KILLING SARAI(39)

When the woman smiles over at him, deep lines form around the corners of her mouth. She has blonde hair, her age showing through her hair most of all, judging by the amount of gray mixed in. And she’s much older than Victor, by ten years at least. But she’s very pretty and clean and I feel embarrassed comparing myself with her in my current state.

We pull away from the building near the private landing strip and head for the freeway.

“I wonder what brought you to my neck of the woods,” she adds. Then she glances back at me briefly. “And who did you bring along? Pretty girl. I get the feeling she’s not—”

“No, she’s not,” Victor interrupts.

I’m not what, exactly?

Then he starts speaking to her in French.

Spanish, German, French? How many languages does this man speak?

I hate it that I can’t understand what they’re saying, but I know they’re talking about me. The woman glances at me in the mirror a few times, a little knowing smile tugging the corners of her lips. But even in a language that I can’t understand, I can tell he’s not being completely honest with her. Or, maybe I can’t. Maybe it’s just because I know deep down that I have nothing to worry about when it comes to Victor.

That fact surprises me more every day.

“It’s nice to meet you, Izabel,” she says.

I smile slimly at her and decide that since I have no idea what all Victor just told her about me that I’ll be better off not speaking much to avoid contradicting his story.

Many minutes later we pull into the driveway of a humble little house situated next to other similar houses. Two boys zoom past along the street on their bicycles when we get out. Directly across the street a man washes his car in the driveway. The woman we’re with raises her hand and waves at him and he waves back. It’s a very typical neighborhood, the kind that all of my friends from school lived in when I was growing up and was more respected by the popular girls than a trailer park.

The woman pops the trunk from a button inside the car and I join Victor at the back as he grabs his bags. But I don’t get a chance to ask him privately about what he might’ve said when she joins us seconds later.

“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” she says, fingering her keys; a purse dangles from the other shoulder. “I did clean up, but if I had a few more days to prepare I would’ve hired the Molly Maids.” She waves at us to follow. “Come on in. My poor Pepper is going to tear up my window blinds the longer we stand out here.”

I hear the barking of a small dog muffled by a side window as we approach the door underneath the carport. The blind moves erratically behind the curtain. There’s another car parked in the drive, under the carport cover, but it’s old and looks like it’s been sitting up like that for several years. When she opens the door, the smell of food, delicious food, instantly causes my stomach to rumble and ache.

“Lunch is ready,” the woman says leading us into the kitchen. She sets her purse down on the counter; already her yapping Pomeranian is making its rounds, deciding whose leg to sniff longer, mine or Victor’s.

“Have a seat,” she says gesturing toward the kitchen table.

Not having to tell me twice, I sit down in the nearest chair where an empty plate awaits me.

Victor takes the chair next to me.

The woman waltzes over with a ceramic bowl filled with whipped potatoes in one hand and a plate full of fried chicken in the other and sets them down in front of us. A smaller bowl of corn and a basket of rolls follow.

Not feeling right about being first, I wait to see if Victor will reach for something before me.

“What would you like to drink?” the woman asks. “I have soda, tea, milk, lemonade.”

“Water is fine,” Victor says and then he looks at me, casually nods his head toward the food, giving me the OK to start filling my plate. “From the tap,” he adds at last second.

I reach for the chicken first and pick up a piece with the tongs.

“I’ll have water, too,” I say, looking up at her as I drop a chicken leg on my plate. “Thank you.”

She smiles sweetly and walks around the bar toward the refrigerator and begins preparing our drinks, scolding the little dog verbally to send it strutting out of the kitchen and away from us.

By the time she makes it back with our glasses, Victor and I both have put all of the food we want onto our plates.

She sets our drinks in front of us.

I thank her again and feeling better about ‘going first’ now, I pick up my spoon and start to eat, but Victor stops me, placing two fingers on my wrist and lowering my hand back onto the table. My face flushes and I lower my eyes, hoping the woman doesn’t think I have the worst meal etiquette ever. I figure she must be the religious type, that we have to hold hands around the table awkwardly while she talks to Jesus and tells Him how thankful we are for this food and for the troops and all that stuff.

“Oh Victor,” she says playfully, “you can’t be serious.”

He doesn’t say anything.

I glance at him to my right, wrinkling my brows. Maybe he’s the one that feels it necessary to pray.

Surely not….

The woman sighs and rolls her eyes a little bit as she reaches over and slides my plate away from me.

I’m thoroughly confused now. I fold my hands in my lap underneath the table because I’m not sure what else to do with them.