The Orange Tree

by Martin Ganzglass

  She paused to thank the Cultural Attaché for a stimulating program, “Danke. Es war sehr interessant. Ich habe viel gelernt,” and walked gingerly across the icy sidewalk to her car.

  Mitch drove carefully back to the Home, fearful that any pothole he hit would somehow jar Aunt Helen’s new lens. Doctor Pappas had told his aunt she shouldn’t rub her bandage and shouldn’t bend down suddenly. A fall could be a problem and to add a bit of levity, told her she shouldn’t play football for a few days. Aunt Helen had gotten the joke and thought it funny. Mitch was reasonably certain that hitting a bump while driving would do no damage but he tried to avoid them anyway. He wheeled her upstairs and found Amina giving some of the residents their late afternoon snacks in the tv room. She finished pouring apple juice for the three women at a table, distributed cookies and walked swiftly over smiling. Mitch could not help but notice that in addition to the usual white uniform pants suit, her head was loosely covered with a sheer scarf, folded around her neck and falling loosely over her shoulders down her back.

  “Helen, it is all over and you have come back to us. How do you feel?

  Aunt Helen looked up at Amina, cocking her head so her left eye could see her. “I’m tired. Come down so I can hug you.” She locked her arms around Amina’s neck and held her tightly. “This feels like home because you’re here. You look pretty. When my bandage is off, you’ll look even prettier.”

  Amina laughed. “No, Helen. I will look the same. You will only see me better.” “Is she sedated?” Amina asked Mitch.

  “Only from the operation. The Doctor gave me a prescription for a mild sedative. If she needs it.” He handed it to Amina who put it in her pocket.

  “I will take it down to the RN in a minute. Let me get Helen some juice. Are you thirsty, Helen?” Aunt Helen nodded and Amina returned with a small paper cup and carefully placed it into her two outstretched hands.

  Amina left Helen with her nephew and walked down the corridor to Maynard’s station. She would have preferred not having to talk to him but there was no alternative. She would keep it professional.

  “Looking good, Ms. Musa,” Maynard boomed out with exaggerated admiration. “Very good. Nicer than Ms. Jackson. I like the way you cover your hair. It’s attractive.”

  “I am doing it for modesty,” she snapped. “Not for your compliments.”

  “Modesty becomes you,” he replied with mock seriousness, his dark eyes sparkling with pleasure from the exchange with her.

  “Ms. Plonsker returned from cataract surgery. Her ophthalmologist gave her this prescription for a sedative.” She handed the standard blue green colored sheet to him. Maynard filled out the dispensing form and called down to the Home’s pharmacy office.

  “They’ll deliver it in about twenty minutes. I hear that Ms. Bernstein asked you to work later tonight and you said you would.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “It is actually for Mr. Farber’s aunt, the man who recommended an attorney for my nephew.”

  “And how’s that working out? Maynard asked, removing his glasses and looking up at her.

  She was uncomfortable by his directness and looked away. “It is too soon to tell. They have not met with the attorney yet.” Which was technically true. They were meeting today around 5:30 with the lawyer. She did not want to discuss Mohamed’s problem with Maynard. Amina was worried about Mohamed. She would have preferred to be home when they returned from that meeting. Normally she would have been, but tonight she had to get Helen settled. That also meant she would have to perform her evening prayers at the Home, sometime after giving the residents dinner and before sitting with Helen.

  Maynard interrupted her thoughts. “Let me give you a piece of advice. Don’t let this place use you. You get paid for your work. You don’t owe them anything more. Don’t get in the habit of doing free overtime.” He handed her a copy of the dispensing order. She was surprised that for a large man, he printed very neatly. “I’ll bring the pills down to your unit. No charge for the service. Just being nice to a woman who doesn’t know how to respond to compliments.”

  “Thank you for your advice. I do not feel anyone is taking advantage of me but I appreciate your concern.” She turned and went back down the corridor. That man, she thought, has a knack of irritating her. Despite her resolve, this interaction had not been purely professional. Next time she thought, she would exercise more control. Inshallah, she thought automatically. God willing. Except this was within her power to make it happen.

