by Gina Holmes
I smiled and hummed as though it were magnificent. Halfway through my serving, I glanced over at your father, surprised to find him scraping his bowl.
Fatimah slipped a piece of flatbread into Trent’s hand, which he promptly used to sop up the rest of the broth.
“Penny, I think your husband has a river of Sudanese blood in him,” Edgard said.
“Everything is delicious when you’re starving,” was Trent’s backhanded compliment.
“It is called shorba,” Fatimah said. “I will teach Peeny to cook for you.” A smirk found her lips, and I suspected correctly what was coming. She turned to me. “You make the stock with either lamb, if you prefer savory, or husband, if you prefer bitter.”
The comment went right over Trent’s head. More than likely, he wasn’t really listening to her anyway.
Edgard, however, did not miss it. “Fatimah, watch your tongue. We speak blessings, not cursing.”
She hung her head.
“You’re all right, Eddie,” Trent said. “I like a man who can put his woman in her place.”
Edgard picked up a piece of bread from the platter and dipped it into one of the small bowls of sauces. “God holds me responsible for my family. I am the shepherd.”
Trent turned in my direction. “You hear that, Penny?”
I just stared down at my bowl.
Fatimah glared at Trent, then gave me a look that made it clear what she was thinking. She addressed him with a voice far too sweet to be genuine. “There is a difference between a godly husband who leads his family to righteousness and one who leads them by the teeth.”
Edgard’s jaw clenched.
Fatimah gave him a nervous glance, then added, “I am glad for we who have husbands who do not yank. For God will deliver the prey from the mighty.”
Edgard relaxed at this. “This is correct, wife. God will deliver the oppressed. Praise the Lord!”
Trent sat silent a moment, hearing what he wanted to hear and filtering out the rest, I’m sure. Finally, he said. “Well, that was a good meal. Not much to it, but tasty.”
Edgard laughed. “That was just course number one. We still have three to go, my friend.”
After we ate a salad that seemed to me a lot like coleslaw without the mayonnaise, Fatimah brought out the main course. Another copper platter filled with whole fish—heads, tails, and all—covered in some sort of tomato sauce. I didn’t know how I’d be able to keep it down with their glassy eyes watching me.
Once again, Trent gobbled up every bite as though he hadn’t eaten in weeks—this from a man whose favorite food was Spam. I wondered if he would have been quite so hungry if he could see what he was eating.
I tried to help Fatimah clear between courses, but that stubborn woman wouldn’t hear of it and kept pushing my hands away.
For dessert, she brought us a bowl of what looked like a nest of spaghetti. She served us each a portion, giving Trent double what she’d given me. With anticipation written all over his face, he brought it to his lips, made a face and spit it back out into his napkin.
“You do not like?” Edgard asked, looking concerned.
“I’m just not used to eating my spaghetti with sugar on it.”
“So, our guest is not Sudanese after all,” Edgard said. “We like you anyway, brother. I do not like all American cuisine either. When I first moved here, I became so skinny before I married Fatimah. I did not understand how to eat your food. I thought butter was the worst cheese I ever tasted.”
Fatimah looked at him lovingly. “This is true. One day I found him crushing potato chips into a paste.”
When everyone else laughed, I let myself too.
“It is a confusing country at first. I am still unsure by many things,” Edgard said. “Christmas, for instance. A tree is taken from its home in the forest, dressed in lights, and displayed in a window. I do not understand what that has to do with the birth of Jesus.”
“I thought everyone in your country was Muslim,” I said.
Edgard nodded. “Most are, but not all. Fatimah’s family was, and they would not approve of our union. Nor my family. But she is my sister now, as well as my bride. I am a lucky man. And she is lucky too.”
Trent patted the table. “I’m apparently not lucky at all. I can’t even find my daggum drink.”
“We do not serve with dinner.” Fatimah ran a damp cloth over the spot on the table where the bread and sauces had been. “Would you like me to serve you a glass of water?”
“What I’d really like is for you to serve me a twelve-pack.” Trent grinned like we would all share his joke.
Edgard furrowed his brow. “You wish to drink twelve waters?”
Trent folded up his napkin full of discarded noodles and set it on the table beside his plate. “‘Water’ nothing. I’m talking about beer.”
Edgard’s smile disappeared. “I do not drink alcohol.”
“Is that a Sudanese thing? Surely y’all got booze over there,” Trent said.
Fatimah looked at her husband as if seeking permission to speak. Whatever look passed between them must have told her it was okay. “Edgard came to this country two years before me. He was very lonely. It was difficult time. Very difficult.”
Edgard rubbed at the face of his watch nervously. “I was accustomed to being surrounded by friends all the time. We played together. Slept together. Ate together. It was a very close community in my home country. Here, I was in a flat with one other man only. I worked too-long hours. He worked too-long hours. I saw no family. I had no time for friends. Lonely and sad, I drank so much then that I cannot drink at all now.”
“That must have been hard,” I said.
Fatimah put her hand atop her husband’s.
“It was a hard life in the Sudan for my family,” Edgard continued. “Two of my brothers were taken from my mother’s house and forced to join the militia. Made to kill their own people. Leaving my mother and friends behind in this terrible situation was too difficult, but now I can send money. Now I can help them to live a better life.”
