With a heavy heart, Ismael Ali walked through the door of his home Monday evening tugging at his necktie to loosen it from his neck. He set his briefcase on the floor of the foyer as he removed his shoes. Sarah had called him on his cellular phone to let him know that she and Maryam Gonzalez were just leaving Faith’s, who was off from work today, and that she should be home soon. Normally, he would be somewhat disappointed to come home to an empty house, or at least if not empty, one without his wife. But he had so much on his mind, he was grateful for the time alone. Besides, he was pleased that his wife was spending time with Sister Maryam. Ismael often worried about the sister since she lost Durrah, her oldest daughter, to a tragic car accident two years ago. Durrah had been like a second daughter to him, and he still remembered his frequent irritation at hearing her and Aminah’s childish giggles or loud laughter coming from Aminah’s room during a sleepover while he was trying to rest. He had seen the many photographs of Durrah—“Dee”—in numerous local newspapers chronicling her beauty pageant crowns and budding singing career in the three years she was in college before she died. Even then he had seen her as a little girl, his daughter’s childhood friend, playing dress-up. Certainly, this was not the Durrah he had known since she was barely five years old. This was not Brother Jamil’s daughter.
“As-salaamu’alaikum, Abi.”
Ismael was passing the foot of the steps about to enter the kitchen when he heard the sound of his daughter’s voice. “Wa’alaiku-mus-salaam, pumpkin,” he said as she met his gaze from where she stood at the top of the steps. “How’s everything?”
“Okay.” She started to come down the stairs. “Ummi said to tell you she’s at Sister Maryam’s.”
“She told me. Jazaakillaahukhair.”
Aminah met him in the kitchen. “Is it okay if I e-mail Zaid tonight? I never got to finish my last e-mail.”
Ismael held the refrigerator door open and looked at his daughter. Her hair was tousled about her head, and she wore a large white T-shirt, most likely his or her brother’s, that hung to her mid-thighs, where a pair of faded navy blue running pants showed themselves and stopped where the elastic ends caused the baggy pants to bunch up and cling to her pale shins. A bleach hole was on one knee, near two other white dots from the same cleanser. Her feet were bare except for the fluorescent pink flip-flops she wore, the pink plastic coming together between her big toes.
“If you get married,” he said with a smirk, pulling yesterday’s left-overs from the refrigerator and closing the door with an elbow, “promise me you won’t dress like that at home.”
“Abi,” Aminah whined playfully, but he could tell her mind was not on his joke.
“Okay, you can e-mail him, but I need to eat first.”
“Can you just tell me how to log in?”
Ismael shot his daughter a disbelieving glance, but she was not looking at him, apparently too shy to make eye contact after her inquiry. She was pulling at her fingernails instead. “Absolutely not.” His tone was mockingly stern, but he knew his daughter knew he was not joking.
She nodded, indicating that she understood, but Ismael knew she did not. After a moment’s hesitation, as if she wanted to ask something else but decided against it, she slowly made her way out of the kitchen and up the stairs, where he heard her slow footfalls, as if she were still contemplating her inquiry.
After heating his food in the microwave, Ismael sat down to eat at the kitchen table in wry amusement at the parallels of his and Aminah’s predicament. Partners in crime, he thought dryly. But he couldn’t bring himself to laugh. There was really nothing funny about it. After he talked to Sarah, he imagined her disappointment with his mishandling of Aminah and Zaid’s correspondence would pale in comparison to what he would divulge. He imagined her growing furious at him for keeping this from her. But he had no idea how to be open about something like this.
He had been turning over in his head the idea of going ahead with marrying Alika and telling his wife later when Imam Abdul-Quddus called to say they needed to talk. Listening to his imam and long-time friend explain his concerns about him and Alika continuing correspondence, he knew this was an answer to his Istikhaarah on how to broach the subject with his wife. He would have to tell her, if only to let her know what he was considering. He had even asked Abdul-Quddus what he suggested regarding informing Sarah, and his friend had told him that he really couldn’t say. It was Ismael’s situation, and there were pros and cons on both sides. Either way, in the initial stages, the cons would seem to heavily outweigh the pros regardless of how he decided to approach it. That was man’s test from Allah regarding plural marriage, and there was really nothing he could do about it. It was natural, the imam had said, to get frustrated and wish women were different, more understanding, in this respect. But Abdul-Quddus cautioned Ismael that the frustration with women, though normal, was unwarranted. Allah had created a jealous nature in the woman just as He had created a polygamous one in the man. If a man was unwilling, or unable, to accept the nature of women, he was not mature enough to act upon his own.
