by Umm Zakiyyah
“Three,” he said with a grunt, a shadow of anger passing over his face. “And I despise that institution even more than marriage.”
Deanna felt disgusted with her brother right then, but she kept her judgment to herself.
“That wench lives like a damn princess while I can barely afford satellite TV,” he said bitterly. “On my dime. But apparently, that’s not enough. She had me put in jail.”
At the mention of jail, Deanna’s interest was piqued. “You were in jail?”
“Mom and Dad didn’t tell you?” Asher spoke in distracted anger, as if venting to himself. “Twice.”
A suffocating silence followed, and Deanna averted her gaze, remembering her own experience in jail. “What did you do?”
“What did I do?” Asher said, his voice rising in irritation, his eyes meeting hers in an icy glare. “Why do you assume I did anything?” Deanna opened her mouth to respond, but he continued before she could, “I didn’t pay enough child support, apparently.” He grunted and shook his head before leaning his head back and taking another gulp of beer. “But the whole damn system is extortion, if you ask me.”
“Do you see them often?” Deanna asked, missing Younus and Thawab just then. “Your children, I mean?”
“I used to,” Asher muttered. “But even that was a fight with her. So I just said f— it.” Deanna winced at his profanity. “She put all these crazy ideas in their head about me anyway, so what’s the point?” he said. “I’m a deadbeat whether I show up or not. But she sure cashes those checks every month.” He huffed then took another generous sip from the can. “And she doesn’t even bother to have a job.”
Deanna’s eyes traveled cautiously to the unopened beer can next to her. “Do you have bottled water?”
“What?” Asher contorted his face as he looked at her.
“I’m Muslim,” she said. “I don’t drink.”
Asher rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Oh yeah, I forgot about that.” But his voice was more compassionate than his expression.
He shook his head. “I drink tap water,” he said. “Feel free to fill your glass as much as you like.”
Deanna couldn’t tell whether or not he was being sarcastic, but she smiled nonetheless. She knew right then that she would be reserving a hotel that night if she was too tired to drive home.
“Don’t the Moslem women wear some type of headdress?” Asher said, making a circular motion around his head.
“Yes,” Deanna said, stiffening in offense. She hated when her entire identity as a Muslim woman was summed up in that piece of cloth. “But I don’t.”
“Hmph,” he said, a slight grin on his face as he regarded her with an expression that was difficult for Deanna to read. “Was your husband abusing you or something?”
Deanna twisted her face in disgust. “Of course not,” she said. “I would never let a man lay a hand on me.”
“So I guess you were abusing him then, huh?”
Deanna’s eyes widened in offense. “A’oodhubillaah,” she exclaimed before she realized that Asher would have no idea what the Arabic utterance meant.
“Aw hell nah,” he said, that grin still on his face. “I don’t want any of that Moslem voodoo in my house.”
“Why would you even ask me something like that?” Deanna fumed, ignoring his insult on her religion.
“Ask you what?” Asher said, his expression becoming angry and defensive all of sudden.
“If I abused my husband.”
“Oh, girl, get over yourself.” Asher flipped a hand at her, as if shooing her out of his sight, and in that moment, he reminded her of their father. “You’re a smart girl,” Asher said, a frown on his face. “You went to college and all that, so you know about the cycle of abuse.” He huffed. “But without child support bills, you probably have enough money to pay some stupid shrink to fix all your problems.”
Deanna looked at Asher as if he’d lost his mind. “The cycle of abuse?”
“Don’t tell me you’re almost pushing forty and you still haven’t figured out what the hell is wrong with you?”
Deanna just stared at him, unable to soften the indignant expression on her face.
“That’s why you’re here, right?” he said. “To find out how I cope and all that?”
“We-were-not-abused,” she said through gritted teeth, insulted that he would even suggest something like that. “We’re Michaels.”
The explosion of laughter was so sudden that Deanna started. Still holding his beer in one hand, Asher slapped his free hand repeatedly against the arm of the loveseat, his legs moving up and down as if running in place, his body rocking back and forth in amusement.
Deanna’s face was aflame in mortification at having incited this delirium, but her expression remained set in obstinate offense.
“Thanks, sis.” Asher drew in deep breaths as if trying to gather his composure. He placed his free hand on his chest and shook his head, a smile still on his face. “I’m glad you came. I haven’t had a good laugh since I destroyed my marriage.”
Deanna’s nose flared. “What’s so funny about what I said?”
Asher raised an eyebrow as he regarded his sister, a smirk creasing one side of his mouth. “You’re not joking, are you?” he asked rhetorically, a trace of sympathy in his voice. “You really think we had some stupendously great upbringing, don’t you? The up-and-coming Michaels, right? The sign to the world that underprivileged minorities can fulfill the American dream,” he sang out before erupting in laughter again.
Seconds later he sighed, shaking his head. “Damn, girl. And I thought you were the smart one.”
“No family is perfect,” Deanna said defensively, but she detected a falter in her voice.
“Is that the story you tell yourself?” There was a sneer on his face, but a moment later his expression became reflective. “I used to tell myself the same,” he said, a distant sadness in his eyes, a slight smile lingering at his lips. “But I can live with the truth now. We have one f—ed up family.”
