Garage Sale Diamonds (Garage Sale Mystery)

by Suzi Weinert

  “A Muslim-American wife, Mahmud? How did this happen?” Ahmed’s own training forbade unnecessary social mingling with the enemy, never mind marriage.

  Rather than apologize, Mahmud allowed his smug expression to suggest an opposite story. “In truth, it’s genius. Although I executed the task brilliantly, I can’t take credit for originating it. Years ago, when the Great Leader placed me in this infidel country, he instructed me to find an American bride. Imagine my disgust at this unthinkable duty. But marrying an American put me in the quick-line for American citizenship and proved to everyone here my willing integration into this life—a life you and I know is entirely false.” He gave an ironic laugh. “Who would suspect this ‘Americanized’ Muslim man is actually a terrorist?”

  Recognizing the strategy’s cleverness, Ahmed said, “I see we all play needed roles here. And have these twenty-four years of integration changed your dedication to carry out our mission? Speak truly now, for this is essential.”

  Mahmud’s face sobered. “If anything, my resolve grows ever stronger. You have no idea how hard this is. Every day I am torn between acting like a perfect American husband or killing my wife. My life is a nightmare! Only a strong man could endure the madness. And she’s not even pretty. But the homely ones are easy targets, wanting husbands to validate their worth. She insists on some independence, and when I give her the discipline she deserves, she threatens to leave me. American men, she argues, don’t treat women that way. Then I show her newspaper stories proving this untrue. Many American men beat and even kill their women. But I cannot risk doing this during my assignment here in case someone calls the police. I must blend into this filthy culture to avoid all suspicion. I cannot draw attention to myself until Allah, blessed be His name, calls me soon for our great mission. ”

  “Rocks fill your path. I see that,” Ahmed agreed. But how could this man thinks his wife plain? “Your wife is homely?”

  “Ugly. Her color is washed away: white skin, blue eyes and the hair beneath her hijab is yellow.” He flinched. “She’s not at all our kind. Never would I willingly choose her for a wife.”

  Mahmud spoke with such venom that Ahmed didn’t doubt his sincerity. Odd, because the very differences he loathed fascinated Ahmed. He remembered his father’s delight in his mother’s unusual green eyes, perhaps a genetic gift from early European plunderers or European women brought centuries earlier as gifts for powerful Sultans or Caliphate rulers.

  “In this country the wife’s family expects no dowry. Imagine! None! Coaxing her to marry was easy, at least for a clever man like me, but living with her is impossible. She disgusts me every day. First, the way she looks. Second, she wears only the hijab, not a veil. Third, she won’t stay at home under my protection and control.” He shrugged. “Unlike our homeland, this degenerate American society fails to combine laws and customs with religion to enforce a man’s sovereign power over the women in his household. Even so, many American men correctly regard women as inferiors.” Mahmud laughed. “Some of their own religions, especially those called ‘fundamentalist,’ instruct men to rule as undisputed, respected heads of families…just as we do.”

  Ahmed cleared his throat. “Your wife’s manner and dress show Muslim modesty…”

  “Yes, but she’s not our kind of Muslim woman. She goes to meetings in the community and helps at Safia’s school. I insist she account to me where she goes and what she does. She drives a car, unheard of in our homeland. She questions my decisions, or did until I punched that notion out of her.” Mahmud gave a conspiratorial grin, confident any Muslim male understood his mandate to flex control upon household members defying his will.

  Inwardly, Ahmed winced. His own father lifted no hand to harm the beloved, beautiful creature who was his wife.

  “The final insult: she prevents conception. Oh, she denies this but what else explains we have only two children in twenty-three years of marriage? We should have at least ten.”

  Ahmed nodded gravely.

  “Zayneb is her Islamic name; she was called Phoebe before. She changed names when she converted from Protestant to Muslim because she correctly recognized the greater wisdom of our teachings. She joined Islam on her own. When I show her the Quran teaches a wife’s total submission to her husband, this sometimes works to my advantage.”

  “And how is that?”