Ismael wanted to ask what Abdul-Quddus felt about attempting polygamy in today’s society, given America’s open repugnance to the arrangement. As far as Ismael knew, the imam had only one wife, and Ismael wanted to know if this was due to wisdom, or reluctantly accepting what he already had over what he naturally desired. Perhaps it was both.
There was a part of Ismael that couldn’t help feeling guilty, as if he were betraying his wife in some way. He knew it was his American and Christian background stirring these feelings, but he couldn’t help wondering if part of his guilt was man’s nature. He and Sarah had discussed the topic before, as he imagined all Muslim couples had, but it was only hypothetical at the time, even for him. Then, he had agreed with his wife, that it was something better left alone, especially in America where the matrimony was technically illegal. But he later recalled hearing a Mormon woman say on television that polygamy was not illegal in this country, but possessing more than one marriage license was.
Ismael remembered pondering her words for a long time after, and it made sense. How could the country regulate a marriage that was not an actual “marriage” to them? Could the US really forbid two people from marrying according to their faith if they never legally claimed marriage or asked for government benefits available to married couples? The country turned a blind eye to men’s countless mistresses, and even romanticized adultery on television and in movies. Talk shows thrived on exploiting the relationships, and some women openly said they expected their men to cheat. With such a social backdrop, did the nation really frown upon a man having multiple partners, or was it God obligating men to do it responsibly and take care of the women that accounted for its repulsion at the mere mention of polygamy?
As a Christian, the subject of polygamy was non-existent except for the occasional reference to the “backward” Mormons or the historical reference to it in some stories of the Bible. Subconsciously, Ismael had thought of even the prophets’ practice of it as indicative of the lack of civility that plagued people of the past. But upon becoming Muslim, he was forced to accept that it could be practiced in modern times so long as certain conditions were met. At the time, he had thought like most Western Muslims, that it was mainly for times of war when there were countless widows and orphaned children, or for women in “dire” need of men due to being divorced with several children. Never did he think of it as a type of marriage itself, no better or worse than monogamy. He never imagined it should be embarked upon like one embarks upon singular marriage, the marriage of two compatible people willing to love each other for the sake of Allah.
Sarah would accuse him of hiding things from her again, he already knew. She would think he was pushing her out of his life, devaluing her as a partner and friend, and pursuing whatever he wanted with no care or second thought to what it would mean for her, what she would have to sacrifice in the process. If she only knew how far that was from the truth. She meant so much to him that it terrified him that he might actually lose her if she had any idea what was on his mind, not to mention what was already in motion. He already knew he could not do this without her by his side. Surely, if he had to choose, he would choose his current wife, though he would feel as if he had sacrificed part of himself in the process. But that was just it, he didn’t have to choose, did he? Abdul-Quddus said he did, or at least that he may end up having to.
Even though it wasn’t guaranteed at this point that he would ever have to choose between Sarah and Alika, the imam reminded him, he did have to choose between living life as he knew it and opening up a world that perhaps Sarah, or he, was unequipped to handle. Abdul-Quddus warned him of the tremendous emotional burden that was upon him if he were to get what he thought he wanted. His financial responsibility would be the least of his worries if both Sarah and Alika were his wives. Men he had advised, and essentially counseled, lived daily in the constant tug-of-war polygamy naturally brought, neither woman feeling as if she were loved wholly or completely because of the mere existence of “the other.”
Divorce was also a real threat, the imam said, and at the sound of the word itself, Ismael felt his heart recoil at the thought. Ismael could not, would not, divorce his wife.
But would she divorce him? Abdul-Quddus’s question taunted him, forced him to evaluate himself as a husband, and father. Even if Sarah could see herself without him, could she go through with it when she thought of Sulayman and Aminah looking to them as examples and guidance in their own lives or marriages? No, she would not divorce him. How could she? He would never divorce her. Ever. He loved her more than anything in this world, and he would be lost without her. He would be nothing.
But how could he make her understand? How could he make her see? Nothing, no one, could change how he felt about her.
Then why? That would be Sarah’s question. Why the desire to marry someone else if that were true? Why? The question was a senseless one to Ismael because there was no why. He was a man. Allah created him with a polygamous inclination, and there was nothing to explain. A man needed no compelling reason to marry someone else. Of course, a woman wouldn’t understand that. Let alone believe that. So he would have to say something. More children? Desire for feminine company? It was all so trite. What if he told her the closest thing to the truth? That it was because he was so pleased with her, so complete with her, so at peace in their relationship that he wanted the same, even if something only slightly comparable, with someone else.
