Abqaiq buzzed with electric heat as I walked to the pool the next morning, the coolest hours already boiled dry. Mynah birds panted in the deep forks of trees, whistling their distress, sometimes mimicking the beep of a car horn. The Bedouin boy at the snack bar nodded as I passed, shyly offering his greeting, his eyes never lifting from that place where my sundress dipped toward cleavage. I wondered at the stories he must tell his friends—whether he spoke of the Aramco wives with admiration or contempt—and thought of Abdullah. How did he move between one world and the other, compound to tent to compound? Did he tell his mother of all that he witnessed or keep it from her like a teenage boy who took his visions to bed?
“Gin, over here!” I saw Ruthie, laid out on her chaise longue, sleek as a seal, Linda Dalton beside her, all legs and décolletage, a cigarette in one hand, a Pepsi in the other, her beehive perfectly coiffed. They waved me past a passel of children gathered in the shallow end, splashing and screeching their delight. A few of the young mothers raised their faces to see who I was, then dropped back to their magazines. I smiled down as I walked by, the knot in my stomach bunching. I counted the months, as I had done so many times before. Come June, my son would have been born.
Ruthie introduced me to Linda, who pointed at a bottle of coconut oil. “Help yourself,” she said.
“Thanks.” I sat on the longue and kicked loose my sandals, working up the courage to strip my dress. I looked at Ruthie and smiled when she handed me a soda.
“Just take it off,” she said.
I stood and turned in a half circle, trying to find the position that would afford me the greatest privacy before letting the dress fall. I folded it quickly and reclined on the longue, my arms crossed, the sexy confidence I had felt the night before gone.
Ruthie rubbed a bit more oil onto her already glistening thighs. “Linda was just telling me about this engineer from Morocco,” she said. “Sounds cute.”
“He’s rich,” Linda said. “Too bad he’s not white.”
“He’s whiter than some you’ve dated.” Ruthie pulled back her neck strap to check her tan line.
“Not close enough to take home to Daddy.”
“You don’t have to marry him, you know,” Ruthie said. “Why buy the pig when you can get the sausage for free?”
“Easy for you to say.” Linda rolled to her stomach and undid her top, let the straps fall to each side. “You don’t eat pork.”
“That puts me with the majority here,” Ruthie said. “You’re just a common infidel.”
“There’s nothing common about me, Miss Ruthie.”
I took a sip of Pepsi and listened to their banter, fascinated by the easy give and take I had never heard between women. I remembered Carlo Leoni and looked around the pool, wondering how many of the women he had bedded.
“Don’t forget to turn over, Gin,” Ruthie cautioned. “You’ll broil instead of bake.”
The thought of rolling to my stomach, exposing my backside, filled me with misery, but I did it anyway, hooking my fingers in the elastic legs of my bottoms to gain an inch more coverage.
Ruthie snorted. “You’re funny.”
“Leave her alone.” Linda, her cheek against the chaise, sounded drowsy. “She’s shy.”
“Look at her,” Ruthie said. “How could you ever be ashamed of that body? I’d be showing it off every chance I got.”
“She’s not you,” Linda said.
“She’s repressed,” Ruthie said, “just like you.”
Linda raised her head. “You think I’m repressed?”
“Well, maybe not you.” Ruthie pulled a Thermos from her beach bag, glanced around to make sure no one was watching, and filled her pop bottle. “Ginny Mae?”
I hesitated before handing her my soda. “Just a little, please.”
“That’s what we all say. Drink what you want, and I’ll finish the rest.” She tipped the Thermos, then tucked it back in her bag. “If no one sees it, it doesn’t exist, just like everything else in this place.”
“What’s the word on Katie Johnson?” Linda asked.
“Candy says nervous breakdown.” Ruthie sucked on her cigarette. “I say home abortion.”
“True?” Linda asked, although she didn’t seem surprised.
“What do you think?” Ruthie blew a stream of smoke from the side of her mouth. “She’s fifty if she’s a day, with six kids already. I’d just kill myself and get it over with.”
Linda clucked her tongue. “You have to admit that Clyde’s still got it.”
“Clyde needs to keep it in his pants.” Ruthie looked at me. “Linda decided it wasn’t worth having a husband just to have children. It’s very enlightened of her.”
“Shut up, Ruthie,” Linda said.
“That’s what you told me.”
Linda flipped to her back, her top falling away to reveal a full breast and pink nipple. I looked down until she got herself fastened. “What are you and Lucky up to these days, anyway?” she asked.
Ruthie lifted her sunglasses. “Short leave in Bahrain, then Christmas break in Ceylon. Joey is going to meet us for Hanukkah.” She gestured to me with her lighter. “You and Mason need to start thinking about where you want to go. The company will fly you anywhere. Every two years, you get a full month’s home leave.” She smirked at Linda. “That’s when we’re supposed to reconnect with the mother country.”
