by Kim Barnes
I was showered and in bed when he came from his study, still carrying the drink he had been refilling since we arrived home. He stood in the doorway, considering me from a distance, his face half in the shadows.
“You let her run, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice flat.
“I’ll be more careful next time,” I said. “I promise.”
“There’s not going to be a next time,” he said. “You want to ride, you go to the Hobby Farm like the other wives.” He turned and disappeared down the hallway.
“Never let the sun go down on your wrath,” his mother once told me, her single piece of advice before we left Shawnee, but I didn’t care. The days that I had imagined with Mason as a comfort now seemed more like a trial. I wish he’d just leave, I said to myself, and the thought startled me. When had I begun to wish him away?
I didn’t realize I had been asleep when I woke later that night, still alone in the bed. At first, I thought that it was the sound of the horses that I heard, but then I made out the low murmur of men’s voices. I pulled on my robe, walked down the hallway, and peered around the corner. Abdullah had returned and sat with Mason at the dining table, his ghutra folded away from his face. I saw how his glistening black hair fell against his shoulders, beautiful, but not like a girl’s—like an animal’s, I thought, or maybe a kind of man I had never seen before—and I remembered the story of Samson and Delilah. What would it feel like to hold that hair in my hands?
“Mason?” At the sound of my voice, their heads jerked up, and Abdullah’s face opened with surprise.
Mason leaned back, let out a heavy sigh. “Gin, for God’s sake, will you just go back to bed?”
Abdullah looked quickly at Mason, a flash of disapproval crossing his face before he pulled his ghutra close. “Badra is safely home,” he said. “I wanted to return this.” He pulled my blue scarf from inside the fold of his thobe and laid it on the table.
“Thank you,” I said, and drew my robe a little closer. “Are you talking about the explosion?” I asked.
Mason lifted one hand, let it drop. “Bodeen is gone,” he said. “Alireza is untouchable. Like fingering ghosts.”
I folded my arms. “Do you want coffee?” I asked.
“Coffee would be good,” Mason said without looking, and I knew that he was still angry with me.
Abdullah lowered his gaze as I walked past him and into the kitchen. I pulled out one of Betsy’s tea towels—this one Friday—and considered its stitch as I waited for the pot to perk, wondering again what had happened to Sunday, whether Betsy had known or even suspected what her husband was up to all those hours he spent in his study, building his ship in a bottle—and that is when I remembered the red leather book.
I found the volume in its place, the ledger sheets still pasted in back. I held it for a moment, hopeful that my hunch was right, not only because I wanted to help Mason and Abdullah, but because we now had this enemy in common: because of Alireza, Nadia was in danger, and Burt was dead. I arranged a neat tray with three cups and saucers, sugar and cream, added a plate of Yash’s macaroons, and tucked the book beneath my arm.
“Ashkurik,” Abdullah said as I placed his coffee in front of him.
“You’re welcome,” I said, acting as collected as I could in my bathrobe. I held out the book to Mason. “Take a look at this,” I said. “The last few pages.”
He peered at me for a moment, then took the volume, rested it on the table, and flipped to the end. I took my chair and watched him read down one page, and then the next. “This is it,” he said. “Bodeen kept a record.” He looked at Abdullah with something like amazement. “It’s been right here in my own house the whole time.”
I wanted to say that it wasn’t his house, not even Bodeen’s, that it all belonged to the company, but the look on Abdullah’s face as Mason moved the volume in front of him kept me quiet. He wasn’t eager or satisfied but grim as he took the book, and I realized that what he was seeing wasn’t numbers but the lives of his people reduced to scribbles on a page.
“Bodeen put in a requisition for supplies,” Mason said, dragging his finger down the column, wrinkling his forehead, “but it looks like he pocketed half the money, gave the other half to Alireza.” He pushed back, and the skin around his mouth tightened. “It’s not just about graft. It’s about what’s wrong with this company,” he said. “It’s all tied together. Put the least skilled, lowest-paid workers on the front line. Something like this happens, there’s always more where they came from, right? Pay a little blood money and walk away.” He tapped the ledger, raised his eyes to Abdullah’s. “I’m not done with this,” he said. “Not by a long shot.”
