Three Daughters: A Novel (66 page)

“Your friend? Oh, James.” All her feelings came thundering back, dissolving her will. “Much, much more than that.” She could tell him anything. What did it matter? “The thing that hurts most”—her eyes were brimming over—“is . . . how simple it is to see you. At one time, for over a year, I had it in my mind that it was impossible to see you again. That it would be miraculous. Why does the thing we want to madness lose its simplicity? It’s staggering to realize that in order to see me all you had to do was get in the car and drive here. Why was I convinced that it was impossible?”

He put his hand out to touch her but she shrank. “Don’t . . . if you touch me I’m lost.”

“You don’t know what it does to me to see you again.”

Her shoulders slumped. What were they going to do with all the sickening information? How could it help them now? She moved closer but not into his arms. How faithfully she’d remembered him. His dear large head, the deep-set eyes, the perfect slice of hair across his brow. He wore a nubby wool jacket and she wanted to slip her hand beneath it and touch the familiar firmness. This is where her face belonged—against his heart, against his warmth. He reached over and trailed three fingers down the left side of her face. “I never stopped loving you.”

It was useless to respond. What she needed was not words but his arms around her. All those wasted years of longing and useless dreams. “I’ve given you too many years,” she said angrily. “I want to feel your arms around me.”

They stood there pressed against each other, afraid to move. Desire ignited by their closeness blocked out sorrow and conscience. Again and again—a tortured soul—he placed and replaced his mouth over hers, driven by hunger and greed, anger and despondency. She whimpered in his arms and hung on him as if they were draped over a precipice. “Don’t let go. Please don’t let go.”

The bed was right there in a nook behind a low screen. The door was unbolted—a tribute to the sheik’s desire to let any traveler find respite—yet she unbuttoned and unfastened everything quickly as if she were used to readying herself for love on the spur of the moment. Her eyes never left his face. There was no need to hold anything back.
Look! This is what I am. This is what I’ve wanted to be to you. I became a woman under your hands. Please, please, touch me now!

The thick feather mattress billowed around them so that they sank into it and into each other. He took her in every possible way, recovering an erection only minutes after climaxing. They were constructing a building and had only a limited time to finish. She urged him on. The fourth time, he sat on the edge of the bed and placed her on his lap, facing out. He made her drop forward and held onto her breasts as her legs went back. While she swam out in the air, he thrust himself so deep she let out a piercing shriek. “Am I hurting you? Does it hurt?”

“No, no! Do it! Just do it!” And afterward, she cried out, “I waited and waited for you to write. I was ready to do anything. Why didn’t you make it work? Why?” He had no answer.

He knew it was dusk because the light changed from greenish yellow to rose and then to purple. They heard a decadent, high-pitched, prolonged whine. “What’s that?” asked James.

She got up and walked to the small high window. “It sounds like a hyena. Usually they don’t get going until midnight. You’d think they were wounded, but it’s only that they’re high-strung.” She took a robe off a clothes tree and put it on. “I’m hungry. And you?” The commonplace—the idea that she could prepare a meal for him—was miraculous.

He nodded but called her back to the bed. “You never answered any of my letters. There was only one letter and that was to announce your marriage.”

“I didn’t write you any letter! I had no idea where you were because you never wrote to tell me! I was convinced you had decided against me.”

He lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. “Oh, God! It’s so pitiful. We chose Delal to be our go-between. Each time I wrote you, I thanked her. How she must have howled.” He ran his hand through his hair over and over. “The truth is so pitiful.”

She felt more sorry for him than for herself. “I should have acted but I wasn’t strong enough,” she said dolefully.

“You’re the strongest woman I know.”

“No,” she shouted, her eyes filling. “I should have gone with you right away, but I lacked the courage and the understanding.” She let out a long painful sob. “Why did you cave in so easily, James?” She beat her fists into his chest. “How could you have just caved in after all we were to each other?”

His face crumpled and tears slid down his cheeks. “I was untried,” he said softly. “Life had been too easy for me. Delal knew me too well.” He held her and made soothing noises with his lips against her hair. “It seems so obvious now what we should have done, but it was hidden then.”