“Right,” Linda said. “Why would you go back to the States when you can go to Morocco?” She rested her arm across her eyes. “How about your husband, Gin? He’s offshore, right?”
“Ten more days,” I said. The liquor made me feel light-headed, a little giddy. “Seems like forever.”
Linda peeked one eye my way. “You’ll get used to it. There’s more than enough to do around here. The problem is what not to do.”
“Boy, that’s the truth,” Ruthie said. “The wives who spend their hours making spaetzle are nuts. Lucky knows better than to expect me to meet him at the door, all cooey.” She snapped her eyes like a doll. “ ‘Here’s your martini, dear, and your slippers, and dinner is on the table.’ Blah. He’s lucky if he can find me at all.”
“He just follows the trail of booze bottles,” Linda said.
“Funny.” Ruthie waved her magazine. “All I know is that when he gets home, he wants food, sex, and sleep, not necessarily in that order, and if I don’t give it to him, someone else will.” She cocked her head my way. “You’ll want to keep your eye on Mason, especially around Candy.”
I felt my scalp tighten. “Mason would never …”
Ruthie sucked in her cheeks. “There are some things no man can resist.”
“Like what?” I asked.
She crooked a grin Linda’s way. “More wine, more time, we’ll talk.” She pushed on her sunglasses, brought up her magazine, and I was left to the lull of the sun, the pleasant hum in my ears. I closed my eyes, drifted in and out with the rise and fall of the children’s laughter until Ruthie swung her feet to the ground. “You’re getting pink, Gin. You’ll have good color for the ball.”
Linda sat up. “Who’s going?”
“We are,” Ruthie said. “Come with us.”
“Maybe.” Linda swallowed the last of her Pepsi.
“I like your earrings,” I said. I’d been admiring the little coins that dangled at her jaw.
“Want to try them?” Linda pulled one loose, held it out. I clipped it on, wishing I had a mirror.
Ruthie looked at Linda. “I thought your ears were pierced.”
“I’ve never gotten around to it.”
“You?” When Ruthie squinted at my lobes, I shook my head. She pondered for a moment, then pulled on her dress and slipped into her sandals. “Let’s do it.”
“What?” I asked.
“Pierce your ears.”
I looked at Linda, who looked at me and grinned. “Why not?” she said.
How could I answer? Because my grandfather said that only ruined women pierced their ears? Because I had to ask Mason first?
“Why not?” I echoed, and shook out my sundress, let it slide over my shoulders, felt the tacky catch of tanning oil, the prickle of sunburn. “Where?”
“Your house,” Ruthie said. “Yash can feed us one of his fabulous lunches.” She directed her voice at Linda. “Gin’s got a dream of a houseboy. Waits on her hand and foot.”
“My houseboy can’t cook worth beans,” Linda said. “All he wants to do is sit on the porch and smoke his stinky brown cigarettes. Maybe I need a new one.”
Ruthie motioned for us to follow her. “Come on,” she said. “We’re going to make this fun.”
I climbed in back, and we drove to the little suq, where we found a pack of darning needles. The Arab clerks watched us openly as we tittered over our purchases, but I didn’t care, buoyed by the liquor and sun. A quick stop at Ruthie’s house, where Linda and I waited in the car while she ran in and returned with an armload of formal gowns and a jewelry case that she piled on top of me. When we pushed into the foyer of my house, hot and smelling like fruit salad, Yash stopped his meal preparations long enough to look from Ruthie to Linda and then to me. I attempted an encouraging smile that slipped sideways as I followed Ruthie and Linda into the bedroom. Ruthie stripped naked before I could step out of my sundress, and I kept my eyes averted as she considered the gowns.
“The midnight blue,” Ruthie said, pointing Linda to a floor-length dress with a plunging neckline and ruched waist. “I’m taking the red empire.”
I chose the emerald ball gown made of taffeta with a sweetheart neckline and three-quarter sleeves. Ruthie helped with my makeup while Linda pinned my hair. When I looked into the mirror, I hardly recognized the woman there: hair swept into a chignon, face full of color. Like the prom queen I’d never been.
Yash, wary as a cat, stiffened when we came back into the kitchen.
“We need sadiqi and clothespins and a potato cut in half,” Ruthie ordered. She struck a match and ran the flame over a large darning needle. “Who’s first?”
“I want to get it over with.” Linda scooted onto the high stool, the blue iridescence of her dress shimmering, and downed several swallows. I tipped my own glass, my throat burning. Ruthie clamped Linda’s earlobes with the clothespins Yash had mustered.
“We’ll leave these there for a minute,” she said, “and then you’ll be numb.”
“May I ask,” Yash queried, “what is happening?”
