“You have no right to talk to me that way, Mr. Lewis.” She stood up. She was slightly taller than him except her left foot was out of her shoe and she balanced herself awkwardly on the ball of her foot. She caught him staring down at her ankle and moved her foot behind her leg. He was smiling.
“You were saying,” he said, almost laughing at her.
His mocking attitude angered her. “When I fled Somalia, Mr. Lewis, it was on a tramp steamer. We ate newspaper for three days. My mother and father were murdered. If I act the way I do, it is because I know precisely who I am and where I come from and what my family has been through. You cannot teach me about respect for others. People have to earn my respect.” She stopped her tirade, trying to regain control over her emotions. Already she had told him too much about herself. “I thought people would be willing to help me,” she said, in a more normal voice. “I did not mean to imply they had personal knowledge of criminal lawyers because of their families’ circumstances.”
“You are one naïve lady,” he said shaking his head. “Haven’t you read anything about crime in the U.S.? The disproportionate number of young black men in jail. About the crack epidemic. Of course African Americans have had more experience with criminal lawyers than white people. The question is why is crime rampant in our communities?” he said angrily.
“I do not understand” she said, more confused than before. She sat down and put her shoe on. “First, you insult me for implying that African Americans know criminal lawyers. Then you tell me it is true. If you do not want to help me, just say so.”
“Ms. Jackson. It’s the combination of your holier than thou attitude with the sudden coming down off the mountain to talk to us when you need help which has riled people.” He held up both his hands in mock protection. “Now, you’ve explained. We’re cool, I’m ok. No need to defend yourself any more.” He smiled. She noticed that he was one of those people whose whole face became part of a genuine smile. She inclined her head slightly, indicating, without saying so, that she accepted his comments as an apology of sorts.
“When I said you were naïve, I bet you don’t know you’re sitting on the mother-lode of lawyers, all kinds of lawyers.” He sat back down in the armchair and grinned at her.
She looked at him, again perplexed.
“If I went out on the streets in my old neighborhood and asked who to go to for a criminal ‘problem’ they’d say, ‘Get a Jew lawyer, they’re the best.’ Ms. Jackson, you’re surrounded by them right here.”
“You mean the residents? These old people?”
Maynard laughed, a deep belly laugh until he was almost crying. She sat there annoyed and embarrassed, wishing, hoping that Jama would call her and say he had found someone and there was no need for her to do anything more.
“No. No,” Maynard chuckled, wiping the corner of his eye with his knuckle. “Their relatives, the ones who come to visit. They’re either lawyers or know lawyers.”
“But, I don’t know these people. I cannot just go up to them and ask.”
“God, Ms. Jackson, do I have to draw you a diagram?” he said, throwing up his hands in mock exasperation. “Go ask Molly Bernstein if she knows if any of the relatives of the residents are criminal lawyers or could recommend a criminal lawyer in northern Virginia for your nephew.” Maynard said each word slowly, enunciating carefully for emphasis, to drive home the point that he thought she was either incredibly dense or from another planet.
“Should I really tell her that I have a nephew who is in trouble?”
“Unless your nephew is accused of sneaking into old age homes and poisoning the residents, she won’t care at all.”
Amina felt relieved that it might be that simple and she could find the best attorney, a Jew lawyer to help Mohamed. “Thank you, Mr. Lewis for your advice. I will talk to Ms. Bernstein. I have to get back now.”
“Glad to help. Stop by my desk at the end of the shift and let me know how it turned out. And you can call me Maynard,” he sang out in his deep baritone to her departing back.
She sensed, as she left the staff room, that he was appreciatively watching her walk, which both pleased and alarmed her. She didn’t want to have anything more to do with non-Muslim men. She would be polite and professional with Maynard but make it clear that there would never be anything more than that.
With two CNAs out, getting the residents to lunch, feeding them and getting them settled at their afternoon activities of bingo, musical interlude and tv, had been hectic. Amina had found a moment to ask Helen what her nephew did for a living. Helen didn’t know. Helen seemed distracted, grumbling about the other women being jealous and gossiping about her and Mr. Paul. But her criticism seemed to Amina less venomous in tone.
