Still, as they walked toward the market, Azadeh stepped quickly with hope. Could it be her father had somehow managed to scrape a few rials together? Might there be some extra money? Some unknown fountain of which she was unaware?
Tomorrow was her birthday. And not just any birthday, she was turning eighteen! In a few hours, her childhood would be left behind her. It was supposed to be a great celebration, a time to celebrate the passing of the young ways and the coming of the responsibilities that came with being a woman.
She shivered from excitement as she clutched her father’s hand.
He looked at her, then pulled away uncomfortably. The mutawwa would be angry if they saw them holding hands.
If Azadeh had been forced to be truthful, she would have admitted that there had been times in the past when she felt her birthday had become more a day of mourning her mother’s death than a day to celebrate her birth. Sometimes Azadeh wondered if her father realized that she felt lonely, too. And though she wanted a present terribly, what she really needed was a token, some kind of sign that her father loved her as much as he had loved his wife. She needed a symbol of his affection, some indication that he realized that she missed her mother, too.
She lowered her head against the wind and didn’t look up again until they were almost at the market.
She knew what she wanted. She had eyed it in the market some three months before. But it was no article of clothing, piece of china, or something for her dowry. No, this was something more.
In her mind, she pictured the only photograph that she had of her mother, a faded black and white taken on her mother’s wedding day. She thought of the bright dress, her mother’s eyes peeking above the white veil that covered her face. She thought of the golden headband woven through her black hair, the single diamond centered just above her eyes. Simple in design, it was beautiful and elegant.
It was nothing but a dream to think that she might own something so beautiful one day. Far too expensive. It was ridiculous. It was for too much to even ask.
But they were walking to the market. And it had been his idea. Who knew what he was thinking? Perhaps a miracle was in store!
The market was not crowded, the coming storm having chased most of the people away. But the wind had died down now and it was no longer cold. The lanterns cast multicolored shadows in every direction. Rassa moved toward a small booth with handmade dresses hanging in display, a clash of lace and colors. Azadeh hardly looked at them. These dresses were for little girls! Her father watched her reaction, checked the price, hunched his shoulders and moved to the next stall. They worked their way around the market. Dresses. Handbags. Shoes. Denim pants from the West. A silver flute. He checked the prices carefully, occasionally lifting some less expensive item as if to suggest it to her before placing it carefully back on its shelf. Azadeh tried to show interest, but her heart felt faint. They were moving in the wrong direction! The birthday present she wanted was on the other side of the market, almost a block away.
Rassa lifted a set of small gold earrings, holding them next to Azadeh’s cheeks. “These are beautiful,” he said hopefully
Azadeh smiled and agreed. “They are beautiful, Father.”
“How much?” he asked the merchant.
“Forty-five thousand rials,” the merchant answered. Five American dollars! Rassa’s eyes dropped in a look of despair. Azadeh watched him, her heart breaking. She heard the sound of the coins clinking in his pocket and she knew he did not have enough. What might he be holding? A few thousand rials? Not enough for the earrings. Not enough for anything.
She would not get a present. But she didn’t care about a birthday gift, at least not any more. She only cared about her father and how he must feel. What a failure he must feel like. How disappointed and embarrassed! She watched him carefully and for the first time she saw it, a look of complete despair. Everything he had, he had given to her. But it was not enough. He looked away in shame.
She leaned tenderly toward him. “It doesn’t matter, Father. I know we don’t have any extra money, but that is all right. Come on, let’s go home. It will be OK.”
Rassa looked at her sadly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It has been a bad year. The cotton. The cows. We’ll do better this year. And then I will get you . . . .” He gestured toward the shops and the brightly lit kiosks with their playful displays. “I’m sorry, Azadeh,” he repeated as he lowered his head.
She took his hand and pulled him toward their home. “It’s OK, Father. I really do understand.”
They walked in silence, making their way up the dusty roadway that led to their home. At the top of the hill they stopped and turned back, looking down on their village. The wind had swept the skies clear and the moon was bright and orange, a large ball rising over the mountains. The lights from the village shone in the clear air and a huge bowl of stars shined over their heads. The Milky Way was full and fat, a bright band of stars. They looked at each other and Azadeh forced a quick smile.
“She is up there,” she whispered.
“Who?” Rassa asked.
“Your wife.” She hesitated. “My mother.”
Rassa shook his head slowly. “I hope so,” he said.
They looked at the sky a moment longer then turned again for their home.
They were just coming under the light of their front porch when Rassa turned and said. “You wanted something special, didn’t you?” he asked.
Azadeh shook her head. Her father watched her, then pressed. “I could see it in your eyes. I could see it in your actions. Did I even come close to guessing what you wanted? I don’t think that I did.”
Azadeh was silent, hoping she would not have to tell him what she had been hoping for. “It was nothing, Father,” she answered softly.
