Mrs. Patel’s eyes darted to her grandson. She understood that the detective’s revelation could mean years of trouble for Ashar and she was going to do her best to show that, while he might carry the name of a terrorist, Ashar did not have a radical bone in his body. She knew that his father had died a few months earlier in a raid, his brother escaping. One Rais down, leaving one more to cause trouble. She had told Ashar of his father’s death and warned him to be wary of his brother.
She also knew that the new head of the Rais family wanted Ashar to come home to Syria, wanted him to join the fight against the west. Something Ashar would never do.
“Has your brother told you he is coming to the U.S. to visit you, Mr. Rais?” The pen between Fred’s fingers twitched, tapping the pad of yellow paper lying on the table in front of him, waiting for the answer.
“W-W-we haven’t spoken for two years.”
“Your mother, then?”
“She was killed. I saw her die. I held her—her final breath.”
“I have something for you, Mr. Rais.” The detective nodded to Manny. “Mr. Salinas found your gold chain … and the ring … at a pawn shop.”
Watson reached in his pocket, laid the chain and ring on Ashar’s outstretched palm. Tears welled in his eyes, remembering his mother, remembered her whispering to take the ring from her finger as she lay dying in his arms, a ring to remember her by.
Ash in turn laid the ring on his grandmother’s palm. Stifling a gasp, she pressed it to her lips. “My baby girl.”
Ashar fumbled with the clasp on the chain. Star quickly stood, stepped behind him, fastening the chain around his neck.
“Now, Mr. Rais, your brother.” Detective Watson continued.
Mrs. Patel, with a deep sigh, tapped the nail of her finger on the table, affording her another second to regain her composure. “Ashar is estranged from his family, Detective Watson, and has been ever since he came to London to live with his grandfather and me. You, Detective Watson, must guard against lumping all Muslims together, the good with the bad. Ever since September eleven, two thousand and one, that horrific day, the date you term 9/11, has defined all Muslims as terrorists. I was visiting friends in New York City that day. My close friend lost her brother in the North Tower.”
Star, her breathing ragged, listened to Ash’s story unfold, the story about his past, the past that made the man what he is today. He had never confided in her. Yes, she had wondered, but never pressed for answers. She had babbled on about her life and now realized he told her virtually nothing about his. What horrors had he seen? His mother dying in his arms?
“As the horrific scenes streamed from my friend’s television throughout that day and night, and those that followed, the unfathomable story unfolded of the radical middle-east men who flew those planes.” Mrs. Patel closed her eyes, breathing deep, seeing her friend. Opening her eyes, she continued. “Believe me when I say those terrorists do not reflect the religion they rely on to justify their cause. They wrecked the lives of people like my friends who had come to America to live a free, safe life. Those men do not believe in Allah, our God, or your God.
“My friends and I began to realize what this might mean for us Muslims. Within hours when we ventured outside, as all Americans did, gathering in the streets, tears rolling down our cheeks, we were stared at, curses hurled at us as if we were responsible for this sin. We kept our heads down, but we could see the merchants in the neighborhood, Muslim merchants quickly display the American flag showing their solidarity with their country, America. But non-Muslim citizens turned on the merchants, threw stones through their shop windows—bakeries, shoe stores, butcher shops—a few hours earlier, those same shopkeepers thought of their neighbors as friends.
“My husband, Ashar’s grandfather, pleaded with me to return to London, warning me that I wasn’t safe in America. Not safe in America? I had done nothing wrong. Fear ran through the neighborhood—fear of being rounded up into internment camps as had been the case in World War II with some Japanese and Germans who were American Citizens.
“Planes were grounded for two days. Then some airlines began to fly under strict security. I was able to change my return ticket from November third to September eighteenth, seven days after this attack on your homeland.
“During the days following, while I waited to catch my flight, the women on our block did not wear veils, wearing instead jeans, T-shirts, anything Western, hoping they would not be targeted. The men shaved their beards, clipped their hair. Names were changed—Ali became Alan, Salim, my friend’s husband, chose to be known as Sam.
