Abu Umamah al Bahili.
‘Mrs Ives. Mrs Ives.’ A hand on my shoulder; a gentle shake.
My eyes snapped open. Ben, the pool boy, loomed over me. ‘Sorry to bother you, but didn’t you say you had to be somewhere at two?’
I leapt to my feet so quickly that my head swam. ‘What time is it, Ben?’ I asked, bracing one arm aganst the wall until the dizziness passed.
‘Ten minutes to.’
‘Oh, thanks! You’re a lifesaver.’
Making a mental note to tip Ben double the next time he brought me a fresh towel, I gathered up my handbag, tucked the orphan paperback into it and headed out.
Blackwalnut Hall was much as I had remembered it from days gone by. A porch, long and deep, ran the length of the front that faced the bay. Eight tall white Doric pillars supported the roof. Rocking chairs were arranged at regular intervals along its length and, since it was mid-afternoon, half of them were already occupied by seniors resting their eyes, reading or simply enjoying the view.
Just as I reached the steps, my cell phone chirped. It was a text message from Naddie. She was running twenty minutes late. I texted back – OK – then located an empty rocker between a beautiful Muslim woman and a slumbering, elaborately mustachioed grandpop wearing a red plaid lumberjack shirt, and sat down to wait.
To my left was the dual span of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, four-and-a-half miles long, the engineering marvel that connected Annapolis to Maryland’s eastern shore and to the towns and beaches of the Delmarva Peninsula. Kent Island at its far end was a gray-green swathe on the horizon. I counted five container ships and a car carrier anchored in the mid-distance, awaiting clearance to proceed under the bridge and up into Baltimore Harbor some twenty-five miles to the north, where they would unload and perhaps take on more cargo. Sailing in the opposite direction was Woodwind, a seventy-four-foot, three-masted schooner, crammed full of tourists out for an afternoon sail.
‘Relaxing, isn’t it?’ the Muslim woman said. She was dressed in a black skirt and a saffron-yellow, long-sleeved silk blouse. A white headscarf was draped loosely around her neck and completely covered her hair. If she wore the scarf out of modesty, it failed miserably. The hijab framed her face like the Madonna in a Renaissance painting, only serving to draw attention to the woman’s extraordinary beauty.
She removed the oversized Jackie Onassis-style sunglasses she wore and turned her violet eyes on me. ‘My name is Safa Abaza. Are you new here or just visiting?’
‘Just visiting,’ I told her. ‘I ran into a friend over at the spa and she’s promised me a tour. I’m Hannah Ives.’
Safa’s pale skin wore the blush of a few too many minutes in the sun, but other than plum-colored lip gloss and something to darken her gracefully arched eyebrows, I detected no trace of makeup.
‘Are you visiting, too?’ I asked. She looked so fresh, so young that I assumed she couldn’t be a resident.
‘No, my husband and I live here. In one of the town homes.’
I stared at her for a moment, temporarily speechless. Safa couldn’t possibly be as old as fifty-five! Had she discovered a Fountain of Youth somewhere on the property?
As if reading my mind, she said, ‘My husband is a good bit older than I, as you probably guessed. I’ve just turned fifty-one, but Masud is sixty-eight.’
I couldn’t believe Safa was as old as fifty-one, either, but decided to take her word for it. ‘My husband and I live in downtown Annapolis,’ I told her. ‘He teaches math at the Naval Academy, so we aren’t thinking about retirement just yet. When we do, though, I can think of a lot of worse places than Calvert Colony.’
Safa’s eyes sparkled with interest. ‘Masud is a professor, too! He’s just retired from George Washington University, where he taught for many years at the Institute for Middle East Studies. When my husband first heard about Calvert Colony, we were living in Crofton.’ She folded her hands in her lap, was silent for a moment. ‘He came for a tour and he liked what he saw, but I never thought we’d actually make the move. It’s very unusual for Muslims to go into nursing homes.’
‘Well, Calvert Colony isn’t exactly a nursing home, is it?’ I chuckled. After a couple of moments’ thought, I asked, ‘Why is that so unusual?’
