Mitch shrugged. “No.” He looked at her quizzically. “Anything I should know about?”
“I’m really upset about his lying to Josh. About his sons being in the military. Josh thinks the world of Izzy. Who knows what other lies Izzy may tell him.” She sighed. “Poor Josh. He’ll feel so betrayed when he finds out. It will destroy his faith in people. He’s so trusting now.”
“I think you’re making too much of this, Ell,” Mitch replied. He wanted to reassure her that this was just part of growing up. Every child had to learn, on their own, that some adults don’t tell the truth. But he sensed Ell had made up her mind to intervene to protect their son and he wasn’t going to persuade her otherwise. Rather than try, he avoided a confrontation and took the easy way out. “You feel strongly, so go ahead and talk to Izzy. I’ll take the kids upstairs.”
When they came in the lobby, Josh was talking to Mr. Lowenstein and Amy was on the sofa, reading her book.
Eleanor watched Mitch and the children walk down the corridor toward the elevators and sat down next to Mr. Lowenstein.
“Your son Joshua has a very inquisitive mind,” he said.
“Mr. Lowenstein,” Ell said.
“It’s not Izzy today? Uh-oh, that’s a bad sign. You want to have a serious talk?”
“Mr. Lowenstein,” Eleanor began again. “My son admires you. You have become a grandfather figure for him. I don’t want him to get hurt. You lied to him. When he finds out, and he will eventually, he’ll be devastated. I want you to stop being so friendly to Josh.” She pointed a finger at the old man’s chest. “You know when we usually visit. I would appreciate it if you arranged not to be in the lobby. It’ll be easier all around.”
“Mrs. Farber,” Izzy protested. “What have I done? I like your son. I tell him true historical events. I’ve opened his mind to new ideas. How have I lied to him?”
“You told him your sons are in the military. He wants to meet your son the pilot. That’s never going to happen. You don’t have a son who’s a pilot. For all I know, you’re making up doing crossword puzzles in your head. Josh thinks you’re Einstein because you say you can do it. I want you to leave my son alone,” she said forcefully.
“I didn’t lie about the puzzles,” Mr. Lowenstein said adamantly. He leaned forward in the big cushioned chair and pulled out two newspapers, crumpled under his thigh. He handed one to Eleanor. “That’s Saturday’s New York Times crossword puzzle. It has the answers to Friday’s puzzle. See down there-‘Answer to Previous Puzzle.’ I didn’t get to do Friday’s yet. I have Friday’s in my hand.”
He brought the paper close to his face and studied the clues in small type through his thick glasses. “Ok. Nine across-‘certain dry cell briefly.’ That’s NiCad, for nickel cadium battery. Ten down is ‘knows the plans of’ beginning with I. That’s IsOnTo. Eleven down is “sticks together’ beginning with a C. That must be cakes. Twelve down is ‘forever’ beginning with an A. That’s ages. Now I need to check them with another across. Sixteen across is ‘language related to Winnebago’ with blank S, A, G, blank. That’s a tough one. I’m not too good on American Indians.” He thought a moment. “I got it. It’s Osage. Am I right so far?”
“Yes. Yes you are,” Eleanor admitted. “Ok. So you didn’t lie about the crossword puzzles. But you lied to Josh about your sons. They don’t visit you- not because they’re in the service. They just don’t visit, period.”
Mr. Lowenstein sighed and let the newspaper fall on his lap.
“I lied because I’m lonely. Is that a sin?
“It’s wrong to lie to Josh who has adopted you as his grandfather. You’re replacing my father who he barely knew,” Eleanor answered feeling badly for speaking so harshly as soon as she had said it.
“Joshua thinks of me as his grandfather? What a blessing for me,” he said, removing his glasses and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “None of the other children who visit their relatives have time for me. My own, you know about them. And I have no grandchildren. Excuse me, Mrs. Farber.” He leaned sideways, took a wrinkled handkerchief from his jacket pocket and blew his nose and stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket.
“How can I keep Joshua in my life? Please, tell me what you want me to do?”
Eleanor relented and softened her tone. “You must promise never to lie to him again. Ever.”
