Three Daughters: A Novel (64 page)

“Excuse me?”

“It’s just an expression. We use it to describe funds that are irretrievable and we have to assume. We eat the losses.” She nodded. He watched her warily, expecting some show of fear and anguish, but she only bit her lip and stretched a handkerchief between her fingers. “Things must look pretty dismal right now but I bet you’ll come out of it just fine. You’ll marry again . . . a beautiful woman like you.” He cleared his throat. “Call me if you have any more questions.”

“I have no more questions,” she said and led him to the door.

His clumsy attempt to console her had turned her mind in a new direction and she was anxious to be alone and think it through. Until today, her head had been encased in gauze. She kept congratulating herself for doing simple things: putting on her nylons and buckling her shoes. When she bathed the baby and buttoned her up in her pajamas and made a supper of scrambled eggs, she felt triumphant. Any coherent action had been a miracle, but now this quiet sympathetic stranger had cleared one pathway in her brain and she saw what she was going to do. She was going to see her father again. And Aunt Julia and Uncle Peter. Her grandmother. Her great-aunt Zareefa. Cousin Delal. She was going to take Cassie and go home.

“I don’t want any more coffee, Delal. And I don’t want you to heat the bread either. Stop . . . coddling me.” He had been ready to use a more damaging word than
coddling
. What?
Stop smothering me? Bothering me?
“We’re married . . .” he added and then got up and left the table.

“What does that mean?”

“What does what mean?”

“What does ‘we’re married’ mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t know. It means I’m fine. I’ve got to go now, I’m late . . .” He kissed her cheek and hurried out the door.

She had all day to finish his thought.
We’re married now; you’ve already caught me.
The language of marriage was the language of imprisonment. You
landed
or
caught
or
hooked
your man as if he were a fish. Still, when she thought about it—how it began and how it had ended—her marriage was a source of wonder.

They had been home four months, living in a rented cottage behind the King David Hotel. Her father had offered to build a home for the newlyweds but James was appalled. “We don’t need a home,” he had said enigmatically and no one had the nerve to ask what he meant. James kept the family at bay and set the tone for all encounters. They were somewhat afraid of him, although he was polite and undemanding. They just weren’t used to his reserve or perhaps his physical difference—he was tall, rugged, silken haired—made them timid.

Her father was unsettled around James and her mother became talkative and too cheerful. The gayer the George family became and the more they tried to please the cool, composed, inscrutable James, the less he wanted or needed from them.

Delal had envisioned James and herself at the dazzling core of a stylish life filled with lighthearted merriment. James would rely on her for everything—not out of weakness but out of passionate preference for her taste and resourcefulness. She had expected him to be greedy for sex, to wake up wanting her and to go to sleep with his arms and legs wound around her, his lips against her back or shoulder, his hands aggressively on her buttocks or her breasts, his constant demands a testimony to the ardor she provoked in him. He didn’t demand anything. Not elaborate dinners or elaborate sex or even a button sewn on a shirt. It seemed to her that he didn’t want to enlarge their relationship. Instead, he was minimizing it. Often he answered her with just one word.

Her appearance didn’t help. There was a strange, dusky overlay to her skin—the mask of pregnancy, the doctor said. Her hair was limp.

He hadn’t touched her in two weeks, except for wispy kisses on the cheek to mark his arrivals and departures. He became the master of the unfinished sentence. “Sorry, I’ve got to dash.” “Some work . . .” or “some man” or “some last-minute plans” kept him from lingering in bed or at meals. What had been sophisticated and provocative love play in Edinburgh for two unattached people without responsibilities was self-conscious and distasteful in Jerusalem. He was still gracious and attentive, but there was a longing in his eyes that tore her apart. Was it seeing the places where he and Nijmeh had been together that made him long for what might have been? Suppose he broke down and confessed, “I can’t live without her, Delal. What am I going to do?”