  By the time she returned to her unit’s dining area, the metal, wheeled carts had arrived from the kitchen and the food trays were being distributed. Mr. Farber had stayed and was sitting next to his aunt, cutting up her food. That freed Amina up to help other residents. She was an extra CNA tonight and dinner went reasonably well with more staff looking after the same number of residents. When Mrs. Greenfield began screaming “gadda, gadda, gadda” Mr. Farber was visibly startled and uncomfortable with her continued repetitive yelling. To the relief of both the CNA’s and other residents, Amina took Mrs. Greenfield back to her room and fed her dinner there. She then went downstairs, washed her face and ears, her hands up to her elbows, sprinkled water on her stocking feet, and prayed, as usual, in the room next to the sanctuary.

  When she came back upstairs, Ms. Bernstein was sitting on Helen’s left side, holding her hand. Amina joined them. Molly gave her the small plastic container with Helen’s sedative. “Mr. Lewis dropped these off while you were gone. What do you think? Does she need them?”

  “She seems very calm. Let me see how she is when I put her into bed. I think she will leave her eye alone.”

  “Of course I will,” Helen said to no one in particular. “I don’t want to go through that again.” She pulled a kleenex from her sleeve and showed it to Molly. “I took them from the nice Greek doctor’s office. They were free. Am I allowed to blow my nose?” she asked, looking from Molly to Amina for reassurance.

  Amina knelt down in front of Helen’s wheelchair. “Of course you can. Do everything gently and it will be all right. Are you tired Helen? Would you like to lie down?”

  “Yes, I’m sleepy,” Aunt Helen replied. Amina wheeled her to her room, leaving Mitch and Molly sitting at the small table.

  “Maybe now is not a good time to tell you, but Mr. Paul died in the Hospice this morning.” Molly said. “No one from his family has been to see him since he had his stroke. I called his son and gave him daily updates. They couldn’t make it in from the west coast. Too busy I guess. It’s so sad to die alone like that.” She sighed. “It always gets to me, even though it happens a lot. Well, “she said getting up, “at least he enjoyed Helen’s company while he lasted.”

  “Thanks for letting me know,” Mitch said, standing also. “I won’t tell my aunt. Maybe it’s a blessing that her memory’s so bad.”

  Amina stuck her head out the door of Helen’s room and motioned for him. Mitch found his aunt, looking so tiny in the wide bed. Her white hair blended in with the pillow case, like her face was floating on a cloud.

  “She has not touched the patch at all. I think she will leave her eye alone. The night nurse will have the sedative. She has instructions from Helen’s doctor and an emergency number to call. I will look in on Helen, the first thing in the morning, as soon as I arrive. I promise, Mr. Farber.”

  Mitch kissed his Aunt on the forehead and caught up with Amina in the hall.

  “Do you have a car or do you need a ride to the Metro?” Amina hesitated. It was almost 8, dark and cold out. A ride would be nice. “Would it be too much trouble to take me to the Rockville Metro Station?”

  “Sure, that’s not even out of my way.”

  Once in the car, Amina again thanked him for helping her nephew. “No problem,” Mitch said. “Artie is a good lawyer and a nice guy. I hope it all works out.” She appreciated that he didn’t pry into what the nature of Mohamed’s trouble was.

  “Where are you from, Amina?

  “Somalia.” She saw
first the blank look followed by his making a connection.

  “Oh, Somalia. The country with the pirates. Attacking ships in the Indian Ocean and holding them for ransom.”

  “Yes,” she sighed, resignedly. Poor Somalia. Torn apart by tribal fighting for almost 18 years, which caused tremendous suffering among innocent civilians. People like her parents murdered, thousands of others displaced, starving and destitute. And the rest of the world ignored the situation and did nothing. Then, after a few incidents of piracy, involving some rich French on their yachts and an oil tanker being held for ransom, suddenly Somalia was in the news. But all Americans knew about her country was that a handful of illiterate, skinny young boys with AK 47s and RPGs in small rubber boats were capturing foreign ships off the Somali coast.”