“I’m piercing their ears,” Ruthie said.
He moved closer as Ruthie removed one of the clothespins. “There will be infection,” he said.
“That’s what this is for.” She poured a saucer full of moonshine and dropped in two sets of studs from the jewelry box. “Are you ready?”
Linda took a long drag off her cigarette. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Ruthie pressed the potato half against the back of Linda’s left earlobe and positioned the needle. Yash’s eyes had widened, whether with horror or fascination, I couldn’t tell.
“Here it goes,” Ruthie said, and punched the needle through.
“Ouch,” Linda said.
“Almost done with this one.” She withdrew the needle, wiped the blood, and pressed a gold stud into the tiny hole.
“Ouch again.” Linda said. “Now it’s throbbing.”
“Keep drinking,” Ruthie said, and repeated the procedure on the other side. When she was done, Linda’s earlobes were red and beginning to swell. She slid from the stool, hiked her dress, said, “Your turn,” and wobbled toward the bathroom, taking her glass with her.
“One more drink,” I said, and took as much into my mouth as I could swallow.
“You do not have to do this,” Yash said.
I nodded as Ruthie applied the clothespins, felt them pinch and swing heavy at my jaw. “It’s fun,” I said.
He scowled. “This does not look like fun.”
“Hush,” Ruthie said. “She’s fine.”
He drew back, picked up his knife, and began slicing a cucumber. “It is not easy to prepare a meal in the face of such bloodletting.”
When Ruthie pulled the clothespin from my left ear, I closed my eyes, felt the raw coolness of the potato and then the hot sting of the needle. The throb was immediate, as though the lobe were pulsing, inflating with fire. When the post of the earring popped through the tough tissue, my stomach rolled.
“Are you okay?” Ruthie asked.
I opened my eyes, swallowed the water pooling beneath my tongue. “I think so.”
“Take another drink. You’re almost done.”
It was all I could do to keep my seat as she pulled loose the second clothespin and positioned the potato. I looked at Yash, who shook his head and turned away.
“Here it goes,” Ruthie said. I winced, felt a cool sweat break out across my chest. By the time it was over, I was shaking. Ruthie lit a cigarette and placed it between my lips. “Good girl. Let’s go sit in the living room until lunch is ready.”
Linda was on the couch, the color back in her face. Ruthie dropped the Beatles album she had brought along onto the hi-fi, then plopped down between us, pulling at the waist of her dress as George Harrison sang about the taxman.
“Just keep swabbing your earlobes with alcohol,” Ruthie said. “In a few days, you’ll be all healed.”
Yash came in with what remained of the pineapple wine and a tray of chapati, dal, and fresh vegetables.
“No, thanks,” Linda said. “I need to get home and take some aspirin.” She waited until Yash had left the room, then lowered her voice. “He’s not like any houseboy I’ve ever seen.”
“Told you,” Ruthie said.
I smiled as though I had won some kind of prize. “He’s more like a friend,” I said.
Linda glanced at Ruthie, then back at me. “I wouldn’t let it get around,” she said, then gathered her purse. “I’ll see you two kids at the ball.”
“With the Moroccan?” Ruthie asked.
“You know they wouldn’t let him in,” she said, “any more than they’d let Yash walk through the door.” She pulled out her sunglasses, touched my shoulder. “We’re like blood sisters,” she said. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”
When latch clicked shut, I reached for the bottle, feeling like I had survived some kind of ritual. “Linda’s nice,” I said.
“She’s not ‘nice.’ ” Ruthie snapped a carrot between her teeth. “She’s smart and she’s beautiful. But I’ll tell you this”—she pointed the severed carrot—“if she ever lays a hand on my Lucky, I’ll snatch her bald.”
I tried to imagine Linda Dalton, smooth and polished as a racehorse, taking a shine to Lucky Doucet. I looked down at my bare feet, thought I saw drops of blood before remembering I’d painted my toenails red. I tried to focus, closed my eyes, opened them again.
Yash came in to tighten the blinds and stack a few more records on the hi-fi, Pat Boone crooning his love as Ruthie poured another glass of wine. She leaned back, lolling her head to the music. “So I’m a college student in Beirut, dating this putz named Reuben. Reuben the Rat, that’s what my girlfriends called him, because he had this sharp little face.” She crinkled her nose, bucked her teeth, then laughed and clapped as though to dispel his memory. “Anyway, we’re at this dance club, and in walks Lucky Doucet in his dress blues, out on leave. Bigger than anyone else in the room.” She reached for a piece of bread, dipped it in dal, kept talking. “He came right at me like no one else was around. Didn’t say a word to Reuben, just took my hand and led me to the dance floor. We didn’t stop until the club shut down.” She rocked forward, lowered her voice. “Then he took me to his hotel, pattering to me in that sexy Cajun French the whole time. We started the minute the door closed, right there on the floor. Made love in every corner of that room before the night was over. I never heard from Reuben again.” Her fingers traced the single strand of pearls at her neck, and she smiled, looked at me sideways. “Your turn. Tell me about Mason.”
