Midnight

  The elder brother snatched the hijab off of Saachi’s head as though a simple piece of cloth could turn her Muslim.

  Akemi walked over and extended her hand forward toward him and he handed the hijab to her. Akemi folded it nicely and placed it with everything else she had collected. She waved good night to me. She got in the car. The elder brother jumped in the driver’s seat and sped off.

  As I got into the front seat of our car, Mr. Ghazzali and Sudana stood watching in the distance on the grass. I adjusted my frame of mind and gave them a second good night.

  In the car, I told the driver to take us to The Palace Hotel in Manhattan. He responded, “No problem,” then pulled off slowly. I knew if I had announced our Brooklyn address instead, he would’ve been making excuses just to keep from traveling into the area.

  The clock on his dashboard read 12:49 A.M. Naja wasted no time nodding off up against Umma. Umma rested her head on the headrest, her eyes closed but not asleep.

  “You did an incredible job, Umma,” I complimented her. She smiled with her head still tilted.

  “I got a business card from the wedding photographer. I convinced him to take some close-ups of the clothes you designed. I gave him a thirty-five-dollar deposit. He said we can pick up the photos next week. I set it up so you can use the pictures as samples of your work for your new clients. After tonight, you’ll definitely have some new clients,” I assured her.

  She opened her eyes finally and took a good long look at me. I could tell she wasn’t thinking about her business at the moment. But she also knew I wasn’t ready to talk about Akemi right then. My mother is smart and sweet. So, she let the topic go, and just said, “inshallah,” in response to the possibilities of the new business ventures.

  At The Palace Hotel we didn’t get settled in until around 3:10 A.M. I didn’t see a possible way for Umma to awaken for work at 5:00 A.M. as she usually would.

  When I phoned downstairs for our wake-up call, Umma said, “Tomorrow, no work, no school.” I was surprised, because since we arrived in the U.S. and she began working, she had never missed one day of work. Even I had not missed one day of work at my part-time job at Cho’s.

  “I am working the night shift starting tomorrow, 4:00 P.M. until midnight, Tuesday through Saturday. I arranged this in advance, switched shifts with my Lebanese coworker. Only for one week,” she said, drifting off to sleep.

  From the floor where I laid, I answered, “No problem. I’ll take you every afternoon and pick you up every midnight.”

  “Alhumdilallah,” she said softly, meaning praise Allah.

  The next afternoon, Umma and Naja were still sleeping. I stepped around the hotel room quietly, washed up, and dressed.

  At the front desk, I checked us out and off of Fawzi’s father’s tab. I asked the front desk clerk the price of one additional night’s stay.

  “It will cost two hundred and seventy-five dollars per night for our single room,” he answered. “Three hundred for the double like the one you checked out of.”

  “Are these your lowest available prices?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” he responded. “Our rooms range from two hundred seventy-five up to five thousand per night for the penthouse, this week,” he emphasized. He seemed to get an extreme charge out of reciting the fees. It was like he enjoyed crushing the customer who couldn’t afford it. I was sure that he couldn’t afford a room in this hotel where he worked either.

  I went into my pocket and pulled out my personal money and laid it on the counter to check back into the same double room at my own expense.

  I knew it was only one night and not an investment that offered any financial return. However, I found myself feeling fucked up about possibly having to wake my family and rush them back onto our Brooklyn block. The thought of returning home made my muscles tighten. I felt Umma deserved so much more after the immense job she had just completed. And, if she took a day off, along with Naja, I would help them to relax and feel good and be happy, my treat.

  As she slept, I glanced at her, my Umma. I wanted to give her something. I found myself asking myself, “What can you give a woman who has already experienced a tremendous love?”

  Later, on the midtown Manhattan streets, Naja and I searched high and low for a bathing suit suitable for a little girl. Almost everything in the hotel shops were for grown American women. Three blocks over and eleven blocks down and across, we found one right style and price.

  Naja didn’t mind the long walk. She was just excited to the extreme from all of the celebrations, new acquaintances, and also having her brother to herself, as Umma relaxed in privacy at the hotel.

  We had the hotel pool to ourselves and I taught her how to swim that one afternoon. She wasn’t afraid of the water, so she caught on easily. I knew that for her to really become comfortable and good at it, she would need some daily or weekly practice. These were the kind of things I wanted to be able to offer my sister. It wasn’t about the cost. But, it mattered what kind of program I would put her into, who was running it and what kind of kids participated. I wanted to keep her ways pure.

  “Did you know that Umma can dance?” Naja asked me when we finished swimming and were on the elevator riding up.

  “Oh yeah?” I responded, wondering.

  “At the hennana she danced for the ladies. She taught Maha how to dance for her new husband Fawzi. I watched her. I couldn’t believe it was Mommy,” she said. “And the clothes she wore. You should have seen. She wore a bra with silver glitter. It shined. She had a necklace around her belly and a jewel right here.” Naja stuck her finger in her own belly button through her towel and swimsuit.

  “Did the ladies tell you to tell everybody what went on at their private ladies’ party?”

