At last all is ready, and we say sunset prayers. As promised, I thank Allah for bringing Gabe into my life.
Prayers completed, we await the onslaught, Aysel on pins and needles.
The doorbell rings, and the royal family arrives.
After a round of introductions, we sit. Hasan’s father looks exactly like him, only a grayer, more wrinkled version. They both are bearded; they sport the same short black hair. Hasan’s mother is a handsome woman, not beautiful like Mama, but certainly not ugly. She is dressed in a hijab and flowing robes that cover her from shoulder to toe. The grandmother is not the old crone Gabe and I joked about. She actually is more beautiful than her daughter. Hasan’s mother must have taken after her father.
Mama serves the meze, the Turkish hors d’oeuvres, she has prepared. She has a plate of wonderful fritters Aysel made, plus a plate of cheese and meats. She also has a tray of glasses of Şalgam, a Turkish drink made from turnips and purple carrots. Sounds awful, tastes great.
“The fritters are delicious,” Hasan’s mother says.
“Aysel made them,” Mama says. “Our daughter knows her way around a kitchen.”
“Thank you, love,” the grandmother says to Aysel. “These are quite good.”
“I’m glad you like them, teta,” Aysel says lovingly.
I’m starving as more and more small talk ensues. I don’t hear much of it because my mind is on Gabe. All I want is another of his kisses. In fact, as hungry as I am right now, I would forego Mama’s fine meal for a taste of his lips.
“Shall we have dinner?” Mama asks.
Everyone rises, and Baba shows them into the dining room.
We consume the delicious meal with everyone oohing and aahing. Dinner conversation is constrained a bit. Hasan’s father dominates most of it, and he is anxious, without seeming ungracious, to know just how strictly Mama and Baba follow Islam.
Baba is wise and intelligent. He makes sure the man understands we are an observant family without going into much detail. Hasan’s father seems pleased.
With dinner finished, the women retire to the living room, while the men retreat to the family room. I would much rather hear Aysel bubble over her wedding gown, but I know I must forego the distaff side of the family and join the movers and shakers for this powwow.
Baba motions for the patriarch to sit in the recliner that is usually reserved for Mama. Baba takes his own throne.
Hasan, Timur, and I line up on the couch, three blind mice in a row. Like I said, the groom can negotiate for himself, but it is clear that Hasan’s father runs this family.
“So shall we begin?” Baba asks. I know personally that Baba’s only doing this for tradition’s sake. He long ago established trusts for each of us. Aysel, in the event of Hasan’s death, would have plenty of money. But Baba doesn’t want to spoil Aysel’s marriage by declaring what he really believes: that this is old-world claptrap.
“How much do you feel is fair?” Hasan’s father inquires.
Playing the game, Baba counters with “How much are you offering?”
And the game is on. After a while I quit listening. I’d much rather be across the street.
I’m startled by Timur’s “Do you really think my cousin is worth only that?” Tim has entered the fray.
“Timur,” Baba says, “Let the man talk. I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”
I don’t know what the offer on the table was, but apparently Tim was not happy with it.
I retreat into my romantic netherworld.
At last, Baba and Hasan’s father stand. The negotiation is over. The price is set. Aysel has been purchased. At a premium, if the smile on Tim’s face is any indication.
In a normal negotiation, a handshake would be in order to seal the deal. But Baba doesn’t shake hands. I’m surprised to see them each lean over to the table between the recliners and sign a document. This thing is important.
“It has been a pleasure,” Baba says. “Now let’s join the ladies for dessert, shall we?”
Nothing’s said of the contract when we join the women. Mama serves dessert, and at last Hasan takes his family away.
Hasan’s happy, Aysel’s happy, and Baba’s happy—that it’s over.
As soon as the horde of people departs, Tim turns to father and exclaims, “You got a fair price, Amca.”
“Timur, you make it sound like I was marketing cattle. My benim küçük kızım is not for sale. I was playing a part, and I played it well.”
