A Woman Is No Man(42)
Two months later they returned to New York with Nadine.
“Congratulations,” Isra murmured when she greeted them at the front door, looking first to Nadine’s face and then to the floor.
Fareeda could tell Nadine’s dazzling smile and bright blue eyes intimidated Isra. She had expected this. In fact, she had planned it. Not to hurt Isra, no, but to show her what womanhood should look like. As soon as Fareeda reached Palestine, she had made it clear to all the mothers that she was not looking for another Isra. The last time she had searched for a bride, she had asked for a shy, modest woman who knew how to cook and clean, wanting the opposite of all the disrespectful women she had become used to in America. But this time, she had asked for a lively girl. They needed some good spirits around the house, Fareeda thought, glancing at Isra’s meek smile. Perhaps Nadine’s presence would even force Isra to grow up and start acting like a woman.
“Be sure to put your foot down,” Fareeda warned Omar that evening while Nadine was upstairs, settling in. She had whispered those very same words the day the couple signed the marriage contract in Nadine’s sala, and again on the night of the wedding ceremony, but it didn’t hurt to remind him. Omar was practically an American, staring at her with his large, dopey eyes, oblivious to the workings of the world. So typical of men these days. Why, when she had first married Khaled, he would slap her if she even raised her eyes off the ground—pop after pop, until she was as quiet as a mouse. She remembered the early days of her marriage, years before they came to America, when she had lived in fear of his hostile moods, his slaps and kicks if she dared to talk back. She remembered how he would enter their shelter every night after plowing the fields, enraged at the quality of their life—the hardness of the mattress they slept on, the sparseness of food, the aching of his bones—only to take his anger out on her and the children. Some days he’d beat them for even the slightest confrontation, while other days he’d say nothing, grinding his teeth, fury bubbling in his eyes.
“Forget all this American nonsense about love and respect,” Fareeda said to Omar now, turning to make sure Isra was setting the table. “You need to make sure our culture survives, and that means teaching a woman her place.”
They ate dinner all together for the first time in months. The men sat at one end of the table, the women at the other. Fareeda couldn’t remember the last time she’d had all her sons on one sufra. She watched Isra filling Adam’s bowl with rice, Nadine passing Omar a glass of water. As it should be! Now all she had left was to marry off Ali and Sarah. She looked over at her daughter, who sat slouched with teenage gracelessness. It shouldn’t be too long now before that burden was off Fareeda’s shoulders. She was tired and—though she would never admit it—eagerly awaiting the day she could stop worrying about her family.
The men were lost in conversation—something about opening a new convenience store for Omar, who needed a steady income. Fareeda eyed them. “Maybe Adam could open the store,” she said. “Help his brother out.”
She could see Adam’s face redden. “I’d love to help,” he said, putting down his spoon. “But I barely have enough time to run Father’s store. Between paying the bills and taking care of the family . . .” He stopped, looked over to Isra. “I never see my own family. I’m always working.”
“I know, son,” Khaled said, reaching out to pat Adam’s shoulder. “You do so much for us.”
“Still,” Fareeda said, reaching for another piece of pita, “your father is getting old. It’s your duty to help.”
“I am helping,” Adam said, his voice suddenly cold. “But where will I find the time to open up another store? And what about Omar? Why can’t he take on some responsibility?”
“Where’s all this animosity coming from?” Fareeda smacked her lips, waving her greasy fingers around the kitchen table. “What’s wrong with helping the family out? You’re the eldest son. It’s your responsibility.” She bit into a stuffed squash. “Your duty.”
“I understand that, Mother,” Adam said. “But what about Omar and Ali? Why am I the one doing everything?”
“That’s not true,” Fareeda said. “Your brothers do what they can.”
“Omar barely puts in any hours at the deli, and Ali spends all day ‘studying,’ according to him, while I run the store on my own. You need to give my brothers some responsibilities too. You’re spoiling them.”
“He’s right,” Khaled said, reaching for a drumstick. “You are spoiling them.”
Fareeda straightened. “So now it’s my fault? Of course, blame it on the woman!” Her eyes shifted to Khaled. “Let’s not forget who the real backbone of this family is.”
Khaled shot her a hard look. “What are you saying, woman?”
She could see Nadine eyeing her from across the table, so she refrained from saying what she would have usually said, reminding Khaled of all she had done for their family.
Though more than thirty years had passed since Khaled and Fareeda married, she still remembered those early days with resentment: the many ways he had hurt and disappointed her, his sudden and immense anger, the violence. She had been so young, less than half his age, and in the first days of their marriage she had always reminded herself of her subordinate role, submitting to his temperament for fear of being beaten. But no matter how quiet she was, how hard she tried to please, many nights ended with a beating. Of course her father had beaten her growing up, but it was nothing like this: beatings that left her face black and blue, her ribs so sore they ached when she breathed, an arm so badly sprained she couldn’t carry water for weeks.