by Cheryl Reid
On his subsequent trips, I could have taken his absence as another humiliation, but I tried not to care that he was gone. I had no power to change the fact that he loved another woman. I tried to relax and be happy in my own skin. I looked for the silver lining in his absence—I was my own boss and free of him for a week. I told people he was fishing, and that was partly true—he brought back pictures of himself holding up fish.
Nelly suspected he was up to something with his trips. “What does it mean when a man leaves his wife?” she asked pitilessly. “It reflects badly on you, that’s what.” She worried what would happen if he ran away like Ivie. What would happen to her and the business and the shame it would bring. But even with all her theatrics, I persuaded myself I did not care that he was gone. At least my home and the store were my domains, if only for a few days.
The first time Zada had come to meet my brother, she stepped off the train and mesmerized us—Gus, Elias, and me. Besides English she spoke Arabic and French, was just back from a trip to Beirut, and so beautiful, her smooth sable hair and straight nose. Unknown to my father or me, my brother had no intention to marry Zada, because as Gus later said, Zada reminded him of me and he felt brotherly toward her. Besides that, he was already in love with Lila. This did not stop me or Elias from falling for Zada.
Her voice carried the same cadence as my mother’s when she spoke of Beirut: “Everyone has a fruit tree. The olives, the wine, the cafés—and the people are from every religion: Jews and Muslims, Druze, Catholics and Protestants.” She’d been visiting her grandparents and cousins. When she spoke of the sea and the air and the land my parents came from, I felt happy. At last, here was proof that I was not an oddity, that I had people and that the world was full and greater than Riverton. I thought, When Zada marries my brother, we will have children who will be cousins, we will have each other, and life will be better.
I took her to bridge at church, to Mass, to the dress shop and the soda fountain. We went to the movies and walked all over town so that people would see me and know I was not alone. Zada was like my brother, friendly and outgoing, and she could talk to anyone. She told me that although I was not a stylish person, there was something interesting about me, and I was not insulted. “Your eyes, especially,” Zada said. “They are so odd—a mixture of gray and brown and green, like the bark of an olive tree.” She plucked my eyebrows and rouged my cheeks. She made me try on every dress in the dress shop. “You must always belt your waist to show off how small it is,” she said. The shopgirls all nodded and agreed. She took me to the hairdresser and, without my permission, said, “Cut it to the nape of her neck and let the curls fall along her jawline to the tip of her chin.” I liked being her art project.
As a child, the other children had called Gus and me dirty Arabs, but that would no longer matter if I had someone like her at my side. She was more worldly than any other woman in Riverton. She had just returned from a tour of Lebanon from Tyre to Beirut and she had seen the ancient ruins of the Phoenicians. She showed me her travel album and promised I would love it there. She seemed to be thinking of our future together.
For fun one day, Zada and I baked using my mother’s brick oven. My father rose early to build the fire, so the coals would turn to ash at the right time. He was happy to look at her and listen to travel stories. He nodded as Zada spoke of the mountain bread in Lebanon, how the women patted out rounds of dough in their hands and placed them for only a minute, maybe two, on a hot metal dome until they blistered. Papa liked having her there and I was happy to be connected to that world, his and my mother’s, happy to take Zada’s instructions, how she’d seen her mother and aunts make the bread, how she’d seen the women in Lebanon do it. She must have reminded him of Mama, and for that, I was thankful.
We took the breads to Elias’s store. She stood behind the counter next to me, teaching me things my mother would have taught me, how the crisp mountain bread was different from the fluffier laffa, how to strain the labneh, and what were the best proportions of sumac, thyme, and sesame in za’atar. She told me how her mother cooked down grapes to make dibs to put on bread or ice cream, all that Aunt Elsa had not the time or the need to teach me. Aunt Elsa, who, above all things, had been practical and American with no use for passing on her knowledge of the old country.
