What We Learned Along the Way (13 page)

“What’s so funny? You don’t think I can
answer a few questions about my own religion?”

“No, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying,
you’re no Jaime.”

Aliya was outraged. “So, I have to be Jaime
to know anything?” She hated when girls rolled their necks when
they talked, but she could feel hers moving.

“Calm down, babe. You’re just not exactly a
scholar. That’s all I’m saying.” That was the first time she had
ever felt judged by Langston. They had never talked about her
religion in depth, so he didn’t know what she knew. It wasn’t fair
for him to draw his own conclusions.

“Well, excuse me for not being a scholar,”
she said as she stormed out of the front door. She slammed it so
hard that the framed picture on the wall fell and the glass
shattered.

The sound woke Harlem from her nap. Langston
ran up stairs and rubbed her back. He put on the recitation CD
Jaime gave him. Harlem was sleep again in five minutes.

“I love this stuff,” he whispered as he
tip-toed out of the room. When he got back downstairs, he saw Aliya
picking up the broken glass in front of the door.

“I thought you left,” he said from the
stairs.

“I did, because I was mad, and I’m still mad,
but I shouldn’t have stormed out like that. I’m sorry about your
picture.”

“It’s cool,” he said as he walked towards
her. “I was thinking about getting rid of it anyway.”

“Do you think I’m a bad Muslim?” she
asked.

“Uhh, I don’t really know much about being a
Muslim. How would I know if you’re a good one or not?” He was
sitting beside her now.

“Come on, Langston. You know enough.”

“Aliya, I’m what you call an Easter
Christian. I spend 364 days a year doing pretty much whatever I
want, but I always make it to church on Easter. Who am I to judge
anyone?”

They both laughed. “I guess you could call me
an Eid Muslim, but I don’t even go then.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds. “You
know my mother died of cancer?” she asked as she turned her head in
his direction.

“Yes, I remember you told me a long time ago.
I’ll never forget because you lost your mother the same way Harlem
lost hers.”

Aliya had never thought about that before.
Maybe that was why she felt so connected to the young girl.

“If you knew me back then, you would not
recognize me now. She opened her wallet and pulled out a school
picture from the ninth grade.

“This is you?” he said, astonished. She had
on a white hijab wrapped neatly under her chin and a dark blue
abaya.

“Yea, that’s me. Don’t you recognize that
smile?” Langston took another look. She did have an unmistakable
smile.

“Did you used to wear that all the time?” he
asked, pointing at her scarf.

“Yep. Man, I used to have so many scarves.
I’ve always been stylish,” she said as if she were proud of
herself.

“I can believe that,” Langston said.

“I used to be the president of my Muslim
youth group and the editor of the weekly newsletter. I was like
Super Muslim,” she said as she stood up, arched her back and put
her hands on her hips like a superhero.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but what
happened?” he asked.

“Life,” she sighed. “You won’t believe how
fast things changed. Before my mom got sick, everything was great.
I mean really great, but in less than three months, she went from
seeming completely normal to barely even being alive.”

“I know what you mean,” Langston said.

“After she passed, it was over. I didn’t care
anymore. My mother was gone, my father was out of it, and I just
didn’t care. I stopped wearing hijab to school. First people were
shocked, but they got over it in about a week. I stopped going to
the mosque and stopped praying, too. My mom was already gone. What
did I have to pray for? My father was so depressed, he didn’t say
much, but he came out of it long enough to yell at me about the
‘destructive path I was taking.’” She made air quotes with her
fingers. “Our fights just got worse and worse. I ended up moving
out the day of my high school graduation.”

She spent the rest of the night stretched out
on the floor, telling Langston about the many ways her mother’s
death had affected her. Langston was surprised. He was learning so
much about his fiancé he didn’t know, including the fact that she
had considered suicide when she was 17. He felt like he was meeting
her for the first time.

When Aliya went back to her father’s studio
with Langston, the mystery puddle was still there. “Watch out,” she
said, pulling Langston out of its path.

“Thanks.”

Before she could knock on the door, her
father open it. The smell of his famous chicken and rice wafted
into the hall.

“I didn’t even knock yet, daddy,” she said
with her arm still in the air in knocking position.

