“From his heart and from his mother,” Mitch replied, managing to stick his finger in the batter, before being exiled from the kitchen.
By a little after 7, the buffet was arranged on the dining room table. There were about 20 callers in the living room. Mitch had brought extra chairs from upstairs. He and Ell had been pleasantly surprised that some members of the Congregation had stopped by briefly, before services. People had initially been subdued, offering their condolences in hushed voices, their faces grave and somber. However, he thought, there’s only so much grieving one could do. Once people began helping themselves to food, the conversation changed to more mundane everyday issues, the price of gasoline, local and national politics and how bad traffic was in Virginia driving through the mixing bowl on the way to Potomac Mills.
He noticed Amy, squeezed on the smaller of their two sofas next to her grandmother, a bit of food on her plate more as an ornament than a meal, looking angry. He angled over to her, asking Helga if she needed anything. “Amy. Come with me to the kitchen. I have to get your Grandma another glass of wine.” He took the bottle of chardonnay out of the refrigerator. “It’s hard to believe we’re not going to the Home to see Aunt Helen, this weekend, isn’t it?”
“Daddy. I know this is a Jewish tradition but it seems all wrong to me to have a feast when we just buried Aunt Helen.” Mitch was going to reprimand her for being so sour by telling her that sitting shiva was normally for seven days of so-called feasting, when the doorbell rang.
“Can you get that sweetheart? I have to take this to grandma.”
He heard Amina’s voice followed by Amy’s squeal of joy. He and Eleanor reached their entranceway at the same time. Amina held a square pyrex plate covered with tin foil. Mariam had a small bowl with a red sauce. The man behind her carried a potted plant, about three feet high, the branches bending from the weight of several small oranges.
“We have had this tree in our home. It blooms every year,” Amina explained. “I told Mariam Amy’s story about Helen and Amy asking you for an orange blossom on Helen’s monument. Mariam suggested we bring this for Amy as a gift. Oh, excuse me. This is my uncle, Jama Hussein,” she said, introducing the man holding the tree. Jama put it down, and shook hands with Mitch and then with Eleanor, bowing slightly as he did so.
“Oh” Amy gushed. “This is so nice of you. It is soooo right. Now, every day when I see it, I’ll think of Aunt Helen. Thank you so much.” She spontaneously hugged Amina, who quickly handed the plate she was holding to Eleanor. Amy awkwardly touched Jama’s hand holding the potted tree. Mariam put her arms around Amy and the two girls hugged.
“What are these,” Eleanor asked Amina carrying the plate into the kitchen.
“They are sambusi,” she said, uncovering the fried triangular patties. “The ones on the left have chopped meat and the other side is vegetarian. You should heat them up. I made the fillings mild but the sauce is hot, I mean spicy. It is made from red peppers.”
Mitch carried the potted orange tree upstairs to Amy’s room, and left the two girls there laughing and chatting. He was glad that his daughter had shed her mourning mood, at least temporarily. He came back quickly and found Jama standing by himself off to the side in the living room.
“There’s food and drinks in the dining room,” Mitch said. Jama quickly begged off. “Sodas and coffee,” he added, thinking Jama had seen other guests drinking wine and assumed Mitch was offering him a glass. “Please,” Mitch said, gesturing to the other room. The sambusi were already on the table. While Mitch put ice cubes in a glass and poured ginger ale over them, Jama looked at the platters of lox, whitefish and turkey, the bowls of white and green spinach dip, red salsa and hummus, the sliced bagels and rectangular high in fiber crackers that Ell favored. He went for the safe harbor of some thing familiar. The sambusi.
“Thanks for coming and bringing Amina and Mariam,” Mitch said, helping himself to a sambusa as well.
“It is I who should be thanking you,” Jama replied. “Through you, I came to know Mr. Rosen, your friend Artie. He helped my son with a legal problem we had. I am now an investigator, working for his firm.”
“Of course,” Mitch said. “Amina had mentioned your name once or twice, but I didn’t put it together with Artie.” He looked at Jama in a different light. If Artie had hired him, he must be good at what he did. He wondered what Jama’s background could be which would make him a skilled investigator. He decided not to pry. “I’m glad I was able to help.”