Dusk turned to night and they became aware that too much time was passing. They rose and sponged themselves off and she brought out two bottles of Dutch beer that were in the refrigerator, a pot of cold stew, and some cheese. “Come on,” she coaxed him, “we might as well eat.” When he didn’t move, she went and sat beside him. “We’ve so little time, James. Don’t speak about it anymore. These few hours are all we have left.”

He couldn’t shake his despair. “Delal is pregnant, did you know? How could I . . .”

“Shh.” She held a finger to his lips. “I know . . . I know.”

46.

I HAVE MORE CHOICES IN AMERICA. I CAN MAKE A FULLER LIFE FOR MYSELF.

D
elal lay very still, pressing her hands against her stomach. Each time the baby kicked, her hands gave the foot resistance. It was a little game she played, which made the baby kick harder. “Resistance is what you’re going to get in life, so you might as well learn to fight back,” she said aloud.

“What?” James raised his head off the pillow.

“I’m talking to our child,” she said carefully and looked up at the ceiling. “He’s kicking violently. Do you suppose today’s the day?” She counted to ten, waiting for the attack.

“I don’t know,” he said and closed his eyes again.

His
I don’t know
had a neutral inflection that meant he wasn’t in a murderous mood. Actually, the inflection was a notch better than neutral. It was reflective and . . . a bit philosophical, as if his not knowing covered more than just the baby. She knew he had been to see Nijmeh and afterward he had been silent as a ghost. She had to pry his mouth open for a word and then, worse, he had left on a business trip. The oldest ploy in the world.

She had taken the car and driven like a madwoman up to the orchard to find Nijmeh and make sure she hadn’t gone with him. As it turned out, she was staying with her grandmother. She found them sowing flower seeds, but a change had come over Nijmeh. She was harder. Delal had had some difficulty squeezing out of the car with her very pregnant belly and Nijmeh had sat back and fixed her with a murderous stare.

“So,” Delal had asked, intimidated by this new woman, “how long are you going to stay?”

“Not much longer.” Her eyes remained on the ground and her voice was hollow. Miriam sized up the situation and excused herself. “Why so interested?” Nijmeh said icily. “Would you like me to stay?”

Delal began to perspire profusely. She felt bloated and coarse, irredeemably homely and unlovable. By comparison the sight of her cousin, the embodiment of lightness and elegance, ignited a lifetime of resentment.

“I don’t give a damn if you stay or go,” she screamed. “James is my husband and I’m carrying his child and all your cool ladylike disgust with me won’t change a thing. You hate me because you weren’t woman enough to do what I did. You thought all you had to do was breathe and the world would come and worship at your feet. The thing I hated most”—Delal’s eyes were protruding dangerously, as if an expanding core of anger was pushing everything out—“was your sense of entitlement! You just assumed you were entitled to everything. But you weren’t entitled to James, damn it. Wanting it to happen was not enough.”

Instead of quelling her anger, the words fueled it. She didn’t know where to turn and she picked up a clump of earth and flung it at a pristine portion of the cobblestone path. She shook with high-pitched sucking sobs, limped back to the car, and sat at the wheel holding herself tightly.

When she got home, James had just pulled in and was changing his clothes in the bedroom. The thrill of shouting out truths too long held in gave her a daring high. “I just had a screaming match with your girlfriend.” Clearly he wasn’t expecting that. His mouth dropped open and his complexion became wan. “That’s right.” Her voice rose. She felt the thrill of control. “I did most of the screaming because the golden princess chose not to respond. Shall we have our screaming match now, as well? Do you want to rant and rave at me and tell me how evil I am?”

He hadn’t said a word. He had rebuttoned his shirt, put on his jacket, and gone out of the house. “Go ahead,” she had shouted after him. “Go and comfort her. Kiss her tears away. Isn’t that what you want to do?” He was in the car and roared away, leaving her holding the door to steady herself.

She had spent the evening in a warm soothing bath, even though the doctor had warned her against it. So what if it brought on labor? She hoped it did bring it on. She imagined James hearing that she was in the hospital and feeling instant remorse. At the very least he’d be curious to see the baby. She slumped in the water and wept again, but this time they were tears of fatigue. She had been down a long, arduous road, holding too many things. Now it was out of her hands. There wasn’t anything else up her sleeve.

He returned very late that night and although she was aching to touch him, she remained perfectly still. Sleep had a way of softening even the hardest hearts. She would see how things were in the morning. After all, he wouldn’t lose sight of the fact that she was carrying what she was certain was a son.