‘The Quran teaches that we must care for our parents as they cared for us as infants. Our children – we have two, a boy and a girl, both grown with families of their own now – are naturally Muslim. When Masud began talking about moving into a retirement community, the children were upset. Our daughter was completely opposed to it. She said of course she’d take care of us! But I know my daughter. Her main concern was that if she didn’t look after us properly it would reflect badly on her. “Look at Laila!” our friends would say. “There she is shopping at Bloomingdale’s, and she’s dumped her poor mother and father in a nursing home.”’
‘Laila’s a beautiful name,’ I said.
Safa nodded, reached down for her handbag and rummaged about inside. ‘This is Laila,’ she said, handing me a laminated wallet-sized studio photograph of a woman flanked by two children, the older one standing stiffly at her side, the younger, a toddler, leaning casually into her lap. ‘Laila’s not wearing a hijab,’ I observed as I handed the photograph back to her.
‘She wears it for prayers,’ Safa explained. ‘But otherwise …’ She shrugged. ‘Laila tells her father she’s done the research and she believes that wearing the hijab comes from Arab culture and not from Islam. But she gave it up after September eleventh, so I’m certain that anti-Muslim harassment had a lot to do with it. Masud didn’t approve, of course,’ Safa continued. ‘Talking with my husband about the hijab is a lot like talking about abortion with a Tea Party wingnut. A lose-lose situation.’ She raised an elegant, beautifully manicured but polish-free finger. ‘Laila pointed out – quite correctly, too – that while the Quran requires modesty, it says nothing about keeping your hair covered.’ She smiled and was silent for a moment. ‘But when she started making trouble about the move to Calvert Colony, Masud turned that argument around on her. The Quran requires that we care for our parents in their old age, he told her, but it doesn’t say exactly how.’ She spread her arms, palms up, taking in the whole expanse of the complex that surrounded us. ‘This is how.’
‘My retirement plan involves booking round-the-world cruises on the Queen Mary Two,’ I joked, although I was half serious. ‘Back to back. A beautiful cabin, someone to clean and make it up fresh for you every day, fabulous food, champagne bar, spas and pools, not to mention movies, lectures and Broadway-quality entertainment.’ I sighed dramatically. ‘Now that’s assisted living!’
Safa giggled. ‘I like how you think, Hannah!’
After a moment, her face grew serious. ‘Masud realized that sometimes life sends you challenges that are beyond a child’s ability to help, and he didn’t want to burden Laila and Roshan.’ She leaned forward, inclined her head closer to mine and spoke softly. ‘Masud has been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.’
I started to lay a comforting hand on hers then drew back, not knowing whether the gesture would be misinterpreted. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Safa shrugged. ‘Insha’Allah. What can one do? It is early days yet, and Masud has already started medication, so I’m hopeful. One can live a long time with Parkinson’s, as you probably know. Look at Michael J. Fox.’
I remembered reading that the youthful Back to the Future star had been diagnosed with early-onset Parkinson’s disease in 2001. Nevertheless, he had worked fairly steadily as an actor since then, and would be back on television in the fall with a semi-autobiographical sitcom. ‘He’s certainly done a lot to raise public awareness about the disease,’ I said.
‘Yes, and it’s generous support such as his that gives us hope for a cure.’
‘Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, Safa, but I think that you and your husband have made the right decision, both for you and for your children.’
Safa nodded in agreement. ‘Mas
ud brought me here for a visit, we talked to Mr Bennett, the director, and Masud was happy with what we heard. We are fine for now in our town home, but later? Well, the concept of modesty is accepted here, that was of utmost importance to me.’
‘Do you mean the clothing you wear? The hijab?’
Safa blushed. ‘That is part of it, but more importantly, should I need one, I must have a woman doctor, and, when the time comes, women who tend to me.’
After I was diagnosed with breast cancer, a male surgeon and a male oncologist had pretty much saved my life, so I was glad the Episcopal Church didn’t place such demands on its women.
‘What do you do about daily prayers?’ I asked. I knew that devout Muslims pray five times throughout the day. We’d once had an airport pickup where the cab driver arrived at the crack of dawn and asked to use our bathroom so he could wash his feet before his sunrise prayer. With some pride, he’d showed us the Qibla app on his iPhone which featured a compass programmed to determine the direction of Mecca from anywhere in the world, even the cab parked in our driveway. What would Mohammed have thought of that? I had marveled at the time. I had a Daily Office app on my iPhone, but had only consulted it twice. The cabbie’s devoutness put my half-baked efforts at regular daily prayer to shame.
