped a small piece in his mouth. It was moist and delicious, filled with fresh berries.
“That’s excellent,” said Harley. Fatima smiled. “How is your son, Omar?”
“Embarrassed,” she admitted, shaking her head. “He knows that his carelessness caused the fire. I suppose I owe you thanks for helping him as well.”
“You are welcome. But boaters do help each other. It is the law.”
“Still, you risked your life to rescue him. He might have died if he had stayed on the boat. You are earning much hasanat.”
“Much what?”
“Hasanat: Credit for good deeds. After death, God weighs your bad deeds against your good deeds. If the balance tips toward good deeds, you enter heaven.”
“Interesting,” said Harley, realizing that she was identifying one of the major differences between Christianity and Islam.
As a Christian, Harley did not believe that he could ever do enough good to earn a spot in heaven. The line from the Book of Psalms—“I am a worm, and no man”—was the Biblical verse that he felt best captured the human condition. He believed that he was saved only by the grace of God. He grew up being taught that he gained access to this free gift through his faith in Jesus, not through any good works that he might do.
Harley changed the subject. “I did not see the boat this morning. Was Omar able to get it hauled away?”
“Yesterday,” she said. “The insurance company came and inspected it. A total loss. And then the hull was pulled out of the water and taken to the dump.”
“I’m glad you had it insured.”
“Yes, we’ll probably replace it someday. But it is a low priority at this point in our lives.”
Harley nodded. He understood that the replacement of a powerboat was a small matter for Fatima, with her husband in jail and her daughter freshly buried.
“You do have my sympathy for what you have suffered,” he said. “Your daughter’s death was a terrible loss.”
“Thank you,” said Fatima, her eyes welling up. “I still cannot believe she is gone.”
On the wall behind the counter, Harley saw a framed photograph of the Bayati family, a formal portrait of all five of them.
“Is that Norah?” She was as gorgeous as everyone said, with a broad smile and eyes that seemed to see all and know all. Her vitality radiated from the frame, and Harley thought that she looked familiar. Then he remembered the face of the woman in the mosaic at Sepphoris.
“Yes, it is,” said her mother, proudly. She started to say something else but got choke
d up.
A small bell tinkled as a customer came through the door. Harley stepped aside and let her pass. Fatima wiped her eyes and greeted the young women, there to buy a dozen muffins to take to her workplace. When the transaction was complete and the customer gone, Harley asked, “Is Omar here today?”
“Yes, he is. He has summer school classes this afternoon but is working in the back this morning.”
“May I speak with him?”
“Of course.” Fatima disappeared through a swinging door and remained in the back room for several minutes. Harley heard voices, talking calmly at first and then rising in pitch and intensity, sounding argumentative. Then complete silence, followed by Omar coming through the door brushing flour off his hands. Right behind him was Fatima. Both of them looked stressed.
“Good morning,” said Omar in a flat tone. “How can I help you?”
“I was hoping we could talk. Do you have a minute?”
“I don’t know,” the young man replied. “I’m pretty busy.” He turned his head and looked at his mother.
“Go ahead,” she said to him. “Talk to Pastor Camden. He helped you.”
“Sort of,” snapped Omar.
“Show some respect,” said Fatima. “I can handle things here while you go out and talk.”
Omar shook his head and gave Harley a dirty look. But he didn’t want to get in deeper trouble with his mother, especially after his carelessness with the boat. He removed his apron and put it on the counter. “I don’t have much time,” he said. “I have class this afternoon.”
“This will only take a few minutes,” said Harley as he opened the door for them to exit.
Omar was silent as they walked westward on Mill Street, toward the park. Harley knew all about sullen teenagers, having worked with youth groups through most of his ministry.
“Omar, I am very sorry about your sister,” Harley said as they walked side by side. “She did not deserve to die.”
“I know that.”
“Her death is a tragedy. It is causing you all to suffer.”
Omar looked straight ahead, not turning to meet Harley’s eyes and clenching his mouth.
“I lost my wife and my daughter a year ago,” Harley said. “I have also suffered.”
These words caused Omar to glance briefly at Harley, but then he turned forward again. After a few seconds, he asked, “How did they die?”
“That’s not important now. What’s important is that we talk, and come up with a plan together.”
“A plan to do what?”
“To do the right thing.”
“Whatever,” said Omar flatly.
“Here’s the deal. I have your camera and your pictures. I want to return your camera to you, but I want the pictures destroyed, and I want you to stop whatever you are doing.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“I don’t believe that,” Harley stated firmly.
“Believe what you want.”
The two of them continued to walk toward the park, passing the entrance to the pedestrian bridge across the river. They were close to the spot where the Riverview Bakery tent had been attacked by the bikers.
“What will the Muslim bikers do to you if you stop taking pictures?”
Omar’s head jerked around. “What are you talking about?” The young man stopped and looked at his feet. “That was a misunderstanding. My mother is not going to press charges.”
“Really?” said Harley. “That was quite a violent attack.”
“That’s our personal business,” Omar explained. “No one else needs to be involved.”
They continued walking along the perimeter of the park. Reaching the farthest bench, Harley asked if they could sit and look out at the river. Omar sneered and crossed his slender arms. “Is this where you try to molest me?”
