A Woman Is No Man(24)

Isra would always agree with Fareeda so as not to upset her. She completed her five prayers downstairs in her bedroom, where Fareeda couldn’t see. Sometimes, after Isra was done with her afternoon chores, she snuck to the basement to combine the zuhr and asr prayers before returning back to the kitchen unnoticed. Fareeda had never forbidden her from praying, but Isra wanted to be safe, wanted to win her love. Mama had never given her much love, only a dash here and there when she’d seasoned the lentil soup properly or scrubbed the floors so hard the cement almost sparkled. But Fareeda was so much stronger than Mama. Perhaps alongside that strength, she had more room for love.

After they had swept the floors, wiped the mirrors, thawed the meat, and soaked the rice, they would sit at the kitchen table, cups of chai to their faces, and talk, or at least Fareeda would, the whole world seeming to swirl between her lips. Fareeda would tell Isra stories about life in America, the things she did to pass time when she wasn’t cooking and cleaning, like visiting her friend Umm Ahmed, who lived a few blocks away, or accompanying Khaled to the market on Sundays, or, when she was in a particular mood, attending the mosque on Fridays to catch up on the latest community gossip. Isra leaned forward, wide-eyed, inhaling Fareeda’s words. In the few weeks since her arrival to America, she had grown to like Fareeda, admire her even. Fareeda, with her loud, boisterous opinions. Fareeda, with her unusual strength.

Now Isra and Fareeda folded laundry, the last of the day’s work. The air between them was damp and smelled of bleach. Fareeda sat with her back against the washing machine, legs crossed under her, arranging black socks in matching pairs. Beside her, Isra sat in her usual way, legs folded tightly together, both arms in her lap as if to make herself smaller. She reached for a bright pair of men’s boxers from the pile of unfolded laundry. She didn’t recognize them. They must belong to one of Adam’s brothers, she thought. She could feel her face flush as her fingers touched the fabric, and she quickly turned from Fareeda. She didn’t want to seem immature, reddening at the sight of men’s underpants.

“It’s nice to finally have someone to help me,” Fareeda said, folding a pair of faded jeans.

Isra smiled wide. “I’m glad I can help.”

“That’s the life of a woman, you know. Running around taking orders.”

Isra pushed aside a pair of mint-green boxers and leaned closer to Fareeda. “Is that what you do all day?”

“Like clockwork,” Fareeda said, shaking her head. “Sometimes I wish I could’ve been born a man, just to see how it feels. It would’ve spared me a lot of grief in life.” She reached for another pair of socks, stopped, and looked at Isra. “Men huff and puff about all the work they do to support their families. But they don’t know—” She paused. “They have no idea what it means to be a woman in this world.”

“You sound like Mama.”

“She’s a woman, isn’t she? She would know.”

There was a pause, and Isra reached for a piece of laundry. She wondered how Mama and Fareeda had come to suffer the same lonely fate, to have both lived a life without love. What had they done wrong?

“I thought things would be different here,” Isra confessed.

Fareeda looked up. “Different how?”

“I thought maybe women only had it so tough in Palestine, you know, because of old customs and traditions.”

“Ha!” Fareeda said. “You think women have it easier in America because of what you see on television?” Her almond eyes narrowed to slits. “Let me tell you something. A man is the only way up in this world, even though he’ll climb a woman’s back to get there. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“But Khaled seems like he loves you so much,” Isra said.

“Loves me?” Fareeda laughed. “Look at all I do for that man! I spread a full sufra for him every day, wash and iron his clothes, scrub every inch of this house so he can be at ease. I raised his children, these men and this girl, all while he was away. And you say he loves me?” Her eyes shifted to Isra. “Learn this now, dear. If you live your life waiting for a man’s love, you’ll be disappointed.”

Isra felt sorry for Fareeda. How tired she must have been raising her children alone in a foreign country, waiting for Khaled to come home and love her. She wondered if that would be her fate as well.

“Do all the men in America work this much?” she asked, folding a white T-shirt.

“I used to wonder the same thing when we first came here,” said Fareeda. “Khaled worked so many hours a day, leaving me alone with the children, sometimes until midnight! I was angry with him at first, but I realized it wasn’t his fault. Most immigrants in this country work like dogs, especially the men. They have no choice. How else can we survive?”

Isra stared at her. Surely Adam was different, not like the men of Khaled and Yacob’s generation. Things were hard right now, yes, but soon that would change. “Will Adam always work this much?”

“Oh, you’ll get used to it,” Fareeda said. “Soon you’ll have children, and there will be other things to worry about.” When Isra only looked at her, eyes widening, she added. “Believe me, you’ll be thankful he’s at work and not at home telling you what to do. I want to rip my hair out when Khaled takes a day off. Do this, do that. It’s a nightmare.”