‘Ah, prayers,’ Safa repeated. ‘This was a real plus, especially for Masud. Calvert Colony built a musalla, a place where we can practice salaat.’ She waved a hand in the direction of the gardens, where a modest building that I had taken for an oversized, elaborately decorated garden shed was nestled in a grove of young crabapple trees. ‘There are only three Muslims in residence now, and I am the only woman, but two more couples will be moving in as soon as the new block of town homes is finished.’
‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, but you look so, so …’ I paused, searching for the right word, not wanting to insult her.
‘American as apple pie?’ she finished for me.
I felt my face flush. ‘Yes.’
‘So, you noticed!’ A laugh bubbled out of her. ‘Until I went to college, I lived in McKinney, just north of Dallas, Texas. I met Masud when I was in the Peace Corp teaching English at a lycée in Tunis.’
I’d majored in French at Oberlin College, so I knew she meant a secondary school of some sort, most likely for girls, in Tunisia. ‘Donc, vous parlez très bien le français, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Oui, et je parle aussi l’arabe. And once the language barrier disappeared,’ she continued in English, ‘my eyes were opened and I became fascinated with the culture. It was ever so much richer than anything I had experienced before. I was totally sucked in. About halfway through my first year there, I was invited home to dinner by one of my students. Her family pretty much adopted me and treated me like a daughter.’
‘Is that when you started wearing the hijab?’
‘After a while, it seemed the natural thing to do.’
‘Don’t you find it confining?’
‘Not really. For me, it is a religious act. The hijab tells the world I am a Muslim woman.’ She smiled. ‘It saves a lot of time, actually. In social situations I usually don’t have to explain, “Sorry, I don’t drink,” or “I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but I am a Muslim woman so I don’t shake hands with men.”’
‘I see your point,’ I said. ‘Like wearing a wedding ring says “hands off” to jerks at professional conferences.’
‘Exactly. In Tunisia, Western women are fair game. You wouldn’t believe the cat calls I used to get while walking to work. Harmless, mostly, but still.’ She turned to me, beaming. ‘I can teach you a very useful phrase: Rude bellick, Allah bish yhizz lsaanik!’
‘Is that the Arabic equivalent of “Your mother wears combat boots?”’
She flashed me a charming, gap-toothed grin. ‘It means be careful or God will seize your tongue!’
I laughed out loud. ‘I’ll have to remember that next time I’m in Tunis.’
‘After I began wearing the hijab, Hannah, nobody bothered me. I was safer in the streets of Tunis than I would have been in downtown Dallas, that’s for sure. I actually felt liberated.’
Safa’s hands suddenly flew to her throat, her fingers rapidly working to adjust the hijab where the fabric folded under her chin. ‘You must excuse me,’ she said, standing up. ‘Masud’s waiting. It’s time for me to go.’ Her eyes flicked sideways.
Where the sidewalk curved around a miniature Japanese maple a man stood, smoking. Masud was not particularly tall but he was dark and handsome, with abundant salt-and-pepper hair combed straight back. He was dressed in black trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt, the collar open. The fabric of the shirt was so sheer that I could read the label on the pack of cigarettes tucked into his breast pocket: Camels. Unfiltered. The only brand with a picture of the factory on the label, my late mother, a lifelong smoker, had always joked.
If Masud had been wearing a bow tie, I thought, as I watched him exhale a stream of smoke into the humid summer air, I might have mistaken him for a handsome waiter.
‘Of course,’ I told Safa. ‘I’m meeting someone, too. But I’ve enjoyed our conversation and I hope we run into each other again.’
Safa bowed slightly. ‘I hope so, too, Hannah.’
After an awkward pause while I considered whether to extend my hand or not, Safa turned and glided down the steps to join her husband. As she reached the bottom step, Masud dropped his cigarette butt on the sidewalk, ground it out with the toe of his sandal, turned abruptly and strode down the path on his own. Safa, like a well-trained puppy, followed several steps behind.