He gestured a hand toward Deanna. “You get raped in the basement of our church. Bailey gets a pat on the back,” he said, as if enumerating the Michaels’s litany of faults. “Dad blames you. I beat my wife.” He shrugged. “I blame her.”
A shudder went through Deanna at the casual mention of what had happened to her. She was never sure that Asher even knew about it though she’d always suspected he had. He had been twenty-three and living on his own when she’d written the letter to her parents before running away from home. But he had stopped calling her Janice around that time, so perhaps their mother or father had told him. It was touching to learn that all this time Asher had believed Deanna, even without having spoken to her about it directly.
“You see that picture there?” Asher pointed to the frame that sat next to the glass mug and beer. “That’s me with the only friend I still have.”
Deanna’s eyes cautiously slide in the direction of the frame.
“You know who that is next to me?” There was humor in Asher’s voice. “Bailey.”
Deanna shuddered and turned away from the frame. She felt lightheaded all of a sudden and gripped the arm of the couch to steady herself.
“He’s a disgusting misogynist.” Asher leaned his head back and took another gulp from the can. A smirk was on his face as he swallowed and looked thoughtfully at the picture. “But I like him.”
Deanna’s stomach lurched, and she felt the bile rising to her throat. But she clamped her teeth shut and swallowed hard, refusing to let Asher’s words unnerve her.
“You know why?”
Asher’s question hung in the air like the stench of the room, but Deanna didn’t respond. She refused to even look at her brother right then.
Asher grunted, humor in that sound. “Because he knows he’s full of crap.” He spoke as if that were the most admirable trait in the world. “And that’s more than I can say for anyone else I know.” He huffed. “Including our self-righteous parents.
”
***
The sound of the shower woke Aliyah, and she felt the emptiness of the space in the bed next to her as her palm lay on the tussled sheet instead of the warmth of Jacob’s chest. A smile formed on her lips as she recalled the night before, and she immediately uttered the supplication for waking, translating the Arabic words in her mind. All praise is for Allah who gave us life after having taken it from us, and unto Him is the resurrection.
She instinctively glanced at the clock and saw that it was time for Fajr, the dawn prayer. She sat up and pulled the heavy duvet around her as she glanced around the bed for her gown. When she saw it lying in a small heap on the carpeted floor, she reached down then said “Bismillaah” as she shook it before pulling it over her head. She heard the shower water stop just as she sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up the breakfast menu from the nightstand to see what time breakfast was served.
“As-salaamu’alaikum,” Jacob said, a smile spreading on his face as he emerged from the bathroom, a hotel-issue towel secured firmly around his waist. He walked over to the side of the bed where Aliyah was thumbing through the breakfast menu and brushed her forehead with a kiss. She smiled up at him and returned the salaams, returning the menu to the nightstand as she stood in preparation to shower herself.
“How’d you sleep?” Jacob asked as he walked over to the other side of the bed and picked up his clothes then shook them as Aliyah had done minutes before.
“Good alhamdulillah,” she said and meaning it, a smile in her voice as she walked toward the bathroom. She looked over her shoulder, watching him as he pulled his shirt over his head.
“You?” she asked, halting her steps at the open bathroom door.
“Slept better than I have in years,” he said sincerely, winking at her.
She chuckled and shook her head as she stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.
***
You went to college and all that, so you know about the cycle of abuse. Deanna gripped the steering wheel so firmly that her hands hurt. Her tired eyes were narrowed and fixed on the silver darkness of dawn beyond the windshield. The words were Asher’s, but the voice in her head was her own, as if they’d sprung from her own thoughts. Don’t tell me you’re almost pushing forty and you still haven’t figured out what the hell is wrong with you.
Abuse.
The word carried with it so much weight, so many accusations. It was a word that Deanna associated with helpless women, women she was burdened with saving because they were too weak to save themselves. Abuse existed only in the context of someone else’s life, not Deanna’s.
She was a Michaels, so it was impossible that she had been abused. Other than her aunt, there was no one in her family who’d subjected themselves to such a lowly existence. Yes, Bailey had raped her, and that could count as abuse. But she had been only eight years old then, and she’d never let it happen again. She refused to let it happen again. Unlike Deanna, abused women suffered from learned helplessness and feigned weakness when they were really just addicted to their victim status.
No, Deanna would not claim victimhood for herself. She was above being a victim. Victims were people like Aliyah and her cohorts, people who could barely hold themselves together, let alone their lives and marriages. That’s why they needed Deanna’s expertise, to help them stand up straight and learn the basics of keeping a man.
But you’re divorced too.
The words slammed down upon her like the heavy blade of a guillotine.
She was repulsed at the thought of being categorized as a divorcée. She was not a divorcée. She was a marriage guru who prevented the category from even existing in the first place.
“You know what I suggest?” Asher had said when she’d told him of her insomnia and nightmares, and the involuntary screaming and internal tug-of-war with herself. “Apologize to every person who’s ever crossed your path.” His words were slightly slurred, as he was on his third beer by then, having consumed Deanna’s a half-hour before. “Start with your ex-husband and friends, then your children and colleagues, and don’t stop until you feel completely humiliated and exposed.” He laughed then took another swig of beer before gesturing the can toward her. “I wish I’d thought to do that before I f—ed up my life and everyone else’s.”