Zada brought a gift of Arabic coffee and ground cardamom. From my china cabinet she got the rakweh, the Arabic coffeepot that had belonged to my mother, with its long wooden handle and flat, rimmed spout. She reached for the demitasse cups. The set had been my mother’s, put away after she died because Papa drank only the instant coffee he sold in his store.
“The coffee set,” Zada said, “is a symbol of hospitality.” She paused to make her point. “Hospitality is the most important thing for the Lebanese. Generosity and hospitality. Offer coffee to the eldest first, men before women. Helweh is sweet. Murrah is bitter. Mazbootah is in the middle. You drink one cup and that’s all. More is gluttony.” She mixed the sugar and the cardamom and added scoop after scoop of very finely ground Arabic coffee into the pot of water. “Today, we will make it sweet—helweh. The sweeter the occasion, the sweeter the coffee. Now, if it were a funeral, we would make it murrah.”
The water boiled. I watched her carefully.
“Arabic coffee is strong,” she said. The mixture foamed to the top of the pot. She cut the heat and raised the pot by its long handle. The foam reduced. “See what I did?” she asked, and then let the coffee boil up twice more. On the third boil, she ran to the sink and added a few drops of cold water. “Pour it now before it completely settles,” she said. “After we drink it, I will read your fortune at the bottom of your cup.” The coffee was strong for my taste, but I made it for her every morning and evening of her visit.
On the night before she and Gus were to sit with the priest and discuss their marriage, I filled the table for Zada and Gus and Elias. Elias had driven two counties over to buy gin, and he tried to make cocktails with mint and lime. I drank a sip and felt sick. I ran to the bathroom to vomit, and Zada checked on me. She touched my hair and blotted the sweat from my temples. In the kitchen she made me a concoction of orange-blossom water and sugar to ease my stomach, and while I sipped it, I counted my days and knew I was pregnant. Everyone ate and drank. Elias smiled and praised my efforts. I picked at my food, afraid of being sick again. But I was happy and burning with my secret knowledge. I was charmed to watch them, Gus, Elias, Zada, the four of us a family. Gus seemed in fine spirits, not once revealing that he would elope with Lila the next day.
Zada and I sat up late on the porch despite the autumn chill in the air. She told me, “When you come with me to the old country, you will see the mountains from the sea and the sea from the mountains. You will know your mother then. You will know why she wanted to be close to the water.” She looked off into the dark night. “Every summer we will go to Mobile. We will bring our children and stay with my family. We will watch the sea roll in and not lift a finger to work.” In her presence I felt as if I belonged on earth.
The next afternoon I made another feast for the evening. It was to be her last night with us before the marriage and I wanted to celebrate, but then Zada arrived alone and distraught. Gus had not shown at the rectory to meet with the priest. He was nowhere to be found, and then the phone rang. Gus was on the other end. He called to say he had eloped with Lila. His giddiness the night before had been the mask of his love for Lila. Elias closed the store early, and we sat—Zada, Elias, and I—around the table and watched the food go cold. Zada and Elias drank gin from the bottle, but I could not.
When the drink took hold, Zada cried. Elias stood and opened his arms. She went to him and cried on his shoulder. How beautiful they looked together. They took the bottle to the front porch, and I did the dishes. The windows were open. She sobbed, but he had soft words for her. “You are young and beautiful. You will find better.” I sat on the couch and listened. I did not want her to go. I felt the same regret that I h
eard in his words, but his voice oozed with comfort, and then charm. I saw his hand reach across and touch her shoulder, and then she scooted close to him and rested her dark, beautiful head on his shoulder. He stroked her hair with his long fingers and my stomach rolled.
I awoke the next morning on the couch. Elias had left me there. I imagined he and Zada stood over my sleeping body. They would have been drunk and laughing at me as they passed. The next morning, she asked me to take her to the train station.
But I could not drive. I heaved all morning. I called Elias and he left the store without complaint. I heard them speaking in bits of Arabic. His voice was gentle, sad. He left me, alone and sick in the bathroom, without a word.
