ON MONDAY EMILY STAYED at home, doing housework furiously, baking cookies and a cake. Her grandfather, sitting in the bay window, called out that the skating must be good.
“There’s quite a crowd on the pond.”
A little later he observed that he had seen Kalil go past…without Yusef. And when Emily came to sit beside him, after frosting her cake, he remarked thoughtfully, “I like to see Kalil playing with American boys for a change.”
“But do you suppose he has skates?” Emily went to the window. Through the bare trees she could see the fire at the edge of the pond and the graceful figures of skaters, but she could not recognize Kalil. She jumped up.
“I believe I’ll go out myself,” she said. She bundled into her short jacket and furs and caught up her skates.
It was growing late; the snow was a cold pale blue, and the crowd was thinning out. Only a handful of boys remained, shouting at the far end of the pond. Skating near them, she saw Kalil with a red muffler flying above his shabby coat. He didn’t have skates, but he was pleased, she saw, to be one of the group. He was laughing, and struggling to stand up on the ice. He waved at her excitedly.
She turned and skated slowly to the other end of the pond, looking beyond the yellow willows to her little white house, grimy-gray against the snow. The locust tree rose ghostlike above its forsaken bench. And the bare trees on her hillside blurred against the sky where the sun hung like a red Japanese lantern.
When she turned again, the boys were playing crack the whip. Hands locked, they were skating in Indian file. They gained speed, and the leader—a burly overgrown boy—stopped suddenly with a warning yell and pulled the line around. It broke, and the skaters went whirling over the ice. Good fun, no doubt, but pretty violent, Emily thought, skating peacefully with her hands in her muff.
The line formed again, and this time at the perilous end a red muffler flamed. But Kalil didn’t have skates—and he was much smaller than the others! She pushed forward.
Seeing her coming, the leader started skating. Kalil ran frantically behind the last skater, who held Kalil’s hand firmly. He lost his footing but his companion would not release him. The leader yelled, “Hold on!” and cracked the whip with savage vigor. Kalil went rolling and tumbling over the ice.
The boys skated away, whooping, “Dago! Dago!” Emily cried after them but they would not stop. At the fire they tore off their skates and went scrambling over the slough.
“Barbarians!” she exclaimed as she helped Kalil to his feet.
He was shouting a stream of unintelligible—something. What did the Syrians speak? Arabic? Emily wondered. He was trying to wave his arms, but whenever he waved the right one he yelped with pain and pulled it back against his breast.
A little English broke into his talk. Emily gathered that his tormentors were dogs and that God would punish them in a number of dramatic ways. Tears of rage were running down his cheeks.
“Never mind them!” she said, putting her arm around him. “How do you feel?”
“I’m killed, ma’am. I’m going to die, God save!” he sobbed.
“Oh, no, Kalil! It isn’t that bad.”
“My arm, she hurts terrible.” He was cradling his right forearm in his left hand.
“Come over to the house,” said Emily. She skated slowly while he hobbled beside her. Reaching land, she took her skates off quickly.
Grandpa Webster was waiting at the front door. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m killed, sir, God save! I’m going to die,” said Kalil.
“Light the lamp, Grandpa. It’s his arm.”
“What happened?”
“They were playing crack the whip and Kalil was at the end—without skates! Those horrible boys!”
Kalil’s fists brushed away the last of his tears. “It’s because I’m a foreigner, ma’am,” he explained. “It’s because I speak the English funny.”
“That’s no reason for them being so mean.” Emily took off his worn overcoat gently but he winced. She took off his jacket, rolled up his right sleeve and ran her fingers cautiously over the forearm.
“It’s swelling. But it’s just a simple sprain, I think. You look at it, Grandpa.”
He took the small arm in knowing fingers while Kalil waited with anxiously dilated eyes.
“Just a sprain,” Grandpa Webster agreed. “Make a cold compress, Emmy. Some cookies might help, too. Did you know, Kalil, that cookies were good for sprains?”
