Unbroken Threads

by Jennifer Klepper

  She smiled to herself at the irony of being the observer, fascinated by this family’s dynamic, not because it seemed unusual but because it seemed so ordinary.

  The “loud American” reputation seemed to be earned, though, if this group was representative.

  But that would mean there should be a “loud Syrian” reputation. She silently chastised herself for the quick judgment.

  The debates led by her own father any time he’d had a guest or family member in the room with him had taken on an air of supreme importance, regardless of whether the topic was Assad’s ascension to power or why the Syrian soccer team had never qualified for the World Cup. Voices would rise, dismantling arguments, disputing facts, and questioning logic. Only thick cigarette smoke had rivaled the competing voices in filling the room.

  Her mother had never joined in, but the kids knew to look at her to get an indication of whether their own argument was strong. A slight bow of her mother’s head would fill Amina’s heart with confidence, encouraging her to stand behind her words. At the end of each debate, her father would rise from his chair ceremoniously and look up at a ceiling blackened from years of debates and cigarettes. Then, in his professorial manner, he would pronounce “the truth.”

  Amina removed an empty plate and crumpled napkin from a side table near the sister-in-law and girlfriend, who were sneering at the mention of “his ex.”

  “Oh, hi. Was it Amina?” Claire didn’t wait for a response, jutting out her lower jaw and displaying a smudge of maroon on her front teeth. “You shouldn’t be doing this. You’re a guest.” She turned her head toward the kitchen, asking over her shoulder, “Hey, Jess, you need any help?”

  Jessica looked up from filling a bowl with green beans, her eyebrows raised in skepticism, but Claire was already back to gossiping with Tina.

  It was doubtful the sister-in-law would have been helpful even if she really had wanted to be. Jessica’s dance in the kitchen, from stove to counter to table, was as familiar in an American kitchen as it was in a Syrian one. She was separated from the cheering coming from in front of the TV as well as the cell phone activity of the kids, and a feast magically materialized before her, ready to be carried to the table.

  Considering Jessica had not wanted to do this, she sure put her all into it. Amina noted the parallels between Thanksgiving dinner and Jessica taking her on as a client. But she felt she was more than that now, more than a client, and she was happy to help when the others weren’t.

  Jessica put her hands on her hips almost triumphantly. She picked up a large tarnished bell and swung it from a cracked leather handle. The sharp clang brought all of the noise, except for the banter from the sports announcers, to a halt. Attention focused on the apron-garbed woman in the kitchen.

  Jessica smiled and shrugged, holding the bell aloft. “It’s from one of the boxes. Dinner bell from the farm. Thought I’d give it a try. Guess it works! Okay, folks, it’s time to eat! Go grab a seat.”

  Jessica placed her hand on Amina’s shoulder. “You too. Thanks for your help. I feel bad! You work in a restaurant, and then you come over here and get put to work. Danny will get the turkey, and I can handle the rest.”

  Amina washed her hands. Even the sink was sparkling clean.

  Heads turned when she entered the dining room, but kids and adults alike resumed their conversations quickly. The chairs at either end of the table awaited the host and hostess. One other chair was empty.

  Sean stood and pulled the chair out for her. “We’re pretty jammed in here, ma’am. Good thing you’re small.”

  She slid onto the ladder-back chair and unfolded the white linen napkin, lightly running her thumb across the embroidered bird’s nest in the corner.

  As the broad-shouldered brother removed his own napkin from his plate, the candlelight glinted off of a blue stone on his elaborate gold ring. She’d seen a ring like that before. A regular at Bathanjaan had also attended the US Naval Academy there in Annapolis. Perhaps the man who’d attacked them on the sidewalk was military, and that was the similarity she sensed between the two. It could have been a fine discussion in her father’s den, debating the American military, comparing the vulgar man on the street to the soft-spoken man who pulled the chair out for her.

  On the other side of her sat the quiet son.