  “Nope,” she answered. “But I never saw Umma have that much fun before. All of the ladies were clapping for her, us little girls too. There were five of us,” she said. “I saw the bride naked. Umma massaged her skin in oils, even her feet. I wanted to do her hair, but they wouldn’t let me. I hope that when I get married, there will be so many friends there to treat me so special and help out.”

  “You’re still telling all of the ladies’ secrets,” I scolded her.

  “But, I’m telling you. You said there were no secrets between me, you, and Umma.”

  As we walked down the hallway towards our room, Naja stopped telling her story of the hennana party, which made me believe she knew from the start that she wasn’t supposed to be telling in the first place.

  In the room Umma was still in her pink satin pajamas, her hair out and down her back, and feet exposed. It was strange to see my mother from a different angle, the one that Naja was trying to show me. I always knew that she was so beautiful. I always had the privilege to observe that. But since we lived back home in Africa, seeing her in love with my father and playful with him and he with her, I had not thought of her as more than a mother. And a mother is as close to a supreme being as a human can be. So to imagine her hips swinging and swaying, hypnotizing the younger ladies with her charms, was a foreign thought.

  We showered and made afternoon prayer together, the three of us.

  Umma changed into a pale yellow dress and a startling yellow thobe, no hijab or niqab today, yet still covered of course. She wore a two-inch-heeled brown leather shoe and matching bag. I could tell she was feeling good, relieved, and free.

  I took them out for pasta at a nice Italian restaurant. The food was so enjoyable but there is always the problem of the Italian men’s hostility towards the African male and fascination and lust for the African women. I turned down the table they offered. I sat Umma in the corner table sitting opposite her to block their view.

  Our server was captivated by the designs on Umma’s hands. I thought to myself there will be two more months of this unwanted attention. That’s how long Umma said the henna would last.

  “It’s so nice out,” Umma remarked. “We should take advantage of this week and find ourselves a house,?
?? she said.

  I pulled the folded portion of the newspaper out of my pocket. “I circled the ones that are in our price range,” I said, laying the newspaper on a free space on the table.

  “Did you know that the land and the house could be two separate prices? And there are still the property taxes to pay?” I asked her.

  She smiled. “It’s okay. We are not buying the kind of property and house that Fawzi purchased in Westchester. We are looking for something small. A small piece of land, with a decent sized backyard for Naja to play in, a fence of course, and three bedrooms. One bedroom is for me, and the other bedroom is for Naja. The third bedroom will be where I get my sewing work done and keep my supplies, like an office.” She paused and sipped from her water glass. But then, she didn’t say anything.

  “And your son?” I asked. “Where will your son go?”

  “From the looks of things, my son will go wherever Akemi goes.” She smiled. Naja laughed. I broke out in an uncontrollable smile myself. She definitely took me by surprise.

  “Perhaps there will be a finished basement or attic for the two of you. After you recite the Nikah together, you will both be welcomed there, of course,” she said, blowing my mind.

  “I spoke to the imam. He said the New York State law requires a man to be fifteen to marry, and only with both parents’ permission,” I informed her.

  “There is New York State law and there is Allah’s law. Allah’s law is the highest law. It is best for you two to recite the Nikah and for you to take a wife than to corrupt yourselves and bring forth a ‘chaos baby,’ ” Umma said. “Two or three witnesses and it is done. You two will be married.” She drank from the water glass once more. “Yes, you are young. But you are mature, really. There is no finer young man in this country than you, my son. And we are business people. We make our own money. We make our own way. I am certain that you can and will provide nicely for our new household.” Naja’s eyes and ears were wide open.

  Today was a day of firsts. Later on was the first time I saw Umma working out in a gymnasium. She ran on the treadmill with her eyes closed, wearing pants, one of my long shirts, and a scarf.

  I pushed the weights, worked the circuit, while Naja tried to walk across the floor on her hands.

  Late night while Naja slept, Umma and I sat on the floor together diving into the details of our real lives, no fantasies.

  “Wherever we move, Naja has to have a good school. I really don’t want to take her out of Islamic schooling,” Umma said.

  “We can ask at her school if they have information about other Islamic schools in the state,” I added.

  “True. You know Temirah Auntie has told me that there are many Sudanese people living in upstate New York and in Philadelphia and the Washington, D.C., area. They must send their children somewhere to be properly trained. But Temirah Auntie said that the daughters of African people, especially in Washington, D.C., are down there losing their dignity.”

  “So you and Temirah Auntie are friends now, or just business acquaintances?” I asked.

  “She could be a friend, I guess,” Umma ventured.

  “I could arrange for us to see some properties on Wednesday very early after we drop Naja off.”

  “Good,” Umma agreed. “And there is the small matter of getting our citizenship papers. You remember, we completed our applications together and went for fingerprinting?”

  “No one forgets being fingerprinted,” I said.

  “So it is time to go in and get our citizenship papers,” she reminded me.

  “Yes, I remember. I’ll go to City Hall and get the updated list of requirements,” I promised.

  “Good, because since your sister was born here, she is an American citizen. Allah forbid something crazy or unexpected happens. You and I would get deported and only she would have the legal right to remain here. They could force us to be separated from Naja.” She said these words so seriously, it seemed that she was experiencing a piece of the pain from the thought alone.