James opened his eyes again and put his hand on his wife’s stomach. “Let’s feel that kick,” he said, and her heart leaped. She was going to cry again. She had cried two or three times in all her adult life and now she cried every few minutes.
Let’s feel that kick
was a conciliatory statement. It meant he wasn’t totally hostile to the little stranger, as the maternity handbook called the baby. She had been prepared for the worst. Harsh words:
you lying bitch, I hate you.
Or worse than that, a soft reproach:
you took everything from me.
But somehow, miraculously, he was back without any visible hatred. He was subdued, but she’d take care of that as soon as the invader was out of her body. She’d make life so perfect for him. She knew how.

“Why are you crying?”

“If you had a world-class soccer player making goals against your ribs, you’d cry, too.”

“You think it’s a boy?”

“Is that what you want?”

“I can’t say that it matters.”

“It matters to me. I want a little boy that’s exactly like you.”

He sat up. “That’s the only sentimental thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“And?”

“And I’m surprised.” He didn’t seem surprised. He seemed emotionally weary.

“Oh, James.” The tears flowed faster and instantly congested her sinuses so that she had to ask him to bring her tissues.

“Is this all because of the kicking?” he asked.

“No. It’s because I love you so much.”

“That’s very nice,” he said softly. But it didn’t make him say he loved her back.

She had said good-bye to everyone but saved Aunt Julia for last. Despite what Delal had done, her aunt had behaved courageously and deserved to have some peace. She had wheeled Cassie through the narrow streets of the Old City, trying to absorb and fix it in her mind. Already there were so many changes because of the partition.

“Your house is the most charming. I love to come here.”

“Nijmeh—” Julia’s eyes were blurred with tears, her cheeks flushed. “You’re going back. When will you come again?”

“When I feel more sure of myself and what I’m doing. When I feel stronger.”

“If you’re not sure, why not stay?”

“I have more choices in America. I can make a fuller life for myself.”

“I think that’s true, but won’t you be so alone?”

“I was alone when Paul was alive. You saw how little time he spent at home. I learned how to make a life for myself and now that’s what appeals to me. I need to know that I can plan my own life and not make a mess of it. It would be so easy to stay. And I worry about straying so far from where I came from. Right now it seems the thing to do, but perhaps later I’ll regret it. It’s a big decision, especially if I ever marry again. What will Cassie know of her background? My father is the sheik’s direct descendant. And I . . . I’m next in line.”

“Oh, darling, you don’t know how happy it makes me to hear you say that. I worried so that you would hate me. That you would want to turn your back on everything.”

“I couldn’t hate you. You did what you did out of love for my mother. I only wish I had known when she was still alive so I could have told her it was all right. It did trouble her, you know. There was a hesitancy. I always felt it and couldn’t understand why. Now I know.”

“But you brought her a lot of happiness.” Julia waited to collect her thoughts. “If she hadn’t had a child, it would have destroyed your mother. So in a very real sense you saved her life.” Nijmeh nodded but didn’t respond. Her mother’s life had been pitifully short, but she had been well loved. “Is your father very upset that you’re going back? Has he said anything?”

“Teta said more than my father. She’s certain that it’s a mistake.”

“Oh, dear. I’m not much help in that direction, but you have my blessing. Whatever you do, I’ll support you. I would have done anything for your mother and I feel the same about you. As much as I’d love having you here, I think—as a young widow—you’ll have a fuller life in America.”

“Thank you, Amti. I know you love me and I know you’ll always tell me the truth.”

She and Cassie left the next morning. The plane stopped at Beirut, where they changed to a plane bound for Rome, where they stayed overnight. The next day they flew from Rome to New York and then to Washington. By nightfall they were home.

“Over here!” Larraine’s voice carried across the length of the terminal. Cassie began to squeal and strain to get loose from her mother’s arms.

“Look,” said Larraine, taking the baby in her arms, “she remembers me. I missed you both. I thought maybe you’d decided to stay.” She frowned and threw Star a questioning look. “How was it?”

“We all did a lot of crying. Except Cassie. She had a wonderful time. And I did, too, in a way. Larraine, I put away a lot of ghosts. A lot of ghosts.”