There were few who missed the irony of Delal’s marriage and almost all experienced that moment of confused inquiry. Nijmeh had married the man Delal wanted and now Delal had turned the tables. Everyone—including Julia and Peter—was slightly embarrassed. Even ignorant of the facts, James seemed to be ill-gotten goods. The first instinct was to protect Nijmeh, who already had had a terrible blow. What good would it do to mention it? Poor thing. She’d find out soon enough. Zareefa left the news out of her letter of condolence. Miriam, who had a mild case of pneumonia all summer, was still too grief stricken to think or care about whom Delal had married. Samir, for the first time, was glad his daughter was far away and wouldn’t be put through what had to be an awkward situation. That left Delal and Julia.

When the newlyweds came home, Julia had addressed and stamped two hundred silver-lined, cream-colored envelopes and stuffed them with an engraved announcement, a silken square of tissue and the at-home card.

Delal inspected the list and complained that James wanted as little done as possible. “He doesn’t want anyone feeling they must send a gift.”

“And if they do?” Julia challenged. She had been cheated out of making a wedding and she wasn’t inclined now to be cowered by secondhand pronouncements.

Delal shrugged and dug through the envelopes that were alphabetized. “Is there one here for Nijmeh?” As she asked the question, she came to the envelope and pulled it out.

“Isn’t it ironic?” said Julia. “Nijmeh married Paul and you ended up with James.”

Delal’s face went a shade paler. She was a girl who had never been afraid of anything, but she didn’t want to hear those names. “Don’t send this.”

“Why not?”

She turned away from her mother’s questioning eyes. “She was very much in love with James.”

Julia sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose where her glasses left a mark. “Delal, that was a long time ago. She’s married and has a child. How can we not tell her?”

“Oh, send it if you want to. I just don’t see what difference it’s going to make. She’s so far away. It doesn’t matter one way or the other whether she knows right away or not. It’s not going to make her feel great.”

“She’ll be happy for you,” said Julia, but she felt less sure of herself.

“I doubt it, but do whatever you want.”

Julia lost some confidence and when she realigned the stack of envelopes the one for Nijmeh and Paul was left out. “She’ll have to know eventually.”

“Mmm. But I’d give her more time . . . that’s all.”

Julia put the invitation in one of the cubbyholes of her beautiful pecan desk where she sat each day and did paperwork. It was situated to overlook the narrow private mews where the Sisters of the Holy Cross had an elementary school. She looked forward to being interrupted by the sounds of little girls at recess. But now her serenity was marred by the daily sight of the envelope. It was a reminder that Nijmeh’s troubles had not ended. She’d seen something in her daughter’s face that troubled her. Was it too coincidental that Delal suddenly had to go to school in Edinburgh? Oh, Lord, not another mystery. She had just rid herself of one burdensome secret and didn’t want to discover another. Maybe Delal was right. Nijmeh didn’t need more disturbing news right now.

As her pregnancy progressed, Delal felt grotesque and less confident of her power to hold on to James. She became paranoid, looking at him for signs of unhappiness. She thanked God that Nijmeh—her mother said she called herself Star now—was in America, safely away, safely married, already a mother. But then, out of the blue, like a horrible spidery hand coming out of the darkness to snatch her happiness, came the worst possible news. Paul was dead and Nijmeh was coming home.

45.

OH, SAMIR . . . YOU CAN’T THINK OF HER AS YOUR LITTLE BURDEN ANYMORE.

H
e sat fidgeting for an hour before the plane landed. Several times he rose and walked rapidly, as if going to a destination, then realized he had nothing to do but wait. Over and over he rubbed his palms on his trousers. He couldn’t seem to get warm.

When he thought about greeting her, the only thing that came to mind was,
I loved your mother very much.
Would she blame him? He pictured her face flushed with resentment.
You killed my mother. I hate you.
After all, he had taken her to her place of doom. Uppermost in his mind was the thought that time had been rolled back. “I’m right back where I began with Nijmeh,” he said to Julia. “Except it will be harder.”