“That you did,” Tim says. “And perhaps this family gave you a taste of how we Muslims should live.”
“Do you feel we are not good Muslims, Timur?” Baba asks.
Timur’s face darkens. “No, not that at all. I’m just saying that we might take lessons from Hasan’s family.”
“They’re very devout, Baba,” Aysel chimes in. “I’m learning so much, and I feel much closer to Allah.”
“Your relationship with Allah is between you and Him, love, and mine is between me and Him.” He smiles at her, then looks at Tim. “Timur, you’d best remember that. We strive to be the best Muslims we can be in this house, and no external practices will make us better.”
“Yes, Amca,” Tim says. “May I help you with the dishes, Aunt?”
I’m surprised. Tim never offers to do what he considers “women’s work.”
Aysel and I gather up the dirty plates and take them to the kitchen, where Timur’s loading the dishwasher, Mama beside him.
“The mother was a very nice woman.” Tim states this matter-of-factly, and he doesn’t seem to need a response.
“I did enjoy meeting her,” Mama answers, nevertheless.
“She reminded me of my mother.” The volume in Timur’s voice lowers, as if he has revealed a very personal thing, and he’s not sure he wants us to hear it.
“Sila was a wonderful person, Timur, love,” Mama says to him. “She was very devout, and she loved all of you very much.”
I expect Aysel to chime in with something like “oh, Mama, you’re devout and love us too.” But even my ditzy sister senses when it’s time to keep quiet.
“She left us far too soon, Timur, but she gave me a second son, and for that, I’m grateful.” Mama kisses his forehead.
I scold myself silently for not seeing the real Timur. The heartbreak he lived through had to have scarred him. And yet, for years, I’ve let myself be caught up in my own world.
“And now,” Mama says, “what say we honor Sila by all joining together for evening prayers?”
Tim has a larger smile on his face than I ever thought he could muster.
Aysel and Mama stand behind Timur, Baba, and me as we pray. Tonight’s evening prayers somehow seem more meaningful to me. Baba has confidently done the negotiation he’d been dreading, Mama has comforted Tim during his time of need, Aysel is supremely happy with Hasan, and I—well, I have Gabe.
Prayers finished, we all disperse. I know Mama will be phoning Gabe’s mom, Mary, with Aysel hovering over her. Baba will no doubt spend a quiet hour reading the Quran. Timur will retreat to his keyboard and monitor.
And I can skype with my love.
“Whuzzup?” he says when he sees my face and I, his.
I love the way he says that. I love the way he says everything. I love the way he sometimes doesn’t talk at all. Voluble or silent, he is ecstasy.
“Everything went well.”
“So how much is your sister worth?”
“Would you believe I spaced out and missed the final showcase?”
“So she could be a $3.99 bottle of Suave shampoo, huh?”
“For all I know. But judging from how pleased everyone was, I’m thinking she fetched thousands.”
“Good for her.” He laughs. “Are we horrible? Talking about your sister like she’s a prize on The Price Is Right?”
“Allah will forgive.” His laughter fills me, and I laugh along.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” Gabe says. “You’re some good ki
sser.”
I’m sure he can see my blush, but I don’t care.
“You’re not bad yourself,” I flirt.
“Well, if you had not plunged in and taken charge, we might still be waiting. I was afraid.”
“Let’s talk about that for a moment,” I say. I really want to erase his fears.
“You’re sweet. What I meant was I was afraid you didn’t want me. Not the other thing. Your loving me has taken care of that.”
“So easily? I hope. But never, ever be afraid to discuss it with me. As for that other fear, you never have to be afraid of me, Gabe.”
“It seemed like things were leading up to this, but then the three-month hiatus happened. I lost momentum. That’s putting it mildly,” he adds, an aside. Then he continues. “I started to doubt. About the prejudice we might face. I also worried the Muslim thing would get in the way just generally speaking. You may not have noticed, but we have been raised differently. And then, too, maybe I was moving too fast. And finally, maybe you weren’t even gay, much less want me.”