Until he spoke, I’d forgotten about the elderly lumberjack. ‘Litterbug!’
‘Well,’ I said, turning in the old man’s direction, ‘at least the butt is biodegradable. Have to give the man points for that. No cellulose acetate filters to screw up the Chesapeake Bay ecosystem.’
‘Send that goatherder back to the desert.’ He folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes, effectively putting an end to our conversation.
Hoping, for Safa Abaza’s sake, that this wasn’t the prevailing attitude at Calvert Colony and, as we used to say, a preview of coming attractions, I left the old guy to his snooze and headed inside to track down Naddie.
THREE
‘Today’s 55-and-over retirement communities are not your grandmother’s nursing home. You walk into a stunning lobby with beautiful lighting and carpeting, and there’s an art gallery and a restaurant, just like a fine hotel. Some offer everything from entertainment centers with theater seating, videogames and computers, to state-of-the-art gyms with personal trainers where residents can take age-modified Zumba or belly-dancing classes. Some communities have dog parks so that family pets can also feel right at home.’
Annapolis Gazette, March 28, 2013, Section B, p. 2.
Directly over a pair of tall walnut doors, whose frosted windows had been replaced with leaded glass, hung a modest sign painted in incised gold capitals on a tasteful blue shield: ‘Blackwalnut Hall.’ Below, in smaller font, visitors were instructed to kindly check in at reception.
I straight-armed my way through the door, stepped into the lobby and slammed on the brakes. What had once been a dark, claustrophobic gallery where bygone priests had sat, smoked and read such runaway bestsellers as the Spiritual Exercises of St Ignatius Loyola, had been transformed into a bright reception area. Light poured into the space from floor-to-ceiling windows, in front of which a double-wide staircase with carved wooden balustrades curved gently up to a mezzanine.
To my right, just beyond the reception desk – which remained where it had always been – an enormous stone fireplace rose like a rockslide, dominating the far end of the lobby, its chimney disappearing into the open rafters. Clustered around the hearth were conversational groupings of comfortable, overstuffed furniture, arranged on oriental carpets the size of your average three-car garage. All around, large, high-quality landscape oils in elaborate gilt frames decorated the wainscotting,
which had been painted a warm vanilla.
I whistled softly. The decorators had bought big time into the ‘open-concept’ idea I kept hearing about on HGTV. Blackwalnut Hall reminded me of a ski lodge I’d once visited in Vail, Colorado.
But what really took my breath away was the fish tank. Nestled in the curve of the staircase, it consisted of a cylinder at least ten feet in diameter and perhaps twice as tall, embellished at the base with elaborate wrought-iron scroll work. Outside of the National Aquarium in Baltimore and some kook in his garage on the Discovery Channel, I had never seen a fish tank so huge. Surrounding the tank were two semi-circular, highly polished walnut benches. A gentleman sat on one of them, his back to me, staring into the crystal-clear water where yellow tangs, electric-blue damsels, orange-and-white clownfish (hello Nemo!), a couple of angelfish and – I squinted – yes, even a lionfish now swam. I stepped forward for a closer look. ‘Was that a …?’ I started to ask the seated gentleman, but I was interrupted.
‘May I help you?’ someone loudly inquired.
‘Sorry,’ I said, turning toward the woman behind the reception desk. ‘I was mesmerized by the fish tank, I’m afraid.’
‘It happens to everyone the first time they see it. Spectacular, isn’t it?’
I had to agree. ‘It knocked my eyes out. I’m here to meet Nadine Gray,’ I told her.
The woman consulted a computer screen on the desk in front of her. ‘Right. Mrs Gray called ahead and told us to expect you, Mrs Ives. Would you mind signing in?’
On the highly polished walnut counter an iPad-like device was mounted on a swivel stand. She turned the screen in my direction, and I used the stylus she provided to scrawl a signature in the box after my name. ‘Thanks,’ I told her. ‘I think I’ll wait over by the fish.’
I settled down on one of the benches and stared into the tank, half expecting a shark or a killer whale to make an appearance. As if it knew what I was thinking, an eel poked his snake-like head out from behind a sea fan and bared its teeth at me.
Tomorrow's Vengeance Page 2