I hesitated. I didn’t know how to tell my own story, how to make sense of any of it. I felt like if I started pulling the thread, it would all unravel into a pile of nothing. Ruthie touched my knee.
“We’ve got time,” she said. “Start at the beginning.”
So I did. I told her about my mother’s illness and death, about my grandfather’s whippings. I told her about Mason and the only baby I would ever have. Ruthie dabbed at my mascara with her napkin.
“You’re in a good place to start over, Gin. We all are.” She held her cigarette to my lips, and I inhaled, felt the bite of tobacco. “Believe me, it could always be worse. The girls around here could be stoned for doing some of the stuff we did.” She lowered her gaze, ran one thumb around the rim of her glass. “My parents and brothers all died in the death camps. Everyone except me.” When I started to react, she shook her head. “Old news,” she said. “Maybe that’s why I like it here. Most of us have some grief we’re leaving behind.” She clinked her glass against mine. “Cheers,” she said, and tipped it back. “Now, let’s talk about something fun. Tell me a joke.”
I sat for a moment. “I don’t think I know any jokes,” I said.
“Then here’s one,” Ruthie said. “So Issy and Sadie were not having a good sex life. ‘How come you never tell me when you have an orgasm?’ asks Issy. Sadie looks at him and says, ‘Because you’re never home!’ ”
I cracked up, maybe a little too loudly because Ruthie straightened and peered at me, sly-eyed. “Don’t tell me,” she said, “don’t tell me you’ve never had one.”
“I have them all the time,” I said, then clapped my hand over my mouth, and we both fell back laughing. I jerked upright when I heard Yash step into the room.
“What do you have when a Pakistani is buried to his neck in sand?” he asked.
We shook our heads.
“Not enough sand.” He chuckled, then composed himself. “I’m going to market,” he said. “Is there anything that you need?”
“Oh, please.” Ruthie hiccuped. “Don’t get us started.”
He tucked his lips, but the smile broke before he could turn. Ruthie and I lay against each other, catching our breath, listening to his footsteps fade away.
“He’s a nice guy, Yash is.” Ruthie pushed herself back against the couch, rubbing her ribs. “He’d make someone a good wife.”
“He’s a better wife than I am,” I said. “I don’t do anything around here.”
“It’s what you do in bed that counts,” Ruthie said. She dragged her purse up off the floor, pulled out her compact. I took her wrist, peered into the little mirror.
“I look awful,” I said, and dabbed my mouth with her lipstick.
Ruthie looked at her reflection and sighed. “Next to you, I look like a dried-up old prune.”
“That’s not true,” I said, and focused on her eyes. “You’re beautiful.”
Ruthie cupped her breasts, let them drop. “Everything is heading south.”
“If I stick out my tongue,” I said, “I look like a zipper.”
“You’re like the French,” she said. “More than a champagne coupe is a waste.”
I fell back against the couch, plucked at the bodice of my gown. “Now what are we going to do?”
“I’ve seen all the movies,” she said. “Lucky promised he’ll take me to Under the Yum Yum Tree when it gets here. I just love Jack Lemmon.” She tilted against me. “We could go to the bowling alley and seduce the pin boys.”
I rolled my head to meet her eyes. “You could tell me what no man can resist,” I said.
She drew back and considered me for a moment. “What’s the nastiest thing you’ve ever done with a man?”
I tried to focus, felt my vision waver. “Mason is the only man I’ve ever been with.”
“I should have known,” Ruthie said. “Okay, then, what’s the nastiest thing you’ve ever done with Mason?”
I tipped forward a little, held my glass close. “We made love once standing up in the kitchen,” I said.
“That’s not nasty.” She chuffed. “That’s wholesome.” She tilted her head. “You really are that innocent, aren’t you?”
I gave a slow blink. “Weren’t you a virgin when you met Lucky?”
Ruthie’s face went blank for a moment before breaking into a smirk. “Oh, kid,” she said, “you’re a case.” She sucked in an ice cube, let it drop back into the glass. “You’ve got to keep them guessing or they get smug and then they’re boring.” She took a drag off her cigarette, cast her eyes to the ceiling, let the smoke out in a smooth stream. “What about fellatio?”
I scrunched my shoulders. I had never heard the word before, thought it might be somebody’s name, a character in a book I hadn’t yet read.
“You know, blow job?” Ruthie said. “Your mouth on his thingy? Lucky loves it. All men do.”
I sat silent for a moment, trying to imagine. “You just put your mouth on it?”