“Look, Gabe, my love, my only love, I can help you with your fears. I can guarantee that we were not raised all that differently, because we’ve both been raised in houses full of love. And full of God’s love. Whether we call Him Allah or God, he is among us, in both our families. And that too-fast thing? I admit I’m glad we took it slow, but there was a moment, that day on the couch when we were watching the walkers, that I wanted to kiss you so bad I couldn’t concentrate on the TV. Oh, I wanted you, all right.”
“Me too. And these last three months, I shoulda stuffed my fears and made more time for you. I wasted so much of our time together. I’m sorry about that.”
“No need. We’re together now. And that’s all that matters.”
We fall silent, gazing into each other’s eyes. He seems so happy. I’m beyond content.
At last he speaks again.
“I guess we both need to get some sleep,” Gabe says hesitantly.
“I know. I just don’t want to leave you. I don’t ever wanna leave you again.”
“Walk to school tomorrow together?”
“Do you think we’ll make it? I know a clearing in the woods. We could ditch school, and—” I pause, leering at him. “—you know.”
“Kerem Uzun, supreme leader of the senior class, I’m surprised at you.” He flashes a wicked grin. “Besides, that clearing is where you pray. We shouldn’t defile a sacred space, and at this moment, I want to defile you, over and over and over and over and over….”
He’s still talking when I say, “I love you.”
I hear a noise in the hallway. Why didn’t I shut my door when I came in? I was so intent on seeing Gabe that I forgot a basic tenet of covert operations. Who was out there, lurking? And did he or she hear anything?
Chapter 12
Timur
I DO a Google search for mahr. I feel like Amca has gotten a fair price. I hope to find examples of what other brides have gotten. But my search is in vain. I suppose it is a personal thing that is not broadcast all over the internet. But what’s not broadcast these days?
I like Hasan’s family. They appear to be wonderful Muslims. Very devout.
I know Amca and Aunt are good people, that they are devout followers. I only wish their practices matched more closely those of my father and mother. Before everything happened, our family was so happy. I miss that.
But I have a new family. It felt so good for Aunt to say what she said, to call me her son. More and more, I feel that. For so many years, I think I didn’t let them in, Aunt and Amca. I shut them out of my life, somehow thinking that would bring my own Baba and Mama back. I was a kid. A kid when Zeheb passed, when Mama died, when Baba did what he did to Delal. And for all the years since, I’ve stayed that kid.
But now I am a man, and I must act like one. I saved Amca’s practice with my computer skills. And he rewarded me far more than he has rewarded his blood children.
And now Aunt Maria has proclaimed me her son, equal to Kerem.
Kerem, the magnificent. The golden child.
I must get to bed. But first, I must brush my teeth. I go to the hall bath.
I hear him. There is another voice. Gabriel. What are they talking about? The mahr.
I position myself hidden outside Kerem’s door. I want to hear if my cousin credits me for the magnificent sum we negotiated. He does not mention my name at all.
But what is this he’s saying?
To Kerem, the magnificent; Kerem, the golden child; I can add another thing:
Kerem, the sinner.
Chapter 13
Gabriel
I’M BEING goofy. Defense mechanism, I guess. Joking about sex seems as good a way as any to ensure I don’t get hurt if Kerem is not as serious as he seemed to be earlier about us. His words say he’s serious, but this is happening so quickly. I feel total guilt. My fears are real, but there are a lot of fears in this world. If everyone gave in to them, the world would not turn. Then, too, I felt us heating up that afternoon Shaun was beaten half to death, and I got scared. Scared that I was reading too much between the lines. Scared that this was something that couldn’t be, even though we both wanted it. That cliché: two different worlds. It certainly applies. My senior research didn’t provide the comfort I’d hoped for. It just left me in the dark about how Kerem’s family would accept us as a couple—how Kerem would accept the idea. So I bury my feelings in humor. That’s me.