  “I remind her she chose this path and my dominance is a vital part of the religion she selected. Confronted with this as her decision, I needn’t force her to obey. She forces herself.”

  Ahmed thought if this were true, Mahmud would complain less, but he said nothing. His host filled the silence. “Zayneb inherited this house when her parents died.” He gestured around the room, “Well-built, large house, four bedrooms, good neighborhood. If she dies, as her husband, I inherit it all.” An ancient Bedouin gleam glittered in his eyes. “And she could die,” he held his hands as if choking someone, “because accidents happen all the time.”

  Ahmed made no comment, but his host’s message was clear.

  Mahmud changed the subject. “Look, the Americans have a saying, ‘the right tool for the right job.’ Zayneb is such a tool, needed to build the convincing structure to hide me…and you…until we complete our holy mission. She doesn’t know, but she is our cover.”

  “And your children?”

  “Ah,” Mahmud hesitated. “They are merely daughters, yet the fruit of my seed. The older one is lost to American ways, but the younger is devoted to me, and I admit special fondness for her.” Covering emotion in his voice, he added with conviction, “In the end, the little one is still another tool, yet one I leave with regret when you and I soon reap our rewards in Paradise. For our God, glory to His name, I will gladly give my life and all I hold dear…including my youngest child.”

  Ahmed wished the joy of fatherhood could touch his own life. He pushed this thought aside. He gave his host a long look. The man’s words rang true, but something about him—a man integral to their mission—didn’t feel comfortable. Did Mahmud care more for his own glory than God’s?

  And what of Mahmud’s desirable older daughter? Why would a god put devilish temptation in Ahmed’s path at the very time his final sacrifice for his god was at hand? A test or a sign?

  “Come, we have work to do.” Mahmud rose and Ahmed followed his lead. “May I respectfully suggest we buy American clothes for you today, so you blend in? And have you a list of the other places you wish to go today?”

  “Yes, I will show you in the car.”

  “Come,” Mahmud gestured, “see my yard.” He opened the dining room’s French doors and they stepped out. Ahmed saw none of this when arriving at the front of the house.

  “This is the back deck. I installed the high fence for privacy. Many tall trees for shade. Over there, I built two raised gardens for flowers. Two more such gardens will go over here when I find time to build them.” His expression grew serious. “But I guess that isn't likely now unless you help me, is it?”

  In the politeness characterizing host/guest rituals in their homelands, Ahmed said, “Your house is solid and welcoming. Your yard is an oasis that brings peace to eyes fortunate enough to see it. Thank you again for your hospitality, Mahmud. Now would you like to show McLean to me?”

  As the garage door closed behind the men’s departing car, Heba peeked out from the kitchen. She’d listened to all they said.

  17

  Friday, 7:53 am

  Zayneb’s troubled face reflected inner turmoil as she drove toward Safia’s school. She’d known for years her husband didn’t love her, but today she faced her situation with cold objectivity.

  How young, naïve and idealistic she was twenty-six years ago when she felt teenage fervor to develop an identity of her own, distinct from the parents she loved. Repelled by typical rebellious symbols like dyed spiky hair, weird clothes, tattoos or drugs, she chose a different way to distinguish herself from her parents’ generation. At age nineteen, she’d changed relig
ions.

  Baptized in infancy into a Protestant denomination, she decided as an adult that their trinity doctrine confused rather than simplified her concept of one god. When a fellow student explained Muslims worship one god, she investigated. Right or wrong, the change to Islam seemed more a deity name-change than a concept-change. Islam valued her gentleness, shyness and modesty. Both religions spoke of a caring god who oversees human life and desired behavior. Good followers of both obey God’s rules in their holy book as interpreted by church, mosque or temple leaders. Rules and prayers differed, but all posed a path for living a good and worthwhile life.

