Early Monday afternoon Tamika sat on the floor of her bedroom after praying Thuhr, her mind still on Dee as the power of Nusaybah’s class still settled over her. She could not comprehend the possibility of a person who had been raised Muslim, who had known Islam all her life, leaving the religion. Was it ignorance? Maybe Dee didn’t know the things Tamika was learning in class. That would explain her ability to leave Islam.
Since becoming Muslim, Tamika had often wondered if Dee had, in fact, died a Muslim. But she had recently given up on the thought, which was more a fantasy she had created in her mind. Perhaps, someone like Aminah could fantasize, but Tamika could not. Dee had told Tamika, frankly, she did not want to be a Muslim. Maybe sometime in the future after she married, but not right then.
It was a conscious apostasy, Tamika came to accept, however hard that realization had been. Strangely, the more she learned about Islam, the less admirable Dee became in her mind. Part of her felt guilty, but Tamika realized it was the natural result of gaining knowledge in her religion. Nevertheless, a part of her still ached for Dee. After all, Dee was fun to be around, and she was generous in a way Tamika had rarely seen. But even Dee’s stunning beauty and entrancing voice were fading in significance, and Tamika wondered if this was a divine poetic justice because of the life Dee had chosen over Islam.
Tamika stood, pulling the white khimaar from her head and stepping out of the skirt to reveal her T-shirt and jeans, and bare feet. She felt her heart thumping in her chest as she opened the walk-in closet and knelt, almost mechanically, and pulled open the tattered flaps of the cardboard box Sulayman had pushed to the side so that they would not trip over it while getting their clothes.
“Don’t worry about unpacking it,” he had told Tamika so nonchalantly that she never expected that he actually hoped she never would. “I’ll get to it later, inshaAllaah.”
In hopes of lessening the burden that work, school, and marriage had undoubtedly placed on his shoulders, Tamika had been mindlessly unpacking it three weeks ago when she noticed the familiar purple cloth cover she had seen dozens of times in the hands of Dee. When she opened the diary, it was an instinctive reaction, more to assure her that Sulayman and Dee simply shared the same taste in journals than to read Dee’s inscription in the front. “This journal belongs to: Durrah Gonzalez, A.K.A. Dee,” she had read as she felt almost faint realizing what she held in her hand.
The questions stampeded her mind with such force that she could not distinguish one from the other. They were simply coming too fast. What her husband was doing with Dee’s diary was perplexing, and she could conclude only that it was pure accident. Yes, an accident. He had somehow gotten hold of it when he and Omar were helping them move. Perhaps it had fallen from the moving truck once they reached home, and Sulayman had tossed it into his things, not realizing what it was.
But how would it make it here? Inside the box, the only box, he had told her he would unpack himself? Certainly, his own things had not been on, or near, the moving truck that night.
Accident. It was an accident. He simply didn’t know it was here, Tamika decided as she removed the diary and sat down to read a random entry. She knew, at least she hoped, Dee wouldn’t mind the intrusion, even if she were alive.
Dear Diary,
I’ve heard a lot of people say, “Knowledge is power”, and I never really thought about it much before. But now I think the opposite is true, at least for some people. For me, it’s my biggest weakness. You’d think ignorance would cause a person more trouble. But I’m starting to believe ignorance is indeed bliss. I actually envy people who aren’t plagued with the knowledge I have. Because they certainly won’t have to answer for everything I will when they die.
The other day a good friend of mine who’s agnostic was saying—
Tamika closed it. She couldn’t read anymore. Not then. She felt as if Dee were coming alive with each word, and it was unsettling.
She put the journal back into the box and stood, a thought coming to her so suddenly that it made her nervous. What if she left it on the bed, or the nightstand, and casually mentioned to Sulayman what she’d found?
No, that wouldn’t work. It would appear too suspicious, especially if nothing else was unpacked from the box.
She went to the kitchen, trying to push it out of her mind. She opened the refrigerator, her eyes tracing the Tupperware containers filled with last night’s dinner. She pulled a stack of two from a shelf and shut the door with her hip. She opened a cupboard and removed a glass plate before emptying leftover spaghetti noodles and thick meat sauce onto the plate.