Jama studied Mitch. No sense disclosing how much Artie had helped not only him but the Somali community. The man might regard Jama and his family with suspicion if he knew. It had started with what Somalis called ‘the knockings,’ the seemingly random, intrusive and intimidating visits by the FBI to Somali homes. These visits had intensified with the approach of the third anniversary of 9/11. Each time the FBI agents had come, the women had frantically run around the house either to avoid being seen by strange men or to cover themselves with their hidjabs and scarves. The agents, experienced in drug raids, interpreted such conduct as efforts to destroy evidence or attempts to escape. They had barged in, with their shoes on, grabbing men and women alike and interrogated them in a rough and nasty manner. The community had been up in arms, angry at the offense to both honor and Islam. Jama had discussed the problem with Mr. Rosen. As a former Assistant U.S. Attorney, he still had good contacts within the Bureau. He had arranged a quiet, unofficial meeting between someone from the FBI and Jama. Artie had sat in on the meeting. Jama’s police background had given him greater credibility. This had been followed up by a public meeting with the Somali community. The FBI had explained their security concerns not only about terrorist activities on the anniversary, but possible disruptions of the Presidential inauguration in mid-January. The community had grudgingly recognized the legitimate security needs while objecting to being singled out as suspects solely because they were Muslims. In the end, the FBI was made more culturally sensitive and used more female agents, for at least routine visits. The Somalis became less hostile and more cooperative toward the Bureau and more aware of their rights under the Constitution. But, Jama thought to himself, what would this white middle class Jewish man know about the FBI or the fear it could engender among Moslems.
“You have a very nice home, Mr. Farber,” Jama said, taking a sip of his soda.
Josh bounded into the dining room, with his usual exuberance, on the prowl for anything edible. “This is my son Josh,” Mitch said. “This is Mr. Hussein, Amina’s uncle.” Josh shook hands and noted the sambusi. “What are those,” he asked curiously. “They look like egg rolls but they’re triangles.” Jama was still explaining the ingredients when Josh grabbed one, dipped it deeply into the hot sauce and took a huge bite.
“Careful, Josh,” Eleanor said, gliding over, grabbing a paper napkin and giving it to him, in one smooth motion, so he could catch the red sauce oozing out of the corner of his mouth.
“Boy, these are great,” Josh said, popping the remaining piece in his mouth and reaching for another.
“The sauce is not too spicy for you?” Amina asked Josh.
“Nothing’s too hot for him,” Ell replied, answering for her son who had his mouth full. “He eats almost a whole bowl of salsa himself when we go out for Mexican food.”
Mitch excused himself and ambled into the living room. His mind wandered to their plans for the weekend. He subconsciously thought of having to go to the Nursing Home and pick up Aunt Helen for Sunday dinner. They had been doing that for almost a year. It was such a part of their normal weekend routine it seemed strange she wouldn’t be there. No, he thought sadly. This Sunday he and Judy would take Aunt Helen’s few belongings from the Home and that would be the end of it. A few new guests came and those remaining stayed longer, thinking they were providing moral support. Then it was over. Until tomorrow night again. Two nights were more than enough. He felt seven nights of sitting shiva, especially work and school nights, would be a
burden not a blessing. He drove Helga home, attributing her silence to Aunt Helen’s funeral and whatever was troubling her. When he pulled into the driveway of her building, she surprised him by asking him to walk her up to the apartment. “I’m just very tired today,” she said by way of explanation, as he kissed her goodnight on both cheeks. “Drive carefully and give my love to Eleanor.” She patted his arm.
When he returned home, Josh and Amy had walked Oliver, Ell and Judy had almost finished cleaning up and there wasn’t much for him to do. He gave Oliver a biscuit, just for being a good dog all evening, drawing a disapproving look from Ell, who thought he spoiled him. “What?” he said defensively. “He didn’t beg food from anyone all night.”
“He doesn’t know that’s why you’re rewarding him. Want to help us finish the open bottle of wine?”
