A Moment of Silence: Midnight III

  “Chiasa!” Marcus said in a tone with too much authority for a guy who was not her father or her husband. “You’re still planning to fly, aren’t you?” It was a question, but he actually said it like a demand. So, I interjected.

  “Sounds good. By the time all of you fellas are through getting an education, I’ll have more than enough capital. All four of you can come work for me,” I said. Dr. Moody laughed a deep and hearty laugh and his wife began laughing also. Chiasa was smiling. I wasn’t, and neither was Marcus or his brothers.

  “But you do know that education is important, don’t you?” Aunt Tasha asked me, as her laughter evaporated. “Part of our social adjustment is hinged on education. We’ve all read the classics, like the entire Shakespeare collection, Langston Hughes, Edgar Allan Poe’s work, James Baldwin, and of course there are two must-read novels that come to mind: F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby and Catcher in the Rye, written by J.D. Salinger. Every American has to read those two in high school.”

  “This boy doesn’t need Shakespeare. He just told us he saw Jannat in our Chiasa’s eyes. He’s a poet. Besides, Shakespeare’s Juliet was only thirteen and Romeo not much older than her when they married after only knowing one another for one day. If he reads Shakespeare it might reinforce this boy’s ideas,” Dr. Moody said, half joking, half serious.

  “Yes, but Romeo and Juliet committed suicide,” Chiasa said. “Our love is not like theirs. We bypassed our obstacles. We are young and married already, and our love is awesome.” She silenced them.

  “I believe it is,” Aunt Tasha said. “But that’s not what we are discussing.”

  “What are we discussing?” I asked, and Aunt Tasha paused.

  “I think we are all shocked. It is nothing against you at all. We held Chiasa in our arms when she was a newborn. She lived in Japan, but whenever she traveled to America, I raised her like she was my daughter and so did her uncle. My sons love Chiasa and grew up beside her over the years when she visited the States.” She inhaled, then exhaled as though she had run a marathon. But she was just talking while seated. It obviously meant a lot to her.

  “We saw her just a couple of months ago and she was the same girl she has always been, really beautiful, super intelligent, swift and joyful, and single.”

  “She still is,” I said. “Really beautiful, super intelligent, swift and joyful. The only difference is, now, she is my wife, by choice. Not by force.”

  “But you are disregarding the elephant in the room,” Aunt Tasha said. “This past Christmas, Chiasa and our entire family were guests at the Christmas Eve service in the Abyssinian Baptist Church, right here in Harlem. That was seven months ago. Now we are told that she is Muslim. All of these changes happened so dramatically, so swiftly, we are shocked, and I think we need to hear something moving and true to help each of us get comfortable with this idea.” She exhaled.

  “Your brother is Chiasa’s father, true?” I asked Dr. Tasha.

  “Absolutely!” she said.

  “He handed his daughter to me.”

  “Fucking impossible,” Marcus growled.

  “I sincerely hope that’s moving and true enough for you. A father has that right, doesn’t he? Even her Japanese grandfather agreed,” I said, shifting the weight onto the men in my wife’s family, where in my tradition it belonged. A daughter goes from the hand of her father to the hand of her husband.

  “That’s moving enough for me,” Dr. Moody said solemnly. “He made it out of Japan with the General’s daughter. That couldn’t have been easy.” He chuckled, a sinister sound. “Matter of fact, I’m sure he’s making it sound a lot easier than it was,” he said, continuing his bass-tone sarcasm and laughter. “Besides, our Chiasa is wearing a clear, two-karat pear-shaped diamond wedding ring and seven diamond bracelets. She wasn’t wearing those three months ago. That takes more than emotion. That takes commitment and capital. I think this young man is moving and serious,” he said, downshifting me from “son,” to “this boy” and then promoting me to “young man.”

  “I enjoyed the food,” I complimented Aunt Tasha.

  “It’s catered by Copeland’s, right here in Harlem,” she said with a hint of frustration.

  “Aunt Tasha,” Chiasa said softly. “Remember how you guys used to tease me about how Japanese I was, and how I was so shy and subdued and wouldn’t do the same things as you all did? Marcus spent a whole summer trying to teach me how to yell when I’m angry and what to say and how to curse people out when they deserved it.”