Ruthie picked up the empty booze bottle. “Watch.” She closed her eyes and let the glass slide in, then bobbed her head up and down, and I saw the pink of her tongue flick along the underside, circle the neck. When she licked her lips and winked at me, I barked out a laugh.
“See? That’s all you have to do,” Ruthie said. “Get your mouth on a man, and he’s yours for life.” She wiped the lipstick from the bottle and passed it to me. “Just imagine you’re sucking on a Popsicle,” she said. “You’re hot, and it’s melting.”
I swallowed the last of my drink, held my cigarette away from my face. The bottle clinked against my teeth.
“Fold your lips over,” Ruthie said, “like you don’t have a tooth in your head.”
I was making another attempt when the door swung open in a hot whirl of air. Ruthie and I let out yelps of surprise when Lucky swaggered in.
“What the hell?” he said. “You girls expecting company?” Mason stood beside him, looking at me like I had grown horns.
“Why are you home?” I asked, and touched my lips, swollen and raw, felt my earlobes burning. “What’s wrong?”
“They hauled us in for a meeting with the emir,” Lucky said. “You know the Saudis. Everything’s got to be on their time.” He gave Ruthie a squeeze. “Grab your wraps, ladies. The head honcho wants to meet the wives. We’ve got a real party to go to.” He swiped Ruthie’s flask, emptied it in one swallow.
Mason took in the table, the overflowing ashtrays, the empty bottle with its smear of red lipstick, then looked back at me. His eyes settled on my newly styled hair. “Guess we’re ready,” he said.
“But our clothes,” I said.
“You’re fine,” Ruthie said. “It’s a party, after all.” She threw me a scarf, and I attempted to tuck myself into some semblance of decency as we hiked our gowns and stumbled out to the Land Cruiser, where Abdullah waited, dressed in a fine thobe and crisp white ghutra. He looked at me quickly, then away as I climbed into the back between Mason and Ruthie, and I flushed with embarrassment, as though he knew everything I had been doing.
“Here,” Ruthie said, and held out a stick of gum. “Just don’t breathe on anybody.”
“Now, you girls remember.” Lucky threw the words back over his shoulder. “If the emir takes a shine, we got to give you to him. Ain’t that right, Abdullah?”
Abdullah’s face in the rearview didn’t change. “The emir is a man of great appetite,” he said.
Mason snorted quietly. When I moved my hand into his, he glanced at me, took in my hair, my newly pierced ears, then turned his eyes back to the desert. “I’m headed back out in the morning,” he said, his voice low.
“I wish you could stay,” I said.
He looked at me. “Do you?”
Ruthie leaned around me, her breath sweet with mint and pineapple. “Of course she does. We were just being silly.”
Mason looked from her to me, and I smiled, squeezed his hand, but he seemed almost bewildered, as though he wasn’t quite sure who or what to believe.
A mile outside the compound, a white tent as big as a house rose from the desert. In a roped area behind, I could see the milling of horses, hear their nickering calls. Abdullah led us from the Land Cruiser, greeting the other Arabs with elaborate kisses, holding their hands as they talked. I had never seen men kiss one another, never known them to show such easy affection to anyone, wife or child—and I realized that I was listing, my drunken buzz turning to a dull-eyed stare.
“Got some racers back there,” Lucky said. “I’ve got my money on that pretty gray mare. Fast-fast.” He repeated the words as though once were not enough to convey the extent of his meaning. “Bet you a sawbuck.”
Ruthie punched him in the arm. “You’d better not let anyone hear you say that. You’ll get us all caned for gambling.”
“Hell, these boys don’t know what real gambling is.” He chuckled and pointed his chin. “I’m going to check out my meal ticket. Watch your slips, ladies,” he said, and walked from the shadow of the tent.
Mason tilted his head to where a group of American men, bolstered by pillows atop a low platform, sat drinking coffee.
“I’d better get in on that powwow,” he said. “Remember to stay with the wives.”
I shuffled closer to Ruthie. “He’s mad at me,” I whispered.
“That’s just business,” Ruthie said. “You’ll learn to tell the difference.” She stood on her tiptoes, looked to where Lucky and a corpulent Arab man in richly colored robes stood, watching the horses. I saw them bend their heads in discussion, Lucky gesticulating to the gray mare, whose coat shifted from dark to light, like hammered silver in the sun. “That’s Alireza, one of the bigwig Saudi merchants,” Ruthie said in a hush. “I hope if he’s betting, Lucky wins.”
“I thought gambling was against the law,” I said.
“Arabia is like anywhere else,” she said. “If you have enough money, there’s nothing that’s not legal.”