That night, after Zada left, I waited eagerly for Elias to come home. He had been a different man, happier in her presence, and I thought he might give me some comfort. I cooked our meal and lit candles on the table. I sat in the glow of my home and knew it was up to me to make it happy now that she was gone. I would tell him that I was expecting our first child. I waited for him until the candles were puddles of wax.
I wrapped his dinner in foil and left it in the warm stove. He came in and fished around the kitchen. A chair dragged across the floor. He kicked off his shoes. Not long after, he was standing in my doorway. He was drunk.
He undressed. The hall light glowed behind him. He climbed on top of me.
“You stink,” I said.
He touched my hair. At first gentle. Then he covered my face with his hand.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He turned my face away from his. He raised my gown.
“Stop,” I said.
He whispered in my ear, “I wish you were like her.”
I had wished the same.
“If you could be like Zada.” He moved on top of me. “Beautiful Zada.”
I flinched. My eyes hot with tears.
“I will have a child,” I said, in the hopes he would have some feeling and stop the cruel words.
“No, you can’t,” he said. “I told her I would leave you and go to her.”
“I will have a baby,” I said.
“I begged her to run away with me. But she won’t because of you.”
“Please,” I said. “Don’t be cruel.”
He covered my mouth with his hand. “Shut up. You are ugly and skinny, and when I touch you, I close my eyes and think of her.” Only, he glared at me when he said it.
My whole being was hot with sorrow.
He finished and then collapsed beside me. He moaned and I saw tears on his cheeks. His arm lay across my swollen, sore breasts. The weight of his arm reminded me who I was—an immigrant’s daughter from the store across the tracks. I should be grateful to Elias for what I had. A marriage. A position in town in a good house away from my father’s store. I was to have a child and become a mother, and that was what I was supposed to do. I should be full. I should not expect more, not love, not happiness, but I wanted his love.
And then, his arms softened and his face was wet. He held me. We cried together. He was warm and there was some comfort in that. We had slept in the same bed on vacation, but this was the only night of our marriage that he stayed in my bed in our home. Every fiber of me was grateful to have him there. I never wanted him to leave that place beside me.
When I awoke, he was gone. I knew he did not love me. He never would. Instead of facing him and seeing the look in his eyes that I was not Zada, I thought I would leave. I could give him that. It was not too late for me either. I could board the train like Zada, and Elias could go to her. My mother and her sisters had crossed the ocean. My father too. I could go to New York, where my father had started, or New Orleans like my mother, or to Gulf Shores, where Elias and I had once gone. I thought life would be better without him, even with a child in tow. I imagined he would not look for me. But, like a dutiful daughter and wife, I dressed and started the baking for the day. I delivered it to the store before lunch. He did not glance at me when I filled my counter. He thought if he ignored my presence, I would not exist.
Instead of going home, I walked to the train station and stared at the board. I read the list of places I could go. I thought of the money I would need, of the jewelry I could sell, but then I thought of Papa and Gus and never seeing them again. I thought of starting over in an apartment or an empty house and giving birth all alone, and the nausea swept through me, and I ran to the side of the platform.
Now Elias did not exist. He was dead and gone, and I had survived him. I stood in his store. I felt a moment of victory, but then I remembered the choice before me—to move on like a Gypsy or stay put and suffer the punishment his family wanted for me.
I crossed the room to the bread counter. My shoes clapped against the wooden floors. The rain continued to pound the roof. I looked out over the five long, neat aisles of groceries with their bright labels, the red cans of tomatoes, the white sacks of flour and sugar, Tony the Tiger staring back at me from the boxes of Frosted Flakes. The tables of produce—the yellow lemons, the white and green melons, the apples and oranges—were stacked in careful rows. I could live without this place and the work, but I could not live without my daughter. She and my son were my home. I got to the business I came for.
I opened the register. There was enough money to fill a small paper bag. Beneath every dollar was another dollar and another and another. I rummaged through the drawers behind the candy counter, through the boxes of papers and bills, the pocket watches, the rings, the things factory and dock workers left behind to hold their credit. I would leave that for Ivie.