Although Trent was listening, as usual, he wasn’t hearing a word. “Well, at least you’re here now, and no matter what everyone else says about immigrants, I think you’ve got as much right to be here as anyone. The American dream, man—it’s for everyone willing to work for it.”
Edgard ran his thumb over a scar running across his knuckles. “My dream, my friend, is neither American or Sudanese. It is—”he pounded his heart—“the Christian dream. My responsibility is to my people second, to my God first. True?”
I fell in love then, Manny, not with my best friend’s husband, but with his godliness. It was just beautiful. I was so jealous of Fatimah at that moment. Not of what she owned—she had nothing—but she had everything a woman could want.
EIGHTEEN
“HOW DID you get so lucky?” Standing beside Fatimah at the bathroom sink of another McMansion we were hired to clean, I squeezed the nozzle of the spray bottle. A mist of droplets spread like dew across the bathroom mirror as the smell of vinegar filled the air.
She stopped scrubbing the cleanser from one of the bathroom sinks long enough to answer me. “It was not luck. I prayed for an Edgard.”
“That must have been some prayer.” I pressed my fingertips into the damp paper towel, rubbing hard against a stubborn streak. “You’ve got a wonderful man. He is so in love with God.”
The bright row of vanity lights shone across her face, making her eyes appear more amber than their normal shade of mocha. “He is a good man and I am good woman, too. What of your husband? He is harsh man, I think perhaps.”
After wiping away the last bit of lint left by the paper towel, I balled it up and let it drop into the small garbage can beside me. I grabbed the toilet brush from its holder and began to scrub at the ring running along the perimeter of the porcelain bowl. “Not every woman gets a man like Edgard. I hope you know how blessed you are.”
“You would not have thought me bles
sed when I listen to him complain this country allows one wife only.”
I stopped scrubbing long enough to turn and look at her. Her cheeks were becoming full from the pregnancy, but the extra weight agreed with her much better than mine did with me.
“Maybe not,” I said. As if being second to the TV and his drinking buddies wasn’t enough, I couldn’t imagine also having to compete with another wife. Suddenly I wasn’t quite so jealous.
She brushed a streak of cleanser from her cheek and shrugged. “It is just the way over there.”
“So, how did you two meet, anyway?”
She turned the faucet handle and began rinsing white paste from the sink. I had to strain to hear her over the sound of running water.
“Through our guide. His name was Tarik. It was his job to show us about this country’s customs when we were relocated. He liked Edgard, as everyone does. Knowing of his loneliness, he introduced us.”
I knocked the water from the toilet brush and flushed. Watching blue water swirl down the drain, I asked, “Was it love at first sight?”
She turned around and leaned against the sink. A little smile pulled on her full lips and her eyes lit up. My word, she looked so beautiful, Manny. It hurt to look at that expression because I wanted so much to feel that way about someone. “No. When I first set my eyes upon him, I was very frightened. He was so big. I thought a man that tall can kill me with one punch.”
My insides knotted. Now there was a feeling I didn’t have to envy.
“I wanted to run away from him and wait for a man not so big.” She turned back around, picked up her rag, and went back to scrubbing. “But it did not take me long to see he was a different kind of man. Not like the militia. Not like my father. Like Jesus.”
“He is different,” I agreed.
I stood and watched her through the bathroom mirror. “Peeny, he is the kind of person I wish to be. Nothing frightens him. Nothing makes him too angry . . . except disobedience to God. He loves me not because of what I give him or because of my beauty, but because God gave me to him for care.” She searched my eyes intently. “Do you understand?”
I didn’t, but I wanted to.
She moved to the other sink and sprinkled cleanser over it. “Is your husband a Christian man like Edgard?”
I didn’t know what to say. Your father had changed since his accident. He had spoken of God punishing him, but did he really understand what it meant to follow Jesus? I knew he didn’t. Not really. “He says he is.”
“Men can say many things with their mouths their hearts do not agree with.”
“He’s having us go to church together now.”
Fatimah grinned back at me through the mirror. “Oh, Peeny, that is wonderful. To where you go?”
“New Beginnings over on Oakwood Lane.”
A shadow passed over her face.
Pulling the shower curtain back, I looked to see how much work the tub was going to be. A narrow soap scum ring encircled the perimeter, and a wad of red hair lay entrenched in the drain grate, but everything else looked pretty clean. I picked up the can of cleanser from the ledge Fatimah had set it on. “You know the church?”
“I know it.” She turned on the second faucet.
“Isn’t it a pretty place?” I asked, feeling defensive and a little hurt. I guess I sensed her rejection of the church your father had picked out, and for some reason it felt like a rejection of me.
“Yes, it is pretty,” she said, “in same way your husband is pretty.”
I wasn’t the brightest bulb, Manny, but I wasn’t the dimmest, either. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Still scrubbing, she shrugged as if the conversation no longer interested her. “Ask Callie Mae. I do not wish to talk anymore.”
My face blazed with anger, but I held my tongue. If there was one thing living with your father had taught me, it was that.