As she listened to the hum of the microwave, she knew what she would do. If she didn’t do it, she feared she was being dishonest with her husband, and herself. The timer beeped and she opened the microwave door, wondering the best way to unpack and organize the box’s contents before her husband came home. By then, the tattered box would be crushed and in a trash bag along with the rest of the garbage, waiting for Sulayman’s attention when he came home. Like she would be.
Sarah sat in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee, still wearing her bathrobe. She had slept until early afternoon and felt as if she hadn’t slept at all. While praying, she barely had the energy to stand. When she finished she decided to take a shower. She remained under the showerhead for almost forty minutes before the hot water grew lukewarm even on the highest setting.
Ismael had mown the lawn, Sarah noticed as she faced the patio from where she sat at the kitchen table, and the knowledge neither soothed nor upset her. He might as well have been from the lawn care company, she wouldn’t feel as if she knew him any better.
At the reminder of why he cancelled the company, her teeth clenched, and remained so, even as the hot, dark liquid met her lips. She wished she hadn’t broken down like she had the day before. He didn’t deserve the comfort he must have felt as he held her. She imagined it stoked his male ego to have her crying like a baby in his arms, as if she were begging him to stay when it should be the other way around. Whatever happened, she was determined that he never caught her off guard again. She would remain calm. She couldn’t let him imagine that what he was doing mattered that much to her.
But it did. It did matter that much. And more. She had wiped the white mist from the bathroom mirror only minutes before and stared blankly at her reflection. She saw the wrinkles around her eyes, the sag in her cheeks, and the freckles across the bridge of her nose, as if aged blotches on dying skin. Strands of gray hair grew from her temples and met a mass of aged blond hair. She had stared blankly, as if only seeing, not comprehending the tired face that stared back at her.
She had felt nothing standing before the mirror as the reality of yesterday settled over her in the steamed bathroom. Yet her eyes filled, and the tears slipped down her cheeks as if they held a grief separate from her own.
Sarah hadn’t eaten, she realized as her eyes fell upon the neatly tended garden to the left of the tool shed. But the thought of food made her nauseated, and she took another sip of coffee instead.
“Why is it like that though?”
It took a moment before Sarah registered that the question was not inside her head, just as the subtle pounding had not been the beginning of a migraine, but soft footfalls upon the steps. Aminah blocked most of Sarah’s view of the yard as she slid into the chair opposite her mother. She was carrying a half-eaten banana in her hand, its black spots surrounding darker streaks that were visible under the stringed peel lying limply over Aminah’s wrist.
Sarah breathed, unable to pretend that she wanted company. She took another sip from her mug, hoping Aminah had something better to do. She wasn’t in the mood for casual conversation.
“Why would it be so widespread?” Aminah asked before taking another bite of the banana, her cheeks bulging slightly as she chewed, evidently oblivious to her mother’s despondent mood.
“Sweetie,” Sarah said, as if the word took the last bit of energy from her, “what are you talking about?” Both Sarah’s elbows were on the table, though the thick towel-like fabric cushioned them as she cradled the mug with both hands, its steam rising beneath her nose.
“This color thing.”
Even beneath her own sullenness, it struck Sarah as odd that Aminah seemed almost cheerful today, a marked improvement in her mood over the last few weeks.
“How would I know?”
“I don’t know,” Aminah said. “But I figured you’d have a different perspective from Dad, because,” she paused, “you know.”
“Because what?” Sarah did know, but she met her daughter’s eyes as her voice grew stern, and accusing, as she demanded an answer. She was not going to continue to be treated like an outcast in her own family.
Aminah’s shocked expression made Sarah immediately regret her tone.
Sarah set her coffee cup on the table and sighed, knowing then that her sudden realization after Fajr of who the “other woman” was was making her edgy.