“I promise, Mrs. Farber.” He reached out for her hand. “You won’t say anything about this to Josh, will you?” he said quickly, the concern obvious in his voice.
Eleanor thought for a moment. “No. I won’t. So long as you keep your side of the bargain.”
“And you’ll call me Izzy, again?”
She smiled at him. “Yes, I will.”
He was still holding her hand. “I swear as God is my witness, I’ll never lie to Joshua. No matter what.”
“Good,” Eleanor said, standing up. Izzy still held on to her hand.
“Thank you, Mrs. Farber. I’m proud your son has selected me to be his surrogate grandfather. I won’t let him down.”
“Just be yourself Izzy. He already worships you for that.”
Upstairs, she found her family in the alcove off the tv room.
“We came here because the tv was too loud,” Mitch said. “Just made some small talk so far,” he said softly.
Aunt Helen was holding the orange Amy had brought for her in her lap, her hands cupping it carefully as if it was a fragile egg.
“Aunt Helen,” Amy asked, having waited until her mother joined them. “Did you ever play the violin when you know, you were younger?”
Aunt Helen looked at the orange intently as if it was a crystal ball with the answer. Mitch couldn’t tell whether she was thinking about the question, hadn’t heard Amy or was lost somewhere else. “No darling,” she said finally. “What ever gave you that idea?”
“Well, the way you held the violin yesterday at the concert.”
Aunt Helen looked puzzled. “I gave a concert?” She sat hunched down in the large wing chair staring at her slippered feet. She took a Kleenex out of her belt and wiped her nose. Mitch wasn’t sure she knew they were still there.
“Aunt Helen,” he said, rubbing the back of her hand.
“I played the trumpet,” she said triumphantly, looking up at him.
“A big shiny, brass trumpet. We paraded down Main Street on the 4th of July. In New London. What a grand time we had.”
Mitch grinned at her conspiratorially, as if only he and his aunt understood the subterfuge of her answer. Aunt Helen laughed along with him, beating the hand he held on her knee in time to some imaginary march playing in her head.
He didn’t know whether it was the tension over his mother-in-law, his regret and guilt for hurting Eleanor, or maybe the constricted trapped feeling he had from obligations to his aunt. Or the lack of time alone with Ell, or just everything getting him down. He saw his aunt, marching down Main Street, flags flying, crowds cheering, blowing the trumpet the way Dizzy Gillespie played it, with her cheeks all puffed out, her blue nurse’s cloak flowing straight behind her like Superman’s cape and he started to laugh. It began as a chuckle but overwhelmed him from deep inside, a cleansing, uncontrolled laughter that consumed him until his eyes watered and his face turned red.
Eleanor looked at him and smiled and began to laugh along with him. “Helen, like a squirrel with a mouthful of nuts,” he said, trying to catch his breath and imitate the puffed out cheeks look at the same time. “Can you see her? In a parade.” Eleanor picked up on the image and began laughing until she too was carried away, holding her sides and rocking back and forth, as if she were being tickled. Amy and Josh, at first looked embarrassed. Then they caught the spirit from their parents and all five of them were giggling, snorting, laughing and crying at the same time, overcome by the uninhibited joy of their own family joke. Gradually, their laughter subsided.
“Whooee,” Mitch said, simultaneously feeling relieved, relaxed and purged.
�
�We haven’t had a laugh like that in a long time,” Ell said drying her eyes. “Now that we’ve stopped, I don’t know what was so funny.”
Mitch conjured up the image again but this time, he only chuckled. “When we get home, I’ll pull that Dizzy Gillespie CD we have and the kids can see his photo.”
“It won’t be as funny then,” Eleanor said wistfully.
“Be careful when you get back home,” Aunt Helen said. “There’s trouble in the neighborhood. That’s why Senator Ribicoff hasn’t been here. He knows.” She let go of the orange with one hand and shook a warning finger at Mitch. “Make sure the children are safe. They always come after the children.”
“What is she talking about?” Amy asked.
“She’s talking about her Senator from Connecticut many years ago and worrying about anti-semitism,” Mitch said, regretting that the moment of childish joy for his aunt had passed.
He watched his daughter get up, gently kiss Aunt Helen on the forehead, put her arms around her frail great aunt and quietly tell her not to worry.