“Oh, Samir.” Julia had been exasperated and answered crossly, “She’s coming home for some comfort. She’s lost her mother and her husband. She’s a grown woman with a child and you can’t think of her as your little burden anymore. Just be kind and accepting and play with your granddaughter. For heaven’s sake, don’t start planning what to do with the rest of her life. That’s her business.”

Julia had hidden her fears behind impatience and a mission to charge her brother with a new attitude. She had no idea how the visit would end up. Suppose Nijmeh had a second, delayed reaction to the news of her birth? If that were true, what Samir said or didn’t say wouldn’t mean a thing.

“She’s coming home for protection and guidance,” he had said.

“Don’t be too sure. Why don’t you let her tell you why she’s home? What she needs is a sincere welcome.”

The sound of the arriving plane brought him to his feet and he paced restlessly until the first passengers straggled off. He saw her first. She was taking each stair carefully, hampered by the child in her arms and a bulky bag dangling from her shoulder. Only the top of her head was visible, but when she reached the ground she raised her beautiful face and looked uncertainly toward the far side of the field, squinting and searching. There was a moment when their eyes met and both stood perfectly still. His heart shrank into a compact mass and fell away. All he could think of was how she had looked years ago, searching his eyes for approval with all the vulnerability of a little girl who wanted to please her father.

He went toward her, arms outstretched, his face in a grimace of happiness and pain. Was this all he could do . . . tighten himself around her? It didn’t seem enough. The baby, her eyes dewy from sleep, stared soberly at the stranger. A replica of her mother. He could smell the sweetness. What tore at him in those few seconds was that Nadia would never see them like this. His throat closed up. He wanted to beg for her. Beg God to give her back to him for just the seconds it would take to welcome their daughter.
Nadia, here they are. Look, darling, our girl is home.
There was no answer. She was buried. Dead. Weighed down and hidden in the blackness of the ground. “Oh, my dear, my dear . . .”

“Baba . . .” All the pain was expressed in that name. “I was so afraid.” She was whimpering and the words were squeezed out. “I needed you.” She had not expected to say these things. She had expected to feel differently about him. Distant. But all she wanted was his love and his arms around her. “I needed you to help me.”

He bowed his head over her—an attitude of protection—but too late. The worst had happened. He hadn’t been able to protect her at all. Cassie, caught between them, squirmed. Seeing her mother so distressed made her chin tremble, too. Her eyes were enormous and full of woe. “Mommy,” she said and began to wail.

They turned to look at her. “Oh, I’ve scared you. I’m all right,” said Nijmeh. “Don’t cry. This is Grandpa. Your Sedo.” Cassie glued her face against her mother and refused to look up. “Remember I told you we were going to see your Sedo?” The tangled hair moved up and down but her face stayed hidden. “Well, here he is. Don’t you want to say hello?” The head went sideways. “Oh, that’s too bad. He’d like to say hello to you.”

Samir put his hands by his side. “It’s all right,” he said. “I can wait. She needs time to get used to the idea.”

This generous statement provoked Cassie to lift her head. She turned sideways to view the person who had such finesse. “Oh, what a lovely little girl.” The look on his face—pleasure and shyness—was not lost on Cassie. The handsome, distinguished man caught her imagination and, with the unerring instinct for the right gesture that would serve her all her life, she turned away from her mother and stretched out her arms. Samir trembled as he reached for her. The last person he had held this way was Nadia after she died. He felt ill prepared to resurrect those feelings, but what choice did he have?
These are mine
, he kept thinking
. These are mine to care for.
He pressed the travel-weary girl against his chest with one hand—a stuffed bear was still in the other—and was unable to wipe away the tears plodding slowly down.

The entire clan came to the sheik’s village house, where Samir still lived. It was just like dozens of other family gatherings—the smells of buttered pignolia nuts and spiced lamb and briny olives perfumed the air. Outside it was very warm—a heat spell in February—but Samir had installed two air conditioners. “
Shu hada
?
” exclaimed a confused Umm Jameel, who was close to ninety. “How did he change the weather?” Everyone laughed, but they, too, still considered the coolness remarkable.