  Everyone laughed. They must have been remembering. “Well also, there were the times all of us would go to church, and you would ask me if I felt the spirit of Jesus and I would always say ‘no,’ and then apologize to you. Remember the lady who jumped up in the middle of the sermon and burst out in tears and began running back and forth in the aisles of the church and speaking some weird language, and you all told me she was ‘speaking in tongues’? Then she broke out of her trance and collapsed! Does everybody remember?” Chiasa asked and a few of them mumbled, “Yes.” Xavier laughed.

  “Well, I think back then there was something missing inside of me. I don’t know if it was missing because my mom and my grandparents and everyone on my mom’s side is Japanese and they don’t really have a religion, or for some other reason. But I knew it was missing. I desperately wanted to find that feeling. When Midnight and I first met, he was fasting from food and water. He told me that he was a Muslim. I could see that he was really handsome and beautiful and I liked that and all of that was obvious. But the idea that he was not having food and water for thirty days, each day until sunset and before sunrise, fascinated me. It wasn’t a diet or a plan to grab first place in a competitive tournament or anything like that. It was a complete humbling. It was a way for him to express his thanks to the One who made his soul, not in simple words like thank you or arigato gozaimas, which we can all say even when we are not sincere, but through action and restraint and discipline and sacrifice. I loved that. I thought that was incredible. No one would do that in the blinding shine and intense heat of the Japanese sun that rises up so early. And I know it’s scary to you guys, but I also know that it shouldn’t be. Allah is the Maker of all of our souls, even the Maker of the souls of each of our prophets, including Jesus. The prophets were all human beings after all, right?” She glanced around the table. In her eyes was both her sincerity and her apprehension. She loved her family and didn’t want to lose them. She really wanted them to understand.

  “He didn’t preach to me or ask me to do anything that he was doing. It was the beauty of the example he was setting for me by simply doing what he believed, that struck me,” Chiasa said warmly.

  “Now you know I love books. So I did some research and discovered the Holy Quran. I began reading it and I fell in love with the rhythm of the words, the meaning of the words, and what felt like the force behind the words. I’ll admit, I began reading not at the beginning. I began with the chapter named ‘The Women.’ I thought it was great that it said ‘Allah created man and woman from one soul.’ That alone blew me away.

  “And when I saw him pray, he went from standing upright to bowing slightly to going down on his knees and ultimately to pressing his forehead to the ground in what we call a full sajdah. Seeing that caused a shift inside of me and I could really honestly finally feel my soul move. The strongest feeling I experienced was that this felt like the truth. And more importantly, that it felt like what I should be doing also. Not for him, but for my soul.” She looked around the table at her relatives to see if they could feel her words and how they would react. I knew it was very important to her that she say the truth without hurting any of her cherished relationships.

  Everyone’s reaction was the same—pure silence.

  “Aunt Tasha, it was you who used to encourage me to read the Bible stories. Remember the story of Solomon and Sheba? Each of them had their own kingdoms, territories and riches and armies, and so on. They did not even know one anot
her. Now I find that I am similar to Sheba. She came from a great land, was loved and had everything she wanted. But, she came from a people who worshipped the sun.

  “Like Sheba, I came from a great land, Japan, a great language, a great culture of arts and literature and lifestyle, except Japanese people do not worship God. In Japan we can wake up each day for thousands of days and years and bow before family, friends, statues, and co-workers, and even complete strangers, but never, ever bend our knees to say a prayer to the One who gave us life. When Solomon heard news of the powerful Queen Sheba who had everything, and who was a ruler in her own right, but that Sheba and her people did not worship Allah, he was saddened by it. How could any king or queen or nation or people not worship the One who created their souls, gave them life, and also created the sun and the moon and the stars and the skies and the heavens and the mountains and the oceans and the universe? Solomon sent Sheba a letter by a courier bird. The bird dropped the letter at the feet of Sheba. When she read the letter that Solomon wrote urging her and her people to worship only Allah, she did not know how to react. She had her pride and so did her advisors. The men in the council that surrounded her, whose opinions she respected, wanted her to go to war against Solomon for suggesting that such a great queen and her people of great wealth and prosperity should bow down. Sheba overruled these men. She said it was better to go take a look at and a listen to Solomon, and to then consider the truth and the weight of his words. She went. She saw. She bowed down, not to Solomon, but to Allah. My husband is my Solomon, so to speak. He delivered to me the message to bow down to Allah just by being himself. And a girl who thought she had everything before really does have everything now. And I have it in the right order, thankfully. Allah is One—my faith, my man, my family, and the community of everyone and anyone who is striving to live true.”