  “Are you married Amina?” Mitch asked, having exhausted his knowledge of Somalia.

  “I am divorced.”

  “Any children?”

  “My daughter, Mariam.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Almost thirteen.”

  ‘Our daughter Amy will be thirteen this June. She’s very bright, I’m proud of her, but right now, she is a handful.”

  Amina wondered whether she would describe Mariam as a ‘hand full.’ Yes, she thought, between Mariam agonizing over whether or not to wear a hidjab and questioning her mother’s practice of Islam, and her incessant demands for her own cell phone, she did have her hands full with her daughter.

  Mitch continued. “It’s the stage they’re at. They’re trying to define themselves as young adults and they’re not quite sure who they are yet. There’s a lot of whining and walking off in a huff going on at our house. Nothing to do but grin and bear it and hope for the best.”

  They were at the Metro station. “Thanks for going the extra mile with my aunt. You’re very good with her.”

  “I am very fond of her,” Amina replied. “She is a dear woman. Thank you for the ride, Mr. Farber.”

  When Amina arrived home, the mood in the household was relaxed. She looked questioningly first at Jama and then Medina. “Well,” she said. “Do I have to ask what happened, or will someone volunteer to tell me.”

  Mariam glided into the sitting room in her bare feet and hugged her mother. “Hang loose, mom,” Mariam said, knowing how it irritated her mother when she spoke in American slang. For Amina it was important that her daughter speak proper English. She was constantly correcting her.

  Before she could reprimand Mariam, Jama said, “It went well. This Mr. Rosen is a good person and seems competent. He is also expensive but,” he said shrugging his shoulders, “we will find a way. He interviewed Mohamed and was pleased how he related the events. He knows some of the prosecutors in the City Attorney’s Office and thinks something may be worked out. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  Medina couldn’t contain herself. “Jama. You are too modest. Or you are saving the best for last. I will tell her since you are only teasing Amina. Mr. Rosen’s firm uses private investigators. He may have work for Jama. Just like the work he used to do.”

  “Well, no. Not quite,” Jama replied, irritated at his wife’s exaggeration, but with a tinge of pride. “They may have work for me. There is nothing yet.”

  “You said Mr. Rosen was impressed that you were a C.I.D. Officer. He said you had skills his firm needed.”

  “That’s true,” Jama acknowledged with a slight smile. “Let us see what happens. We must focus on the hearing on February 5th. After that, Inshallah, they may have some temporary position for me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Amy was almost in tears. “It’s not fair,” she repeated for the third time. “I already asked everyone in my class to vote for me for the Temple Board to be the Youth Delegate. This morning when I told Rabbi Silver that I was running unopposed, and wanted to make this my Bat Mitzvah social service, he told me the delegate was appointed. By the President of the Board, Mr. Weinstein and only in consultation with the Rabbi. Not elected like everyone else. How was I to know? My friends will think I’m an idiot.”

  “They already know that,” Josh said, poking his sister in the ribs.

  “Shut up, zit face,” Amy snapped, and tried to punch him in the shoulder. Josh recoiled and pressed against his grandmother, sitting next to him in the back seat.

  “Amy, act your age,” Mrs. Fessler said severely, smoothing her black suit jacket. She touched her hair to make sure it had not been disturbed. “I don’t understand why you want to be on the Board anyway. There are much better things you should do with your time.”

  Mitch stopped at a traffic light. Eleanor turned around in the front seat and interceded. “Mother. It’s up to Amy to decide what kind of social service she wants to do. I think it’s fine so long as she understands she’ll have to make a substantial time commitment.”

  Amy leaned as far away from her brother as possible. “The Rabbi said it’s a special blessing to serve the Congregation. I want to do it. I have to do it. All my friends will know if I’m not on the Board. And Sarah Rabin, who just hates me, will tell everyone I lied.”