“I don’t know,” Judy said. “Now we have to split it three ways”
He swatted his sister with a dishtowel as Eleanor divided the remaining chardonnay among their three glasses. They sat on the sofa, in silence, sipping the wine.
“Your mom asked me to walk her up to her apartment. Which I did with my usual courtesy and gallantry. She looked pretty upset at the cemetery. What’s going on? It can’t be only Aunt Helen.”
“Well,” Eleanor sighed. “She’s got her reasons. She fell on Monday.”
“And she didn’t call or tell us?” Mitch asked.
“You know mother. She didn’t want to burden us, what with Aunt Helen in a coma. She tripped on the rug and stopped her fall with her hands on the coffee table. She has still has a swelling on the heel of her hand but I don’t think she broke anything.”
“But why would that make her so upset,” Judy asked.
“It’s the same thing that happened at the beginning of the end for her mother. A fall. She’s afraid that she’s losing her sense of balance. And in her mind, everything snowballs. She won’t be able to walk, she’ll lose her independence, she’ll become wheelchair bound in a nursing home. And then she’ll die and we’ll forget about her.”
“Boy, she’s imagining only the worst. And it’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?” Mitch asked.
“Perhaps,” Ell said. “But Aunt Helen’s death and how mother perceived Helen’s life this past year made her more cognizant that she has a limited number of years left. And she’s worried she may not enjoy them in good health. She’s afraid, Mitch, and that’s natural.”
“She could sign up for elder swimming and water aerobic classes,” Judy suggested. “That’s supposed to help improve balance and muscle tone.”
“Yeah,” Mitch added. “There’s an indoor pool at the Jewish Community Center on 16th Street. It would be an easy drive for her.”
Eleanor shook her head. “She says she’s giving up driving.”
“Why?” Mitch asked. “How many times has she told us, it makes her feel independent.”
“She almost hit her neighbor. One of the women who lives on her floor. She didn’t see her when she was backing up in the garage. The woman screamed and mother reacted wrong. She hit the gas instead of the brake. Thank God she only hit the wall. She wants to talk to you about selling the Buick.”
“Wow,” Mitch said. “And this was what she was talking about to you at the cemetery?”
“And in the car ride there and the drive home. She went over and over the scene in the garage, which leads her to the change in her quality of life, then being bedridden and then dying.”
“Well, I’m not giving up on Judy’s idea of Helga taking swimming classes. We can arrange for radio cabs. They’ll pick her up and take her home. It’s only money.”
Eleanor smiled at him. “We need to think of ways for her to remain independent. I think if she feels good about herself, her health won’t deteriorate. Swimming is a great idea,” she said, tilting her glass in acknowledgment to Judy. “Mother took me swimming all the time when I was growing up. I remember how graceful she looked. She was like a ballerina in water. When I was Amy’s age, I felt fat and ungainly next to her,” she said wistfully. “I was the ugly duckling next to the beautiful swan.”
“I can’t imagine you as an ugly anything. Ever.” Mitch said, raising his own glass in a mock toast. “You’re the one who should suggest she take up swimmingd. Let’s think of some other activities You know, maybe something at the Austrian Embassy. Get her used to taking radio cabs. We can make it work, Ell,” he said.
“Mother,” Amy called from upstairs. “Josh is bothering me.”
Eleanor stood up, shaking her head. “The two of them sharing a room is a recipe for trouble.”
“Sound familiar?” Judy asked, poking Mitch in the ribs. “Tell Amy,” she shouted as Ell went up stairs, “she only has to make it through one more night before her beloved Aunt Judy will be back in Charlotte.”
Chapter Twenty
Judy finished folding the last of Aunt Helen’s clothing. The room smelled strongly of antiseptic. The hospital bed had been removed and the standard nursing home bed, with the wooden headboard was back in the room. Perhaps it was even her bed, Mitch thought. The shades were pulled up high, the linoleum floor had a clean, waxy shine and the sink and bathtub sparkled like a tv ad for a bathroom cleanser.