  “But you are not turned against us now that you believe that way, are you?” Xavier asked her.

  “Of course not!” Chiasa smiled. “We will always be family. And goodness gracious, I humbled myself before God, and I got married, but I can still ride my horse and wield my sword, and fly my planes!” She was getting excited!

  “And push your Kawasaki!” Marcus said.

  “And come to the family celebration on July Fourth like every year,” Martin said.

  “And play the piano,” Aunt Tasha added.

  * * *

  After dinner, I could sense by the way things were moving that they didn’t want to let go of my wife. Her aunt was seated beside her on the piano bench in their piano room as Chiasa played and her family shouted out different songs they wanted to hear, from Beethoven to Joplin. Aunt Tasha’s sister-in-law arrived with her grown daughter. Now there were four women and six men in the house, which made it less tense. Or maybe it just caused a delay in the confrontation of men.

  “Dr. Moody, I’d like to make a phone call if you don’t mind,” I said.

  “You can use my office. It’ll be quiet in there,” he said. I followed him out of the piano room and down a corridor. He unlocked his office with a key, I noted. He opened the door and pointed to the phone. “It’s not long distance, is it, son?”

  “No sir. If it was, I’d pay you for it up front.” I smiled.

  “Don’t touch my papers,” he said.

  “No problem. Thank you.”

  I pulled out a phone card; I didn’t want even the local call to appear on their bill. “Umma,” I began speaking in Arabic. I was just checking on her and Naja. Afterwards, I asked to speak to my first wife.

  “Akemi,” I said.

  “Hai,” she said softly.

  “You good?” I asked her.

  “Hai,” she said softly.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Music,” she said softly. Then she exhaled. “I wait. You come,” she said. I smiled.

  “You wait, I’ll definitely come home to you,” I promised her, still smiling. When I looked up, Marcus was standing there in the office doorway. “Akemi, aisheteru,” I said and hung up.

  “Look like you want something,” I said to Marcus because of his grimace.

  “We gon’ fight,” he said. “But not in this house.”

  “Just you, or all four?” I asked him.

  “Me first,” he said.

  “You first? You must already know you gonna lose,” I told him and smiled.

  “Think whatever you wanna think. I’ll let my hands do the talking,” he said.

  “Yeah, money, whatever, wherever, whenever. You call it,” I told him.

  His father stepped up behind him. “You done, son?” he asked me.

  “Yes sir,” I responded. He put his hand on Marcus’s shoulder and asked him, “Did you tell the young man we’re headed to the club?”

  “I was just about to,” Marcus said.

  “The men are all headed to the health club for a workout, swimming, basketball, racquetball, weight lifting, steam room, sauna—whatever your thing is. You’re invited,” Dr. Moody said, taking over what he had obviously sent Marcus to say and do. Marcus had taken it on himself to eavesdrop instead.

  “In Harlem?” I asked. I had never seen no facility like that up here and I been through Harlem more than a few times and even check a barber out this way from time to time. Dr. Moody laughed.

  “Harlem’s got everything a man who can afford it needs. It’s a private club. You can come in on our membership, VIP pass,” he offered.

  “I definitely want to. But the women got me out of my Nikes, and into my loafers for the night. Plus, I’m wearing a suit. I’m just not prepared. Maybe next time,” I said, regretting not having my usual “ready for all sports, ready for war” wear. Marcus looked glad that I couldn’t come, on one hand, and mad that he couldn’t try and get at me, on the other. They both turned and walked out and I followed, shutting the door behind me. He better know I wasn’t stalling on our battle, I thought. I’d fight him. I already knew I wouldn’t hurt him bad and that he wouldn’t hurt me, either. He’s a son who does not want to disappoint his mother or his girl cousin. I am the same. Yet we are men, and sometimes we gotta rough each other up and knock each other out for no right reason. Just to prove who’s dominant.