“I heard you two talking in the hall. So this
must be him,” he said, looking up at Langston.

“As salaam alaikum, Mr. Ansar!” Langston said
as he extended his hand with a huge smile. Aliya did a double take.
She had never heard Langston say that before. She didn’t even know
he knew how to say it. He was gripping his book tightly as if he
expected someone to try to steal it.

“Wa alaikum salaam,” her father said as he
shook his hand and invited them in. Langston took a seat on the
sofa, but quickly stood up and walked over toward the over-stuffed
bookcase he saw in the corner. While Langston scanned the pages of
the books, Aliya joined her father in the kitchen.

“Umm, chicken and rice,” she said as she
peaked over her father’s shoulder. “Reminds me of the old days.”
Her father smiled.

“Langston seems nice,” he said as he put the
food on a platter.

“Oh, he is, daddy. He’s amazing!”

He must be, her father thought. This was the
second day in a row she had come over his house dressed
respectably. This guy must be doing something right.

“So, what is it that you do, Langston?” her
father asked as he carried the platter to the table.

“I have a bookstore,” Langston answered,
hoping there wouldn’t be any more questions. He didn’t want to
impress Mr. Ansar with his success. He’d rather focus on his
personality and relationship with Aliya.

“What’s it called?” Mr. Ansar asked. Langston
looked at Aliya for help, but she offered none.

“Chapter,” he said. He prepared himself for
the usual barrage of questions, but they never came.

“Sounds nice. I’ll have to look that up,” her
father answered nonchalantly. He didn’t get out much and hadn’t
even heard of the store. He got all his books from Brother Johnson
at the mosque. Langston was pleasantly surprised. He didn’t meet
too many people who hadn’t heard of Chapter, and he was happy
Aliya’s father was one of them.

“So how do you know my daughter?” he
asked.

“I met her at a concert about seven months
ago.” Langston wasn’t sure that Mr. Ansar would want to hear that,
but he wasn’t going to lie.

“Concert?” Mr. Ansar said.

“Yes sir, I was there with my mother. A
birthday gift. ” Langston was nervous.

“You were there with your mother?” Aliya
blurted out. I always wondered what a straight man was doing at a
girly concert like that. I just assumed you were a rare,
heterosexual super fan.”

Langston shook his head. “I prefer blues. You
know that,” he said.

“Ah, the blues,” Mr. Ansar said. “You know I
used to be in a blues band.”

“You did?” Langston and Aliya both said.

“Yes,” her father said, reminiscing. “We
called ourselves Eclectic Soul.”

“That’s pretty cool. Did you sing or play an
instrument?” Langston asked.

“I played the trumpet, but I sang bass every
once in a while,” Mr. Ansar said with pride. Aliya was surprised to
hear these words coming from her father. This couldn’t be the same
man that raised her. She lived with him 18 years and never once
heard anything about any blues band. This was the same man that
wouldn’t play any more than 15 minutes of the radio in the car
because he thought too much would pollute your mind.

“The trumpet? Get out of here! I played the
trumpet in high school!” Langston said excitedly.

Aliya felt left out. “Is it too late for me
to take trumpet lessons?” Aliya joked. No one responded. They were
too busy talking and laughing about blues and the good old
days.

“Do you know this one?” her father asked
Langston as he hummed a tune.

“Goodbye, September by Herbert Johnson, 1965”
Langston announced.

“How ‘bout this one?” her father said as he
hummed another.

“Gone Girl Blues by Johnnie Fatback
Washington, 1960,” Langston said, slapping his knee. The two of
them played Name That Tune for another five minutes.

Aliya took the leftover food into the
kitchen. There was a lot more chicken than rice left, so she
discarded the last bits of rice and put the chicken in the
refrigerator. As she opened the refrigerator door, she noticed a
green Post-it note with the words “Call Jasmine,” written across
the front. She wondered who Jasmine was. She figured she must have
been one of his doctor friends.

When Mr. Ansar left his practice after his
wife died, the hospital threw him a big party. He was the best
homeopathic doctor they had and other doctors where always coming
to him to get his opinion on diagnoses. Even after his retirement,
they still called for advice. Surely this Jasmine was one of
them.