I tried to redirect my attention to where the Aramco children knelt in rows, their mothers hovering close, scolding misbehavior, the emir laughing from his elevated chair. Near the front, Candy Fullerton stood over Ross Junior, scowling and pinching his shoulder. Pillbox hat, box jacket, A-line skirt—prim and proper as a Sunday-school teacher. She glanced at me and Ruthie in our formal gowns, and her eyes widened in disbelief.
“Wear it like you mean it,” Ruthie said, and adjusted her bra strap.
I straightened my shoulders, smoothed my taffeta pleats as the emir rose and began making his way down the row of women and children, greeting each one with genuine kindness. He was a big man and seemed little in need of the even larger bodyguards who flanked him, their glowering made more ominous by the bandoliers, rifles, and swords that hung from their shoulders and hips. “Slaves from Africa,” Ruthie whispered. “They’re free but loyal.” I swallowed my gum, watched as Ruthie gave a slight curtsy and the emir wished good health on her father and her sons, his voice deep and clear.
“Thank you,” Ruthie said. “Ashkurak.” The emir smiled broadly and had just turned to me when one of his advisers whispered in his ear and directed him toward the viewing platform.
“I need to find Lucky,” Ruthie said. She spied him near the end of the course, where a loud group of drillers hunched and swaggered, shielding their bids.
“You go ahead,” I said. “I’m fine.”
She hesitated for a moment. “Just stay close,” she said, “or Mason will have your hide and mine too.”
I worked my way through the crowd of men—workers still in their khakis, administrators in dress shirts and black ties, important-looking Arabs in white thobes—their words and laughter melding into a single language. It reminded me of a revival, the believers pouring in from neighboring congregations, an enormous white tent blooming amid the stubble of an empty field, the noisy chaos of cars and kids and dogs and, as the evening steamed toward night, the holler and stomp of praise. The spirit descended like a heavenly dove but took up residence with a fierceness that belied its promise of peace: men launched from their seats, trembling and shouting at the top of their lungs; women high-stepped to the altar, heads thrown back, dancing until they fell and lay convulsing with the gift of laughter. Holy Rollers, they called us, but only once did I see anyone roll, and that was Brother Fogarty, who not only rolled but did handsprings up and down the aisle, the tail of his shirt flapping until he flipped to a stop, straightened, pulled out a comb, and smoothed his hair, speaking in tongues all the while. At the end of one long night’s service, he was nowhere to be found, but because I was small, I had squatted down and discovered him snoring beneath a pew. Sister Fogarty had given me a stick of Black Jack gum for my troubles, but the taste of anise had made my throat burn, and I had added the wad to the bottom of the children’s bench, only to be discovered in the act by my grandfather, who took me back to the church the next afternoon, handed me a knife, tipped the bench, and sat me on the floor, where I pried at the archipelago of petrified gum for hours, wishing that I had left Brother Fogarty where he lay.
A pair of blond saluki hounds barked at the edge of the racetrack as I edged closer. Alireza, the merchant Ruthie had pointed out, blocked my view, and I stood on my tiptoes, squinting through the choking dust that hung in the air mixing with the tarry smell of manure. The horses bunched and spun, their necks arched and tails flashing. Bays and blacks, grays and chestnuts, and a single silver mare, the one Lucky had his eye on, high white hocks and speckled belly setting her apart from the other horses. The Bedouin jockeys in their short robes were lining up their mounts, readying for a bareback run down the slapdash track cordoned off with rope and flags. I felt someone behind me, heard Abdullah at my elbow.
“You didn’t get your chance to meet the emir,” he said. He looked from beneath his eyebrows at the men who turned to stare, including Alireza, and I realized how far I was from the other wives.
“Please,” Abdullah said, and directed me away, separating the onlookers like he was parting the sea. When I saw Mason watching us approach, I steadied my step, suddenly more sober as Abdullah worked us forward until we were front and center before the emir. Abdullah offered a few lively words of introduction, and the emir rose to his full height and peered down at me.
“How do you do, Mrs. McPhee?” he asked, and shook my hand.
“How do you do, Mr. Emir?” I responded. I didn’t know how to curtsy, but I caught up my gown and gave a slight bow.
“Are you enjoying the festivities?” He rested his fingers together.
“Yes, thank you,” I said, then raised my eyes in earnest. “I love horses,” I said.
He smiled and dipped his head. “Please, won’t you join us?”
Mason peered at me, on his face a mix of concern and consternation. I was glad when the shot of a pistol turned our attention to the track, and everyone stood to see. The horses swung and lunged forward, riders close against their necks. A roar went up from the racetrack, and Abdullah clapped loudly, shouted a few words of Arabic, then bent close to my ear.
“The emir’s horse will win the day,” he said. “Fortune for us all.” I heard the distinct voice of Lucky let out a whoop, saw the gray mare crossing the finish line a length ahead of the field.
