The gatekeepers notebook, p.16
The Gatekeeper’s Notebook, page 16
“You see this piece here,” Qasim asked, pointing. “You’re lucky it isn’t broken, or you’d need to get the deck tray replaced.” Kalila leaned over his shoulder to take a closer look. He tried to ignore her sweet, alluring scent.
“Excuse me.” Qasim bent lower to reconnect the drive cable to the anchor post. “There you go. Should be good as new.”
“Thank you so much, brother Qasim.”
“My pleasure.” Without waiting for a reply, he walked over to the garbage and recycling bins and starting dragging them to the curb.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Kalila said, appearing somewhat uncomfortable.
“Not a problem,” Qasim called over his shoulder, entirely unaware of the pissed off pair of beady eyes aiming daggers at him from across the street.
Once he had the cans properly situated, Qasim headed home but stopped. “You’re not planning on doing the lawn yourself, are you?” he asked Kalila, back at the mower attempting to start it. “You have a pretty big patch of land here.”
“No choice. If I don’t, I’ll get fined for being the block eyesore.” Kalila shrugged. “Besides, I could use the exercise.”
Qasim only believed half that excuse. Not an ounce of anything extra graced those svelte bones. “Don’t you use the same lawn service we do?”
“We did—I mean, I did,” she quickly corrected herself, “but I had to cancel them. Their rates were getting a bit steep, and with hospital bills, funeral costs, and the open house this weekend, I can’t exactly splurge on their service. Not when I can just as easily do it myself.”
It never occurred to Qasim that Kalila would be struggling financially. He had assumed, probably like everyone else that Bashir had left her life insurance and money in the bank. His shame and guilt once again resurfaced and intensified, creeping up his throat, raging. Qasim hoped she hadn’t noticed.
“Look, put that thing away. The guy who owns the company, Rich Townsend? He owes me a big favor. I’ll give him a call and see what I can work out.” Reaching into his pocket, Qasim pulled out his wallet. “Here’s my business card,” he said, tapping his shirt pocket. “Do you have a pen or pencil?”
Kalila put her give me a second finger up and rushed inside, emerging seconds later holding a pen.
“Thanks.” Qasim turned over the card and started writing on the back. “This is my work number, and this,” he said, pointing to what he just wrote, “is my personal cell number if you need to contact me right away.”
“I appreciate that,” said Kalila.
“Just call or text. Either one.”
“That’s really kind of you, but I can’t let you do that.” Kalila tried her hand at starting the mower again but with little success.
Proud and beautiful.
“Well, then at least let me do the lawn for you.” Qasim caught Kalila wince. “Just this one time. Your grass is kind of—” He searched for a diplomatic way of putting it, “long right now. It won’t be easy for the machine to cut.”
Kalila blushed. Long wasn’t the word for it. She hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“It would be my pleasure, sister.”
Please let me at least do this for you.
Kalila glanced around the lawn.
“A fresh cut could make a big difference as to whether or not the house sells and at what price,” he added to sway her in his favor.
Kalila wrung her hands. “I mean, it is a big lawn, and I do have the open house this weekend…but I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“It’s not a big deal. Give me a few minutes to change out of my suit, and I’ll be right over. Just leave the machine right there; I’ll take care of it.” Qasim spun around and jogged off in the direction of his house.
Kalila gave him the thumbs up.
“Oh,” he called out, snapping his fingers, while turning to face her. “You wouldn’t happen to know if the mower has gas?”
This time Kalila genuinely smiled and laughed. “Maybe?” she admitted, palms up to the sky.
Qasim laughed. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”
She’s gorgeous.
Qasim sprinted home, a big smile plastered across his face.
Meanwhile, the furious face pressed smack against the window across the street seethed long heated breaths. Each exhale left huge watermarks and smudges on the glass.
Since when did his lazy ass start jogging?
“Ma! Can I have cereal?” shouted Amir from the kitchen.
“No,” snapped Amara, reluctant to leave her post.
