They were married in August, on a plane to America less than a week later.
MENTOR HEADLANDS
On a snowy February Friday, Muneer awakens into darkness. He twists the lamp switch: bright, brighter, brightest, back to darkness, back to least bright. He closes his eyes and opens them until his pupils adjust. He feels this way in his marriage, in his life here—as though his eyes are constantly trying to accustom themselves to a too-intense light.
Saeedah sleeps with her back straightened against the wall, her mouth ajar, the corners of her lips glistening. He goes to the bathroom and pees, washes up, prays, dresses, eats breakfast, wrestles his comically enormous down coat out of the closet and off a hanger.
He hears her moving around upstairs, the old wooden floorboards of the house creaking. He places Saeedah’s gloves, scarf, and hat on the folding chair. He feels optimistic for no reason whatsoever—other than his faith that God is looking out for him. Moved by this good feeling, he decides not to go upstairs and say goodbye, for fear she might ruin his mood. He knows it’s wrong to feel that way, but he wants to go on with his day. Outside, he sticks his tongue out to catch the snow floating in the slanted orange-yellow light of street lamps. Snow still amazes him. He doesn’t need Saeedah by his side to enjoy the snow.
He slides into the dark green Beetle’s cold white vinyl seat and takes the car down the driveway in neutral before turning the key. The engine sputters. He steers widely around corners with his puffy ski gloves slipping on the steering wheel, keeps the engine in high gear, and avoids stops.
He feels oddly free.
The snow-covered pizzeria parking lot, not much bigger than a pizza pie, is nearly empty, too, except for a white Datsun delivery car. As Muneer drives into the lot, the VW skids suddenly and swings around 180 degrees. Muneer’s heart thumps in his throat and his right leg shakes uncontrollably, yet he keeps his foot on the brake. The optimistic feeling dissipates. When the car stops, he is confronted by the silent side street, the shadowy porches of the houses on the other side, their windows’ white curtains like starched ghutrahs. He gets out and trudges through the snow to where Jameel stands outside the back door, which is wide open to the cold and lets the shop’s lurid neon light out onto the stoop.
Muneer isn’t sure whether Jameel saw the one-eighty or not. If he did, other issues outweigh his concern for Muneer’s safety.
“Roaches,” Jameel says. “The health department is shutting us down.”
“For how long? Is Tony going to pay us for showing up?”
“Tony! Muneer wants to know if he’s getting paid,” Jameel shouts in English through a tear in the screen door. He says it with an edge of sarcasm, like he already knows the answer. A ruckus from inside and some cussing, then Tony yells, “Shut the frigging door.”
“Ya Allah,” Jameel says.
Muneer digs his hands into his pockets, as though searching them for cash. His Saudi government stipend won’t be enough once the baby comes, if he wants to keep sending money to his mother. But Jameel seems unworried. He’s happy, smiling his blizzard-bright smile. With time to kill, they drive the Beetle to the Jewish greasy spoon on Lee Road, where they don’t have to worry about whether or not they’re ordering pork.
Muneer gives the cashier girl fifteen cents for the Plain Dealer, and he and Jameel sit at a table in the corner and order beef sausages, sunny-side-up eggs, and rye toast. Muneer pokes a yellow half globe with the blunt corner of his toast and watches the bright liquid seep out. Maneuvering his thumb and two fingers, he tears off a bit of bread and twists it to grab some egg and sausage. He holds the newspaper in his other hand, eating and reading at the same time. Juggling the two activities calms him, keeps him from obsessing about the pizzeria and the money he’s losing.
“Get your nose out of the paper,” Jameel says. They speak English to avoid curious, sometimes mildly concerned looks. “No wonder your wife’s depressed.”
Muneer jabs his other egg with another bit of toast. Jameel always thinks he knows something other people don’t.
“She’s fine, thank God.”
Jameel folds his paper napkin into a small, fat square. “Ya shaykh.” He takes a breath, as though putting mental effort into returning to English. “She’s not fine. Something’s gone wrong with her. And with you. You jump when she’s near.”
Muneer wants to deny it. But arguing is tiresome. “I’ll stop reading if you stop talking about my wife like she’s a bad piece of fruit.”
“OK, habibi,” Jameel says. He pulls a small velvet box out of his pocket with a twist of the wrist that reminds Muneer of the magician they saw last summer at Cedar Point. With one thumb, Jameel pops the box open. A diamond ring.
The room is steamy and overheated, the smell of grease cloying. They’ve both removed their sweaters and draped them over their coats on the backs of their chairs. Muneer waves the newspaper like a fan.
Jameel sets the box on the table, in front of the salt and pepper.
“For Diane.”
“I know,” Muneer says, as though he anticipated this, which he did not. There are many things Muneer could ask: Has Jameel spoken to his father? Has Diane agreed to convert?
“What will you do with her dog?” he says.
“She’s giving the dog to her sister.” Jameel opens his palms as though he might slap Muneer on both sides of his face. Muneer flinches. Jameel brings one palm to his heart. “Come to the ceremony.”
“At the mosque?”
“City hall.”
“What if she doesn’t want to leave Cleveland?”
“We’ve talked about it.”
“She won’t be able to drive, or wear that cross.”
“It’s halal to marry a Christian, Muneer.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about will your wife be depressed if you take her to Jidda.”
Jameel snaps the box shut and returns the ring to his pocket. “Let’s go.”
“Where you guys from?” the girl says when they pay.
“We’re Spanish,” says Jameel, laughing a little at his own lie.
“Beirut,” says Muneer.
“My father-in-law’s Moroccan,” the girl says.
“Merhebeh,” says Muneer, putting on a Lebanese accent, which is lost on the cashier. But Jameel laughs.
Free from work, they drive to the West Side to attend Friday prayer at a modest storefront mosque they’ve gone to once or twice before. The imam is an Indian South African, tall with broomstick limbs and a wispy-curly beard. Today’s sermon rouses Muneer from the everyday and reminds him there are people out to get him and all other Muslims. People, the imam says, who want to steer them from God and tie them to Satan: Zionists and Hollywood producers and starlets and congressmen and regular Americans who offer Believers bacon bits on their baked potatoes and wine with dinner and Oreos that harbor lard in them. Judging by the rigid faces of the other men in the room, Jameel included, they also feel the sermon beating against their insides like a drum. They nod and murmur at the imam’s aphorisms. Muneer leaves homesick and discontented and determined not to return to the mosque anytime soon.
Back at the house, he writes a ten-page letter to his father. He composes these letters weekly, folds them up and shoves them into envelopes. He addresses them before slipping the fat envelopes into a brown accordion folder he keeps on the top shelf of the bedroom closet.