She wouldn’t believe him. He already knew that much. But was it worth the try? She would think he didn’t want her anymore. But if that were true, it wouldn’t be polygamy he would be seeking, but a divorce. And he would never want that.
Divorce.
Ismael nearly banged his fork onto the plate as he dropped it from his hand in frustration. He couldn’t imagine Sarah without him. Single—available to someone else. He would lose his mind. He could barely stand the thought of another man having the opportunity to marry her, let alone the union coming to fruition.
He would talk to her. He had to talk to her, convince her. But he was at a loss for what to say.
He would have to ask Allah. There was really no one else he could turn to at this time.
The sound of the door opening interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up from the kitchen table to the foyer and saw Sarah coming inside smiling with a bag in her hands.
“As-salaamu’alaikum,” she said, clearly in good spirits as she removed her shoes.
Ismael stood and stopped in the doorway to the kitchen and beheld the incredible beauty of his wife, even as he could see only her face and hands. She wore a thin off-white khimaar, which was wrapped about her head, and a charcoal gray abiya. She was laughing at something as she removed the head cover to reveal her flattened hair that was all the more striking because it was hers.
“Wa’alaiku-mus-salaam wa-rahmatullaah.” He folded his arms and leaned against one side of the entrance, taking in his wife with a smile.
“You won’t believe what this is.” Sarah handed the bag to him as she took off her abiya to reveal a sleeveless floral summer dress that stopped just below her knees. She hung the garments over the back of a kitchen chair.
“If it isn’t you, I don’t want it.”
She laughed.
“Faith was going to throw this out.” She took the bag from him and set it on the kitchen table before carefully removing a glass vase. “She got it from Egypt. Can you believe it?”
He walked over to the table and held the heavy glass in his hand, unable to think of a flower holder right then. But he shook his head. “No, I can’t. This is an amazing piece of art.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Sarah walked over to the sink and opened a cabinet above it and removed a glass. She rinsed it then served herself some water from the dispenser on the refrigerator.
“She was going to throw it away?”
“Unbelievable.”
“Unbelievable,” he agreed.
“She has dozens of them.” Sarah carried her drinking glass to the table and sat down before taking a sip. “But still.”
“Is that what you did the whole time? Look at vases?”
Sarah shook her head as she grinned at her husband. “You men don’t ever change, do you?”
“I guess not.” But he meant more than she understood.
“Of course we did other things.” She shook her head again and drank more water. She exhaled, from exhaustion, and relief that she was home.
“What’d you do today?” she asked.
He shrugged. “The usual. Wonder if I want to keep working for Uncle Sam or if it’s time we try those cardboard boxes on the street.”
She chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve been eyeing them myself. Now that it’ll be only you and me soon, it won’t be such a tight fit.”
“Well, it’s a good incentive to lose weight. What do you think?”
She laughed. “I think you need a vacation.”
“Really?” He sat down, smiling.
“Yeah. Go visit your mom or something.”
His smile faded. “My mother?”
“Yes, why not?”
Ismael furrowed his brows. “You can’t be serious.”
“I know it’s farfetched, sweetheart.” Sarah managed to keep a smile on her face, and Ismael could hardly believe what he was hearing. From the sound of her voice, he knew they had been talking about their mothers at Faith’s.
“I don’t even know if she’s alive.”
“That’s even more reason to try and find her.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No, I’m not.” She met his gaze, apparently in an effort to soften the blow of her words. “Think about it. You have no idea. Maybe she wants to see you after all these years.”
“She has Alzheimer’s, Sarah. She doesn’t even know herself after all these years.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I don’t think my aunt would lie.”
“I didn’t say she would. I’m just saying, it’s what you heard.”
“And I suppose I just heard her say she doesn’t want me in her life.”
Sarah pursed her lips, studying Ismael momentarily. He turned away from her, upset that she would even bring up the subject.
“Sarah, I know in your world people don’t abandon their children, but—”
“You know that’s not true. My family practically disowned me when I became Muslim.”
“Practically.”
“But still, I know how it feels.”
“You do not know how it feels, Sarah. Everyone has family feuds.”