“How about pretzels?”
Ya Allah. Why won’t these kids leave me alone for one damn freakin’ minute?
“Take an apple, Amir.”
What the heck did Qasim just hand that viper?
“I don’t want an apple.”
“I want an apple,” countered Muhammad.
“Shut up,” snapped Amir. “I’m trying to talk to mom.”
“Mom! Amir just told me to shut up.”
“Tattletale.”
“Snitch.”
Allah, kill me now.
“Amir, leave your brother alone,” shouted Amara.
“He started it.”
“Both of you—take a damn apple.” Amara pressed her face to the glass.
What’s he all smiles about?
“Can I have pretzels and an apple?” asked Amir.
“Would you two leave me alone for one freaking minute!” roared Amara. “Take one or the other. Apple or pretzels. I don’t care which but eat it and shut the hell up!”
The front door flew open. Qasim barreled inside, kicking off his shoes and taking the stairs two at a time. His grand entrance only served to make Amara seethe even harder. Trailing after him, she had a few questions that needed answering.
Qasim peeled off his suit and flung it across the bed. Just as he stepped into a pair of jeans, he caught Amara standing in the doorway, face patchy pink and fuming.
“What were you doing at her house?” she asked, eyes squinting mad.
“The sister had a problem with her lawn mower.” Qasim knew from past experience that adding details to his answers would only open him up to further interrogation. “Where’s my gray sweatshirt?”
“Second drawer from the top, right side,” quipped Amara curtly. “What are you all in a rush about? And why are you getting changed? I thought you had to go straight back to work.”
“I don’t want my suit getting messed up.”
Amara scowled. “And why pray tell, would your suit get messed up?” She only used “pray tell” when zeroing in for the kill.
“Because I’m going to mow the lawn.” Qasim stiffened, waiting for the inevitable explosion.
“Whose lawn? Our lawn?” Amara gripped her waist with both hands, shaking her head in disbelief. “Oh, I get it now. You mean her lawn.”
“She needs help, Amara.”
“And you’ve decided to play her knight in shining armor.”
“It’s a lawn, Amara. That’s all. Just a lawn.”
“You don’t even do our lawn and all of a sudden you can’t wait to do hers.”
“She can’t afford the service,” he interjected. “Times are tough for her.”
“Times are tough for her,” repeated Amara, belligerently, but Qasim refused to take the bait, knowing full well that the minute he got drawn into a justification—he lost. She’d have to be mad because he sure as shit would never admit how his guilt and debilitating shame were the key motivators in his making the offer. Nor was Qasim ready to admit how desire had also decided to show up in the mix. Rushing, he tugged his dresser drawer open. “It’s not here,” he said as he sifted wildly through the clothes. “My sweatshirt isn’t here.”
Amara sneered. “Try checking in Kalila’s garbage can.”
Chapter Sixteen
Neighbors, Friends & Foes
Walaa
“HOLD UP. THIS CAN’T be right,” murmured Walaa as she drove past Kalila’s house, practically twisting in a neck-breaking double take. “Well I’ll be—” she mumbled, mind-blown after realizing the identity of the guy mowing Kalila’s lawn.
No way…
Walaa peered into her rearview mirror to confirm that Amara’s van was, in fact, parked in her driveway.
I’m so confused.
Walaa had been on her way to go food shopping, but now she was half-tempted to drive past Kalila’s house again for a better look-see. On second thought, she pulled over to the mailboxes near the front gate and parked, fumbling in her bag for her phone.
As salaamu alaikum. You won’t believe what I just saw or rather who.
Dots moved in the message bar, indicating Nafiza was responding. Wa alaikum salaam. Who?
Walaa typed back. r u sitting? u have to be sitting for this.
LOL, ok—lay it on me.
I just drove by Kalila’s house. Brother Qasim is mowing her lawn.
A moment went by. The moving dots in the message bar indicated typing. Then it stopped. Then it started again and then stopped. Apparently, Nafiza was at a loss for words. A one-word response came a minute later. Wallahi?