  She liked the concept of women wearing a hijab, loose clothing, long sleeves and low hems to encourage Muslims to judge each other by their character, not their looks. Modesty played an important role in this attempt at equality. Absent overt sexual attire or behavior, the theory held, men and women could treat each other as fellow human beings rather than objects of desire. Protecting women struck her as the equivalent of valuing and honoring women, much as her father cared about her safety and welfare. She didn’t consider protecting might lead to controlling or that denying Muslim women education in some parts of the world relegated them to a state of arrested development. Women without skills, education or personal freedom tied many into roles as child-bearing domestics living at the mercy of their protectors.

  In Zayneb’s middle-class American world, this “lateral” conversion seemed daring and original yet safe. Rather than devaluing her as a woman, she thought respectful devotion to a strong, kind future husband appealing. She envisioned him much like her own father—a good-natured, intelligent, gentle man who loved her unconditionally while encouraging her education and the discovery and expression of her talents. She converted to Islam.

  Soon after her conversion she’d met Mahmud. She winced now, remembering her pathetic vulnerability as he swept her away with his foreign good looks, attentive courtship and vows of adoration. Never pursued so ardently, she blossomed under his flattering attention. Thinking back, she cringed at how her trusting, eager cooperation facilitated his courtship. His sharing her passion for Islam further elevated his importance then. With a convert’s zeal, she felt marriage to an authentic Middle-Eastern Muslim showed her new God—and the world—her dedication to Islam.

  Confident of his love at the outset, Zayneb realized after the first months that something was wrong. Not just indifferent toward her, he seemed repelled. Assuming this displeasure her fault, she tried recapturing his love with a tidy home, appealing personality, careful grooming, memorable meals, submissive demeanor and bedroom eagerness. Pregnant by then with their first child, she used every means she could think of to right the marriage. She offered him her entire self and all she owned to underscore her trust in him and commitment to their future. This included agreeing to his repeated request to legally combine their assets, despite her earlier promise to her now-dead parents to keep the inherited house where they lived always in her name—for her protection.

  When attempts to win back his love failed, her new religion reinforced submission. She resigned herself to accept responsibility for the painful consequences of her mistake. This was Allah’s will. She knew not all marriage commitments worked. Even in America, where people could marry for love rather than family-arranged marriages between virtual strangers, fifty percent ended in divorce. She’d tough it out.

  For years she’d lived with her bad decision, but the night he first beat her, she decided two things: to escape his control and to leave with her children.

  Zayneb knew Mahmud’s stern, strict, quick-tempered and humorless demeanor offended many, like Roshan next door. For years Zayneb excused his traits, hoping he loved her in his own brusque way. She realized every culture included those who were kind or cruel, cheerful or grumpy, polite or rude, thoughtful or opinionated. Islam had no corner on that universality. Marriage everywhere included the luck of the draw.

  She knew her husband adored their younger daughter but had turned stone cold toward Khadija. Zayneb also chafed at her husband’s stinginess and shivered at the cruel streak surfacing more frequently. Now fully recognizing the pathetic quality of her marriage, she’d still walk the path forced by her earlier choice, but she’d begin walking it her way.

  With her house in both their names, under Virginia law he’d get half in a divorce. They couldn’t divide the house, so she’d be forced to sell it to pay his half and leave the familiar neighborhood where she grew up with her family and many friends. At twenty-three, daughter Khadija could fly on her own wings, but not little Safia. Zayneb would need a job to support her. And where to live? Mahmud could pay little alimony or child support. He financed their marriage with salary from his job, and she guessed he hid part of it from her.

  What had she gotten into and how to get out? Besides her consideration of the practical aspects of leaving him, she feared the way his temper flared into violence if he thought she questioned or defied his authority. Many honor cultures punished disrespect by disfigurement or death. This profile fit Mahmud. The public rejection of her divorce filing would embarrass him in front of his friends. Would he, perhaps with their help, hunt her down to exact revenge? Could she and her girls survive these retaliations?

  Should she take Heba with her when she fled? Surprised but not displeased twenty-four years ago when her new husband arrived with a mute servant, Zayneb believed his story of kindly rescuing this poor woman with nowhere else to go. Now the woman was part of Zayneb’s household as well. She’d discovered Heba’s quick intelligence and over the years schooled her in the three R’s—partly to simplify household teamwork and partly from pity for the woman’s hapless plight. Heba’s gratitude for this kindness evolved into grateful loyalty. No, she couldn’t abandon Heba.