All in all, six tins, nine cigar boxes, and a small paper bag. I stacked the money down in three grocery bags. I unlocked the back door and, with my arms full, opened the trunk of the car and made two trips. The rain pounded my hair flat, my dress flatter. I ran back inside, rolled the door shut. Water dripped from me onto the concrete floor.
The dark storeroom felt like a grave swallowing me up. I should have left then, but that place held my blood and sweat, and I was greedy to get what was mine. I could not stop pushing boxes to the side and looking beneath the shelves. I thought I should have whatever was hidden away. I found three Folgers jars filled with change. I held them against my chest with one arm and scavenged through with the other. My chest grew tight at the thought of Marina and Eli and what they would think if they found me gathering up money. If Ivie and Nelly knew, they would call me a thief. They’d charge me, and in the paper the headline would read, Store Owner Robbing Her Own Store.
A tree branch scraped the high window. The wind was picking up.
I turned to go, and in the doorframe stood Ivie. Behind him the rain beat down. Gray light outlined his barrel chest. A toolbox hung from his hand.
“Here I am to change the locks and keep you out,” Ivie said. His voice was raspy from years of heavy drinking.
“This is my store.” I shivered, soaked to the bone.
“Not anymore.” He placed the toolbox at his feet.
“You can’t just take my husband’s property.”
“You’re a drowned rat looking for a lifeboat,” he said. “Get out.” He took a step toward me. His clothes hung wet and disheveled on his large frame.
“I came to get food for the wake.” I hugged the jars against my chest.
“Like hell you did.” Another step toward me and I could see his face in the dim light. He smirked.
“This is my property.” My voice sounded thin. I shuffled around him.
Again he said, “Not anymore.” The smell of alcohol seeped from his pores. He had always been the whipping boy. First their father beat him for his careless mistakes, and later Elias would not give him a chance unless Nelly pestered.
“Go or I’ll call the sheriff,” I said.
He laughed. “You do that.” He touched my chin in a gentle way that unnerved me. His hands were rough like sandpaper.
I tried to get around him, but he was tall and broad. He hovered above me in wh
atever direction I moved, as if we were dancing without touching. Buttons were missing from his worn work shirt.
“I’ve waited a long time to have this chance,” he said. Did he mean me or the store or both?
I looked him in the eye. “What’s here is mine,” I said.
He gripped my arm in the same place Elias had bruised me the day before. “I know your daddy told you it ain’t yours, or you wouldn’t be here trying to get what you can.” He grabbed a jar of the coins and threw it on the floor. The glass shattered and the coins rolled and clanged against the wet concrete.
“Let go of me!” I yelled, hoping someone might hear, and then I regretted calling out. If someone witnessed this and gossiped, Marina’s opinion would turn against me.
His grip tightened on my arm. “I’ll do what I want.”
I knew how he looked at me. I had ignored his inappropriate words in the past. I had overlooked a brush of his hand on my skirt. I had felt sorry for Ivie and said nothing. One word to Elias and Elias would have laid him out, but Elias wasn’t here to protect me from his brother. “You have no right here.” My voice was hard. “I’ll call the sheriff.”
His breath was hot and stale. “I’ll call the sheriff myself.” He grabbed another jar and then the last and threw them against the wall.
My arms were suddenly empty and I flinched as the glass shattered and the coins rolled across the floor.
He stared down at me. His eyes were wild like when he came back from the war and people had called him “Crazy Ivie.” For a year he walked the streets late at night, despite Nelly’s protests and the sheriff picking him up, keeping him overnight, and calling Elias to come get him early in the morning. The doctors said he was in a fugue, not knowing his name, standing outside houses staring like he didn’t know where he was or who he was, or what was appropriate. He didn’t move, no matter if dogs nipped at him, no matter if people called out, “Go on home, Ivie.” He was stuck there, all of him frozen, except those wild eyes.