“Yes, but no one else in my family has become Muslim.” She paused, and Ismael read in her eyes what she would say before she said it. “Or married a Black man.”
He groaned. “Marrying a Black man is not the same as being one.”
“I never said it was.”
“And certainly not the same as being a Black man with a White mother who left him to reunite with her so-called family and pretend he doesn’t exist.”
“What I’m suggesting has nothing to do with Black or White. It—”
“It has everything to do with Black and White.”
“—has to do with Islam.”
At that Ismael grew quiet. He exhaled in frustration and stood. He walked over to the cabinet to retrieve his own glass. He knew, at least on some level, his wife was right. He had an obligation to reach out to his mother. But he couldn’t get over that he was, in essence, reaching out to her by honoring her request—to leave her alone. She had remarried, had children, and she was enjoying the comfort of her White family who, although were aware of her previous marriage to a Black man, had no idea she had a Black son.
“That was almost thirty years ago, sweetheart. Certainly, things have changed.”
“I’m sure things have changed, but not this.” He pushed the glass against the dispenser and was silent as he listened to the thin stream of water fill his glass.
“You’ll never know unless you try.”
“And if I don’t want to know?” He met his wife’s gaze as she turned in her chair to face him as he carried the glass to the table.
“That’s not your decision to make.”
A minute later she sighed. “Sweetheart, you’re almost fifty years old.”
“Forty eight. You’re almost fifty.”
He saw her grimace despite her effort to suppress it. She hated when he reminded her that she was his elder by almost two years.
“Okay, forty-eight. A grown man, old enough to move on and leave the ghosts of the past.”
“There’s no such thing as past in matters like these. Anyway, what’s the present except the past plus now?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know what you’re saying.”
“Ismael, what’s so wrong with calling your aunt?”
“My aunt isn’t in touch with them. You know my mother would never let any of my father’s family in her life.”
“I didn’t say she was in touch with them. She told you about your mother being in a nursing home. She must know something.”
He leaned back in his chair, defeated. He drank from the glass of water, his wife’s words settling over him as the liquid cooled in his stomach. What could it hurt to find his mother? If she were in a nursing home like his father’s sister had said, then there would be little risk involved in locating her.
He couldn’t believe he was actually thinking about this.
“Pray on it.” Sarah stood, placing a hand on his shoulder then kissing him on the cheek. She picked up her vase and gazed at it momentarily before starting for the stairs. “And I’m sure you’ll do the right thing, bi’idhnillaah.”
“Abi?” Ismael heard Aminah call from upstairs.
He sighed, too exhausted to think about Zaid right then. “Sweetheart, can you log Aminah into my account?” He picked up his glass and let his gaze fall momentarily to the water left there. “She wants to e-mail the brother.”
There was a long pause, and Ismael didn’t turn to meet his wife’s gaze. He sensed she was feeling too sorry for him to have the energy to get offended at the reminder of their daughter using his account to communicate with the brother.
“Sure,” he heard Sarah say casually, a weight of emotions behind that word. Then he heard her slow retreat up the steps, the same thoughtful footfalls he had heard from Aminah less than thirty minutes before.
“But don’t you think it’s a bit excessive?” Tamika asked Sulayman from where she sat across from him at the dining table of their apartment. They had just finished eating, and Sulayman was mulling over what she had asked.
“It may be,” he said slowly, and Tamika studied his expression and tried to read beyond his words. She wondered if a part of him wanted Tamika to dress like that. Maybe it was common for Muslim men to prefer their wives to dress like Sister Nusaybah and Khadijah did. Tamika had worn the black jilbaab only once before, and that was for the less than fifteen minutes it took her to ride from Aminah’s house to the apartment she would share with her husband after their marriage that day. Even then it hadn’t been her idea, and perhaps if there had been another option that Tamika had thought of, Sarah and Aminah would not have suggested she put it on to cover her hair and elegant gown she was wearing. But it had been a spontaneous decision, and in that brief moment, Tamika had studied her reflection and couldn’t help feeling a bit awkward, as if the full black outer garment was too much, like wearing a large dark sheet. “In the eyes of Americans,” he added. “It’s not something we’re used to.”
Just then Tamika remembered his graduation speech she had watched on the VCR at Aminah’s house. Sulayman had mentioned the all-black attire as something Americans should consider as an acceptable choice of a free-thinking American who chose to dress as she pleased.
“You prefer that?”
Sulayman wrinkled his forehead and met his wife’s gaze. “Why would you think that?”