Yes! By Allah, I just saw him.
Amara’s Qasim?
Yes!
No words. Thoroughly confused. Does Amara know?
Walaa wiggled her finger over the keys, unsure of how to answer. No clue, but A’s van is in the driveway. Maybe A & K made peace?
* * *
Nafiza sent back a thinking emoji face, then a laughing hysterically emoji with tears springing from the eyes. Then typed, Yeah, ok…
What do you mean?
* * *
A few seconds went by before Nafiza answered. I mean it could be the exact opposite.
—I don’t understand, Walaa typed back, then quickly followed it up with, OH! Wait–r-u-saying?
Another short pause. Just saying don’t assume anything.
Walaa sighed. Amara will lose her mind.
I think that’s a given, replied Nafiza.
I’m not joking. This could start a war.
A moment later, Nafiza responded. Do NOT get involved.
Walaa swallowed hard. Gotta go. TTYL. ASA.
Walaa tossed her phone onto the passenger seat like it was a hot coal. Exhaling, she closed her eyes to absorb the enormity of what Nafiza just implied.
If Nafiza’s right—and I’m not saying she is, but if—
Walaa groaned, unable to imagine the level of toxic fallout this could produce. Reaching into the glove compartment, she grabbed another bag of salty chips from her stash and started shoving them in her mouth by the handful, not sure who or what to blame for her nausea this time.
Nafiza
Nafiza pocketed her phone. Ya Allah. She’d been an Imam’s wife long enough to know the signs of impending disaster when she saw them, but honestly, who in their right mind could have predicted this match made in hell?
Over a third cup of decaf coffee, she mulled over what to do next with this new information. Whether or not to warn Abdullah about what he could expect as the Imam. Nafiza knew already how carefully she’d have to tread. She felt protective, wanting to make sure her husband had a heads up to give him ample time to prepare for the onslaught that would inevitably follow once this news broke.
She weighed her options.
If I’m right and go ahead and tell him something of this magnitude and it turns out not to be true, besides feeling like a fool, he’ll automatically assume I engage in gossip. Then he’ll never trust my instincts or confide in me in the future.
No, I better wait, just to make sure.
She hoped she wasn’t barking up the wrong tree. Nafiza mindlessly tapped her manicured nail on the table.
Then again, what if I’m right and some crazy stuff pops off before I get the chance to tell Abdullah? I can’t let him get cornered by Amara—
Nafiza reached out for her mobile.
I’ll just ask Kalila straight out.
Nafiza began to dial then stopped.
What do I say? How do I word it?
“Hey, Kalila? It’s me, Nafiza. Just curious, you wouldn’t be currently in hot pursuit of Amara’s husband, would you?”
Ugh.
Nafiza pushed the cell away.
This is stupid. Kalila would never be interested in Qasim.
Would she?
Nafiza counted back the months on her fingers since Bashir died. One-two-three—over six months ago, almost seven now. Maybe closer to eight. With Kalila’s iddah more than satisfied, she could marry again without worrying about anyone criticizing her for remarrying too quickly after her husband’s death. Kalila certainly wouldn’t be pregnant…not after this length of time, unless…
Nafiza leaned back in her chair, eyes up to the ceiling, unable for the life of her to picture Kalila and Qasim as a couple. Then again, she remembered Kalila’s meltdown after finding out that Bashir stopped paying on his life insurance. Nafiza had witnessed firsthand the fear splattered across many a widow’s faces. Without that money to count on to get through the rough patches, Kalila could be feeling desperate and vulnerable; willing to make choices she might not have ever entertained before.
“Damn it!” Nafiza moaned, thumping her fist on the table. Circumstances like Kalila’s had become the norm, with a surprising number of men flagrantly ignoring the guidance provided to them, not just from the leadership, but from within the Quran as well.