She should have known all along that it was Alika. But she had been a fool. A stupid, naïve fool. Just to think that after coming from Faith’s house she had gone on and on about Alika this and Alika that. She had even summarized Alika’s interview with Faith and said how she herself was thinking to call Alika in hopes of participating. No wonder Alika hadn’t asked Sarah’s input. How could she solicit input from the person whose family she sought to destroy? It was enraging to even think about. And Sarah had actually imagined that Aminah or Tamika had invited Alika to the walimah. Oh, she was a fool, a stupid, idiotic, old fool.
Ismael’s silence during the drive from Faith’s had struck her as odd, but she was too engrossed in her one-sided conversation to realize anything peculiar right then. She had even asked Ismael what he thought about her calling Alika in hopes of participating in the research, and he had only shrugged. After all she had said, after all she had shared about her excitement, he had shrugged, and said simply, “Whatever you think.”
Sarah had to practically sit on her hands to keep from calling Alika’s house after she heard the front door close this morning as her husband left for work. And to think, he hadn’t said a word. Not a word, all this time. No wonder Alika had appeared out of nowhere, suddenly Muslim. And Ismael had known all along. From the moment Alika recited the shahaadah on the microphone at the masjid, Ismael had known that this wasn’t the usual weekly shahaadah accepting Islam after Jumu’ah that day.
Sarah could slap herself for trying to protect Alika from Kate’s inappropriate comments about polygamy at the walimah. At her son’s wedding party.
Alika actually had the nerve to attend Sarah and Ismael’s son’s walimah.
And just to think Sarah had run after the girl—the child her husband wanted to marry—like a fool, apologizing that her non-Muslim sister had implied that it was expected of Alika.
O Allah.
She needed to calm down.
“Not right now, Aminah,” Sarah said finally, shaking her head as she started to pick up her cup before massaging the space between her eyes. “Maybe later we can talk. But not right now.”
That evening Ismael exhaled as he walked up the steps leading to his bedroom, relieved to finally be home. It had been a long day, and he wanted nothing more than the comfort of his family. He opened the door to his room and entered, but Sarah was already asleep although it was not yet ‘Ishaa time. As he loosened his tie and pulled it from the collar of his shirt, he studied the way his wife’s hair fanned the pillow and her head rested on her right arm, which was outstretched as if reaching for something on the headboard. Her fingers were curled slightly, and the blond hairs on her arm glistened under the lamplight he had turned on. The covers were tucked under her left arm, which was bent slightly as her hand rested on the soft fabric, her gold wedding band shining from the ring finger. He sat down on the bed, and she moved slightly as he lifted her left hand and stroked it before brushing her knuckles with a kiss. His heart swelled in the love he felt for her right then, and his chest tightened as he imagined this was something she would neither understand nor believe.
He continued to hold her hand as he thought of the first time he saw her. She was so beautiful that night, and he had only wished to stand next to her, even if he could have nothing more. Years later, he knew it was Allah’s immeasurable mercy that inspired her heart to open like it did. There was no reason for her to talk to him, let alone agree to meet him after that. She had never spoken to a colored man before, she had told him the first time they met after the party. The stubbornness with which she crossed her arms and looked away from him as she said it underscored what she was trying to say. “You should count yourself lucky to be talking to me right now.” And he did. But it wasn’t because she was White. At least it was not only because she was White. How could he not feel flattered at that, given the smoking gun that the tumultuous sixties had left the South? Her family was wealthy although she considered them “middle class,” and a wealthy family friend had a son who was also studying to be a doctor, who had already talked to her father about marrying her. There really was no reason for her to talk to him at all, and he didn’t know how to react to the flattery except to be himself.
A lot of what they discussed then, he realized in retrospect, wasn’t among the wisest topics of conversation to have at the time. His sympathetic views toward the Nation of Islam and personalities like Malcolm X were probably offensive to her. But he was young and feeling philosophical, and safe in his Black-White skin, as if it gave him the license to see both sides of the issue, and voice them. He would cringe years later as he realized the boldness he had displayed in youth, but he was grateful that Allah had not taken Sarah away from him as a result.