Miriam had arrived early, and after unsuccessfully fighting back tears, she put down the boxes of cookies she had brought and took Cassie in her arms. “She looks like you,” she told her granddaughter. “Too bad Nadia couldn’t . . .” She stopped. “Please,
habibty
, bring a dish for the cookies and put them out on the table. The butter will soak through and ruin the cloth.” Nijmeh did as she asked, happy to deal with the cookies and not her grandmother’s eyes.

“Your mother used to hate it when I brought food to the sheik’s house,” Miriam said, looking around. “She thought it made us look socially stupid because the sheik didn’t need food. I couldn’t convince her that it was important and necessary for other reasons. If I told her this was the way we’d always done it, that was like declaring war. Maybe you feel the same?”

“No. I understand.”

“I had the rebellious daughter. If you told her to wave hello, she said good-bye. She couldn’t embroider. She couldn’t cook. She didn’t like to sing. She hated to visit. Our pleasure—especially in those days after the war—was visiting and she hated to visit. She couldn’t sit still. She hated being kissed by relatives. And then, after all that, look what happened.”

“What happened?” asked Nijmeh.

“She married the sheik’s son.” Miriam looked triumphant. “She couldn’t have done anything more traditionally right. It was the most wonderful thing and I was sure it saved her life and her happiness.” Too late she realized what she had said. “Oh . . . my. It didn’t save her life. Oh, dear! I didn’t mean that.”

“Don’t worry, Teta. I know what you meant. You meant she stayed in the clan instead of seeking her fortune in the outside world.”

“Well . . .” Miriam looked perturbed. She didn’t like the way that sounded. “Yes. And I also meant that it was the right choice. She loved your father. It was a match that I fought for, but she soon discovered she really loved your father.” Cassie squirmed in her lap and turned to play with Miriam’s earrings. “And you . . .” she asked timidly, “how do you feel about coming back?”

“Peaceful,” Nijmeh said automatically.
Questioning and in turmoil
is what she meant. She was also thinking that, unlike her mother, she had never learned to love Paul. That hadn’t been the right choice. While her grandmother was talking, she thought of the Walkers. If she had grown up in that house and Mary Walker had been her grandmother, she would have felt just as comfortable sitting around a long, formal table, eating corn on the cob and codfish cakes and fried chicken and going to the First Presbyterian Church every Sunday at eleven. That was the crucial point. She wasn’t rebellious as her mother had been. She had done everything her father asked, but it had all gone wrong. How could you explain that? By coming back she was putting herself in their hands again. They must have rules for widows just as with everything else. Something in her pushed that idea away. “Teta
,
this will make you happy. Remember you gave me two thousand dollars when I married Paul?”

“That money had a long history. From time to time your grandfather Nadeem would get the idea to start on an enterprise and, for one reason or another, he always needed financial help from me. Of course he paid me back. The money went back and forth several times and it ended up with you.”

“You’d be pleased. I bought a house that I rent out. And we—my partner and I—used that house to buy another house. Having that business meant a lot to me, and your money made it possible.”

Miriam didn’t respond. Did that mean she was going back to her business and her partner? Did that mean she wasn’t listening to anything Miriam was telling her? Then she mused, “Your grand-father was always buying this little building or that one, too. He was crazy about owning a structure and caring for it. Perhaps you got that from him. It’s in the blood.”

Nijmeh winced. How could she admit that her sweet, patient grandfather had not been her grandfather at all? There was pain and confusion around every corner. “I think you’re right. He was always in my mind when I was looking for the right property.”

Miriam looked down and began to smooth Cassie’s hair. After all these years, she still couldn’t think of Nadeem without feeling the full, searing jolt of fresh pain.