  When the three of us men walked up into the den where the others were all gathered now, Chiasa stopped talking with the women and stared at me like she knew something. Aunt Tasha was staring at her husband, then at her son, then at me.

  “What?” all three of us men said at the same time.

  * * *

  “The house is quiet now. Normally I would have gone to the club as well. It’s a really relaxing end to an arduous workweek,” Aunt Tasha said.

  “Is the club for men and women?” I asked.

  “Oh yes! They have something for everybody. I prefer a rough game of racquetball, a steam shower, and the massages. Chiasa, next time you and I will get massaged. But of course for children sixteen through eighteen, because you are not legally adults, I would have to sign a waiver and pay the membership visitors fee on your behalf. Under sixteen, you can’t even get in.”

  I caught that she thinks that young people ages sixteen through eighteen are “children.”

  “I hope that you won’t mind if I use this opportunity to steal my niece away from you for a while. I’d like to share a few words with her, ‘girl talk,’ ” she said.

  “What will he do?” Chiasa interjected swiftly. “I haven’t even given him the tour of the house yet.”

  “For now, show him to the ‘room of games.’ He will probably like that. My sons love that room in particular. Then you and I can talk downstairs in my office,” Aunt Tasha said to my wife.

  “Your office, Aunt Tasha! I’m not a patient!” Chiasa protested sweetly.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m good,” I told my wife, to calm her.

  “Do you play pool? You must like music,” her aunt asked me.

  “Actually, I’d like to take a closer look at some of the books you have in your library,” I sa
id to her aunt.

  “Great then, I can show you ‘the room of books.’ It’s our family library. That will keep you occupied for quite some time. Then, Chiasa and I can meet upstairs in my bedroom as we usually would,” she said, making it clear that she didn’t want me to be close to wherever her private meeting with my wife was taking place.

  “It’s there,” she said, pointing me towards the family library as she led Chiasa up the stairs. But then, something began beeping. She lifted her blouse slightly, revealing the Metromedia pager on the waistband of her pants.

  “Awful timing!” she said, sucking her teeth. “Don’t leave,” she told Chiasa. “I’ll call in and come right back.”

  Chiasa stood midway up the stairs, looking me over. Her eyes lit up at our being left alone. In less than two and a half seconds, she was standing right beside me. “Unwrap me,” she requested, her eyes sparkling. “There’s no one here in the house except you and me and Aunt Tasha,” she whispered. “And when Aunt Tasha’s pager goes off, either she comes right back in three or so minutes or thirty minutes or three hours.” I just looked at her, my mind already shifting and my heated heart heating higher. “You don’t want to?” she asked me.

  “I don’t want to what?” I was watching her pretty lips move as she spoke, and her white teeth. And, I was warming her up by making her wait. Naïve at times, the look in her eyes changed as though she really believed that I somehow “didn’t want to.” She raised her hand to remove her hijab. The jingle of her bangles beneath the sleeves of her dress aroused me. I caught her arm, stopping her from removing her hijab.

  “Now, it’s three minutes,” I said to her as I moved in closer and began to unwrap her. I felt her breathing. That aroused me more. Hijab removed, her two long braids holding her thick natural hair in place, I began to unwrap those too.

  “That feels good,” she said once her braids were free. She bent over and shook her loosened hair like a member of a crazy rock band. “Wait till Aunt Tasha sees this,” she said, smiling. “She’ll be insisting on cornrowing my hair. That would take forever.” I didn’t say nothing back. She looked like a she-lion with a majestic mane. Cornrowed, she’d look like an exotic lynx. Either way, I could feel that with her uncle and cousins gone, and her hijab removed, she felt even more comfortable and free. Purposely I watched her to see how she orchestrated her next move. She was staring at me, her eyes dancing.