“I just remembered you mentioning it in your graduation speech.”
His forehead softened, and he nodded. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I prefer it. I just felt like using an extreme example to make them second guess how they view Muslim women’s dress in general.”
“So you think it’s extreme?”
He shook his head. “No, I didn’t mean extreme in that sense. But in the way a non-Muslim would think of it.”
“But don’t a lot of Muslims see it as extreme too?”
“Yes. They do. But that’s a bit hypocritical, I think.”
Tamika considered that momentarily.
“How can we ask non-Muslims, especially in America, to be open-minded to a different lifestyle or dress if we’re close-minded ourselves?” He added, “Amongst ourselves.”
She nodded. “Maybe Muslims feel it just makes it harder for Muslims to answer questions on things like that. It’s hard enough explaining hijab by itself.”
“True. But that’s not our decision to make, just like it’s not their decision to rule any Muslim dress un-American. Yes, it’s difficult explaining hijab, but we can’t think from the position of ease on a non-Muslim. We have to think from the position of Muslims themselves, and that necessitates us being open to other views, even if they’re not our own.” He paused. “Unless they are truly extreme.”
“But how do you measure extreme? It seems a bit extreme to drive in all of that, even if you want to wear it.”
“Yes, but true extremity is exceeding the limits set by Allah. And, Islamically, going to extremes is a sin. So we have to ask ourselves, can a person potentially go to Hell fire for this? If the answer is no, then it’s not extreme.”
“Then what would count as extreme?”
He forced laughter. “Terrorism for one.”
“That’s an extreme example though.”
“But that’s my point.”
She smiled. “Yeah, I see what you’re saying.”
“Or let’s say someone says they’ll never get married,” he said. “Or that they’ll fast and never break their fast, to use an example from the time of the Prophet, sallallaahu’alayhi wa sallam.”
“So basically if it’s haraam, it’s extreme?”
“Uh,” he thought aloud, “I guess you can say that. But I’m not sure if the examples I gave will count as sins. But they are exceeding the bounds set by the Prophet, sallallaahu’alayhi wa sallam.”
“So not everything that’s extreme is a sin?”
“I really can’t say, but in general extremes are sinful. But then again, some things just may not be preferable, like never marrying.” He added, “But obviously something like harming innocent people is sinful.”
“I just can’t see myself wearing that.” Tamika shook her head at the thought. “Especially while I’m driving.”
“It’s hard to imagine.”
“To say the least.” She laughed.
“But you see it differently once you travel to places where it’s common.”
“You’ve traveled?”
“Once.”
“Where?”
“Saudi Arabia. For ‘Umrah. My parents took us once during Ramadan while we were in high school.”
“Did you like it?”
He smiled in reflection. “Yeah, I loved it.”
Tamika could only imagine the opportunity to visit the Ka’bah in Mecca, let alone perform ‘Umrah or Hajj. She had never traveled outside the United States. Her mother’s financial situation barely afforded the opportunity to travel within the country, and even then Tamika had never been to the West coast, or to Hawaii or Alaska.
“InshaAllaah, I’ll take you one day.”
A broad smile formed on Tamika’s face. “Really?”
“I hope to.” He smiled. “But first I have to put you through graduate school like I promised.”
Tamika frowned. “Graduate school?”
“Yeah, to at least get your master’s.”
She shook her head. “I don’t even want to think about school right now.”
“Who does? But that’s life. There’s nothing we can do about it.”
“No, maybe there’s nothing a man can do about it. But for a woman, I think a bachelor’s is plenty.”
“But you never know what can happen tomorrow.”
“If I think like that, I’ll miss today.”
“Yes, but my mother always told me that education is a must for a woman.”
“But how much education?”
“I know, but, unfortunately, a bachelor’s is becoming like a high school degree was before.”
“So? And people survived then, and they’ll survive now, inshaAllaah.”
Sulayman’s gaze grew distant and he was silent momentarily. “But I put it in our contract.”
“Yes, but that isn’t on you unless I decide to go in the first place.”
“But it is on me, Tamika. I promised your mother and aunt that.”
She met his gaze with her forehead creased. “My mother and aunt?”
“When I went to visit before we got married.”
Tamika didn’t know what to say. Part of her was inclined to get upset. But she couldn’t. She had come to respect the trip he had made without telling her. If he had made that promise to her mother and aunt, well, she was flattered. How couldn’t she be? But, still, it was not her promise to keep.