“This is a very special birthday. I know you had your eye on something. I have tried to figure out what you hoped for, but I had no idea. Fathers are not good at these sorts of things. This is where you need a mother. She would know what to get you. But I couldn’t even guess.”
Azadeh was silent.
“What was it?” her father prodded.
She kicked her sandaled feet through the dirt, then whispered in an embarrassed voice. He nodded slowly, a look of great sadness clouding his eyes. It would have been far too expensive. “I’m sorry,” he apologized for the last time.
“I still love you, Father,” Azadeh teased in reply.
* * *
After Azadeh was asleep, Rassa sat alone for a time, then pushed himself up from his chair and walked to his bedroom and stood by his bed. Leaning down, he pulled out a small chest from under the headboard then extracted a hidden key from a chain around his neck. Opening the chest, he extracted two American silver dollars, the only wealth he had ever accumulated in his entire life. He fingered the coins. They were heavy and firm. He held them tightly in the palm of his hand, then closed the chest and pushed it back under the headboard.
* * *
Azadeh woke early. The sun was just breaking over the mountains and the dawn was pink and purple from the clouds overhead. She heard her father working in the kitchen and smelled his special jellyrolls, her favorite treat. She lay on her pillow and smiled. He was the best father in the world. She knew that she was blessed. It really was enough.
She lay there a moment, enjoying the laziness of lying in bed, then threw back the covers and put her feet on the floor.
She saw it on her bedside dresser and her heart almost stopped. The gold headband had been laid on a purple cloth, the delicate links having been carefully arranged into a nearly perfect circle that glittered in the morning sun.
She didn’t move. She couldn’t move. For a long moment she just stared, her heart slamming in her chest. She glanced toward the door, then back to the beautiful gift again. She reached out for the headband then pulled her hand back. For now, it was enough just to look at it and know that it was there.
She held her hand to her mouth, then jumped out of bed. She ran
into the kitchen, slamming back her bedroom door. Rassa turned in surprise as she burst into the kitchen. She ran toward her father and fell into his arms. Pressing her face against his shoulders, she cried like a baby in his arms.
FOURTEEN
Sara Brighton watched her husband pack as she sat on the edge of their bed, legs crossed, her nightgown pulled tightly around her knees and tucked under her feet.
Like all military officers, Brighton had spent much of his career on the road and it only took him minutes to pack for the trip. One suit bag and one carry-on, the general had it down to an art. His travel bag was like his schedule, tight and precise. And he always traveled light; no fluffy bathrobes, extra clothes or personal pillows. The only non-essential item he would carry would be whatever history book he was reading at the time. For the major items he kept a pre-packed military suitcase in the back of his closet which contained a fully packed toiletry bag, underwear, dark socks, Air Force shirts, two dress uniforms, dark leather dress shoes, a long overcoat and athletic gear.
After joining the National Security staff, Brighton was surprised to discover how often he had to travel with only a few moments’ notice. (He had to laugh at seeing the look on his neighbor’s face the first time a military helicopter set down in their cul-de-sac to whisk him away. In a town that lived and died by perks, even the Armani-suited attorney had trouble matching that power play.) Because of the short notice requirements, Sara had learned to launder his clothes and repack his bag immediately upon his return, for neither of them knew when he would have to head out again.
As Brighton stuffed military papers into his briefcase, Sara watched in silence, twisting a strand of light hair in her fingers. She frowned, then adjusted her nightgown, pulling it over her knees.
“How long will you be gone?” she asked intently.
“Couple days,” Brighton answered. “Three days in Saudi Arabia. A quick hit and go.” Overseas trips like this were no more unusual for him than a trip to the mall.
“Saudi Arabia is a long way to go for just a few days,” she said.
Brighton pressed his lips and nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“You say you have some meetings with the Saudi military commanders?”
“Yeah. We’ve had a little problem with some of our joint operations we need to iron out.”
“Joint operations? As in command and control or operational missions?” After years of being married not only to her husband but also to his job, Sara had the basic concepts of military operations and lingo down.
Brighton dropped to his knees and looked under his bed. Pulling out A Short History of the World, he shoved it into his briefcase. “There are some operational options we’re looking at,” he explained.
Sara considered. Operational missions with the joint Saudi forces. She knew what that meant. If one read the daily papers, especially the Washington Times, one could add two and two together and come up with a pretty good estimation of the top-secret information that was briefed to the president in his Presidential Daily Brief. For weeks now, even months, the Washington Times had been saying that King Faysal was preparing to move against many of the terror camps that had sprung up along the Iranian border across the Persian Gulf, many of which were, ironically, funded originally by the Wahhabi fundamentalists that ran his own kingdom. Many of these terror camps had been used as the operations centers from which they attacked targets within the kingdom, and the king had decided he had no choice but to act. A house divided will not stand, and the terror these Islamists were wracking within his own kingdom had to come to an end.