It was late afternoon when Amina had the time and found the courage to walk downstairs to Molly’s first floor office.
“Amina,” Molly said, greeting her loudly. “I was going to come up and see you later. You were right about the UTI. They tested her this morning and it came up culture positive. She’s now on anti-biotics. Keep an eye on Helen and let me know if you think she’s less confused and her anger level diminshes. I talked to her nephew yesterday because he was concerned. He’ll be glad to know it is just the UTI. Did you know about this or did you come to see me about something else?”
Amina was overwhelmed by Molly’s effervescent conversation style. She never knew where to begin to answer. Today, however, she was focused on getting an attorney for Mohamed.
“I am glad for Helen. I met her nephew yesterday,” Amina said, about to mention her nephew.
Molly continued. “Oh, and one more thing. Helen is going in for a cataract operation this coming Wednesday. It’s calendared but if you could work an extra hour or so later that day and be here when she comes back, I think that’ll really help her get settled.”
“Yes. Ms. Bernstein. I will be here for Helen.” She paused, and then plunged ahead. “I did not know about the UTI results. I came to see you about my nephew. He is in trouble with the police. My uncle asked me to help find a good criminal lawyer in northern Virginia.” She avoided eye contact, staring at her hands in her lap. “Someone who is familiar with drug cases. I have been told that Jew lawyers are the best. I was hoping that you would know some relative of a resident who is a criminal lawyer.” There, she had said it. Ms. Bernstein now knew. She looked up to see Ms. Bernstein with her hands cupped to her mouth, trying to smother a laugh, her brown eyes dancing with amusement.
“Amina,” Molly said, attempting, but failing to look serious. “I know you didn’t mean it, but ‘Jew lawyer,’ is not a polite term,” she said laughing, unable to control herself any longer. “It’s more like a racial stereotype. It also sounds like ghetto street talk which is not the way you usually speak.” She smiled reassuringly. “It’s ok. I’m not offended but in the future you shouldn’t even say Jewish lawyer because the lawyer’s religion is irrelevant. A drug case, you said. Not dealing I hope because that could be serious.”
“Ms. Bernstein, I am so embarrassed. Please excuse me. This was a very bad idea my coming to see you.” She stood up to leave.
“Amina, it’s all right. Sit down. I want to help you. What’s your nephew charged with?”
“Possession,” Amina said softly, remaining standing. “Possession of marijuana.”
“I can’t think offhand of any family members of residents who are criminal lawyers. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t any,” Molly said quickly, noticing Amina’s look of disappointment. “Or they may know someone,” she added. “Sit here for a moment. I have to make a few calls and catch people before they leave for the day. Then, I’ll check some of the family records.”
Without waiting for a response from Amina, Molly picked up the phone on her desk, checked her monitor and dialed. “Mr. Farber, please.” She waited to be connected. “Mitch. Hi, it’s Molly Bernstein. I’m calling about your aunt. No, nothing’s happened. Actually, it’s good news. She does have a UTI. We’ve p
ut her on antibiotics and with a little luck that should reduce her confusion and aggressive behavior. Yeah, sure, it’ll only cure her more aggressive behavior. Amina’s hunch was right on the money. Of course I’ll thank her and you should too when you see her.” Molly winked at Amina.
“Listen, Mitch,” she said spontaneously. “You don’t happen to know any good criminal attorneys in northern Virginia do you? Amina’s nephew has been charged with possession of marijuana.” Amina was shocked by the matter of fact way Molly had told almost a total stranger about the criminal charges against Mohamed.
Molly gave Amina a thumb’s up sign and reached for a pad and pencil. “Rosen. Artie Rosen. In Alexandria. How do you know him?” She listened, nodding and uh uhing periodically, while doodling on the pad. “Telephone number? Got it. Hang on Amina is right here. We were talking about your Aunt. Also, Amina can stay late next Wednesday for Helen’s cataract operation.”
Molly covered the receiver. “He’s going to call his friend to tell him to expect a call from your nephew. He needs the name.”