On the drive home from work, I stopped at the food bank to see Callie Mae. Worry filled her face when she saw me walk in. “What is it? Are you okay? Is Fatimah?”
The shelves, which had been overflowing with food the last time I had been there, now stood nearly bare. An overhead incandescent light flickered like it was getting ready to blow, and the place smelled like insecticide. “What’s wrong with my church?” I asked.
Callie Mae looked nervously at an elderly man with a patchy white beard filling his bag with what groceries were left, and put a finger over her lips to shush me. She walked over and whispered, “What are you talking about? You look like you’ve been crying.”
I lowered my voice. “I told Fatimah that Trent and I started going to New Beginnings. I asked her what she thought of it. She said it’s pretty . . . like my husband is pretty. What’s that supposed to mean?”
She brushed a rogue strand of hair from her face. “How should I know? That woman has a language all her own.”
I could tell by the way she wouldn’t look at me that she understood Fatimah’s language just fine. “She said I should ask you what she meant.”
She huffed. “I’m going to kill that woman.”
I crossed my arms to let her know I wasn’t going anywhere until she spilled it.
The shopping man brushed something off the knees of his pants and carried his bag over to Callie Mae. He handed her a voucher, which she examined, scribbled something on, and slipped into her apron pocket. When she offered to take the bag to his car for him, he gave her a look that made it clear the offer offended him. When he left, we were alone.
“What did she mean?” I asked again, hating the quiver in my voice.
Callie Mae’s eyes filled with pity. “I think what Fati is saying is that the church is pretty on the outside, but the hearts of some of the people attending there are anything but.”
“How would she know?”
“She went there a time or two with Edgard. I don’t think either of them felt welcomed with open arms by the congregation.”
“Everyone was nice to me,” I said.
“You’re not exactly all that different-looking from them, now, are you?”
“They weren’t like that. There were all kinds of people there.”
She shrugged. “Maybe things have changed.”
I pushed my purse strap up higher on my shoulder. “So Fatimah is saying my husband is pretty, but not on the inside . . . or what?”
She sighed. “Let’s go outside. I need a cigarette.”
“I thought you quit.”
“I have, and I will again tomorrow.”
I followed her out to the back of the building and sat on the steps. Above us, clouds were trying hard to crowd out the sun.
Callie Mae stood on her tiptoes and felt around the inside lip of the canvas awning covering the stoop. Her hand emerged with a pack of Salems and a lighter. She tapped a cigarette out of the pack and looked over her shoulder before sitting down and lighting it. The stench of smoke filled the air as she sucked in a drag. “Let me know if you hear or see anyone.” Wisps of gray accompanied each word from her mouth.
“What is she implying about my husband?” I asked again.
She turned her head away from me and blew out a plume of smoke. I stared ahead at the old church van parked at the farthest end of the small lot. Someone had traced the words mystery machine onto its dusty back doors. “She doesn’t like your husband, Penny.”
Even though I already suspected as much, it still hurt to hear it spoken. “Why not? He hasn’t done anything to her.”
She used her free hand to rub at the center of her forehead as if she were fighting a headache. “She thinks he abuses you.”
I felt my muscles tighten. “Do you two just sit around talking about me when I’m not around?”
She gave me a weary look. “Fatimah and I have been friends a long time. We talk. That’s what friends do.”
“I thought I was her friend.”
She took another hit off her cigarette. “You are, sweetheart, and you’re mine, too. No one’s o
ut to get you here. Did she tell you about her past?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “She knows a thing or two about being abused. When she refused to marry the one her father chose for her, a man who was old enough to be her grandfather, he beat her within inches of her life while her brother-in-law held her down.”
I flicked an ant off my shoe and watched it scurry into the grass. “That’s awful for her, but she doesn’t know the first thing about me.” Cringing at the thought of what Fatimah had been through, I deluded myself into believing the abuse I’d suffered was somehow more justified. Trent had put up with as much from me as I did from him—jealousy, insecurity, and emotional outbursts for starters.
She knocked the ash off the end of her cigarette onto the concrete step. “Well, she’s got it in her mind he’s abusive.”
I don’t know how I got from the offensive to the defensive, but it seemed like it was always that way with me. “Is she just making up stories in her head? She’s never seen him lay a hand on me. The only thing he’s done is tell her he didn’t like her dessert. That doesn’t exactly make him Attila the Hun.”
Callie Mae gave me a look that made me think she might agree with Fatimah.
“Well, she’s wrong,” I said.
She stared at me for an uncomfortably long time. When I broke her gaze, she simply said, “Okay.”
“He’s not,” I repeated.
“Okay, he’s not abusive. But Fatimah thinks he is.”
A car alarm blared in the distance. I turned to look toward the street, but a house and a row of pine trees blocked my view. I stood. “Is that what you think too?”
She took another drag of her cigarette.
“I see.”
“She cares about you, Penny. So do I.”
The car alarm fell silent. “If she cared about me, she wouldn’t spread rumors about me and my husband behind our backs. That’s not what friends do.”
She smashed what was left of her cigarette against the step. “Friends don’t always say what you want to hear. They tell you the truth. ‘Faithful are the wounds of a friend.’”