Abdullah held his gaze a moment, gauging Mason’s conviction, but Mason didn’t have to convince me of anything. He would never walk away from a wrong that needed to be made right. Not Mason McPhee.
“What about Lucky?” I asked. “Maybe he can help.”
Mason slid his eyes away. “It’s hard to say where Lucky is in all this,” he said. “Right now, it’s just between the three of us.” He closed the book, handed it to me. “Put this back where you found it,” he said. “It’s been there for this long. It will keep a while longer.” He stubbed his cigarette. “Abdullah and I still have some business to take care of,” he said, and I realized I was being dismissed.
I never liked being bossed, but there I stood in my nightclothes. I took the book to the study, slid it into place. Instead of going back to bed, I turned off the light and sat in Mason’s chair, listening to the muted voices of the men. No matter how pretty I was, no matter how smart and brave, it would never be enough to earn me a place at that table.
What if this were my study? I wondered. My job, my salary, my house? Because Ruthie was wrong—we weren’t earning more money than we knew what to do with. Mason was. I thought of my photos in the file drawer and felt just like that: as though a little bit of room had been made for me, a slip of space that I should feel grateful for.
Chapter Twelve
Mason woke me the next morning by standing at the foot of the bed and rocking the mattress with his knee. When I opened my eyes, I saw him in his boxers, buttoning his khaki work shirt from bottom to top. “I want you to stay inside the compound until I get off this tour,” he said, twisting his cuffs.
I sat up and tried to focus. I thought it was because I had let Badra run, or maybe it had something to do with Alireza and Bodeen, but Mason shook his head. “We got bigger concerns. Word just came down that something is heating up between Egypt and Israel. Probably only a bunch of saber rattling, but it could turn serious.” He flapped his pants from their fold. “Some of the men are already flying their families out to Rome. If you can’t promise me you’ll stay in this compound and mean it, I’m going to send you out right now.” He strapped on his belt, picked up his duffel, and slapped on his cap before stepping close, lifting my chin. “And not a word about Bodeen and the ledger, okay?” When I gave a confused nod, he peered at me for a moment, then kissed my forehead and walked out of the room. When I heard the Land Cruiser grind into gear, I pulled on my robe and moved my pout to the kitchen, where Yash kneaded bread.
“I don’t even know what this thing with Egypt and Israel is all about,” I said.
“It is about territory,” he said, and gave me a ball of dough to round and flatten. “The gentiles will not allow the Israelis to have more, and the Israelis will take no less.”
It dawned on me that I was living in the Promised Land. “The Valley of Abraham,” I said.
Yash nodded. “Christians, Jews, Muslims, all claim Abraham as their father, and see what a happy family it has made.” He tightened his lips. “Since the creation of Israel, there has been conflict at the borders, but Egypt is amassing troops, and Israel will not be intimidated. The Arabs who have spent centuries attempting to destroy one another will gladly join together against the Israeli colonizers.” Yash grew pensive. “Years ago, the British, in their ineffable fashion, promised Fais
al a united Arab nation, then pieced out Israel and Palestine behind his back. He doesn’t show himself to be a vengeful man, but one wonders about the fury of his dreams.”
I remembered my grandfather’s fiery sermons from the book of Revelation. “The Bible says that the Antichrist will bring all the gentiles together,” I said, “and then comes the Tribulation.”
“If memory serves me,” Yash said, “it entails a great deal of pain and suffering.”
“The Seven Seals and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” I said, “and pestilence.”
The doorbell rang, and Yash looked up at the clock’s early hour. “Ah, yes,” he sighed.
Lucky busted in before either of us could reach the hallway, brandishing a bottle, Ruthie nudging in against him, looking like she hadn’t slept a wink.
“Genuine Cuban rum is what we got here,” he announced, “straight from Bahrain.” He knocked back a swallow and hissed through his teeth. “Damn, that’s fine.” He handed me the bottle and looked around. “Where’s that husband of yours?”