  And what of this visitor? For years Mahmud told her if Middle-Eastern visitors arrived his culture expected him to open his home to them. But in twenty-four years no visitor came until now. Who was he and why was he here? And what about his obvious interest in Khadija?

  “Ummi, are you okay?” Safia asked her mommy.

  “Yes, fine, Safia. I’m just thinking about lots of things. I bet you do that sometimes, too.”

  “Yes.” The child bubbled with smiles. “Right now I’m thinking about garage sales tomorrow. See these signs on all the streets in our neighborhood? Could we give a garage sale at our house, too?”

  “Your father would not allow it.” They drove in silence as each considered this. Having no money of her own forced Zayneb to beg her husband for every household penny. Besides controlling her spending, he reveled in interrogating and humbling her in this way.

  Though she couldn’t conduct her own sale, Zayneb made a plan with Roshan who lived next door. Originally from India, Roshan and her husband had settled in this neighborhood thirty years earlier. Zayneb’s parents befriended them the first day and, over time, became close. When Roshan’s husband died suddenly a few years later, they encouraged her to stay in McLean, which she did. “Auntie Roshan” took then twelve-year-old Zayneb under her grandmotherly wing. Years later, she continued this loving role with Zayneb’s children—to Mahmud’s vocal consternation.

  In her British-Indian accent, Roshan told Zayneb, “For the garage sale you gather clothes that don’t fit, books and toys your children don’t want and household things you don’t use. Three-times good luck to get rid of things—to clean out the old, get money to buy new things and to recycle.” Zayneb smuggled over many items Auntie next door would sell for her tomorrow.

  “Could I also bake for the sale?” Zayneb asked. Roshan agreed with delight. So, while ostensibly baking for her family, she quintupled recipes, packaged cookies in Ziploc bags, tied each with ribbons from a spool Roshan gave her and spirited them next door.

  As she drove, Zayneb reflected on recent events. Ahmed arrived yesterday, on Thursday afternoon. At breakfast today, her husband said they would be gone much of the day. Her husband never told her when he’d ret
urn—to keep her waiting, ever anticipating his arrival. While she helped this morning at Safia’s school, she asked Heba to search through the house for saleable items no longer used. Back home at noon, she saw the woman had gathered a few more things, including the box of toys from Safia’s old room, now occupied by Ahmed. Zayneb priced the toys and hustled them to Roshan before her husband returned. The sale began tomorrow at 9:00.

  18

  Friday, 8:58 AM

  “We arrive in two minutes; prepare the door.” Mahmud spoke into a cell phone. As they approached the warehouse, the automatic garage door lifted to admit them. The others had parked elsewhere in the vicinity and walked to the meeting place.

  Embedded in the U.S. for so many years, the men Ahmed met today chafed for action. Mahmud opened the door into the office. “This is our honored guest, Ahmed, and I am Mahmud.” Abdul identified himself and welcomed them to his humble business facility.

  “Come,” Abdul bowed slightly and, with a graceful wave of an outstretched arm, indicated the direction they should go. Folding chairs formed a circle in the next room.

  Eight men stood respectfully as Ahmed entered the warehouse main room with Mahmud and Abdul. Shades covered all main-floor windows to insure privacy; industrial fluorescent lights bathed the room in harsh commercial light.

  “Salaam Alaikum.” Ahmed pronounced the traditional greeting.

  “Alaikum Salaam,” they responded.

  Abdul indicated the prominent chair for Ahmed. When he sat, so did the others. The group shared enough Arabic to read the Quran but due to their differing dialects, ironically they conversed in their new common language: English, though peppered with certain Arabic words all recognized.

  Ahmed sat ramrod straight. “You were sent to this country many years ago for a specific reason. That fulfillment is at hand. If you are not willing to answer the Great Leader’s call, speak now and depart before we talk further.”