In the car on the way home, Larraine talked nonstop. “I’m going to be selfish and gloat that you decided not to stay there. I need your support and your advice. The furnace went and they want five hundred dollars to paint the outside of the house. There’s a lot of sanding to do and the trim around the third-floor windows has to be replaced. It’s all rotted away. Chuck sold our house and I—thank God it was in both our names—received half the money, which was a nice surprise. Thirteen thousand dollars. Think what we can do with that! Except I moved into the top floor of the corner house. I hope you don’t mind. We’ll miss the rent but I had to move somewhere. I’m still working for McKay part-time for the income. Maybe you’d like to do that, too.”

“Maybe. My father told me that I had an inheritance left by my grandfather, so I went to the bank to sign the papers and sat there waiting for a check or a stack of money—I didn’t know what to expect. The man handed me this beige sack. He said, ‘Well, madam, here it is.’ So I thought,
oh boy, this is my big inheritance
. I thanked him and waited until I was outside to look.”

“What was it?”

“Gold coins. French gold coins. Dozens and dozens of them. They’re beautiful, but I don’t know if I can cash them in. It’s the strangest thing. I don’t know if I’m well off or if they’re just keepsakes. And anyway, how could I sell them? They were his coins and they’re in his money pouch. He probably wore it around his waist and had it all his life. It’s something precious.”

“Well, God bless him. I like it. He probably had no faith in paper currency. Isn’t that nice? I hope you told them about the mess Paul left you in.”

“I couldn’t. I want them to think well of Paul. They know his family. The whole town thought he was a wonderful man. How could I tell them otherwise?”

“I guess.” Cassie had fallen asleep against her shoulder and Larraine looked over at Star and then pointed to the baby. “This one’s out like a light.” She reached across the seat in the dark and put her hand over Star’s. “You did the right thing coming back. There was no other way for you to find out who Star Halaby is. No other way. And that’s the truth.”

The next few months were busy ones for Star. She moved from the second floor of the North Capitol Street house to the first, which was larger and had access to a small backyard. She painted the walls white and put white curtains in the two bedrooms and white carpeting on the floors. She stored the huge Oriental rugs and sold most of the furniture from the big house to an antiques dealer.

Three days a week she took Cassie to a playgroup run by the YMCA and worked for Fred McKay. She also took an evening course in accounting so they wouldn’t have to pay someone to do the books. The happiest image of herself in those shaky first weeks went like this: she was walking down their own block, carefully avoiding the dips in the sidewalk, a grocery bag in one arm, Cassie’s hand in hers, her mind free, her heart open. Going home.

Once in a while she and Larraine would go to a movie or eat out at an Italian place, taking the baby with them. But then Larraine began to date one of her clients, a man named Sam Hollings, who was newly separated and in need of a house. She began to buy clothes and fixed up her hair. One afternoon she came into Star’s kitchen completely made up: eyes outlined like Cleopatra’s, rouged, eyebrows tweezed, cheekbones highlighted—the works. “I went into Garfinckel’s to buy a lipstick and they made me up. No charge. What do you think?”

“You look lovely.” She tried to look cheerful. After all, Larraine was walking around the linoleum as if an audience had paid to see her. She was rolling her hips and thrusting out her breasts, and all of a sudden, to make a point she gave a little kick backward as if she were the last girl in the chorus line and wanted the audience to remember her. Larraine was giddy with . . . was it relief? Happiness because there was a man in her life? The reality of being found desirable had transformed her from a freckle-faced ex-housewife into a credible beauty. It was a jolt to Star, who now felt a need to take inventory.

She was a twenty-four-year-old widow with a child and no immediate family. Not for a moment did she consider contacting the Walkers. The emotional repercussions—there might even be legal ones—would be so destructive, and what would she gain? Cousins for Cassie. If she waited until everyone who might be hurt was dead, she and Cassie would be too old to benefit from it.
But that’s it
, she thought.
I have to bury that information.

She realized with a sense of irony that she—who had no Arab blood—was deeply rooted in the Middle East, while her daughter—who had Paul’s blood—was thoroughly Yankee in spirit. Cassie would never fight to remember the tantalizing sights and smells and the feel of that peculiar velvety air. Her heart wouldn’t stumble at the sound of that unique accent shaped by twenty years of British occupation. It was a realization that made her wince because—with all she knew—America was now her best and only hope.