Sara thought, formulating in her mind some of the issues her husband would discuss with the Saudi commanders. Would the United States provide military or intelligence assistance? Almost certainly. Air assets? Without a doubt. Ground operators? Probably Special Forces, but nothing that would ever be mentioned in the press. All in all, she knew there was no way the Saudis moved without significant U.S. support. How would that play with the government in Iran? Iraq? Bahrain, Egypt and Qatar? Perhaps the better question was how would it play if they didn’t act? If the United States partnered with the already weakened Saudi king, might that more likely lead to his downfall, something that was a tremendous concern in the West? How would the Iranians react if they suspected the United States had aided the Saudi attacks on Iranian soil? Worse, how would they react if they perceived the Americans as too weak to take action in a case that so clearly had national security considerations at stake?
Sara bounced the possibilities back and forth, grateful for the thousandth time that she didn’t have her husband’s job. It was a lose-lose proposition. Indeed, most of the issues he dealt with had little positive potential but were bottomless pits when it came to the downside.
Which explained why he was so tired and on edge all the time.
She counted the months until the next election. A little more than a year. If the president wasn’t reelected, something that looked likely now, the new administration would bring in their own team. Although ideologically Brighton would be much more aligned with the new administration, he would still be reassigned. At that point, they would have—no, they would get—to move on.
She approached the possibility with very strong, mixed emotions. Personally, nothing would make her happier. It would be like casting off irons, her family would be so much better off without the stress of Neil’s job. But both of them would miss being in the middle of the fight.
The fight. Funny how the word seemed to capture the mood now. And funny how it was something that she thought about all the time.
While Neil seemed to concentrate on the battles overseas, it was the battles that were taking place at home that had her more on edge.
It was certainly different than it used to be. The tone of society’s dialogue had become so emotional and ill willed. The sides were evenly split, and both of them hated each other. There was very little common ground between them. Everyone ascribed the worst intentions to their political opponents, to the point that the loyal opposition had been replaced by characterizing the other side as the enemy. The president, the man her husband had made a commitment to serve, had been the first to coin the phrase, she hated to admit. Worse, it seemed as if there was an open and visceral opposition toward anything that was good, even against those who had sacrificed so that others might live free. “Dumb Jock Killed in Afghanistan,” a small but influential newspaper headline had read in reporting the death of a well-known athlete who had volunteered for the war. Sara had printed the article from the Internet and pasted it in her journal. As a sign of the times, nothing seemed to say more.
But after years of life in Washington, she knew her way around and wasn’t fooled by everything that she read in the press.
They could still keep things together. Things weren’t completely hopeless, and that was her job, to keep her husband buoyed up. To give her young sons hope.
Sara considered in silence, completely lost in her thoughts, until the sound of the ticking clock brought her back to the room. She looked at her husband, who was staring at her.
“Did you say something?” she asked him.
“Do you know where my security badge is?” he asked for the second time.
“You left it on the counter downstairs. I tucked it the zippered pocket in your briefcase.”
“Thanks,” he answered quickly as he checked to make sure that it was there.
Sara pulled the two pillows and leaned back against the headboard. “So you’re coordinating some operational issues with the Saudis?” she asked again.
Brighton nodded quickly but didn’t offer more and she didn’t press. He always told her what he could, which wasn’t much anymore, and she had grown used to his silence about the things he was involved with at work.
She shivered lightly and pulled her arms close to her body. A cold front had moved through and a fall chill filled the air. The house was quiet around them. Luke and Ammon had gotten up early and were alre
ady gone.
Something strange happened yesterday,” she murmured.
“What happened?” Brighton asked.
Sara hesitated. “Well, you know the Burkoughs at the end of the block?”
Brighton hesitated. He didn’t know his neighbors well. “He works for State?” he asked.
“No. Other side of the street. Young black family. He’s an associate in one of the law firms on D Street.”
“OK. I know who you mean.”
“Great family. I like her a lot. She works for the Red Cross.”
“Yeah,” Brighton answered absently. The comings and goings of his neighborhood would never be of much interest to him.
“They have two daughters,” Sara continued. “The oldest girl, I think she’s seven, put her hand in a nest of black widow spiders yesterday. It gives me the willies just thinking of it. She was bitten at least six times, I was told. She’s in the hospital. They think she will make it, but she is a very sick little girl.”
Brighton’s eyes narrowed. “You’re kidding!” he stammered.
Sara only nodded.
“A nest of black widows! I’ve never heard of such a thing. They are predatory insects, they don’t nest together, they eat each other, I thought.”
Sara shivered and looked around their room as if she expected to see spiders crawling up the walls. “I don’t know, Neil. But she isn’t the only one who was bitten. A couple kids at the school have been bitten too. They say it’s the warm winters we’ve been having. Warm winters, no snow or freezing temperatures to kill the spiders like the normal winters would. I was listening to the radio. They said there’s an infestation of black widows that reaches throughout the South.” She shivered again. “I want to get our house sprayed,” she said.
“Do it,” Neil said. “Call the exterminators first thing this morning.”
Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 Page 10