“Then I guess I’ll have to find a graduate school that teaches Qur’an, Arabic, and Islamic studies. Because that’s all I want to focus on right now.”
He chuckled. “I don’t think you’ll find that anywhere. In the U.S. anyway.”
“Then we can just move overseas.”
He laughed. “Not a bad idea, except I’m in the middle of medical school.”
“Then I guess we’ll just have to wait until you’re Dr. Sulayman Ali, M.D. before I have anything more than a bachelor’s,” she teased with a grin.
“Sounds like a plan to me.” He grinned in return. “Considering I won’t have any money to pay for your school until then.”
“Deal.” She stuck out her hand for him to shake, and when he did, she said, “Now I have two more years to think of another excuse.”
He laughed. “I love you.”
She started to let go of his hand out of shyness, but he wouldn’t let her.
“I’m serious, I do.”
“I know.” She couldn’t look at him as she felt her cheeks grow warm. “And I love you too.”
Sarah tapped the back of her knuckles on the open door to the guest room before entering. Aminah sat with her back to the door, surfing the Internet as she waited for her father to log her into his e-mail. She turned quickly at the sound of the knock, and for a split second Sarah saw the anxious excitement in her daughter’s eyes as she hoped her father had finally come upstairs. It died as quickly as it had come, and Aminah turned back to what she was doing online.
“As-salaamu’alaikum,” Aminah said mechanically, unable to conceal her lack of enthusiasm for finding her mother at the door instead.
“Wa’alaiku-mus-salaam.” Sarah walked over to the bed and sat on the edge so that she could see Aminah’s profile.
“InshaAllaah, I’m going to log you into your father’s account,” Sarah said to avoid beating around the bush. Aminah turned to her mother with a look of confusion and surprise. Apparently, this was the first she heard of her mother knowing about the e-mails. “But first I want to make a suggestion.”
Sarah observed her daughter’s expression, and she could tell Aminah didn’t know what to make of her mother’s last words. She turned her attention back to the computer screen, but her mother understood it was not out of disrespect. Aminah didn’t know how to meet her mother’s eyes right then. She was paying no attention to the words and icons on the glowing monitor in front of her face. She was bracing herself for the worst, and Sarah felt a tinge of guilt for playing a part in her daughter’s pessimism and uncertainty.
“Before you make a final decision,” Sarah said. “Before you give your father, or me, your final answer, I want you to ask the brother something for me, for yourself,” she corrected.
Aminah’s hand stilled on the mouse and she glanced at her mother, turning slightly to face Sarah. But she still couldn’t meet her mother’s gaze completely.
“Ask him what it is that attracted him to you, what makes him certain that you, and only you, are the one he wants to marry.”
After a minute of silence, with Aminah listening with her eyes distantly on her stilled hand, Aminah brought her hand to her lap to join the other, and she turned her body to face her mother.
“But isn’t that…” Aminah paused to gather her thoughts. “A lot to ask before you’re married?”
“No, it’s not inappropriate if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“But what if he says something about how I look? I thought we shouldn’t talk about that.”
“You won’t be talking, Aminah. You’ll be listening. And even if he does talk about how you look, then that’s something.”
Aminah brought her eyebrows together, apparently puzzled by her mother’s words.
“What I mean is that it’s something to consider before making a decision.”
“I don’t see how knowing how I look to him can help me decide.”
Sarah smiled gently, knowing it would take more than one conversation for her daughter to understand. Sarah was not rushing. She was grateful to Allah that He had even given her this opportunity. “I’m not saying it would. I’m saying that whatever his reason, whether it’s your appearance, your family, or your religion.” After a moment’s pause, she added, “Or all of it. It will help you understand who you’re marrying, how he thinks, and if this is someone you want to spend the rest of your life with.”
Aminah’s expression softened, and Sarah could tell she was at least considering the suggestion. “Can’t you and Dad ask him that?”
Sarah shook her head. “Even if we did, we wouldn’t hear what you’d hear if you asked him yourself, even if we were sitting right there.”
“But—”
“Don’t ask him on e-mail. This is something you need to hear.”
“—we don’t talk.”
“And you shouldn’t. But this is something you’ll have to make an exception for.”
“I don’t feel right talking to him like that.”
“Like I said, there’s nothing for you to talk about. You’ll be only listening.”
“But how? If you and Dad are right there, he may not say what he really thinks.”
“Then we won’t be right there.” She smiled. “And we will be right there.”
Aminah looked even more perplexed than before.