The rest of the guests had begun to arrive. Miriam rose and put Cassie in a little fenced-in play area that Samir had devised, but when she cried she carried her outside. “All right. I don’t want to be the one who puts you in prison.”

Zareefa and her husband came with their daughters and their families. Aunt Diana, close to eighty and still grossly overweight, her legs streaked with overburdened veins, was led to a chair by her son’s girls, Janin and Deenie. She sat meekly staring at Nijmeh. “Her mother dies, her husband dies . . . what is this?” she muttered.

“Hush, Teta,” said Janin. “They’ll hear you.”

“So? It’s not big news.
Haram
. Too beautiful. It was too much. Where’s the baby? Did you see her? An orphan. A year old and an orphan already. How does she look? Like the mother? Another one with bad luck.”

“Teta, stop.
Amti
Miriam took the baby outside. She looks like Nijmeh but with darker hair and brown eyes.” She turned around to see who else was coming in. “Here’s Aunt Julia and Uncle Peter and”—she put her hand to her mouth—“oh, my God, here’s Delal.”

“Deenie, Janin, help me up,
yullah
.
How does Delal have the nerve to show up here?”

Delal was in her ninth month and pregnancy had robbed her of clear skin, healthy hair, slender hips, and energy. She was breathless and cranky. And right now, also perspiring. She seldom felt cowed in life, but this morning she had awakened with a feeling of dread that crowded out everything else. Suppose they figured out what she’d done? How could James ever love the child she was carrying? But she didn’t feel repentant. She thought of the scene in
Gone With the Wind
when Rhett tells Scarlett, who has cheated her sister out of her beau, “You’re like a thief who’s not in the least sorry he stole but is terribly sorry he’s going to jail.”

Her mother had insisted that she come to welcome her cousin home but had agreed that it was not a good idea to bring James. “Let him think it’s a get-together for the women,” Delal had urged. “I don’t think Nijmeh’s ready to meet up with her old love. Not yet, anyway.”

She had arrived purposely late and then wanted to leave immediately, but her mother had driven and she had no graceful way of getting back home. Besides, what would she say to James?
No, I didn’t stay. I couldn’t stand seeing the woman you loved.
Love?
Yes, she’s as beautiful as ever. More beautiful. Breathtaking now that tragedy has given depth to her face. Sorry you didn’t go? Sorry you couldn’t get her alone and kiss her? Sorry I’m not dead? Maybe I’ll die in childbirth and you’ll be free to marry her after all.

She went from room to room and finally caught sight of her from a distance of twenty feet. Her face was in profile and then, as someone called to her, she turned and looked squarely at Delal.
Holy God, this is what I took away from James. He’ll hate me forever.

She was coming toward her quickly, a wide smile of anticipation on her face. “Delal . . .” Her arms were outstretched.
If she hugs me, I’ll die.
“It’s so good to see you. Look . . . you’re pregnant . . . I didn’t know. When did you get married?”

Shut up, shut up. Please.
“Not long ago. We sent an announcement . . . really, you didn’t know?”

“No. Congratulations.”

“You may want to take it back.”

“Take what back . . . my congratulations?”

“I’m married to James.”

Her mouth slackened. “James? James who?”

“James . . .” Delal couldn’t get herself to say more. It was easily the worst moment of her life.
Here’s another blow for the little widow. I didn’t plan this. I’ll stand here perfectly still and wait for it to be over. What can she do to me? What can he do?

The look on Nijmeh’s face was quizzical. Then understanding crept over her face. It was sickening to watch. “No . . . not my James! Why?” Her voice was a pitiful whisper.

“Look, I didn’t do it on purpose. I mean, you were married. Who ever thought Paul would die?” She realized she was speaking too bluntly. “I’m terribly sorry about Paul. What can I say?”

“Is James here?”

“No. I didn’t think you needed that kind of a shock on top of everything else. Look, I could lie and say he was sick or busy, but you deserve the truth. Tell me, did I do the right thing? Should I have brought him here?”