Amina froze. She hadn’t anticipated this at all, having to tell anyone their names. “My uncle will call on behalf of his son, my nephew, that is. Ah, my uncle’s name is Jama.”
Molly still had her hand over the receiver. “That’s his last name?”
“No, actually his full name is Jama Hussein.” She waited apprehensively for Molly to react.
Molly continued matter of factly. “Mitch. Tell him to expect a call from a Mr. Jama Hussein.” She spelled it for him. “That’s the kid’s father. Yeah, ok. Drop by my office this Saturday. We’ll talk about your aunt’s operation. Ok. If you’re not going to be here I’ll see Eleanor. Thanks, bye.”
“Wow. Pretty good on the first try, don’t you think?” She copied the name, address and telephone number of Mr. Arthur Rosen down on her note pad, ripped it off and handed the paper to Amina. “Mitch said Artie used to be a Assistant U.S. Attorney in D.C. and he and Mitch worked together on some Department of Labor cases. Artie transferred to Northern Virginia, did criminal cases, including drug cases, and went into private practice a few years ago.
When your uncle calls, he should say that Mr. Mitchell Farber recommended him.
“Thank you, Ms. Bernstein. Thank you very much.” Amina stood up to leave. She had not been herself since coming home last night. Mohamed’s run in with the police and Jama’s questioning of his son and Mariam had unnerved her. It had shattered her sense of security and triggered fears she thought she had overcome. The mindless terror of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, of being a victim of events she could not control. She had been forced to confront the reality of the police singling out a member of her own family. She was afraid for Mariam and worried she would lose her job because she was a Moslem. America no longer felt like the safe haven it had been before 9/11. She felt hopelessly adrift, but simultaneously recklessly free and unmindful of the consequences.
“Ms. Bernstein? May I ask you a question?” She rearranged her shawl more tightly over her head.
“Sure, Amina,” Molly replied, turning away from her monitor.
“I am Moslem, as you now must certainly know. Does it make a difference? Should I look for other work?” She was standing in front of the desk avoiding looking at Molly.
“Sit down, Amina,” Molly commanded gently. “You make me uncomfortable standing there. Come on,” she gestured with her hand to the chair, when Amina hesitated. Amina perched on the edge of the seat, looking like a gazelle ready to flee. “I guessed when you starting showing up at work with your head covered. And you lengthened your pants also. Right?”
Amina nodded.
“It doesn’t matter to me. You do your job and you’re very good at what you do. That’s all that should count. But,” she waggled her head from side to side, “ the Home is governed by a Board and some members are more conservative than others. A few of them want only a Jewish staff. That’s not possible in today’s job market. God, even in Israel, most of the home care givers are from the Philippines and I can assure you they are definitely not Jewish.” She laughed. “So, here at the Home, everyone is from everywhere. I don’t know the religions of the staff and we’re not allowed by law to ask. You’re Moslem. So what? I’m not going to tell anyone. There’s no need to. Does that help?”
“Yes, Ms. Bernstein it does. Thank you.” Amina hesitated, deciding whether to leave or go further. “I am taking time during my morning and afternoon breaks to pray, in the small room next to the Chapel,” she said quietly.
“That’s fine with me,” Molly said, still smiling. “Do you need a prayer rug?” she asked.
Amina stopped studying her hands and looked at Ms. Bernstein directly, impressed with the thoughtfulness of her question. “I will bring one from home. If I could store it in the closet in the room, that would be helpful.”
“Not a problem, Amina. I hope things work out for your nephew,” she added as Amina rose from her perch to leave.
Maynard’s station was in between the elevator and her unit. She debated walking around the entire wing to avoid him but decided she would have to talk to him sooner or later. She would be polite and keep it correct and short. Maybe he was too busy to chat.
“How’d it go,” Maynard boomed out when she was still more than ten feet away.
Amina noticed another CNA glance up from feeding a resident. Amina said nothing until she was standing in front of Maynard. “I want to thank you for your suggestion to ask Ms. Bernstein,” she said quietly. Maynard stopped making an entry in a resident’s chart. “She was able to help and my uncle now has the name of,” she dropped her voice “an attorney.”