“What are you doing?” Mason stood at my elbow, his voice low. “You’re supposed to stay with the women.”
For a moment, I met his gaze, but when I saw Abdullah look away as though embarrassed, I dropped my eyes. “I just wanted to watch the races,” I said.
Mason let out a hard breath, nodded to Abdullah. “You go ahead and take her on home. I’ve still got some business.”
“But I don’t want to go home,” I said.
Ruthie came up beside me, crooked her arm. “Come on,” she said. “I’m ready for a drink.” I hesitated, but Mason was already talking with some of the other men. As Abdullah led me and Ruthie to the Land Cruiser, she leaned in close, whispered, “I wonder what he wears underneath that robe,” but I wasn’t in any mood for more jokes. I sat in the back, crossed my arms, and stared straight ahead, a sharp resentment rising along with the crankiness that came with a hangover. “I wish we could have stayed longer,” I said, louder than was necessary, my eyes on Abdullah’s face in the rearview, but he didn’t look up.
“You’re just a kid,” Ruthie said. “Forget the drink. I’m ready for a nap.” She rested back her head, looked at me, her eyes half-lidded. “Listen,” she said quietly. “It’s the transitions that are hardest. When Lucky comes in off tour, we always have to fight at first, but then we get to make up.” She reached for my hand, gave it a squeeze. “You’ll get used to it.”
Abdullah let Ruthie off at her house, and I kept silent as we rounded the corner and idled to a stop in front of my door. Even with the heat, I didn’t want to go back into the too-close rooms. I shifted in my seat, looked to where the sun edged the horizon. “Do you have a horse?” I asked.
He sat stiff, his eyes forward, and now I wondered whether he was mad at me too. He cleared his throat, and I realized he wasn’t angry but nervous. “My family once had a fine mare,” he said carefully. “Her name was Badra. She was born beneath a full moon.”
“Did you break her?” I asked.
His face came fully into the rearview—the face of the confident man who had first picked us up at the airport. “Our horses are never broken,” he said. “They are raised alongside us like siblings.” His dark eyebrows relaxed. “My father would say, ‘Children of mine may hunger and thirst, but never my mare.’ ”
I rested my head against the glass. “I wish I had a horse,” I said.
“But you have a stable of horses.”
“The Hobby Farm?” I said. “Those funny pants?” I looked out my window to where the fence broke the plain. “I want to ride out in the desert,” I said, “like you do.”
He held back a smile, pressed his thumbs against the steering wheel. “Perhaps Badra.”
“I thought she was gone,” I said, but what interested me more was how different he had become with Mason not around—more vulnerable, somehow, almost timid.
“The emir admired her, and so I gave her to him as a gift.” His face filled with pride. “She won today’s race.”
I leaned forward in my seat, taken with possibility. “There’s no law against a woman riding a horse outside the gates, is there?”
“It depends upon who is with her.”
“You?” I asked.
“Not alone,” he said.
I sat quiet, considering my options. “What about Ruthie? I bet I could talk her into going with us.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “If not your husband, then your father or uncle or brother or son.”
“I don’t have a father or uncle or brother or son,” I said.
“I am sorry,” he said, and I saw his shoulders lift and fall, “but you are ghayr mahram, forbidden to me. And even if I did have your husband’s permission to take you into the desert …”
“What?” I asked.
He dropped his eyes from the rearview. “My mother would never allow it.”
I groaned and fell back, sat silent for a long minute before looking out over the compound, its lines fusing in the slackening light. I took a deep breath and rested my head against the side window. “When will it rain again?”
“As Allah wills.” In the sharp silence, he seemed to be deciding something before softening his voice. “A cloud gathers, the rain falls, men live. The cloud disperses without rain, and men and animals die.” His face lifted in the apricot dusk, his eyes taking in the neat homes and manicured lawns, the avenues paved with asphalt. He straightened himself, peered straight ahead. “I should return for your husband.”
I reached for the door handle and stepped too quickly to the asphalt, nearly pitching into the bougainvillea. When Abdullah got out to help me, I held up my hand.
“I’m fine,” I said. I crossed my arms as though the hot wind were a chilling breeze. “What you said about the rain, was it poetry?”
“The words of Sir Wilfred Thesiger,” he said, “a British explorer and friend to the Bedu.” He tilted his face away and gathered his robes.
“Abdullah?” I said, and he turned back to me. “Are you sure we can’t go riding?”
He hesitated before returning my smile. “We shall see,” he said. “Peace be upon you.”
“And upon you peace,” I said. I waited until the Land Cruiser disappeared before turning for the porch. I startled when Faris appeared like a ghost only a few feet away. In the fading light, I hadn’t seen him bent near the house’s foundation, where he had been deadheading the roses, his red-and-white ghutra mixing with the blooms.