From the moment he asked Sarah if she believed in God, he knew he had found someone different from all the other women he knew. She was not only astonishingly beautiful, but strong-minded and intelligent as well. When he asked if he could see her again, having had no conversation after his inquiry about God, it shocked him when she shrugged and said, “If you want.”
Ismael kissed his wife’s hand again before setting it softly back in place, at which she moaned slightly and pulled the covers over her shoulders, unaware that it was her husband disturbing her slumber. He stood and changed clothes before turning off the light. He left the room and closed the door quietly behind him before walking down the hall to Aminah’s room, where the door stood open. He could see her sitting Indian-style on her bed reading a book.
“As-salaamu’alaikum,” he said as he entered and took a seat at her desk, turning the chair to face her bed.
Her face lit up when she saw him and she replied with a smile.
“What are you reading?”
She held it up so he could see.
He sucked in his breath playfully. “Ouch.”
“What?” She started to grin, evidently unsure how to interpret his reaction.
“Slave Narratives? That’s reaching a bit, don’t you think?” The book reminded him of what he had to do. He had prayed on it, and he was fairly confident he had made the right decision. But he found himself wondering if his daughter would agree.
She shrugged, opening the book to her place, a smile still tugging at her mouth. “I was just curious.”
“I thought you and Sulayman read enough of that in high school.”
“I forgot the details.”
“Why are they important?” What he really meant to say was, “Why are they important now?”
She was looking at the page, as if reading, but Ismael knew she was not. “I guess they’re not,” she said. “But I just wanted to learn a little more.”
He studied his daughter momentarily, taking in the way she resembled Sarah as she feigned nonchalance when there was so much more behind her words. “What are you learning?”
She looked up from the book, her eyes brightening, a clear indication that she was seizing the opportunity to discuss this with someone. “Did you know the slaves saw their black skin as bad?”
Ismael was silent before he nodded. “That’s to be expected, don’t you think?”
She creased her forehead. “Why would you expect something like that?”
He lifted a shoulder in a shrug, his mind on what he wanted to talk about. “When something’s taught to you long enough, you accept it as fact.”
Aminah’s eyes narrowed as she considered his point. “I see what you’re saying. But I still think it’s strange.” She paused. “Don’t you?”
“I suppose it is a bit strange.”
“And with the picture of Jesus in church.” She shook her head. “I guess it was pretty hopeless.”
He chuckled. “I wouldn’t say hopeless.”
“Then what do you think?” She closed the book and met his eyes, anticipating his response. Ismael knew at that moment his talk would have to wait, at least for now.
“The human mind is a funny thing. You really can’t blame someone for what it does.” He sighed, thinking about the reality behind his words. “Even Allah, subhaanahu wata’alaa, doesn’t hold us accountable for all the things that go on inside of it.”
She was silent momentarily as she nodded. She bit her lip, her gaze falling on something to her left for a moment. “That’s what I was thinking,” she said. “About Zaid, I mean.”
Ismael creased his forehead at the mention of his name. “Zaid?” Perhaps, they would have the talk sooner than he thought.
“Yes,” Aminah said, looking at her father now. “I think I should marry him.”
“Why?” He didn’t mean to sound surprised, but it had come out that way. He had meant to have this talk earlier in the week, but he had been too distracted.
Ismael had come to realize that Sarah was right. He had not handled Zaid’s proposal as he should have. There was no reason for him to have allowed Zaid and Aminah to communicate without Sarah’s knowledge, and there was even less rationale in him not mentioning the proposal to his wife. It wasn’t fair to Sarah, or Aminah. It wasn’t even fair to himself. But he had been so overwhelmed by his desire to marry Alika that he was subconsciously relating everything to that. And even that, he had no idea if he was approaching correctly. Even if he were, there was no relation between Sarah knowing about a potential co-wife to her knowing about a brother’s proposal to her daughter.