“You’ll ask him on the phone,” Sarah said. “And your father and I will be sitting right next to you when you do, inshaAllaah.”
“I want to ask you something,” Ismael said as he sat in the kitchen as Sarah loaded the dishwasher later that night. He wore a smile on his face, more because he couldn’t believe he was actually going through with this than any amusement he felt in doing what he knew he had to do.
“Shoot,” Sarah said as she rinsed the dishes in the sink and aligned them on the machine’s rack that was pulled out next to her. She had been humming a song to herself just moments before, while he sat looking over some paperwork from work at the kitchen table. Her back was to him, and he sought comfort in the fact that he didn’t have to see her when he spoke.
“What if,” he began, laughter interrupting even those words. He couldn’t believe he was actually saying this. He felt his heart drumming in his chest, and was oddly encouraged by the pounding. It gave him the sense that he was not doing this alone.
“What?” Sarah smirked and glanced over a shoulder, her ponytail moving beneath the red handkerchief scarf she often wore in the kitchen. Both of her hands were immersed in the dish-filled sink, and her lower arms were wet with water, the sleeves of the long sleeved gray T-shirt she now wore pushed up to her elbows. Her jeans were cut off at her shins, and Ismael noted how relaxed she looked right then. He wished he could savor this moment for all time. Perhaps it would be the last memento in their comfortable relationship. He hoped he was wrong. He noticed that the front of her shirt was wet where it met the sink, and he couldn’t keep from smiling although he feared she wouldn’t understand the expression.
She laughed. “What?” Her hands stilled in the sink and her eyes were slightly wide with anticipation, the expression she wore when she knew he was about to say something hilarious, or in excessive flattery of her. He hated that it would be neither this time.
“What if,” he said, raising his voice more to drown out his heartbeat than to underscore anything he was about to say, “this amazingly beautiful woman walked up to me.” He leaned forward at the table, and Sarah giggled in anticipation. “And said, ‘Marry me’?”
She laughed. “Then I’d shake you a lot harder and say, ‘Wake up, honey, it’s time for Fajr.’”
He laughed because he didn’t know what else to do. After all, it was funny. All of it. But his heart wasn’t laughing, and so, technically, neither was he. Though, externally, he betrayed that fact. The pounding was becoming more incessant as he realized that he was moving backwards, not forward, in opening this subject. “No, seriously.” He couldn’t keep from chuckling. “I mean, let’s say she’s a good Muslim and you like her a lot. What would you do?”
“You mean seriously?” Sarah’s amused expression did not match her inquiry, but Ismael counted it as a step in the right direction.
“Yeah, seriously.” He brought his hands together by interlocking his fingers as he waited for an answer.
“How old is she?”
He hadn’t thought of that. He bit his lower lip as he considered it. “Thirty,” he said finally, as if he were making this all up on the spot. He decided against mentioning anything in the twenties. It would make the woman sound as if she were a child, given that their own children were in this age range—albeit on the lower end.
“And you say I like her?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“Does she have children?”
He creased his forehead and pursed his lips playfully. “Uh, let’s say, hm.” He paused. “No.”
“Has she been married before?”
“Maybe once,” he said although he knew Alika had never been. But he feared that piece of information, even if only hypothetical, would make it impossible for Sarah to consider the idea. He imagined her jealousy would be fierce. And, in a way, he couldn’t blame her. Neither he nor she had lived an upright life before accepting Islam.
“Hm,” he heard her saying as she returned to her washing. “I’d have to say I’d be one unhappy camper, to tell you the truth.” She glanced over her shoulder, still smiling, a sign that either she was being serious and playful, or only playful.
“Why unhappy? You’d still have me.”
He heard her laugh out loud, tossing her head back with the sound. “Yeah, me divided by two. I don’t think so.”
“You could never be divided by two, Sarah, even if I had fifty wives.”
“Well, good thing the limit’s only four, because I wouldn’t want to live to see you prove that.”
They were silent for a few minutes, and the only sounds that could be heard were the running water and the clanking of glass and silverware as she placed them into the washer.
“But what if you did live to see me prove it,” he said, a trace of humor still in his voice. “Would you let me?”
“Let you?” Laughter was in her voice. “I don’t see how I’d have any choice.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” she said playfully, “because it’s your decision.”
“You really think it’s that simple?”