But his “I love you” stops me, sets me right—thrusts me instantly back into the romantic mood of this afternoon. I will never get tired of hearing that. Not from him.
I open my mouth to say I love you back at him, but his face vanishes from the screen. Suddenly I’m looking at his backside as he rushes away.
That’s it. I blew it. I came on too strong with the teasing. I should be treating him with the proverbial kid gloves, metaphorically speaking. He’s newer at this than I. I, at least, have been out of the closet for years.
“Ker,” I call. “Ker! Where’d you go?”
I hear him say, “Just a minute.”
Then he returns, a stricken look on his face.
“What’s wrong?” I am genuinely concerned. One moment we are whispering sweet nothings, the next he is trembling. Did I cause this?
“I think someone heard us. I was so anxious to skype with you, I forgot to close my bedroom door. I think I heard something out there, in the hall.”
Before I try to calm him down, for a millisecond, I thank God that I didn’t cause this. “Don’t panic,” I reassure him. “It could have been anything. Did you look? Was anyone out there?”
“I didn’t see anyone. I hear the bathtub running now—the pipes in this house are very noisy. Maybe it was just Aysel heading to her nightly bubble bath. I shut the door, so we have privacy now.”
“Well, don’t worry about it. I know you’re concerned about your family’s reaction to us, but I’ve met your family, and I can’t imagine your folks being upset—especially since, as you say, they are okay with the general idea of gay Muslims. It will be all right.”
“I hope you know what you’re talking about.” The fear’s still in his voice, but it’s less. Like he’s accepted that the immediate threat was nothing.
“Listen to me, Ker. I know what I’m talking about because I’ve gone through the whole tell the parents thing. I agonized over coming out to my family, and when I finally worked up the courage, they were like ‘no big deal.’ I don’t know your mom and dad well, but I think that will be their reaction to your revelation too.” It feels good to be covering familiar territory.
“Inshallah.”
A knock. “Hold on a minute,” I say, then swivel my chair toward the door.
“Gabriel, can I come in?” It’s Mom.
“Sure.”
She opens the door and waltzes in, happy as a clam. I don’t know why or how clams can be happy, but that’s what I’ve heard, and Mom is very happy now, so she must be
happy as a clam.
“I just talked to Maria. She and Aysel are as excited as I am about the dress.” She glances toward the computer. “Oh, I interrupted.” She leans over toward the desktop camera.
“Mom,” I plead mockingly, “how do you know who I’m talking to? You might be interrupting a very important call.”
She pushes at me with her hand. “Oh, poo! I know it’s Kerem. Who else would put that smile on your face?” Then she stares at the screen and adds, “See? Was I right? Hi, Kerem. I was just telling Gabriel how excited I am about your sister’s wedding gown.”
“Not half as excited as she is, Mrs. Dillon.”
“Now, you call me Mary. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other, what with fittings and the wedding and such. Your mama told me she’s cleared her afternoon schedule for the next month to deal with all the prep for the wedding. I told her I’d be happy to help her with all that, after I get the dress done. She sounded like she figured I’d have no time to help, what with the dress being a big job and all, but I told her, ‘Maria, you just wait. You’ll see.’ Gabe will testify: I’m like a house afire once I get started.”
“You tell him, Mom,” I chime in, having to crane my neck over her shoulder to be seen by Ker. “Tell your mother that Mary Dillon’s unstoppable.”
“I’ll tell her that,” Kerem says, then adds a hesitant, “Mary.”
“Well, I’ll leave you boys to whatever you were doing. Enjoy!” And Mom waltzes back out, pulling the door closed.
“Your mom is a powerhouse, Gabe. My mama and Aysel don’t realize what they’ve unleashed—Super Mary!”
“She has a big yellow S under her Mom dress at all times.”
We laugh. “Now,” I say, “where were we?”
“I think we’ve exhausted the coming out thing. My parents don’t know, I’m afraid to tell them, and you say it will be okay. Am I missing anything?”
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