Harley sat on the bench. “We can talk with you sitting next to me, or with you standing there. Your choice.”
Omar began to feel awkward about standing with his arms crossed, so he sat at the opposite end of the six-foot wooden bench. The two of them looked out over the river.
“Omar, I want what is best for you,” Harley began. “I want your sister’s killer to be caught. I want your father to get out of jail. I want your family to be able to run its business. I want you to live without fear.”
“I’m not afraid,” Omar huffed, staring straight ahead.
“I think you are,” Harley said quietly. “I think you are afraid because I feel afraid. And I trust that my emotions are similar to yours.”
“That’s messed up,” said Omar.
“I believe that you and your family are in a bad place. You are frightened. I want to help you.”
“How do I know that’s true?”
“I helped your father,” Harley said. “I risked my life to save yours.”
Omar turned his face away from Harley and wiped tears from eyes.
“If I’m going to help you, I need to know what is going on,” Harley continued. “In the Christian Church, we have what is called the seal of the confessional. That means that whatever you say to me remains in complete confidence. It is the same as if you were speaking to God directly.”
Harley was stretching the truth, since the seal only applied to an actual Roman Catholic confessional. But he had every intention of maintaining confidentiality with Omar. “I know you are not Christian, but I can promise to keep your secrets.”
Omar looked at him with an expression of wariness. “You are promising that you will keep all my secrets? You will not tell anyone?”
“No one.”
“Not my parents? Not the police?”
“Absolutely no one. What you say to me is between you and God.”
Omar looked around to see if there was anyone within earshot. It was now mid-morning on a weekday, and the park was deserted. An osprey winged above the water, screeching.
Omar rubbed his chin and then put his hands at his sides, gripping the front planks of the park bench.
“I was three years old when 9/11 happened,” Omar began. “By the time I started school, the United States had invaded Iraq. A lot of my classmates were military kids, and their fathers were deployed. I got called a lot of names. Hajji. Taliban. Al-Qaeda. Osama. Saddam.” He closed his eyes tightly, suppressing a tear. “One day in fourth grade, a kid named Mike didn’t come to school. The word spread that his dad had been killed in Iraq by an IED. Mike was out for a week, and I felt really bad for him. When he came back, I wanted to tell him that I was sorry, but he gave me a hateful look. After school that day, he and a couple of his friends beat me up, saying that Iraqis were scum. I couldn’t do anything except cover my face until a teacher pulled them off. I went home with torn and dirty clothes, feeling ashamed.”
Harley remembered how confused he had been by the invasion of Iraq, a military action that seemed to have no connection to the terrorist attacks of 9/11. Sending soldiers into Afghanistan had made sense to him, since the attacks were linked to al-Qaeda and the Taliban in that country. But Iraq? The hijackers had been mostly from Saudi Arabia, with others from the United Arab Emirates, Lebanon and Egypt. There was not an Iraqi in the bunch. He tried to picture little Omar being beat up for having a family connection to Iraq.
“Sounds like you were the whipping boy.”
“Yeah. The kids said they hated Osama bin Laden and Saddam Hussein, and wanted to kill them. But since I was convenient, they went after me.”
“Did your parents do anything?”
“Sure. They talked to the principal. Had conferences with teachers. Brought stuff from the bakery to international days. But what could they do, really? They were powerless.”
“How were things for your sisters?”
“Not as bad. They got teased, but no one beat them up. And Norah, she was amazing—able to take control of any situation. She was way ahead of me at school, and by the time I got to high school she was a legend.” Omar smiled.
“You must miss her.”
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“God, yes. Her death is the worst thing that has ever happened to my family. Her killer deserves to die. And there is no way that my father should be in jail. His arrest was a complete injustice.”
“I suspect you are right.”
“What do you mean suspect?” said Omar with a flash of anger. “He is completely innocent. If you really want to help us, you need to believe that.”
“I’m still learning,” said Harley. “Figuring things out.”
Omar returned his gaze to the river and continued his story.
“Anyway, I’m eight years younger than Norah, and five years younger than Sarah. When I arrived at Lake Ridge High School, the teachers and administrators had a high opinion of my sisters, especially Norah, which helped me as a student. But among my classmates, they were unknown. I had to find my own way.”
“Must have been tough.”
“Yeah, anti-Muslim feelings were running high, which made me want to keep my head down. I focused on art classes, especially photography. And I made some friends in the Muslim American Cultural Society. They rallied around me when I got jumped and beat up one day after school by a bunch of jocks who called me a fag and a terrorist.”
“That’s an odd combination.”
“Not really. Have you heard the expression ‘Man Love Thursday’?”
“No.”
“US soldiers use it. The joke is that on Thursdays in Afghanistan, men have sex with each other so that they will not have lustful thoughts on Friday. That’s the Muslim day of prayer. The jerks that beat me up had heard that from their fathers.”
“Once again, you were the whipping boy.”
“So, I started hanging around more and more with my fellow Muslims. And this is where I have to know that you are going to be completely confidential.”
“Yes,” said Harley. “I promise.”
“Not that I have done anything wrong. But you cannot speak of any of this to anyone. People could get hurt, including my mother and sister.”
“I am sworn to secrecy. Absolutely.”
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