Ismael had decided it was best to ascertain if he even wanted to pursue marriage to Alika before broaching a sensitive subject like that with his wife. Why cause unnecessary stress if it would not amount to anything? He already knew Sarah would not understand. Polygamy was not something she had ever imagined as relating to her and Ismael. And, to some extent, Ismael felt the same. Polygamy was attempted by only a minority of Muslims, zealous Muslims, who were more excited about the prospect of multiple women than the responsibility it entailed. Not to mention the responsibility of marriage itself. Their financial incapability was a moot point next to their emotional, psychological, and even spiritual immaturity in approaching the matter. Although this was a valid point to some extent, Ismael didn’t imagine there could, or should, be any real exceptions to the rule. Subconsciously, he felt it was better if there weren’t any. He was like the Qur’anic translator who had inserted the phrase “But one is best for you, if you only knew” into the translation of Allah’s verse on polygamy although no such phrase existed in the Arabic, implied or stated. In fact, the verse, left on its own merit, seemed to convey the exact opposite.
“…Then marry of the women who please you, two, three or four. But if you fear that you will not be able to deal justly (between them), then only one…”
He had read the verse at least a dozen times in the last four and a half months, and each time he read it, he was struck by the chronology of Allah’s words. It was as if the Creator was saying it was actually best to marry more than one, and only if you had a genuine fear that you would do injustice, then, and only then, marry only one. If there was any preference being conveyed at all in the verse, it certainly wasn’t what the translator had inserted between parentheses.
But was this his male ego talking or his good Muslim sense? Was he just rationalizing? Even if he were not imagining the new interpretation, what made him so sure he was among those to whom Allah was referring in the first part of the verse? What about Ismael made him free from the fear of doing injustice? Even Imam Abdul-Quddus was not that confident in himself.
Was he arrogant then?
But none of it was planned. He had not awakened one day, thinking, he was “chosen” by Allah to set an example of plural marriage on earth. Yet everything about marrying Alika suggested he should do it. He didn’t fit into the category of any of the zealous, irrational men he had imagined in his head. Yes, he was human, and he had some fear he couldn’t pull it off. But that was the same fear he had when he reflected on his daily struggle as a Muslim in the world. Why not place his trust in Allah with polygamy as he had with his soul?
He was mature, well past forty, and had been married twenty-six years. So there was no inexperience with women to plague him, no significant immaturity that threatened to rear its ugly head. He was financially stable, not rich, but definitely not poor or even struggling. His house and two cars, three if he included Sulayman’s, were all paid off, and he no longer paid mortgage or a car note each month. His children were grown, one married and the other marriageable age, so he had no uncertain expenses lurking that he couldn’t account for.
Even so, it wasn’t necessary to have all these ticked on a checklist before embarking on something that was obviously pleasing to Allah. It was only natural that Sarah would not feel the same, but he was learning that no woman would be thrilled if she were in his wife’s position. No, he would not cut off Alika because of Sarah’s jealousy. It would make no sense. Allah created women jealous, and He created men polygamous. Ismael would just have to make do.
Yet, the incessant doubt disturbed him. He often thought of Fatimah, the daughter of the Prophet, peace be upon him, and Ali, the Prophet’s cousin. Ali wanted to marry the daughter of Abu Jahl, whose name meant “Father of Ignorance,” who was the arrogant, disbelieving “pharaoh” of their time. But Fatimah, Ali’s wife, was nearly despondent in her sadness at his choice. How could the daughter of the Messenger of Allah and the daughter of Pharaoh be from the same family? When the Prophet learned of Ali’s intentions, he did not approve of the marriage, and he made his feelings known. His oft-repeated sentiment that reflected the love he had for his daughter was, “What hurts her hurts me.” So Ali had left it alone, and Fatimah died as Ali’s only wife.
There was also Khadijah, the first and most beloved wife of the Prophet, with whom he lived in monogamy until she died. Even after Khadijah passed away and he married other women, none could compete with the love he had for his first.
Sarah, Ismael imagined, would be like Khadijah to him. Even if he did marry Alika, or anyone else, no one could come close to taking the place he had in his heart for his first wife.