“Faris, you scared me,” I said, wondering whether he had been watching me and Abdullah.
He looked at me seriously, then showed me the shears, a fistful of withered petals.
“Yes, I see.” I felt my headache coming back, my earlobes beginning to ache, an irritation at the back of my neck where the sand had sifted into my collar. I surveyed the newer buds, tight and edged brown, the leaves curled. “They look thirsty.” I knelt and burrowed my finger in the soil, held it up. “They need more water,” I said, and then louder, as though he might be deaf, “more water.”
I straightened and entered the house, saw that Yash had cleared the dirty glasses, emptied the ashtrays, and cut a spray of jasmine to sweeten the room before leaving for the day. I showered and lay on the bed, waiting for Mason to come home, halfway wishing he wouldn’t. I didn’t like the way he was bossing me around, treating me like a child, but what could I do without embarrassing us both? “It is better to dwell in the wilderness, than with a contentious and an angry woman,” King Solomon had said. Even outside of the church, the few wives I knew who went against their husbands’ wishes and brawled with them in public were looked upon with disgust and the husbands with pity. Maybe it was true that the best negotiations were made in bed, but I hated the manipulative nature of pleasing Mason in order to win some favor. It felt like cheating. I could guess Ruthie’s response—Get over it, kid.
It was past dark when I heard the familiar sound of a basketball hitting the pavement, bouncing, hitting again. I rose, walked to the living room, and cracked the blinds. Mason and Abdullah circled in the vaporous haze of a street lamp, Mason’s sleeves rolled, Abdullah’s thobe lifted and tucked, revealing loose cotton drawers that reached to his ankles. They dodged and dribbled, faked, jumped up and away from each other’s raised arms. There was something thrilling about watching without their knowing I was there, as though I were seeing something forbidden through a peephole, their grunts of pleasure and exertion. When they slowed and bent to catch their breath, I returned to bed, still awake when Mason came naked from the shower. I molded myself to his side, touched the softness between his ribs.
“I saw you and Abdullah playing basketball,” I said.
He rested his hands on his chest. “No competition,” he said, his words clipped.
“Are you upset with me?”
He lay quiet for a moment, as though he weren’t sure. “Just surprised, that’s all.”
“It was only Ruthie,” I said, and touched the bowl of his hip. “She knows everything there is to do around here.”
He exhaled through his nose. “Seems like you’re doing it all at once.”
I rose up on my elbow. “Guess what I bought,” I said.
“I’m too tired to guess,” Mason said. “Just tell me.”
“A bikini,” I said, as though the word itself were enough to shock the breath right out of him. “Do you want to see it?” I asked brightly, then turned on the lamp, went quickly into the bathroom, and pulled on my suit, lifting my breasts to gain cleavage. I opened the door and posed like a pinup, elbows akimbo, then stretched out on my side next to Mason and closed my eyes as he ran his hand down the wale of my waist. When he rolled me to my back and touched his fingers to my nipples and then the thin strip of fabric between my legs, I sucked a quick breath, my hips bucking up. I pushed against him, felt his hand go still. When I opened my eyes, I saw him looking down at me like he had never seen me before.
“Come on,” I whispered. I searched between us, felt the softness there. Mason fell to his back, rested his arm over his eyes.
“I told you,” he said, “I’m tired.” He reached for the lamp, switched it off.
I stared into the dark, the pleasure draining from me like dirty water. When I touched his shoulder, he flinched.
“Just let me go to sleep,” he said. “Abdullah’s going to be here early.”
I drew my hand away, tucked it between my knees, wondering what I had done wrong. I told myself to leave him alone, that it would be better in the morning, but I could feel him beside me, taut as a wire. I took a deep breath, tried again.
“Tell me,” I said, “what it’s like.”
He didn’t say anything at first, and then his words came slow and muted. “I’m ramrodding a crew of Bedouins who have never worked nine to five in their lives,” he said. “Every few hours, they’ve got to stop and pray. Only a few of them speak any English at all.” I saw the silhouette of his arm, his hand running through his hair. “It’s not like any job I’ve ever had before. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
“It’s all new,” I said. “You’ll learn.”
“It’s not just that it’s new,” he said.
I hesitated before touching his face, then kissed the scar at the corner of his mouth. I moved my lips down his throat to his chest, taking my time, until I reached the tight muscles of his stomach, the delicate skin. When he caught his breath, I slid lower, and he jerked like an electrical shock had charged through his bones.
“Jesus, Gin,” he said, and arched toward me. It was nothing like that bottle, nothing at all, and when he was finished, he held me against him so tightly I couldn’t breathe. “Who are you?” he whispered at my ear.
“Just me,” I said. “Virginia Mae McPhee.” But I wasn’t so sure anymore.