“We heard stories of citizens taking advantage of the situation, turning on their own—a robbery of a convenience store owned by a Christian, a Rabbi robbed at knifepoint. It seemed no one was safe.”
Star sat mute, stunned by Mrs. Patel’s words. Had she shown fear when she visited the still smoking ruins, the ash-covered sidewalks. When she saw a veiled woman, had she made a hateful face? Had she feared them?
The conference room filled with silence, silence filled with memories of that day—where they were when they heard a plane had struck a building in New York City. Remembered the horror as the minutes, hours, days unfolded. Now, here was another victim’s story. The story of Mrs. Patel and her friend.
Mrs. Patel stared at the group around the table, but she didn’t see them. The images in her mind were back with her friends, and the tears shed following the aftermath of nine-eleven. In hushed tones she rambled on. “We felt great guilt for something we didn’t do. When I returned to London, my husband and I wondered how we could protect our grandson. Foolish thoughts because Ashar was becoming a man, a man who would choose his own path.
“As a youngster Ashar feared guns, shrank out of sight when his father and brother left the house during the night heavily armed. Ashar saw unspeakable horrors. He began to stutter when confronted with authority, authority that could easily cut out his tongue if he said something they didn’t agree with. His father didn’t understand the boy, seeing weakness instead of revulsion for what his father stood for.”
Star sat, staring down at her folded hands resting on the table. Her thoughts swirling with what she had just heard. Ash had magnetism about him. She could see him being a spokesman for the community because he spoke from the heart. So what was Mrs. Patel really saying? That Ash was groomed for a life she and his grandfather saw for him? Is that a life Ash really wants to live? Is this why he seemed reticent to reach out to her?
Chapter 36
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THERE WAS NO CHATTER, no glib remarks, no smiles as everyone filed out of the conference room.
The revelations over the past hour hit Ash hard. He had never been told the details of his birth, about the deception. While stunning to learn he was born in the United Sates, a citizen by birth, it did not alter his path, did not change his mission in life. He realized the burden of the deception that his grandmother had born was a heavy one, weighing on her shoulders all these years. He also knew the revelations were a shock to Star.
They had to talk.
Detective Watson said goodbye as the group assembled outside the Daytona Beach Police Department building. He reminded Ashar to keep him apprised of his whereabouts if he traveled outside Volusia County. The detective would notify Mr. Rais once his birth certificate was authenticated, as well as any further issues having to do with his brother.
Standing outside in the late afternoon heat, Liz whispered to Manny, his head bent down to her. Nodding, he turned to Mrs. Patel. “How long are you staying, Mrs. Patel?”
“I’m returning to London tomorrow … early, from Daytona Beach Airport. There are many connections.”
“You’ll stay with me, Grandmother. I’ll have an extra bed brought to my room.” Ash looked at Manny. “My car is at The Crescent Moon, my motel on the beach.” He shook his head. “An ambulance, the detective … I’ve had rides of one kind or another since the robbery. Can I ask you to take my grandmother a
nd me—”
“Not a problem, Ash,” Manny said laying his hand on Ash’s shoulder. He looked at Liz, gazed around the group. “Liz and I thought maybe everyone would like to relax, let’s say decompress. We’d like to take you all to dinner. There’s a casual restaurant on the Daytona Beach pier—The Crab Shack.” Seeing a hint of smile on Mrs. Patel’s face, Manny plunged on. “Yes, Mrs. Patel, a touch of Florida. We’ll drive. Star, I see you have the diner’s van.”
“I really should return it. The diner isn’t far from the pier. Ash, do you want to come with me … we’ll catch up with the others?”
Nodding, he hugged his grandmother, walked alongside Star to the van. Manny helped Mrs. Patel up onto the front seat of his black SUV as Liz scooted into the backseat.