“You don’t think I should?” Aminah asked, her question awkward in its parallel to the one he was asking himself in his mind. Her eyebrows were gathered in hurt and confusion, and Ismael’s heart sank as his daughter’s expression anticipated what he would say, what he was already saying.
Ismael shook his head, unable to delay this any further. He had prayed on it, and there really was nothing else to say but the truth. “No, pumpkin, I don’t think you should.”
“But why not?” Ismael thought he sensed more curiosity than hurt in Aminah’s inquiry, but he dismissed it as the optimism he had mustered as a shield against all that was on him right then.
“I should have never given you the impression that I approved,” he said with a reflective sigh. “I just wanted to give you a chance to decide for yourself. But I know now that I should have gone with my initial reservations.”
“But why can’t I marry him?” Her brows were furrowed, and disappointment was clear beneath her contorted expression.
“This is why,” he said, reaching forward and taking the book from her hands, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “If this is what it’s going to do to you, I can’t let you.”
“What’s wrong with learning my history?”
He sighed, flipping through the pages of the book with one hand, his gaze falling there momentarily. “Pumpkin, there’s nothing wrong with learning your history. As long as it’s to strengthen your sense of self.” He paused then added, “But not if it’s to repair it.”
Aminah dropped her gaze to her hands that she brought together on her lap. She was quiet, lost in her thoughts. It was more than a minute before she spoke again.
“Did it matter to you?” Aminah asked, her eyes still on her hands.
“Did what matter to me?”
“That Mom was White.”
She looked at her father now, and when their eyes met, he saw how much he loved Sarah and the children. He couldn’t imagine anything disrupting that, certainly not his own hands.
Ismael scratched at one side of his beard, knowing what his daughter was asking. He wanted to say that love was blind, that the color of his wife’s skin had made no difference to him at all. He wanted to tell Aminah that he knew her mother was special from the moment he saw her, and she could have been purple. It didn’t matter to him. He wanted her, Sarah, as his wife, and that was all that mattered to him, more than anything in the world.
But that wasn’t true. And now was not the time to sugar coat the truth. He knew what Aminah wanted to know—if it were wrong to feel beautiful in her white skin. And he needed her to know that there was nothing wrong with it, nothing at all, and that she, in fact, should. She had every right to. Because it was beautiful after all. And not just because it was hers. But because it really was.
“Yes, it did matter to me.”
Her forehead creased in surprise and confusion, and she started to say something, ask something, but she couldn’t seem to form the words.
“And yes,” he continued, “I loved that she was White. And I was honored that she would marry someone like me. I wasn’t White, and well—” He smiled. “That she wanted me, I can’t tell you how special that made me feel.”
He saw Aminah’s forehead relax, and her lips began a tentative smile. “Really?”
“Yes. It’s true.”
“So white was a nice color to you?”
“No,” he said with a smile. Aminah’s eyebrows gathered a second before he added, “it is a nice color to me, still.”
She seemed satisfied by his answer, but not completely, as her eyebrows remained furrowed for a moment. “But…” she said, her voice trailing as she searched for the right words.
“And no,” he answered for her, “that doesn’t mean that the opposite is true. Before I started seeing your mother, I was seeing women all different shades of brown.”
She stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time. “Black women?”
“Yes, Black women. And each one I saw, I imagined her as the most beautiful woman in the world.” He smiled. “And I even told them that.”
She couldn’t keep from smiling.
“But honestly,” he said, “I didn’t appreciate all the color ranges like I do now. So I guess you can say I was a little like Zaid.” He smiled. “But the difference was, I never believed that was right. I just had some growing to do. And your mother helped me through that.”
“Mom?” Her eyes widened in surprise.
“Yes,” he said. “You have no idea the special person you have sleeping in the room down the hall.” He felt his throat start to close. “I didn’t like myself much, pumpkin. I didn’t even like my people very much. And Sarah,” he started to laugh as he felt his voice going. He blinked back the tears that were forming in his eyes, unable to suppress the memory of all she had done for him. “She taught me to love myself, and see the beauty in everyone around me.”