When Aliya went back in the main room,
Langston and her father were discussing religion. Langston had his
book open and her father was reading from it in Arabic.

“It means ‘In the name of God, Most Gracious,
Most Merciful,’” her father said. “It’s what a Muslim says whenever
he begins something, showing that everything he does is always in
the name of the one true God.”

Langston shook his head. He was hanging on
her father’s every word. Before they knew it, an hour had passed
and the sun had begun to go down.

“Excuse me,” her father said to Langston. “I
have to pray.” After washing up in the bathroom, Mr. Ansar made his
fourth prayer of the day. Langston recognized Mr. Ansar’s melodic
recitation from the CD Jaime had given him. He thought it was
really captivating.

Aliya was glad Langston and her father were
getting along so well, but she was bored and had to get up early
for work the next morning.

“Daddy, I think we’re going to be going,” she
said before he and Langston had a chance to get back into deep
discussion.

“Aw, do we have to?” Langston pleaded. He
sounded like a little boy.

“Hate to break up your party, but you know I
have to get to work early tomorrow.” Aliya stood up and walked
toward the door.

“It was nice meeting you, Langston. Feel free
to call or come by with any other questions you have.” Her father
shook Langston’s hand.

“Langston, could you warm the car up? I need
to talk to daddy for a second,” Aliya asked.

“No problem. Again, nice meeting you,”
Langston said. “As salaam alaikum.” Langston left the
apartment.

Once she was sure Langston was far enough
away, she had to talk to her father.

“So, daddy, what do you think? You two really
seemed to hit it off, and why am I just now hearing about your days
in a blues band?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me. I had
a whole different life before I had a family. But yes, Langston
seems really nice, a good brother. I like him.” Aliya was
overjoyed. It had been a long time since she had felt her father’s
approval for anything. It felt good. She started to turn around to
leave, but she had one more thing to ask.

“Who is Jasmine? I saw that Post-it on your
fridge.”

“I was going to wait until everything was
final, but I guess I can tell you now. I’m getting married
again.”

Malikah’s parents had gone out to dinner.
Malikah and Kalimah were home alone, so they decided to watch a
movie.

“Kalimah,” Malikah said. “What’s going on?”
She paused the movie and turned toward her sister.

“What do you mean?” Kalimah asked with a
mouth full of chicken sandwich.

“Come on, Kalimah, I’m not dumb. You spend
more time over here than any married woman I’ve ever seen. Talk to
me.”

Kalimah put her sandwich down. “I told you
his job keeps him really busy. I'd rather be here with you all than
sit in that big house all alone.”

Malikah looked frustrated. She grabbed her
sister’s sleeve and pulled it up, exposing another bruise on her
arm. “What is this, Kalimah? How long has he been hitting you?”

“What are you talking about?” Kalimah
stammered. “I told you I fell off the treadmill last time, and this
came from Little Marcus, my neighbor’s son. I was watching him one
day and he got a little upset and grabbed my arm.”

“How many elementary school kids have hands
this big?” Malikah said, inspecting the huge hand print on her
sister’s arm. And what about the one on your back? I saw it when
you were changing into your dress at Mariam’s wedding.

Kalimah began to cry. “Please don’t tell mama
and daddy. Please, Malikah, you can’t tell them!” she pleaded.

“Why not? You want to stay with him? Kalimah,
he’s hitting you.”

“But he doesn’t do it that often,” she said
between sobs. “And he’s working on it. He promised me he would
stop.”

“He hasn’t stopped yet. What makes you think
he will now? You’re gorgeous, Kalimah. You could have any man you
want. Why would you stay with someone like that?”

“Because I need him, Malikah. I know he has
his flaws, and I do too, but he wouldn’t even act like that if I
didn’t make him so mad,” she explained.

“Are you really giving me these classic
battered woman excuses? I can’t believe this.”

“It’s not an excuse. It’s true. Adam is a
great guy. Takes care of me and everything, but he’s really picky.
He likes the house spic and span. You know how I am. I’m pretty
clean, but I don’t want to be sweeping and mopping all day,”
Kalimah said, letting her voice trail off.