Mitch placed her flowered bedspread on the bottom of the cardboard carton he had brought for her few personal belongings. He laid the photos of his parents and Amina on top, along with her hairbrush, and a plastic zip-lock bag with her toothbrush and dentures. He looked at the neat stacks of the few sweaters, blouses, jackets and slacks on the bed, remembering when he first had brought her to the Home. Aunt Helen had folded her own clothes on the bed.
“You know, Judy,” we never got her anything in the year she was here. “Nothing. It never occurred to me.”
“She didn’t need anything and we’d only be giving it away now.”
“There’s not much here. She didn’t wear jewelry which is too bad. It would be nice for you and Amy to have some piece of hers.”
Judy took Aunt Helen’s navy blue coat from the closet. “I don’t need anything and Amy has her story and the orange tree. Someone will be able to use this,” she said, laying the coat down on the bed. “It hasn’t had much wear.”
“Molly said we should leave the clothes we want to give away. They will clean them and donate them to some Jewish charity, I forgot which one.”
“What about that painting of the wolf,” his sister asked.
“You want it?”
“Me? No. What would I do with it. Besides, I can’t carry it on the plane.”
“Judy. If you want it, I can figure out a way to get it to you. You know it can be shipped. Or maybe we’ll drive down and visit you sometime.”
“It’s so melancholy,” Judy said, studying the painting.
“No it’s not. It’s Aunt Helen, the lone wolf, bravely facing life’s challenges.”
“You think so,” Judy said wavering. “Where would I put it?” she asked herself more than her brother. “It does speak to me a little.”
“Look, I’ll keep it in our basement. You go home and think about it. If you want it, then we’ll figure out how to get it to you. And there are the two silver candlesticks, which were our grandmother’s. We used them at Passover. Remember?”
Judy shrugged. “You keep them. You’re more likely to have an occasion to use them than I will.”
“Maybe if you had them, you’d find an occasion.”
His sister laughed derisively. “I don’t see myself having a romantic candle light dinner for two any time soon, Mitch. Do you?”
“No, but maybe a joyful pot luck at your apartment with close friends. That’s possible.” He grinned at her. “Maybe with some of the people from UNC going on that trip to Spain.” He winked at her. “Sort of a get acquainted bon voyage party. Before the voyage,” he added, pronouncing it in French.
“You are such an optimist,” she replied gratefully. “I’ll take them. But I’ll bring them with me when I come for Pa
ssover. So you can have them on the table for the Seder.”
Mitch looked around the room one more time. “She almost made it to September 15th, the date she told me was her real birthday. That’s next week,” he said sadly. “It’ll always be Columbus Day for me.”
“Me too,” Judy said. “All those years when she came down on Columbus Day weekend so we could celebrate her birthday with her. What date did you give for the death certificate?”
“October 12th,” Mitch replied grinning. She smiled back. “I was feeling rebellious,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ll carry the box. You take the wolf.” He removed the painting from the wall. “We should tell Molly, maintenance will have to take the picture hook out and touch up that spot.”
They left Molly’s office and found Josh sitting in the lobby with Izzy doing the crossword puzzle. “I didn’t have time to do Friday’s, so we’re doing it together.”
“Dad, this is really hard,” Josh said.
“Hard,” Izzy said derisively. “You should try Saturday’s. And then,” he said lowering his voice menacingly, “there’s the Sunday puzzle. The most difficult of them all. The Mount Everest of crosswords. And you have to climb it every Sunday.”
“Come on Josh. We’ve got to pick up Grandma and get home for lunch and then take Aunt Judy to the airport. Say goodbye to Izzy. We’ll see him sometime this week.”
After lunch, Grandma stayed home with Amy and Josh while he and Eleanor drove his sister to National Airport. Judy gave him a long hug before entering security.
Mitch held on to her. “Judy. Promise you’ll call me if you need anything. Or if you just want to talk. Ok.”
“Ok. I will. I’ll come up for Passover this spring. If not before.”
“Yeah,” he said, remembering Aunt Helen at the Seder. “Hey. Have fun on your trip to Spain. Who knows.” He winked at her. “You might even meet someone interesting.”
“I should be so lucky,” Judy said, letting go and hugging Eleanor goodbye.
The Orange Tree Page 40