Tamika greeted Sulayman with a hug after he returned home from work late that night. It was after 11:00, but he had called to tell her he was running late in the lab. She had grown tired, but she had waited up for him, as she always did.
He kissed her forehead after they greeted each other, and he continued to hold her in his arms. For a moment, her heart pounded as she imagined what he would say once he noticed the box missing from the closet.
“What did you do all day without me?” he asked, smiling as he gazed at her, holding the embrace.
She laughed and lowered her gaze momentarily, her forehead falling against his beard. “Cleaned up, felt sorry for myself, stared at the clock. The usual.”
“It looks nice in here.” He released her but kept an arm around her shoulder. “You must have really missed me today.”
She nodded. “I did.”
His arm fell from her shoulder as he surveyed the living room, then the kitchen. “SubhaanAllaah. I think I can eat off the floor.”
“Well, thank God, you don’t have to do that.”
He walked to the dining area, where the table was neatly set. She saw him shake his head before turning to meet her gaze. “Did I tell you how much I love you?”
She grinned. “Yes, you did.”
“Well, I’m telling you again.”
“I thought the way to a man’s heart was his stomach,” she joked, “not a clean floor.”
He laughed. “Well, add a clean house to the list. And make it number one, because I’ll take that over a good meal any day.”
“Really?” She was genuinely surprised by his comment, but she held her grin. She was reminded of her mother’s high standard of cleanliness and how Tamika never felt she could measure up. Tamika had pretty much given up on being a fastidious housekeeper, having figured that keeping everything “straight” would have to do for her. But at the moment, she wondered if her mother had a point.
“I think it’s true for any man,” he said, his arms folded as he nodded approvingly at the immaculate apartment. “A clean house makes food taste better anyway. No matter how good your food is, a mess makes your stomach churn.”
She laughed, remembering a restaurant Makisha had taken her to in Atlanta, promising that the soul food there was “off the hook.” But when they arrived and were handed their order, Tamika could barely concentrate on the food weighing down the white Styrofoam take-out in her hands and easing out the sides. The place was dilapidated, if not “unclean.” The entire time that they sat in the car eating (because there was nowhere inside to sit) Tamika had feigned pleasure in the meal, when all she could think about was the prospect of baby roaches accounting for the black dots on her sweet potatoes. “I know what you mean.”
Tamika’s heart raced as she followed him into the bedroom, where the walk-in closet was neatly closed, making the room more presentable, and delaying the inevitable.
He walked around the room, smiling proudly before he opened the closet doors to survey her job there, sending Tamika’s heart hammering in her chest. She stood a few feet behind him to one side, so she saw his gaze drop instinctively to the place he had left the box. She saw his surprised expression, and she sensed a tinge of panic in his eyes. He turned toward his shoulder to look at her, a smile still on his face.
“Where’s the box?”
“The box?” she asked, her brows furrowed as she went to stand next to him in front of their neatly hanging clothes, hers on one side, his on the other.
“Yeah, the one I left here.” He pointed to the empty space on the closet’s carpeted floor.
“Oh,” she said, smiling, surprising herself with the self-assurance in her response. She waved her hand dismissively. “I unpacked it and put everything away.”
“Where?”
Tamika studied his concerned expression, and for a moment regretted what she had done.
“Different places,” she said. “Mostly in the drawers on the nightstand. But I put your old books in the hallway closet with the rest.”
He nodded, walking over to the nightstand and bending to pull open the drawers, one at a time, starting with the first. Tamika followed him, knowing the purple journal was in the bottom drawer, on top. His face seemed to relax as he spotted it there, and she felt her heart steadying to its normal rhythm, though she was bracing herself for what would happen next.
But he simply closed the drawer and pulled her to him in an embrace. “Jazaakillaahukhair,” he thanked her.
“Waiyyak,” she replied.
“Let’s eat,” he said as he released her, all traces of his feelings about the diary suddenly dissipated right then. “I’m starved.”
Tamika’s heart sank. She felt as if she had been stripped of something, an opportunity perhaps. She watched as he disappeared through the doorway, and she followed him to the dining area. What else could she do?