A Woman Is No Man(40)

“Why are you so quiet?” Adam said when he came home from work one night, slurping on the freekeh soup she had spent the day preparing. “Did I marry a statue?”

Isra looked up from her bowl, which she had placed on the table because Adam said he didn’t like eating alone. She could feel her face burn with shock and embarrassment. What did Adam expect her to say? She did nothing besides cook and clean all day, her hand in Fareeda’s hand, never a moment’s rest. She had nothing interesting to talk about, unlike Adam, who left to work every morning, who spent most of his day in the city. Shouldn’t he initiate the conversation? Besides, he had told her he liked quiet women.

“I mean, I knew you were quiet when I married you,” Adam said, shoving a spoonful of soup into his mouth. “But a year with my mother should’ve loosened you up.” He looked up from his bowl, and Isra noticed that his eyes were glassy and bloodshot. She wondered if he was sick.

“She is quite the woman, my mother,” Adam said. “Nothing like any of the women in your village, I’m sure.”

Isra studied his face. Why were his eyes so red? She had never seen him like this before.

“No, not Fareeda,” he mumbled to himself. “One of a kind, as her name suggests. But she earned that right, you know, after all she’s been through.” He propped both elbows on the kitchen table. “Did you know that her family relocated to the refugee camps when she was six years old? Probably not. She doesn’t like to talk about it. But she lived a tough life, my mother. She married my father and raised us in those camps, rolled up her sleeves and endured.”

Isra met his eyes and then looked quickly away. Even if she tried to act like Fareeda, she couldn’t. She wasn’t strong enough.

“Speaking of my mother,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “what have you two been up to lately?”

“Sometimes we visit the neighbors when the chores are done,” Isra said.

“I see, I see.”

She watched him shovel food into his mouth. She didn’t know what to make of his unusual behavior, but she thought she’d ask if she’d done something wrong. She swallowed dry spit. “Are you angry with me?”

He took a gulp of water and looked at her. “Why would I be angry with you?”

“Because I had a daughter. Or maybe because I’m pregnant again. I don’t know.” She looked down at her fingers. “It feels like you’re avoiding me. You barely come home anymore.”

“You think I don’t want to come home?” he said, waving his hands. “But who else is going to put food in your mouth? And buy diapers and baby formula and medicine? You think living in this country is cheap?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I’m doing the best I can to support this family! What more do you want from me?”

Isra considered telling him that she wanted his love. That she wanted to see him and get to know him, wanted to feel like she wasn’t raising a child on her own. But if he didn’t understand that, then how could she explain it? She couldn’t. She was a woman, after all. It wasn’t her place to be forward in her affections, to ask a man for his time, for his love. Besides, any time she tried, he scorned her attempts.

Instead Isra willed herself to make a request she had been brewing in her mind but had been too scared to ask: “I was hoping maybe you could teach me how to navigate Fifth Avenue. Sometimes I want to take Deya for a walk in the stroller, but I’m afraid I’ll get lost.”

Adam put his fork down and looked up at her. “Go out to Fifth Avenue on your own? Surely that’s out of the question.”

Isra stared at him.

“You want to take a stroll down the block? Sure. But there’s no reason for you to be out on Fifth Avenue alone. A young girl like you on the streets? Someone would take advantage of you. So many corrupt people in this country. Besides, we have a reputation here. What will Arabs say if they see my young wife wandering the streets alone? You need anything, my parents will get it for you.” He pushed himself up from the table. “Fahmeh? Do you understand?”

She couldn’t stop looking at his eyes. How red they were. For a moment she thought perhaps he had been drinking, but she quickly dismissed it. Drinking sharaab was forbidden in Islam, and Adam would never commit such a sin. No, no. He worked too hard, that was all. He must be getting sick.

“Do you understand?” he said again, more slowly.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Good.”

Isra stared at her plate. She thought back to her silly hopes, before coming to America, that she might have more freedom here. She had the familiar urge to break one of the plates on the sufra, but instead she dug her fingers into her thighs, squeezed tight. She breathed and breathed until the familiar throb of rebellion dissipated. She was only nineteen, she reasoned. Adam must be afraid for her safety. Surely he would give her more freedom when she got older. And then a new hope occurred to her: perhaps his overprotectiveness was out of love. Isra wasn’t sure if that was one of the things love made you do, possess someone. But the possibility made a warm feeling rise up inside her. She put her hands on her stomach and allowed herself a small smile, a rare moment of peace.





Deya


Winter 2008