Climbing into the van, Star kept breathing deep, her fingers shaking as she tried to insert the car keys into the ignition. There was so much she wanted to say. So much she wanted to ask. But she didn’t know how to start … where to start.
The drive to the diner, only minutes away, was nerve racking.
Ash leaned his head back, arm up holding onto the roll bar. “The pier … can we talk?”
“Yes, yes. That’s good.” Star’s eyes remained trained on the road.
Chapter 37
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LIZ CALLED AHEAD to the Crab Shack, asked the woman answering to please save a table by a window, a table for five, a good table for a guest from London. Manny smiled looking at his wife in the rear view mirror. Of course, a window table would be more than nice. He had promised Liz if she had to give up something during her pregnancy he would give it up too, such as alcohol. But he hoped she’d give him a pass this one time. He really wanted a martini.
Picking up the lack of conversation, Liz leaned over from the backseat, describing to Mrs. Patel the points of interest. Manny noticed that Mrs. Patel seemed content to let the perky redhead jabber away.
Within short order the traumatized group reunited at a window table. Mrs. Patel with a wine-spritzer, Star, Ash and Liz holding glasses of iced tea and lemon, Manny an extra large martini—three olives.
Over dinner, the conversation quiet at first, reserved, turned to Liz and Manny’s pending event. The mood around the table lightened and Ash, picking up Star’s hand, suggested they take a walk along the pier. Excusing themselves, they walked to the back of the restaurant, stepping out into the somewhat cooler air overlooking the ocean.
Ash stuffed his hands in his pants pockets. Liz wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold but really trying to hold herself together. He kept his eyes straight ahead. He had to tell Star he was leaving, leaving her. His feelings for her had begun to swamp his thoughts. He knew she had dreams of her own, very different than his. He also knew they had no future.
“I like your grandmother. She’s devoted to you.”
“She’s been through a lot … seen a lot.”
“The way she talks about your grandfather, their plans for you … are they your plans too?”
Ash looked out over the ocean, down at the waves lapping at the pilings, the pier’s foundation. He leaned against the weathered railing, Star standing close to his side.
“Their plans are mine. My passion, my dream is to be my community’s voice in America, to tell Americans that it wasn’t the Muslim community, a God worshiping, respectful people desiring peace, freedom to pray in their own way … no, it wasn’t the peace-loving Muslims they should fear, but the radical, militant Islamists. I believe in my destiny, I believe I was born to be a voice for my community.
“My grandmother’s passion and my passion, coupled with my training in Media Communications, have given me the voice to reach out to other Muslims across the United States, to show them how to get their message out, their message that they love America and would never harm her. Quite the opposite, they want to protect her and the freedoms she offers.”
Ash looked at Star, his eyes scanning her face. Did she understand what he was trying to tell her?
“Our cultures seem to clash but they don’t need to. There are so many similarities … such as the belief in one God. Dreams to live a full rich life. A life of peace, respect for our elders, respect for one another. But this message is not heard. Young Muslims are torn between the past, the traditions of their parents, and how they wish to live in the present and the future. Many are confused. The older generation fears their traditions, their values are being lost. I wish my voice to reach the old as well as the young, that neither should fear this new world of freedom.
“What is so sad, is that great progress was being made. Then nine-eleven trashed it for all of us. It seems both sides view each other as an oddity, failing to understand how much each shares with the other. All need to reflect and then move forward to a brighter future.
“Please excuse my ramblings. I feel deeply about my mission, my choice to be a voice.”
“You’re so young to speak with such passion and when you speak with passion you don’t stutter. Why is that?” Star asked.
Ashar was exhausted—his head wound, his grandmother by his side once again, from the enormity of the task ahead of him. He turned to Star, slowly wrapping her in his arms, she weaving her hands around his neck, nestling against his chest.