How many lengthy, detailed khutbahs, expounding about the need for all husbands to make a will in favor of their wives had Abdullah given over the years? Repeatedly emphasizing the obligation all husbands—and fathers—had to leave the proper provisions in case of an unexpected death or illness. Yet still, despite all of Abdullah’s reminders and guidance, his words fell on deaf and arrogant ears—bullish men more than willing to play Russian roulette with their family’s security.
Then of course, when something catastrophic happens, and it always does, it wasn’t these guys left to suffer, but their families! Hysterical widows calling on my husband to save the day.
Without much recourse, people had begun to rely on social media as a way to generate funds to collect additional money as a means to cover exorbitant funeral costs or to help the surviving children with future college costs. During Friday prayers, the collection basket got passed around on a regular basis, but in a time of crisis, more often than not, the bake sales and fundraisers were left to the sisters; many of whom knew that only by the Grace of God, that it could have been any one of them left destitute.
This all made absolutely no sense to Nafiza, who felt this was basically, a preventable issue. Yet hardheaded men continued to do it and often.
One thing’s for sure, decided Nafiza; No matter what Kalila thinks she has up her sleeve, if any of her plans include Qasim Zubairi in any shape or form, then guaranteed, Amara will be on the warpath.
And that, Kalila could take to the bank.
Chapter Seventeen
Paper Trail
Melvin
MELVIN COULDN’T FALL ASLEEP, too wound up to rest. His anxiety often betrayed and trapped him beneath the weight of a thousand jumbled images all competing for his attention; forever engaging him in an unrelenting desire for repetitive and obsessive behaviors. With only a limited ability to communicate his feelings, he relied primarily on his tools—paper and pencil—to do the talking for him. To liberate the pictures and thoughts trapped inside his brain, and in doing so, make space available for the next wave of exhaustive images to arrive in an already co-opted sphere.
Melvin leaned on the sink brushing his teeth for precisely two minutes straight; reciting the alphabet precisely three times. When done, he banged his toothbrush against the sink three times before placing it back in the jar. Once finished scrubbing his face and hands, Melvin combed through his thinning hair before switching the bathroom light off. Never a deviation.
Earlier in the evening, as Melvin sat in the kitchen sketching, he heard his mother’s slippers clack down the hall as she scrambled to the bathroom. Melvin started to moan. He quickly covered his ears to block out the retching noises, all while rocking back and forth.
Although Melvin often resisted most outward signs of affection, he accepted the occasional hug or kiss from his mother. “Mama,” he called, knocking on the door. “Mama. Mama. Mama.” He repeated; his voice devoid of emotion.
“I’m okay, Melvin,” came the hoarse, garbled reply. “Just a little bellyache. Nothing to worry about, son.”
But Melvin wasn’t worried as much as frightened. Sounds, particularly those that were loud, scared him. Every time Mama ran to the bathroom, he’d become nervous and disappear into his bedroom, safely out of earshot.
Melvin usually went to bed at the same time every evening, but when his anxiety loomed, he preferred staying awake to draw. Letting his thoughts expel themselves on paper; discharged permanently from his head. Tonight, would be that kind of night. Melvin returned to his bedroom and closed the door.
He hung his bathrobe on the door hook, then slipped off his slippers at the side of his bed and propped the pillows behind his back and neck for adequate support. Once comfortable, he tucked the blanket around his legs, and reached for his pad and pencil, ready and waiting on his night table.
And then, seemingly with a mind of their own, his fingers took over, turning lines, swirls, squiggles, and circles into clear and concise images. The pencil became his microphone. A living extension of his biological digits. Casual loops, dashes, and dots melded together into an exquisite picture. Depending on his mood, the figures he drew could be either light and blithe, giving off an almost impressionistic air—or dark and looming—and exacting in their appearance. This evening. Melvin’s characters would lean towards the latter as he penciled what he had seen but not understood.
Melvin began by sketching two full figures. Once done, he added another, a more ominous figure, shadowed by a curtain. A silhouette with mostly angry, mean eyes full of rage and hate. Melvin knew those eyes, and they had frightened him.