“Cookies? Sweets?”
“That’s it.” They sat down beside the stove and, while Emily applied cold compresses, Kalil munched cookies and her grandfather talked.
“I saw plenty of sprains in the Civil War.”
“The Civil War?”
“Abe Lincoln’s war.”
“Were you a soldier, sir?”
“Call me Grandpa Webster. Yep! I was a soldier. And you must be a good soldier now till this stops hurting. It won’t hurt long. It may turn black and blue but that just gives you something to show Yusef. Where was he today?”
“He has a sickness. He sneezes.”
“Too bad. Bring me a towel, Emmy.”
“What are you making, my grandpa?” Kalil asked curiously.
“A sling.”
“Did you make things like that when you were a soldier?”
“Yep! Made ’em by the dozen.” The shirt was rolled down, the jacket and shabby overcoat replaced, the sling hung about Kalil’s neck and his arm was placed carefully within it.
“I’ll walk home with him,” Emily said to her grandfather.
Kalil looked up quickly. “You’ll walk home with me, ma’am?”
“Why, yes! You wouldn’t mind, would you?”
“Oh, no! I am full of thanks to you.”
“It’s a good idea,” Grandpa Webster said. “She can explain to your mother what happened. I’m ashamed of those boys.”
“It was because I speak the English funny,” Kalil said again in a confidential tone. He took up his cap. “Good-by, my grandpa. I am full of thanks to you. Peace to your age!”
“Peace to your age!” Kalil always pronounced his p’s like b’s, but “beace” could only mean “peace.” “Peace to your age!” What a beautiful wish! Emily thought.
They went out the kitchen door. It was not yet six o’clock, but darkness had fallen. The snow gleamed with ghostly pallor and a few early stars were caught in the nets of the trees.
Kalil took her to a path that followed the edge of the slough.
“Is this the path you use when you come to see us?” Emily asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Yusef and I come often by this path. Here’s where I got bitten by that big, big, great big—Ouch!” He stopped measuring off the snake and settled his right arm cautiously in the sling.
“Kalil!” said Emily, laughing. “How can you talk, now that your arm is hurt?”
“But, ma’am! I talk with my mouth!” He started to bring his right hand up in illustration, stopped with another “Ouch!” and joined in her laughter, his eyes sparkling upward.
The tiny lights of Little Syria were now pricking through the gloom.
“You’ve lived here a year?” Emily asked.
“Yes, ma’am! My father was here first. Then he sent for my mother and me and Layla, my sister.”
“How do you like it?”
“Oh, very much! America, she’s a dandy country.”
Emily had not visited Little Syria in several years, and night veiled it now, but she remembered it as a dirty dilapidated place. The humble little houses stood side by side, facing an eastern hill on which rose the ramshackle mansion of old Mr. Meecham. He had come from the east years ago and bought all the land in this valley. Then he had cut it into building lots and had built himself a fine house. When he had failed, because of the distance from the center of town, to sell lots to his fellow citizens, he had sold to the Syrian colony and had stayed on in his mansion, cutting himself off angrily from the rest of Deep Valley. He still had money. His team of white horses was the finest in the county and it was driven by a coachman, too.
Kalil turned in near the end of the row. As they mounted the narrow porch the door flew open and a small dark face poked out—a little girl’s face, although she was wearing earrings. Long black braids with red rags woven into them swung on either side.
At sight of Kalil she let out a welcoming cry, but when she saw Emily she darted away. Her place in the doorway was taken by a tall man with a huge flowing mustache. Behind him peeped a small woman in a full-skirted, faded, purple dress. She also wore earrings.
They were all talking at once, with vehement gestures, in whatever language it was that Syrians spoke. Lay la wore glass bracelets which jangled as though they, too, were eager to have their say. The father, presently, broke off into English.
“Welcome, Miss! Come into my house. My house is honored…” Emily made out the stately words in spite of the stumbling pronunciation.