Chapter Thirteen
On Friday, Artie Rosen had called and said there would be no more postponements. “Be prepared for trial on Monday, March 14th,” he told Jama. Medina had been so nervous all weekend she had infected Mohamed, who had up till then been reasonably calm. On Sunday afternoon, Jama took his son on a rigorous several mile hike along the trail to Mt. Vernon. He wanted to make his son physically tired so he would sleep well that night.
The two of them arrived early Monday morning. Jama didn’t want to take any chances. Like many buildings in Alexandria, both government and private, the Alexandria Courthouse was made of red brick, with a white columned portico, supporting a stone balcony and white painted doors and windows. They stood outside in the courtyard, on a day full of the promise of spring, away from the smokers crowding the stone benches in the early morning sun.
Jama carefully appraised his son, in the same dispassionate way he had assessed so many Somali CID recruits in the past. Mohamed was wearing grey slacks and a dark blue blazer over a clean white shirt with a conservative maroon striped blue tie. His clipped curly hair was neatly brushed. Mr. Rosen had suggested that he cut off his short beard for the trial but Mohamed had refused. Jama had agreed with him. A lot of teenage boys had facial hair and if Mohamed wanted to keep his, Jama didn’t want to force him to shave it. Just because some Americans assumed Moslem men with beards were terrorists. Besides, Mohamed had a beard when he had been stopped by Officer Bloehm who would be certain to testify to that fact anyway.
Jama looked at his watch and motioned with his head that it was time to go in. The security station was immediately inside the double doors, with the usual screener, conveyor belt, and a printed sign instructing all visitors to empty their pockets of everything, place them in a plastic bowl and put it on the belt. The sign helpfully listed the usual items- wallets, keys, cell phones, pens, glasses.
Jama went through first. The Alexandria policeman, in his dark brown uniform, highlighted by his black belt and holster, said good morning as Jama collected his belongings from the basket. He watched Mohamed pass through the screener, walking stiffly past the policeman.
“Mohamed” Jama said as they walked together down the corridor. “You reacted badly just seeing a policeman in uniform. Officer Bloehm will testify in uniform. You must not let his appearance bother you. Or if it does, do not let the jury see it.”
“Yes, aabe,” Mohamed replied. They stood outside the courtroom, Mohamed nervously avoiding looking through the narrow rectangular windows on the doors. Jama could see his son’s tenseness. His hands were clasped behind his back. His face was frozen in a forced unemotional mask. He’s a handsome young man, Jama thought. His good looks came from his mother. He hoped Mohamed had inherited some toughness from him.
If they went to trial this morning, it would be a difficult experience for his son. He had advised him, as had Mr. Rosen, to simply tell the truth and answer the questions without volunteering information. Mr. Rosen had reviewed the questions he would ask. Jama was reasonably confident that his son would respond in court as he had in the lawyer’s office. They had decided that Mohamed would take the stand. The problem would be the cross examination by the City Attorney. Jama had cautioned Mohamed not to be provoked, not to get belligerent even if the City Attorney was derisive of Islam or insinuated something about his parents. The important thing was to remain in control of your emotions. Do not give the jury any excuse to find you guilty. It all came down to telling the truth in a straightforward and unemotional manner.
Jama knew, from the posting of the list of cases on the door that Mohamed’s was the second one of the morning. Artie Rosen pushed the courtroom door open and joined them in the hall.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you,” Mr. Rosen said. Mohamed’s shoulders sagged involuntarily, as if his backbone had pulled out. Jama saw him quickly recover his composure, and stand erect with his hands stiffly at his sides, facing Mr. Rosen.
“Officer Bloehm was called up to his National Guard unit three weeks ago. He’s in a military police company heading for Iraq. All of his cases have to be dismissed.” He smiled broadly waiting for Mohamed to react.
Jama stifled a grin and looked at his son.
“I don’t understand. Do I still have to testify?” Mohamed asked.
Artie shook his head. “No, you don’t. Here’s the drill. We’ll go into court in a few minutes, the Clerk will call your case, the City Attorney will state for the record that Officer Bloehm is unavailable to testify for the foreseeable future. The Judge will order the case against you dismissed and that will be the end of it.”