  “I’ll bet you put it on your Facebook page already,” Josh said. “You did. I knew it,” he said, crowing ecstatically, when he saw from her expression he had guessed correctly.

  “Joshua. Stop teasing your sister.” Eleanor said sternly.

  Amy sobbed, “No one was running against me. Mother, what am I going to do? This is the absolute end of my life. I can’t ever show my face at school.”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic,” Eleanor said. “If you want us to,” she continued more sympathetically “we can call Rabbi Silver and see if he’s willing to recommend you. For now, let’s try and enjoy ourselves this afternoon.”

  “Amy’s Facebook page is sooo popular,” Josh said, “there are probably a gazillion hits already.”

  “Josh. Cut it out. Or, I’m going to stop this car and so help me God I’ll…..” He was already on edge. His mother-in-law had asked Eleanor if she had lit the yartzeit candle that morning. God, it was the first thing Mrs. Fessler had said when they picked her up. Eleanor had lost it. She and her mother had a nasty exchange which had improved only to the level of frigid politeness by the time they had picked Amy and Josh up from Hebrew School. He felt Ell’s hand on his arm. “or else mom and I will start kissing in front of you and gross both of you kids out.”

  “Mitchell. What a thing to say to the children,” Mrs. Fessler said. “What does that mean?”

  “It means, mother, that the children are embarrassed when we are affectionate in front of them. Mitch intended it as a joke. To lighten the atmosphere,” Eleanor said with emphasis.

  “Well, I don’t understand it. We never talked like that to you. Joshua has to grow up and learn to get along with his sister.”

  “There’s a different dynamic with two. And don’t criticize our parenting skills. We’re doing just fine mother. Thank you very much.”

  “Ok,” Mitch said, trying to head off another argument between his wife and mother-in-law. “Let’s let it go for now. Amy,” he said, trying to sound reassuring and confident. “I know Abe Weinstein. I can call him and see what I can do,” he said with more cheerful conviction than he felt. Mitch despised Abe. The guy was a pompous ass. One of those who sat on the bema on the High Holidays, preening himself for his five minute address on the state of the Congregation. Once the microphone was in his hands, however, Abe pontificated to the captive audience, and invariably ran over his allotted time. But, if it helped Amy, like a good father, he would swallow his pride, disguise his distaste and call him.

  He turned in to the long driveway to the Home. This afternoon it was lined with parked cars, a clear signal that the lot was already full. Closer to the entrance he saw several local tv station trucks. “Boy,” he said. “This is going to be quite an event. I’ll let all of you off and try to find a place to park.”

  “Amy, you and Grandma go and get seats for us. Josh, you come with me and we’ll bring Aun
t Helen down,” Ell said, taking charge and simultaneously, deftly separating herself from her mother. Mitch stopped the car in front of the entrance festooned with a huge blue banner- WELCOME DUKE ELLINGTON SCHOOL OF THE ARTS.

  “I’m going to say hello to Mr. Lowenstein,” Josh shouted as he disappeared through the front doors. Eleanor helped her mother out of the car. Mrs. Fessler linked her arm around her favorite and only grand-daughter and the three of them walked slowly into the building. They didn’t have to sign in and the lobby was unusually crowded. Eleanor watched Amy steer her grandmother towards the cafeteria, which had been converted into a concert hall for the occasion. Josh was in a corner standing next to Mr. Lowenstein, sitting in his usual spot. For once, Izzy wasn’t wearing his Redskins windbreaker or his large Kangol hat. For the concert, he had on an old herringbone sport jacket, with worn leather grey elbow patches and wrinkled black slacks. The collar of a light blue knit shirt peered out from under a pea green sweater with a grey diamond pattern. The diamonds, which should have been across his chest were instead, because of his shrunken physique, more of a band over his stomach. His thin white hair was combed across his pate, his scalp interspersed with irregular sized liver spots.

  “Guess what today is Mr. Lowenstein,” Eleanor heard Josh ask him.