  “Ready for some nuked turkey?” Jessica walked in from the kitchen and stopped, a stricken look taking over her face as her eyes panned from Amina’s left to her right. Amina’s heart jumped, her mind racing in concern that she had, perhaps, violated some Thanksgiving convention.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Following Danny into the dining room, Jessica dismissed their earlier interaction over the surprise entrance of Amina. He’d been his placid self since the minor scene in the entryway. He’d had his say and had moved on, so she would, too. Seeing the room before her helped.

  With the food in place and the candles lit, the table looked like Thanksgiving. In fact, most of it had far more Thanksgiving experience than she did. Between the silver and the dishes alone, there were over a hundred Thanksgivings represented.

  Danny set the turkey on the table and moved toward his seat. Jessica froze. There was Amina, squeezed between Conor and a former Navy SEAL. She should have used those place tag holders she’d found in one of the boxes. Even a seat between Tina and Claire would have been better than sitting between a special ops officer who’d fought in Afghanistan and a teen whose capacity for positive human interaction had been lost somewhere between getting his first pimple and getting his driver’s license.

  Everyone now stared at Jessica, except for Mikey, who had already begun serving himself.

  “Mikey, wait until everyone is ready to eat,” Jessica snapped just as Mikey’s forkful of potatoes was about to enter his mouth.

  He lowered his fork ever so slowly. Danny shot an admonishing glare in her direction before turning toward Mikey.

  “Mikey, would you like to say grace?” Danny asked.

  Jessica’s head shot up. No, no, no. “I’m sorry, Amina. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  Claire rolled her eyes.

  Amina smiled softly. “Please continue with your traditions. I, too, am thankful for many things.”

  Bless her. Jessica nodded at Mikey while avoiding Danny’s stare.

  “Bless us, O Lord, and these your gifts which we are about to receive from your bounty. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.” Mikey had his forkful of potatoes in his mouth before the chorus of “Amens” from around the table concluded.

  Danny glared at Mikey. “And I would like to thank Amina for joining us. It’s an honor to share our meal with you.” Danny smiled tightly at Amina and glanced almost imperceptibly at Jessica, a reminder of his earlier irritation but also, hopefully, an indication that he’d moved on from his surprise at Amina’s identity. He shifted his focus to his brother Patrick, who was sitting next to him. Jessica loosened a bit and joined the others to fill her plate.

  Claire picked obsessively through the carved turkey before selecting a few pieces of white meat. “Remember that year you overcooked it, Jess? We must have gone through twice as much wine just to make up for how dry it was! So funny that this year you undercooked it.”

  She wasn’t saying it as if it were funny, and Jessica didn’t laugh. “It all worked out, thanks to Mikey,” Jessica said. “We had a lot going on, getting ready for things. Someone pushed the wrong button.”

  Claire nodded, her mouth full of a dinner roll, a bit of butter stuck to her lip. “You know, I really wish I could do Thanksgiving at our house. It’s just, you know...” The sincerity of her reasoning dripped like weak gravy. “I work.”

  “Yes, you’ve mentioned that. I’m sure it keeps you busy.” Jessica stopped herself before falling down a well of sarcasm. “We’re always happy to host Thanksgiving.” She shot Danny the same hollow smile he had just used with Amina. See? I can move on, too. She passed the corn to the left and accepted the potatoes co
ming from the right.

  Jessica caught Amina regarding a plate of canned cranberry sauce, her head tilted just so. Jessica couldn’t imagine Thanksgiving without it. Growing up, it was always the only thing on Oma’s floral plates that hadn’t been made from scratch.

  Amina decided to take a small slice, placing it delicately on the edge of her plate, one of Oma Bee’s. Oma Bee, Oma’s mother and “Bee” for Bertha, had been as sturdy as the acorn-and-oak-leaf–adorned plate in front of Amina. She’d survived polio and had kept the farm going through droughts and depressions. The sight of a hijab-clad woman at the dining table might have shocked her, but Oma Bee would have appreciated the Syrian’s resilience.