Mohamed looked from Mr. Rosen to his father for reassurance that there would be no trial.
“That is what a dismissal means,” Jama said, nodding his head.
“Oh,” was all Mohamed could manage to say. But his eyes once again had that sparkle and glint which had been absent for much of the time since that snowy day in January. “Thank you Mr. Rosen. Thank you very much.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank President Bush for starting the war. You would have done well at trial but every case is a crap shoot with a jury. It’s never a sure thing. You were lucky Officer Bloehm was called up.”
The Judge had an emergency motion to hear before Mohamed’s case and it was close to noon by the time they left the courtroom
“You have time for lunch?” Artie asked, “Since you cleared the day for the trial.”
“Yes, we do,” Jama answered for both of them. “I insist however that we treat you. You have done so much for our family.”
“Nonsense,” Artie said, waving his hands in rejection. “I’ve charged you for my time. You’ve paid for my services. Besides, I want to talk to you about your working for us as an investigator on a more regular basis. Lunch is on the firm. It’s partly business.”
Jama inclined his head in acceptance. “Let me call my wife and give her the good news. She will be so relieved and now she can enjoy the wedding we are going to in Minnesota. Being a policeman’s wife, she is used to difficulties involving me.” He unclipped his cell phone from his belt. “This involves our first born and only son so she was more distraught than if it was just me.” He smiled at Artie as if they both shared the secret of how emotional wives could be about their sons, while they, as husbands, were always dispassionate.
Artie listened to the rapid stream of Somali, first from Jama and then Mohamed, understanding everything in context- there was no trial, Mohamed was free, everything was fine, without comprehending a single word, except the English one- “dismissed.” They were nice people, he thought. Jama had a very sharp and analytical mind. He had done well on the two matters they had assigned him. Now, the firm was taking on the defense of three people accused of fraud in procuring military contracts. It would be a complicated white collar criminal case with many witnesses. Artie had persuaded his partners to hire Jama as their full time chief investigator.
Amina’s cell phone rang while she was feeding Mrs. Hirschberg, a new resident, paralyzed by a stroke, her head held upright by the black vertical rest, the bib tied loosely under her chin. She felt for the phone in the large square pocket of her uniform jacket. It was the ring they had programmed for calls from Mariam, Jama or Medina. It would have to wait. She patiently spooned a small portion of mashed potatoes into Mrs. Hirschberg’s mouth and watched her gum her food and swallow it. A mid-day call was unusual. She tried not to worry about it, finished feeding Mrs. Hirschberg, made sure the other three residents at the table took their mid-day pills with their juice, cleaned up the trays and wheeled them to the tv and activity rooms.
She called Medina back and heard the good news about the dismissal. Medina, exuberantly relieved wanted to talk about the wedding they were going to this weekend in Minnesota. Amina cut her off, giving the excuse of having to attend to some resident. She definitely had mixed feelings about going to the wedding. Amina had unenthusiastically agreed to go. She would have offended her brother as well as Jama and Medina if she had refused. She didn’t know the bride or groom. The bride was the daughter of one of Jama’s good friends, another officer from the Somali Police, who had settled in Minneapolis. The bride’s father, as a matter of respect for Jama had asked him to give away his daughter.
As a mother, Amina recognized it would be good for Mariam to be with her cousins and other relatives who would be there from all over the U.S. and Canada. It would strengthen Mariam’s ties to Somali culture and her family. And she was looking forward to having time with her brother at whose home they were going to stay.
On the other hand, she knew there would be intense pressure from aunts and sisters of numerous male cousins, pressing her to marry this young man or that one. Each female relative regarded Amina’s status as a single mother as a challenge to find the right match. It would be a camel auction and she would be the prize camel. Medina, even though she had been worried about Mohamed’s pending trial, had still managed to casually mention, that an unmarried cousin, with his own business and from an excellent family, was coming from Vancouver. Amina wouldn’t be able to avoid it. She sighed knowing this was one of the purposes of Somali weddings, to introduce marriageable women to eligible young men. In a supervised environment.
The Orange Tree Page 24
