Midnight and the Meaning of Love (9 page)

In his office I paid out the $650 for rent and $500 for him to deduct his fees for his transportation services. As he dropped the keys into a small envelope and pushed the envelope across the desk to me, he said, “Here is the key for the separate entrance, and another key for the extra night lock that we place on the fence. Since Umma and Naja will be escorted each night, she probably won’t have any use for the night lock.”

“Let me write out the address for Umma’s job and—,” I began saying.

“I’ll drive you there tonight so that I can be sure about the location and route. And then you will feel more comfortable also.”

After a pause, I agreed. “Can I take a look at your basement apartment before we leave?” I asked.

“Sure, for the next thirty days, it’s
your
basement apartment, starting”—he glanced at his modest Timex with the black leather band—“right now!” He smiled. I looked at the keys inside the small envelope, realizing that his welcoming us into his home was an act of trust even though I was paying the rent.

Downstairs I checked the place, each window and door and room. I opened every closet, cabinet, and drawer. “Sudana cleaned up very well for your Umma,” he said. “Actually, the place was cleaned up all the while. I have never rented it to anyone else. I have only had a few nephews and nieces stay here—you know, family.”

My eyes went to the only door leading to the outside. My mind was focused on that instead of Ghazzali’s words. I knew that I would install a dead bolt slide lock. I had no way of knowing exactly how many people had copies of Mr. Ghazzali’s keys, even if they were his family members. But at least when Umma and Naja were here inside the place, they could use the dead bolt to prevent anyone from outside from entering while they were home. Looking at the wall and the door molding, I knew it would take my handheld drill, either that or a locksmith. I told myself that Ghazzali would understand. I saw how he already had solid steel bars blocking all five of the tiny rectangular
basement-level windows. Even if an intruder broke the glass out of those windows, there was no way to fit a body, no matter how skinny, between the steel bars.

My mind shifted again. The apartment was already furnished, decently clean but by no means spectacular. It was good enough, though, for me to begin thinking,
Why should my mother and sister ever return to the Brooklyn projects ever again?
With a whole month’s rent paid out to Mr. Ghazzali, I could leave here and go get my wife. Once I returned, I’d pack up our Brooklyn apartment by myself. I’d hire a moving company to transfer the stuff from the Brooklyn apartment to our new house in Far Rockaway, then scoop up Naja and Umma from here and take them directly to our new home. Umma, Akemi, and Naja could decorate our new home however they wanted to and never again have to step their feet there, or be bothered with the Brooklyn projects.

“So deep in thought. Do you need anything else?” Mr. Ghazzali had interrupted right on time.

“We should get moving now.”

Naja slept in the back of Mr. Ghazzali’s taxi. When we arrived, I jumped out to get Umma and let her know we were taking the cab.

After late-night greetings given very respectfully by Mr. Ghazzali to Umma, we drove mostly in silence except for the brief interruptions of the taxi’s two-way radio. I watched Mr. Ghazzali as he kept his eyes on the road and drove us to our Brooklyn block. No other legitimate taxi would take us to our address, especially at this late hour, without hiking up the price and adding a string of complaints about danger.

Wednesday, May 7th, 1986

Umma and I were second and third on line at the passport office. We were standing behind a panicked Pakistani American who was headed home to meet his bride-to-be, who had been carefully chosen for him by his parents. He seemed to have to tell me about it as we waited for all the workers to arrive and windows to open up. I was stuck there half listening. I’d rather him tell me than tell Umma. I think it was Umma, though, who inspired him and made him feel comfortable confiding in us. I’m certain she was something familiar wrapped in her colorful
thobe
from head to toe and delicate as a tropical flower. She had accompanied me just in case the authorities here required any sudden additional and random signatures. We were prepared. Now she stood in silent anticipation, her slim fingers wearing faded but fascinating henna designs as she clutched a manila folder containing our neatly organized official papers and identification. Umma was also completing passport forms for herself and Naja. She had decided that even though she and Naja would not receive their passports until six weeks later, it was best for our little family to all have the same official documents.

Arriving early definitely paid off. Everything was signed and stamped in less than two hours. “You can pick up your passport anytime on Friday. Bring your identification and the receipt from your payment,” the tired older woman buried behind her bifocals said. I wondered how she could be so exhausted when her work day had just started.

“Alhamdulillah,”
Umma said thankfully. “This was much quicker than how things are done at government offices in our Sudan. I’m surprised, really.” I knew that her gratefulness was genuine. It was rare to hear Umma compliment any aspect of living in America. Outside I looked up at the sky and I saw the sun lurking behind the clouds. I took it as a promise that things would improve.

It was a warm spring morning and Umma wore a cream-colored dress underneath her
thobe
that swirled gently around her ankles and revealed only her cream leather heeled sandals. “I’m going to dress victoriously,” she had said early this morning after dawn prayer. “I’m going to dress as though we have already won all of our battles. I won’t let one person darken our day.” I felt good walking down the street with her. I believed that her presence alone caused good things to happen. Her subtle and sweet scent seemed to encourage a friendly response from strangers, who began greeting us for no apparent reason. Attendants in the shops we entered were unusually helpful.

In the Armani shop on Fifty-Second and Park Avenue, Umma watched intently as the attendant helped me into a new suit jacket that she insisted I try. “Tall, dark, and handsome,” the woman assisting me said, and looked at Umma, who had no idea what she was saying because she was speaking English. My Umma only speaks Arabic. But the woman was smiling as she was suiting me up, so Umma returned her smile, confident that her colorful
thobe
was working its charm.