“He had an early meeting,” I said. I took a drink of the rum, found it surprisingly sweet.
Lucky’s smile tightened. “What meeting?”
I lifted one shoulder. “Maybe it’s about Israel and Egypt,” I said.
“Hell,” Lucky said, dropping back and cutting his eyes at Ruthie. “I talked to the fellas at the airbase, and they say it’s a big fuss over nothing. The militia has it under control.”
“That’s a bunch of bullshit, and you know it,” Ruthie said, and took the bottle. “When have these people ever been under control?”
“Listen,” Lucky said, “I’ve got my sidearm loaded and my machete nice and sharp. Arabs want to come over that fence, I say let them come.”
She rolled her eyes toward me, her skin pale in the harsh light of the kitchen. “I’m headed to the airport, Gin. They’re flying me out.” She lowered her face, her voice distant and strained. “They’re always shipping us out somewhere.” She handed me the bottle, lit a cigarette, and I saw that her hand was shaking as she rubbed her temple with one thumb. “I have such a headache,” she said. “It must be the rum.” She let out a breath. “I’ve got to use the bathroom before we go.”
Lucky waited until she was out of earshot before looking at me from beneath his brow. “She needs to get on out of here for a while,” he said. “I don’t want no one giving her a hard time.” I took another drink, then passed the bottle to him, looked down, and wiped my cheeks. He rested his hand on my shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. “That’s the girl,” he said, then straightened and looked at me with new seriousness. “Listen, sis, there wasn’t no meeting this morning.” I brought up my eyes, and his face took on a pained expression. “That boy of yours is on some kind of crusade, and I’m worried he don’t know what he’s getting into. I told him he’d better leave it alone, but he won’t listen.”
“He won’t listen to anybody,” I said.
“Stubborn as a mule,” Lucky agreed. “Ruthie don’t like how tight a rein he keeps on you.” He took another drink of rum and passed the bottle to me, like we were toasting good times. “What’s he up to, anyway? I mean besides all this rabble-rousing about labor. He’s got some big bone he’s chewing on.”
I had forgotten how smooth real liquor could be, how it could wash down any misgivings I might have about breaking another of my promises to Mason. I took a big swallow, passed the bottle back, and lowered my voice so that Yash couldn’t hear.
“Mason thinks that Buck Bodeen was cooking the books, skimming money from Materials Supply,” I said. “That’s what caused the explosion at the plant.”
Lucky peered at me for a moment and then grimaced and wagged his head. “Bodeen,” he said. “Always trying to run the numbers.” He nodded once. “You tell Mason I’m behind him on this all the way. Anything I can do, he just says the word.” He straightened when we heard Ruthie come out of the bathroom. He considered the bottle, took a last drink, then handed it back to me. “Keep what’s left for when this mess is over,” he said. “We’ll have us a fine celebration.”
“We’re leaving the Volkswagen,” Ruthie said. “Lucky has his pickup, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t use the car while I’m gone.” She tugged at Lucky’s hand, and I moved with them to the door, where Ruthie hugged me hard. “If things get too bad,” she said, “you can always come to Rome. I’ll take you shopping. Via Condotti is the best.” She lifted her shoulders. “I just hope they’ll let me back in.” She looked out over the compound. “I don’t know what it is about this place,” she said. “At first you don’t want to come here, and then you never want to leave.”
Lucky pulled her close, and she leaned her head into his chest, wiped her eyes. “Let’s get this over with,” she said, and I watched them get in the pickup and drive off down the road, then took one last drink from the bottle before taking it to the kitchen. When Yash came in, he found me at the counter, eating almonds and staring drunkenly at the blinded window, wondering what it would be like to be with Ruthie in Rome.
“Ruthie is leaving,” I said as though to myself. “Flying to Rome until this is over.”
Yash considered my words, then tied on his apron. “It is a good day for saag and roti,” he said.