“Of course it’s that simple.” She set the last bowl in the machine and turned off the faucet. The kitchen grew uncomfortably silent for the few seconds it took her to dry her hands on a towel then squeeze Cascade into the machine, Ismael finding comfort in that sound. She closed the door of the washer, turned the knob, and the sound of the machine humming and its water running relieved the awkwardness he felt in the quiet.
“It’s your marriage, not mine,” she said, crossing her arms with a grin as she leaned her back against the sink. “Yes, and it would be that simple for me too. Because I’d simply leave you.”
Ismael heard himself laughing at her words, finding them ridiculous. But unable to escape their portending his current fate if he did what he planned. “You can’t be serious.”
She smiled broadly until she showed her teeth. “Try me.”
“Oh, come on. You wouldn’t throw away twenty-six years of marriage just like that.”
“Twenty-six? So this is a fairy tale you’re actually imagining right now?” She laughed and sauntered playfully to the table with her arms still crossed as she swung them slightly with her approach. She stood before him now, resting her palms flat on the table so she could lean into his face wearing a playful smirk. “Oh, the dreams of men. What a pity.”
“Don’t tease me, sweetheart,” Ismael said, this time sensing his forced laughter was not concealing his true fears. “I’m not joking.”
“I’m going to bed,” she said, humming on her way out the kitchen. She halted briefly at the doorway to turn out the light. The room grew dark suddenly, the only light the dim glow from a single low voltage bulb on the foyer’s ceiling, which they often left on so they could see their way at night.
Ismael stood. “Sarah,” he called, trying to sound as calm and amused as he wanted to be right then. “Wait.”
He heard her humming grow louder as she ascended the steps until it became a song. “These are a few of my favorite things.”
“Sarah.”
“When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sad,” she sang the lyrics from the movie “The Sound of Music.” She wore a smug grin as she glanced over her shoulder where he followed behind her on the steps, Ismael knowing he looked as pathetically hopeless as he felt. “I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don’t feel, so baaaaad.”
Sarah woke in the middle of the night with a start. She sat up, placing her hand over her heart to calm its pounding, and she squinted toward the clock. The glowing red digits told her it was 3:14. She blinked in the darkness and sought comfort in the familiar room. Next to her, Ismael slept with his back to her, facing the clock on the nightstand. She hated when he slept on his left side. He always started out on his right, as did she, but when they woke in the morning, she saw that they were back-to-back.
She sighed, studying the gentle rise and fall of his broad shoulder beneath his T-shirt. He seemed so helpless and defenseless right then. Although she didn’t know what he needed to defend himself against. It was only a dream, she reminded herself in the still room. But she couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that it was somehow real.
In the dream, she was planning Sulayman and Tamika’s walimah and was excited when she was finally done. She was bragging to Kate and her family about it, but when they walked into the ballroom, she realized there was already a wedding going on, so she couldn’t use the hotel that night. Suddenly, Kate was in front of the room wearing a traditional white wedding gown. Sarah felt confused and wanted to protest, telling her sister not to marry the Syrian, to wait until she could find a husband of her own. But Sarah was distracted as she realized that it was a young version of Kate, as youthful and innocent as she remembered her sister to be in her mid-twenties. Although Sarah couldn’t see her own self in the dream, she knew she was her current age, almost fifty, like her husband had said, and she was extremely conscious of her gray hair. She was feeling sad about Ismael’s comment when she looked up and saw him standing opposite Kate. She felt her heart about to burst, and she ran up to them, tears of sadness and anger running down her cheeks. But a security guard stopped her, telling her she couldn’t come in. “It’s a private ceremony,” he said, taking her by the arm and forcing her out the room. “Only close friends and family are invited.” She tried to tell him she was family. But the man kept saying, “Sorry, miss, but your name’s not on the list.” In desperation, she pled with him, telling him that was her husband, it really was. The security guard, she noticed just then, was her brother Justin and he said, “Not anymore.”
“How could you do this to me?” she nearly growled in protest, now outside the hotel in the dark night. And it was cold.
“I’m not doing anything, sis,” Justin said, looking away from her, as if he felt too much pity to look her in the eye. “You’re doing this to yourself.”
“I am not! Let me in! You’re stopping me! Look at you!” He moved to block her way, his arms crossed authoritatively.
“Look at yourself, sis.”
“I just want to go inside. That’s my sister in there.”
“If you want to join them, Sarah,” he said a moment before his body was flattened to a glass plane, which then became a mirror reflecting her own face, and it was her lips that moved as Justin’s voice said, “then you’ll just have to learn to share.”