Finally Umma chose her favorite suit. “When you meet Akemi’s father for the first time,
inshallah
, be sure to wear this exact suit. The suit does not make you into the man that you already are. But it does distinguish you for the shallow men, who will judge you this way. This suit makes you stand out!” Umma said, gesturing her approval with her talking hands. “Akemi’s father needs to know and understand that you are also someone’s child and that you are loved and cherished with a culture, faith, and business, and that you are not lacking in any way.” She continued in passionate Arabic, caught up not just in the return of her daughter-in-law, but in pleasing and convincing Akemi’s father.

“Your language sounds really nice. What is it?” the store attendant asked.

“Arabic,” I answered.

“Wow, really? I would never have guessed,” she said, seeming surprised and a little unsure.

I purchased the suit to please Umma, period. I was not interested in impressing Naoko Nakamura.

In the shoe store next door, the shoes designed by Bruno Mugliani best complemented my foot and the Armani suit. For a few hundred dollars they became mine. I was watching my money pile closely. I didn’t want to see my father’s diamond disappear without my holding something of true and great value in my hands in exchange. For me this would not be this suit or these shoes. It would only be my wife.

Umma read my thoughts, it seemed. She opened her leather purse and came out with ten one-hundred-dollar bills. “The suit is my gift to you. Put this away with the rest of your money.” I accepted her sincerity and thought to myself,
This is how it is between my mother and I. We are both giving each other everything that we have to give so our blessings in life keep going back and forth between us.
Afterward, I led her into the hunter’s and wilderness store and Paragon’s for the rugged wear that I preferred to rock.

We shared a meal at a restaurant that Umma selected because of its name, the Tamarind. Umma loved the sweet taste of this tropical fruit and even used it in her cooking from time to time. When she saw the unshelled tamarind dangling in the restaurant window, she nudged me and we stepped inside. It was an elegant place, each dining area secluded by a beautiful curtain. The cuisine was Indian but the decor was familiar to us, the Sudanese.

Once seated, Umma closed the curtain and relaxed her
thobe
covering. She and I ate comfortably yet lightly. We shared palak paneer and dahl tadka. Instead of any of the wonderful breads that come from India, we had vegetable samosa. It’s something like a beef patty, but instead of beef, it’s seasoned vegetables and potatoes stuffed and tucked in a fried triangular bread. Soon after the meal, an Indian approached, smiling ear to ear. His name plate had only one word on it, one really long name with eighteen letters. He drew back the curtain and held it tightly in his left hand. Immediately he introduced himself as the manager and offered two complimentary dishes of coconut ice cream. “A gift for your bride,” he said, staring at Umma.

“She is my mother,” I corrected him.

“Oh, Mother India!” he exclaimed happily.

“No,” I said seriously, while giving him the stare of a polite warning.

He then shifted his focus onto me asking, “Oh, but she is not from India? She is wearing henna. Is she Arab, then?”

“No,” I said feeling impatient.

“What, then?”

“African,” I answered in an even tone.

“African?” he repeated, looking puzzled. I thanked him for his creams and told him, to please release the curtain. I was used to Umma drawing attention. Like the sun, even when fully covered, she was still radiating.

“Please come again.” The manager extended his business card to me as we were preparing to leave.

I accepted it politely, then grabbed Umma’s hand and carried our shopping bags in the other. We taxied directly back to Brooklyn for a few dollars over the normal price.

I picked up my heat and headed to East New York to meet Ameer. I wasn’t expecting any beef, but I wasn’t sleeping either.

Ameer was seated at the top of the bench in front of his building, a female between his legs below, his backpack still on his back when I rolled up.

“You made it.” He smiled, still joking like I should be shook in his hood.

“Dana, this is my man, Midnight,” Ameer introduced some girl.

“What’s up?” she asked softly. I didn’t answer back.

“C’mon, let’s move,” I told Ameer. He caught that I wanted him to lose the girl. We both knew that he never acted right when females was in the cipher. He got up and we headed into his building. When he turned the key in the lock, he pushed the door open and we stepped inside. I followed him into the living room.

“You could chill right here.” He left. In the hallway he ran into his moms.

“Why you not at work?” he asked her, sounding surprised.

“I left early. I had a headache,” she told him, sounding as if she could still feel the pain.

“That’s ’cause you and Pops stayed up too late last night. I heard y’all in there arguing.”

“We wasn’t arguing. We were discussing,” she corrected him. “Who’s in the living room?”

“Go and see for yourself,” Ameer told her. “It’s someone you like.”

Ameer’s mom appeared. Before I could look up to see her face,
I saw her heeled house shoes and bare legs. I stopped at her hips and shifted my gaze away from her.

“Still playing shy, hmm?” she said.

“How you doing, Mrs. Nickerson,” I answered without looking.

“You supposed to look at a lady when you’re talking to her,” she teased boldly. “Can I get you something to drink?” She asked.

“No, thank you,” I answered, still not looking at her.

“Come on back here or she gonna keep messing with you,” Ameer called from the back room. I got up and walked around his moms.

“What time is your practice?” he asked.

“Six o’clock for the black team. How bout y’all?”

“The red team, um, we meet at seven. I hope the coach shows up though. Last time he was talking about he got held up by his probation officer.” He laughed. “But we doing good. We ain’t dropped a game yet,” Ameer said.

“How? We beat y’all,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, but that didn’t count remember? Just a scrimmage. For all the official games, we ain’t been beat.” He smiled.