I sat at the counter, glum and silent, and watched him mix spinach with onion, garlic, ginger, and chickpeas. He fried several rounds of bread dough before moving them beneath the broiler to puff, then pulled them out with his tongs, spread one with ghee, and handed it to me.
“It is good to have comfort,” he said, “in times of tribulation.”
I breathed in the turmeric and coriander, then lifted the napkin to my face, but too late—Yash had already seen that I was crying.
He stood awkward in his apron, then squared his shoulders like a soldier bringing himself into formation. “Perhaps some more rum,” he said, “in your tea.”
I shook my head, blew my nose into the napkin, which brought up Yash’s eyebrows. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that everything feels so wrong.”
“Remember where we are,” Yash said.
“This isn’t funny,” I said.
He eased out a breath. “No,” he said, “it is not.” He tilted his head. “If not rum, perhaps rummy?”
I smiled a little and stood to get the deck of cards, but Yash held out his hand.
“First,” he said, “you will finish your lunch.”
“Who are you?” I asked. “My mother?” He didn’t answer but simply went on about his chores, and I finished my lunch and felt better.
Except for Ruthie’s absence and my detention, that day and the next passed like so many others: I read, worked on crosswords for the paper, puttered in the garden, watched TV with my feet up while Yash vacuumed the carpets, and played more games of rummy than I had in the totality of my life. Not a single mention of Israel appeared in the Sun and Flare or any other paper we could read, but we listened to what news came over the radio, caught bits of President Nasser’s inflamed speeches accusing Israel of hostilities and then Moshe Dayan’s equally adamant rebuttals.
“Who is telling the truth?” I asked Yash one day over lunch, but he shrugged.
“The victor will write the history,” he said, rising to resume his dusting, “but the truth we may never know.”
“Maybe I’ll go for a swim,” I said. I had been watching the children at their lessons, and, when they were done, sliding into the shallow end to mimic their movements.
Yash nodded his approval. “An excellent decision,” he said. “The moist air is good for your lungs.”
“Do you know how?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “It was a part of my education. I excelled at water polo.” And then, as if reading my mind: “It is a game for boys, so it will do no good to ask me to teach you.”
“Abdullah’s sister is teaching me,” I said. “To swim, anyway. I met her when Lucky got us lost in the desert. We might still be t
here if Abdullah hadn’t found us.”
Yash straightened and looked at me. “Did his mother feed you her famous locusts?” he asked.
“Just dates,” I said, “and lots of tea. But I loved it, Yash. It felt so good to be out there instead of stuck in this house all day.”
“I’m sure that I wouldn’t know,” he said.
“But even if you can’t drive, you’re a man. You can go wherever you want,” I said. “And I bet you’ve ridden a horse before.”
“It will come as a shock,” he said, “but the Arabs did not bring forth the horse from their own spit and a handful of sand.” He rested his elbow at his waist. “I would wager that the Manipuri horses of India have carried soldiers into more wars and raced to more victories than any breed in history, including your Bedouin’s precious Arabian ponies.”
“He’s not my Bedouin,” I said, but I secretly liked the sound of it.
Yash sniffed and went on. “The Manipuri came with the Tartar invasion, as did the game of ground polo.” He looked at me. “Surely,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “I’ve seen it on TV. But I bet women can’t play that either.”
“Not so,” he said. “As far back as the fifth century, in Persia, in China, women and their horses have competed on the polo field.”
“Then I want to learn,” I said, and glanced at him before lifting my cup. “Maybe Abdullah will teach me.”
He saw that I was teasing him and tucked his mouth to the side before growing more pensive.
“In the military, I rode a fine horse.” He nodded, remembering. “But it is different here for me than it is for you. You think of me as a free man, but even if I had the means to buy or borrow a horse, I am not at liberty to come and go as I please.”
“You make it sound like you’re a slave or something,” I said.
Yash looked at me with a kind of fondness, as though he found my ignorance endearing. “Slavery was abolished in this country five years ago,” he said. “We are now called houseboys and maids.” I watched him push through the swinging doors into the kitchen, then turned back to my lunch.