***
After her shower, Aliyah put on an abaya and khimaar before lining up at an angle behind Jacob in preparation for prayer.
“You want to pray your Sunnah?” he asked, turning to look at her from where he stood facing the qiblah. “I prayed mine while you were in the bathroom.”
“Sure,” Aliyah said, probably too quickly. Though she often prayed the two voluntary units before Fajr, she hadn’t planned to pray them right then. But after her husband’s reminder, she immediately raised her hands and offered the extra prayer, her heart lifting at the blessing of having such a good man in her life.
***
There it is again, Deanna had thought bitterly when Asher made the suggestion. That apology. Why was it that so many people believed that self-improvement was connected to appeasing someone else? Why couldn’t she just become a better person without humiliating herself? Why should she have to apologize to anyone? They were no better than she.
“You did what?” The look on Asher’s face had been a mixture of horror and disgust, and Deanna immediately regretted telling him of how she’d convinced Jacob to marry her instead of Aliyah.
“She didn’t deserve him,” she’d muttered defensively. “She had no idea how to keep a man.”
Asher just looked at her then, his disgusted expression unchanged except now there was a trace of pity. “And I thought I was a bad husband.”
“I did not abuse anybody.” Deanna was indignant, insulted that he would imply that her crime was greater than his.
He laughed out loud but left the subject alone. “We should get together some time,” he’d said minutes later. “The three of us.”
“I’m not speaking to Jacob anymore,” she’d said stiffly.
“Girl, I’m not talking about your ex-husband,” he said, a sneer in his voice. “I’m talking about me, you, and Bailey.”
Deanna glared at Asher, but she couldn’t tell whether he was speaking in earnest or jest. “I-refuse-to-have-anything-to-do-with-that-monster,” she said, speaking through gritted teeth.
Asher cackled and shook his head, setting his empty beer can at his feet. “That’s a shame,” he said, a smirk on his face, “because you two have so much in common.”
“I have nothing in common with him,” Deanna said, her voice trembling in fury.
“But you do,” Asher insisted, his eyes traveling to the framed picture as he spoke. “You both steal things from other people then insist that the victim deserved the crime.”
Deanna opened her mouth to respond but found she’d momentarily lost her voice.
“Except Bailey is better than you,” Asher said, his eyes reddened and unfocused from insobriety. But his voice was surprisingly steady and clear. “He doesn’t pretend to be good.”
***
“Let me tell you how I snagged Jacob.”
These were the words that came to mind as Jacob sat on the carpeted floor of the hotel room, a thin travel prayer mat in front of him. Aliyah sat diagonally behind him with her own travel prayer mat in front of her. “SubhaanAllah, subhaanAllah, subhaanAllah…” he said, glorifying God while enumerating with his fingers, and he heard the muttered whispering of Aliyah doing the same.
Sitting there after Fajr prayer, Jacob was overcome with gratefulness for the blessings that Allah had given him through Aliyah. Even as he’d suffered daily in his marriage to Deanna, there were times that Jacob had allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to have a righteous wife. The concept of having as a life partner a woman who loved and respected him as the leader of the household was something he’d begun to associate with generations past. Yet still, he hadn’t been able to quell his desire for a woman with a
t least a semblance of those qualities. But he’d imagined that it was his ungratefulness for what Allah had given him in Deanna that made this desire constant even as he was already married with children. “If you want a righteous wife,” the imam had said at Jumu’ah one day, “then ask yourself this: Am I a righteous husband?”
The imam’s question had given Jacob pause. Jacob had come to the Friday prayer that day mentally exhausted from yet another argument with Deanna, even as he had been at work all morning. On her best days, Deanna would make Jacob feel belittled and emasculated. Jacob knew she wasn’t always doing it on purpose, but that didn’t make the situation any better. There was constantly an air of entitlement and superiority with her, as if she viewed it as Jacob’s sole responsibility in marriage to fulfill her every desire, even if left unspoken.
On that particular Friday, Deanna had woken up in one of her nastier moods, when it felt as if her primary purpose was the argument itself. Even after an hour of back and forth, Jacob had no idea what on earth she was upset about. Every word that she uttered was so vicious that it was as if her only goal was to inflict as much pain as possible. Jacob had left the house angry and frustrated, wondering how much more of her cruelty he could take. Isn’t a wife supposed to respect her husband? he’d fumed.
However, listening to the imam’s words, Jacob asked himself, But am I a righteous husband? Could he honestly say that he himself was righteous and thus deserving of a righteous woman? Upon careful reflection, Jacob knew with certainty that the answer to that question was a resounding no. He hadn’t even been sure that he knew what righteous meant. Yes, he lowered his gaze, avoided unnecessary interactions with women, never committed adultery, and prayed the five daily prayers on time every day. But did that make a person righteous, he’d wondered? Ascribe not purity to yourselves, the Qur’an commanded. Then no, there was no way he could say with any truthfulness that he deserved a righteous wife.