Releasing her, he inched back, his eyes grazing her hair, her lips, her eyes. “You are a beautiful woman, Star. Yes, you are beautiful outside but you have beauty inside as well. From the moment I first walked into the diner—”
“You were looking for a job—”
“Yes. We joked about applying to be a cook. Remember?”
She nodded, her eyes searching his face.
Closing his eyes, Ash again wrapped his arms around her, whispering, releasing the words caught in a stranglehold within his throat. “I’m leaving for Miami. There’s a community of Muslims in Miami who fled the persecution in Cuba, who came to America. I’ll stay a few months … then Michigan, probably Detroit. No one noticed, but I hung back as everyone walked to the cars. I told Detective Watson my plans and that I would keep him informed as to my whereabouts.”
“But you have a job. You’re a reporter … your paper, the requirement for your degree.”
“I met with my professor giving him my final paper the day before … the day before the robbery. I submitted the story to the News Journal for the latest assignment the same day.”
“But, but they wanted you for the summer, and, and you said they promised there would be more assignments after that. My bake-off competition—another week. I promised Wanda and Charlie I’d stay through the summer—only a few more weeks. We—”
Ash put his finger to her lips, stopping her from saying more. “Maybe if we had met at a different time … our lives might have taken a different path.” He touched her hair, moved a strand that had fallen across her cheek. “The day I walked into the diner, saw your innocent blue eyes, the gold waves of your hair … I wish you well. You’re strong. Bring your dreams to life, Star Bloom. I … I must go.”
“When?” Air stuck in her throat, her body limp, she reached out grasping his arm, disbelief falling over her face, filling her eyes, mouth open to speak but no words could express the hurt. Fearing his words, steeling herself, knowing in her heart what he was going to say …
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” she whispered shaking her head, gulping for air, swiping at a tear.
Taking her hand, he led her back to the others.
They were standing, ready to leave.
Manny and Liz hugged Mrs. Patel, wishing her a safe journey back to London and shook Ash’s hand. Manny told him to call if he needed any further assistance.
Ash dropped Star’s hand as his grandmother kissed her on the cheek. “God speed, my dear.”
Ash steadied his grandmother, threading her arm through his, holding her hand in a strong grip. They walked out of the restaurant, down the pier to the street, steps slow at first, then gaining in stride.
Star watc
hed as he walked away from her.
Liz could feel her friend’s distress. She jerked her head at Manny. They had to do something to help her.
Liz stepped to Star’s left, took her hand as Manny stepped to her other side draping his arm around her shoulders.
“He’s leaving … for good,” Star whispered.
Liz squeezed Star’s hand. “How about we take a walk on the beach?”
Star nodded.
Removing his arm from her shoulder, Manny held the glass door open for his wife as she led Star out onto the old wooden pier, to the steps down to the beach. Ash and Mrs. Patel were out of sight.
A soft breeze cooled the humid air. A couple strolled barefoot, hand in hand at the edge of the surf, their three children squealing as a small wave rolled over their toes.
Star glanced up at the Bandshell. A stage crew was preparing for a concert. People were laughing, laying blankets on the sand, staking out their spot on the beach.
Star dropped Liz’s hand folding her arms across her chest. “Ash is a good person … don’t you think?”
Manny, his hands at his side as he moseyed along. “Yes, he is, Star. He’s wise beyond his years.”
Liz stooped to pick up a shell. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like, his mother dying in his arms.”
“Do you think he’s doing what he really wants to do, a missionary of sorts, I guess. Or is it because he feels an obligation to his grandparents?” Star asked.
“Either way … it doesn’t matter,” Manny said. He’s not a boy—his past, the people close to him, have had an influence, but in the end he settled on the path he wanted to pursue.”
Liz gazed out over the sparkling waves. “He seems to have the conviction to follow … what did he say … his destiny? It’s not often we meet someone with such strength.”
“So, I guess I’m fortunate that our lives touched this summer. I’ll never forget him.”
One Summer_...at Charlie's Diner Page 14