  Jessica asked after the cousins’ recent sports activities. Steering the conversation to something neutral would avoid uncomfortable topics. But side conversations took over, and Jessica found herself straining to hear what was happening at the other end of the table. Fortunately, things seemed quiet down there. Amina poked at the cranberry sauce before deciding to try the mashed potatoes. Conor was building himself a dinner roll-and-turkey sandwich, and Danny was engaged in a discussion with his younger brother.

  Claire eyed Amina as though wondering whether the woman in the headscarf would be able to pull off the trick of using both a fork and a knife.

  “So, Amina,” Claire asked. “Where are you from?”

  “Syria.” Amina took a sip of water.

  Claire looked around, her eyes wide, as though making sure everyone had heard the secret she’d just exposed. “We have an Arab at my office. I think he’s from Pakistan.”

  “Then he’s not Arabic.” Jessica couldn’t keep from jumping in.

  “Pardon me?” Claire didn’t disguise her annoyance at being corrected.

  “Pakistanis aren’t Arabic,” Jessica said, searching her memory and praying for accuracy in whatever source had fed her this information during her Internet research. Pakistan was next to Afghanistan. She turned to her left. “Sean, you served over there.”

  Sean’s low voice drifted across the table. “I served in Afghanistan, right next door. We worked with a lot of Pakistanis.” He nodded appreciatively.

  “Well, it’s all the same, right? Arab, Pakistan, Afghanistan.” Claire laughed and motioned with her hand to charade a headscarf around her head.

  Jessica wanted to feel morally superior, but she couldn’t. She had used that same gesture.

  “Actually,” Amina said, rather patiently considering the conversation going on around her, “my headscarf is part of my family’s Muslim tradition. An Arab comes from the Arabian Peninsula or speaks Arabic, as I do. But Pakistan is in South Asia, and they speak...” She turned to Sean for assistance.

  Sean obliged with information earned from direct experience, not Wikipedia. “Urdu is the national language. But Punjabi, Pashto, some others. Depends on where you are. We had Pakistani interpreters who spoke five or six languages, including Dari and others we needed in Afghanistan. We never would have made it through alive without those guys.”

  Amina picked up her fork and her knife, and Claire glowered from across the table.

  Sean was not the trigger she should have worried about. Jessica opened her mouth to change the subject, but a high-pitched beeping beat her to it.

  Burnt rolls set off the fire alarm, and soon she was attending to frozen pies that hadn’t been put out to thaw. Running back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, Jessica managed to shove some turkey and mashed potatoes in her mouth. She couldn’t, however, keep up with the conversations.

  Bringing out more corn casserole, Jessica noticed Amina sitting quietly, watching the discussions going on around her. Cricket’s voice rose as she animatedly told a story of some crazy thing that had happened in her science lab. Danny held down the other end of the table. Although he exuded calm, he was still as taut as one of his sailing lines in a strong wind.

  What sounded like a plate of food hitting the floor came from the kitchen. Damn dog got out. Jessica glared at Mikey then hurried into the kitchen to see what Gracie was now thankful for.

  Returning to the dining room after cleaning up Gracie’s impromptu Thanksgiving meal of half-thawed pumpkin pie, Jessica saw Amina and Conor talking quietly. Conor, I hope you aren’t saying something I’ll regret. Amina wore a smile that reflected a youthfulness Jessica hadn’t before seen in her. Jessica strained to catch some of the conversation but couldn’t make out any words over the increasing volume of the argument on the other side of the table about whether the Baltimore Ravens needed a new coach.

  “Jessica, can you help with this?” Danny had overshot his busboy abilities, attempting to carry the turkey tray, the dish of sweet potatoes, and a couple of wine glasses. As a wine glass bobbled, he seemed to be calculating which serving piece would be least worst to drop.

  With a lingering glance at Conor and Amina, Jessica reluctantly grabbed the turkey platter with both hands and followed Danny into the kitchen.

  JESSICA carefully placed the last clean plate on the drying rack, double-checking to ensure it wouldn’t slip and cause a cascade of shattering china. She wasn’t going to be the generation that destroyed these dishes.