“You’re welcome. I’m glad I helped you,” he said, grinning up at her. He was fiddling with the pen, turning it end over end as if it were a penknife. She noticed the red and green snake’s tail tattoo on his forearm, the serpent’s body hidden from her view by his arm resting on the desk. “Anytime you have any questions or problems, you come talk to me.” She smiled tightly and walked down the hall toward her unit, certain Maynard was watching her.
Chapter Nine
They were on the way to the Temple to pick up Amy and Josh from Hebrew School. The comforting warmth from the car heater was protection only against the winter weather, not Ell’s frosty attitude. She was still mad at him for the way he had disciplined Josh.
“You’re rewarding him with a trip, Mitch. That’s the way he sees it. You’re not backing me up.”
“Ell, please, we’ve been over this several times. I docked him.” Mitch ticked off what he thought totaled severe punishment. “He can’t watch tv or play any video games. He can only use the computer for school work- no-emails, no music, no games. He’s given me his word he’ll only use his cell phone for emergencies. We want that right? For our own peace of mind. He can’t have friends over and he can’t go over to their homes. I’ve given him a ton of extra chores to do. This is all for the next two weeks. What do you want me to do, rip out his fingernails?” He looked in the rear view mirror to see Oliver standing up and swaying as the Taurus skidded slightly to a stop in the Church’s parking lot. It was unplowed, as usual, due to budget constraints. He kept the engine running. The kids would be out shortly. Oliver realized that no one was getting out and lay down again.
She looked at him angrily. “You know what the problem is. You and he are going up to Sugar Loaf tomorrow for a hike in the woods. You promised to talk to me first. We went over all he wasn’t going to be allowed to do. You never talked to me about tomorrow’s trip.”
“I didn’t think it was part of the package,” he said sheepishly. “And I explained to you why we’re going now. He’s got a unit on Lewis and Clark in American History. They’re supposed to keep a journal and develop their writing skills. Mr. Randolph, his teacher, told Josh, his journal entries to date ‘sucked.’ That’s Josh’s word. I looked at his journal. The poor kid is noting down going to Hebrew School and the Nursing Home.”
/> He looked at Ell, waiting for her to acknowledge that their son’s journal entries were obviously pathetic.
“I asked Josh to look up where the Lewis and Clark expedition were in January after they had departed from St. Louis and he did,” Mitch continued when his wife didn’t respond. “They were in North Dakota so I suggested that he and I go for a trek in the woods, in the snow, and he could record what it was like. We’ve got snow this weekend. Who knows what the weather will be like in two weeks. We have to do it this Sunday,” he concluded, convinced by his own logic.
“Maybe, part of his punishment should be not doing living history with his father and playing Lewis and Clark in the woods, until he learns to control his temper,” she said, glaring at him. “This could develop into a major character flaw of Josh’s and you’re not helping.”
“Come on, Ell. Even Amy’s forgiven him already, after her melodramatic telephone call to her friend the other day, that Josh had almost broken her spine. I think she relished telling her.”
“This is not about Amy. It’s about Josh,” Eleanor insisted.
“It’s also about Amy,” he said. “I know it’s not her fault and I’ll talk to Josh about it but everything now in our family is all about Amy. She needs to interview Aunt Helen for her genealogy report for Hebrew school. Then your mom about the Holocaust for her 7th grade unit on something or other and also for her class trip to the Holocaust Museum. We’ve already started talking about planning for her Bat Mitzvah in June, what kind of party to have, who to invite, where to hold it. Josh is just feeling left out. We both need to be more sensitive about that.”
“Your son needs to be more sensitive about his sister,” she replied. “Anyway, you’ve done it and you know how I feel. I don’t like him being rewarded for his nasty temper.”
Mitch pointed through the windshield as Amy and Josh burst out of the side door, the Temple’s exit from the Church building, laughing together about something. They raced to the car, their book bags bouncing on their shoulders. “Come’on hon,” he said. “Let’s not argue anymore.”
The Orange Tree Page 13