  “I’ll get the papers for us,” I reassured her.

  “And you should consider taking an English course,” I said to Umma.

  “You’re funny,” she said, laughing. “Your mother speaks only Arabic. Your love speaks only Japanese!”

  “True, and both of you will have to learn if we’re going to stay in the U.S. Otherwise you’ll both worry me to death,” I said seriously. She hugged me. “I’ll do it for you,” she said.

  The young bank teller who sat at the same window every day broke out of her mechanical routine and got soft and friendly when I handed in the dough. When she looked up and smiled at me, I gave her that mechanical look she usually has plastered on her face. As I turned to leave, I thought to myself, it must be the money.

  In the taxi waiting for me outside, I handed Umma the passbook. I pointed out the new stamp, confirming our new bank balance, eighty-five thousand U.S. dollars.

  We dropped Naja directly at Khadija’s School For Islamic Girls. Afterwards we directed our cab to the address of the dojo. I needed to speak directly with Sensei about rescheduling my weapons class. He was strict about his students keeping their word and honoring their agreements. So was I.

  We rescheduled and agreed on weapons class for Thursday at 8:00 A.M. until twelve noon. I think he considered my punishment for rescheduling to be the extra early morning class and the extra two hours of instruction. But there was no punishment in it for me. I was ready to learn whatever he was willing to teach.

  At home we unpacked and resituated things.

  I showered and jumped back into jeans and kicks and a Polo shirt.

  We prayed.

  By telephone I made the appointments for us to see some properties tomorrow.

  In our building, I spoke to Ms. Marcy about our scheduling changes for the week due to Umma’s temporary night shift. She eagerly agreed for Naja’s sake and the extra earnings as well. I spoke sharply to her about getting enough rest so she wouldn’t leave Naja unsupervised while she slept. I reminded her that only she should answer her door and even then, there was no reason to open it.

  I escorted Umma to work by 3:45 P.M. She went in fifteen minutes early.

  31

  LEARNING HER BODY

  I had some downtime until basketball practice at the gym, so I headed to the bookstore feeling all right but with a whole lot of shit on my mind.

  “Long time,” Marty Bookbinder said. “Don’t I deserve a rematch?” he asked me.

  “A rematch is cool. But I hope you been practicing,” I joked.

  “All day! I got nothing better to do.” He smiled.

  “Thursday then. I’ll come by. Today I need to do some reading.”

  He watched me as I changed from my usual path, which was to check out the mystery books first. I turned and looked back at him, jarring him so he would mind his business.

  All of the adult magazines were covered up with paper so you couldn’t see the images until after you made the purchase. They were always there in the bookstore in the same “Adults Only” section. But I never messed with them or even stopped to try and look.

  Now, curiosity had me open. It wasn’t really the pictures I wanted. I wanted to read about females, what they want and what they like. I wanted to learn about how to make them feel good. I wanted to know when I put my finger on her panties, why did she suddenly get wet? I wanted to know why on the phone, and whenever I was near her, she breathed so hard. I wanted to know why she moaned and what really triggered it to happen. I wanted to know everything about women without having a conversation about it.

  I knew I could just rely on my instincts about what to do. I could just deal with each situation as it came up. Yet when I looked into these females’ eyes, they stared at me like I was gonna give them the most extreme amount of pleasure imaginable, the highest high. Truthfully, I wanted to be able to do it right and smooth so she could feel real, real good. When she thought of the best earthly feeling in the world, I wanted her to t
hink only of me.

  I knew that when I kissed Akemi, she started sucking on my lips and tongue. It felt so good to me that I found myself recalling the feeling and re-experiencing it when I was all alone. Her kiss alone left a deep craving in me. I wanted to be kissing her all of the time. I didn’t need no magazine or book to feel and react to that. Still I was curious about the female body, the inside and how it worked. I wanted the upper hand, to be in control of the lovemaking even though I didn’t have the experience.

  I left out of the “Adults Only” section and found a human anatomy book instead. It was corny, dry, and factual. The drawings of the human body in there didn’t seem real. All of the women were red. All of the men were drawn blue. It was hard for me to look at their drawings and transform them into what I saw when I looked at a real female.

  I read the words anyway.

  I discovered the clitoris, a woman’s pleasure point. It was all news to me, a small spot like a button at the opening of the vagina, which a male could touch, even just lightly with a finger, to bring a female a great rush of pleasure. And what if I put my tongue on it and moved it back and forth? I thought.

  I read about how a female’s pussy gets moist as she becomes excited. And that a female’s pleasure is related to how relaxed, safe, and comfortable she feels.

  I read about women’s nipples and how they’re also highly sensitive and become erect when she is excited. I was fascinated that even a light wind could cause a nipple to plump up. I thought it was amazing of Allah to design our bodies to reveal our true desires. Both of us, the females and the males.

  I learned about a woman’s orgasm, the point where her pleasure becomes so intense and unbearable that she experiences an internal explosion and showers down fluids and feels an unbelievable release and peace. Wow! That’s something I can’t wait to cause to happen. I want to watch and see what her face looks like when I am there making it happen to her.