She found herself inside, and seated. The small parlor was lighted by a kerosene lamp, hung from the ceiling. A cast-iron stove in one corner quivered with heat. There were several cheap wooden chairs, a low table; and a low bench ran around all four walls. The room was carpeted cheerfully in red.
Kalil continued talking in the foreign tongue, gesticulating madly with his good left arm. The little sister took Emily’s muff, laid it carefully on a chair. She looked at her with Kalil’s round liquid eyes, and when she met Emily’s gaze big dimples popped out. The little mother tripped out to the kitchen and Layla reluctantly followed.
The mustached father continued to overwhelm Emily with his welcome.
“What a blessed day! You have come to my house! It is yours. You may burn it.”
“Burn it! I can’t be understanding properly,” Emily thought.
“Peace to your feet for bringing my son home!” he continued. He examined Kalil’s sling. “Peace to your hands for making this…”
“It’s a sling, my father,” Kalil interrupted proudly.
“Peace to your hands for making this sling…”
“No, my father! Her honored grandfather made it.”
“Peace to his age!” the big man said with dignity.
There it was again! That beautiful phrase!
Emily felt ashamed to have their small services so extravagantly praised.
“Why, we didn’t do anything! I came home with Kalil because I wanted to explain about his arm. My grandfather examined it, and it isn’t broken. It will be all right soon.”
The mother returned bearing a dish of dried figs and one of raisins. The little sister carried a saucer full of nuts. She was trying not to smile but she wasn’t succeeding. Her dimples, Emily thought, were big enough to poke your finger in.
Everything was deposited on the table, which was now drawn close to Emily’s chair. The mother went to the kitchen again and Layla trailed after, her face turned to look at Emily until she was out of sight.
The father kept on talking grandiloquently, urging Emily to eat the figs and the raisins and the nuts, and shortly the mother came back with a small, long-handled, copper pot. Layla, close on her heels, brought a tiny cup which her mother filled with strange-looking coffee, very black with froth on top.
“You mustn’t be so good to me! I’ve done nothing at all!” Emily protested, but her words went unheeded. They all looked on radiantly while she nibbled and sipped.
The coffee was thick and sweet.
“You like our coffee? That’s Damascus coffee.”
“These nuts—they’re named pistachio.”
“Please honor us, Miss, by taking another fig.”
When she got to her feet at last, all four started chattering. Layla, running to an inner room, returned in a coat with a yellow scarf over her braids, and Kalil replaced on his curly head the cap he had taken off.
“But you’re not coming with me!” Emily cried.
“Of course, ma’am!”
“It’s not at all necessary. And it must be time for your supper.”
“They are honored to go.”
With Kalil and Layla holding her hands on either side, Emily went down the steps.
“God preserve you and your blessed grandfather!” The big man smiled.
“God bless!” cried the little mother. They were the first English words she had used.
Emily smiled, delighted and bewildered. “I must come again,” she thought.
They went back to the little path. There were myriads of stars now, and the slough slept beneath a silver counterpane.
“What language do Syrians speak?” Emily asked.
“Arabic, ma’am. But we wish to speak the English.”
“Does Layla speak any English?”
“Sure,” said Layla, dancing at her side. “I speak the dandy English.”
“And she sings,” said Kalil. “My sister sings like a—like a—sparrow.”
“No, sparrows don’t sing! You must mean like a thrush.”
“Sure. She sings like a thrush.”
“I wish you’d come to my house and sing for me some day. Does your mother speak English?”
“No. She’s a woman. Women,” Kalil explained grandly, “don’t speak the English much.”
“Your father,” remarked Emily, “speaks wonderful English.” She paused for a tactful approach. “But I was puzzled by something.”
“What was that, ma’am?”
“He said I could burn your house.”
“Oh,” answered Kalil, shrugging, “he said that to be polite. Of course, ma’am, he knows you won’t do it.”
“But she could—if she wanted to—my brother,” Layla reproved him gently.