  As daunting as it had seemed to have to hand-wash the pieces by herself—after all, Claire worked and needed the break, and Jessica had insisted Amina take a tour of the house with Cricket instead of being stuck as kitchen maid—it had proved to be a rather calming activity. In fact, she only now processed the raucous laughter coming from the family room.

  Shouts of “he’s bluffing” and “show me your cards” brought a warm smile to Jessica’s face. Tradition. Danny and Sean were talking off to the side of the room, but the rest of the crew were busy at cards. Except Conor. He was missing. So was Amina, not that she would play poker. Do Muslims gamble? Is that a Claire question? But Amina had been getting a house tour. The house was not huge, so that tour had to have ended.

  Her hands dripping with soapy water, Jessica snatched a tea towel and dried them as she searched the other rooms. The dining room was empty, and the table was clear. It didn’t look as though a twenty-four-pound turkey and fifteen pounds of potatoes had just been devoured there. No one was in the parlor, just those remaining boxes. The one marked “Betty” was barely hidden anymore by the few remaining.

  Sounds of murmuring and clicking on a keyboard came from the small office off the parlor. The door hung open, and the glow of the computer screen outshone the dim lamplight.

  Amina was in front of the computer, and Conor sat at a respectful distance to her right on a stool he must have brought in from the parlor. A young man’s face filled the screen. His hair was as black as Amina’s, and the joy in his eyes and round cheeks could have pulled Jessica through the computer screen.

  Her brother?

  Amina clicked on the mouse, and another photo popped up. This one was of an older woman standing next to a man seated in a chair. The woman, wearing a red headscarf embroidered in black with an elaborate floral design, stared into the camera, pain in her red-rimmed eyes. The man’s eyes showed no emotion, no life. He looked away from the camera but not really at any particular place, it seemed. Jessica couldn’t help but think the photo had been taken after Samir’s death. She pushed the door open a bit more. Amina and Conor turned at the door’s squeak.

  Conor stood, his body angled between Jessica and Amina. If Jessica didn’t know any better, she would have read his positioning as protective.

  Jessica cocked her head. “What’s up?”

  “Amina was showing me photos of her family. All of her family photos are on a single flash drive. She doesn’t have a backup, which is crazy.”

  Jessica glared.

  Conor cringed and turned to Amina. “Sorry. No offense.”

  Amina’s lone freckle disappeared under her left eye as she smiled forgivingly at Conor. “I agree it is crazy. I should have a copy. It is almost all I have of home.”

  Conor continued. “Anyway, I was making
her a copy on an extra flash drive before her taxi gets here.”

  Mom tears threatened to flow. He’d done something right, which meant that maybe she had done something right, which meant that maybe everything would turn out fine.

  Danny’s voice carried through the house, announcing that the ante was being raised to a minimum of five M&M’s. Then he asked, “Hey, where’s Conor?”

  CONOR helped Amina with her coat and said goodbye before heading back to the family room, where the poker and the noise hadn’t let up.

  Jessica walked Amina to the door. The taxi was already waiting out front. Amina placed Jessica’s hand between her own. Her hands were small but warm and soft.

  “Your son.”

  “Yes.” Jessica hastened to apologize. “I hope he was polite. American teenagers can be...” Jessica couldn’t narrow down the adjectives.

  Amina shook her head. “He reminds me of my brother Samir.”

  “Oh, you’re talking about Mikey.”

  “No.” A smile touched Amina’s lips. “I am talking about Conor.”

  Jessica felt as if a piling had been shoved into her chest as Amina’s words of her brother flashed through Jessica’s mind. Sweet and dear as a child. Dead and decapitated at sixteen.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The front door closed behind the last of the extended Donnelly family with a definitive click. Jessica let out an exaggerated sigh as Danny turned the dead bolt. “Well, we made it!” She started walking back toward the kitchen to put away the rest of the dishes and glassware.

  Danny’s glare stopped her. “That night in Baltimore.”

  “What night?”

  “You fucking kidding me?” A rare darkness emanated from his bay blues. “When you ran into some ‘rowdy guys’ at IAP. Was she with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said you were alone.” Disappointment clouded his face. “And the rowdy guys. Any chance they had an issue with her?”