The gatekeepers notebook, p.21
The Gatekeeper’s Notebook, page 21
“I know this is sudden, but now that your iddah is completed, you’ll need to make some difficult decisions about your future.”
“My future?” she repeated guardedly. Her eyes shifting toward the stairs.
“I mean your well-being. Your security.”
“Oh…well, I see what you’re saying, but for the moment—” she interjected, but to no avail.
“Plus, with Bashir gone,” Qasim interjected, “Hamza’s going to need a strong male model.”
“Ah huh.” Kalila stared down at her hands, brushing her palms together.
“You’re a young woman, he said. “Too young to be a widow, but Allahu alim. You shouldn’t have to be struggling as hard as you are to make ends meet.”
That much was true.
“As my wife, I can support you. Take that burden off your shoulders. Provide the kind of life a woman like you deserves.”
“That’s very kind of you,” she said, trying to find a way to let him down easy. “But how? You’re already married.”
“Can I be honest with you?” he asked, rubbing his hands together.
“Yes, of course.”
“My marriage to Amara isn’t the greatest.”
Oh, here we go…
“We married young. Both of us probably weren’t ready to enter into such a serious commitment, but we did. We’ve stayed together because of the children, at least that’s why I have.”
“I see.”
“The boys need me in their life.”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m not looking to get a divorce.”
“So, you’re asking me to be your—”
“Second wife. Correct.”
Polygamy? Oh, the irony.
Kalila had heard enough. “Pause,” she said, raising a finger in the air before he continued rambling on. “I thank you for your kind and thoughtful, and um…generous—very generous offer, brother Qasim—but I’m still in the midst of sorting my life out. So many things to deal with. Difficult things, like you already mentioned, so I’m going to have to say—”
Qasim lifted his hands. “You don’t need to give me an answer right away,” he said quickly. “Just think about it. That’s all I ask.”
Just think about it? Like we’re playing “Let’s Make a Deal.”
She really wished he’d go home already, back to his nutty wife. “Okay, I can do that,” she conceded, saying anything to get him to leave. Kalila pulled her robe tighter around her waist. “I’ll think about it.”
Taking his cue, Qasim got to his feet and salaamed her, moving towards his shoes but not nearly as briskly as when he arrived.
I can’t believe this…
Kalila followed him to the door, glancing over her shoulder, praying Hamza stayed asleep.
I should have been sharper.
I should have known Qasim’s sudden urge to be Mr. Helpful would come at a price.
How did I miss the signs?
From time to time, she’d catch Qasim from his driveway checking her out, stealing an admiring glance or two. She remembered that time over a year ago when she had elicited a slight blush from him when they had exchanged a polite salaam at the food store, but that was it. Nothing ever much else happened that she could recall, and if it did, it was always at a respectable distance.
So back to the question—why now?
Kalila shook her head, honestly stumped. Face growing hot, she rubbed her clammy palms together and began to pace; trudging impatiently up and down the rugged hall.
Amara would lose her mind if she found out her husband came here and asked me to marry him.
That thought alone made her stomach churn.
Co-wife.
Qasim must be insane.
That made her giggle, but then just as fast, her eyes welled up in tears.
This is crazy, she shuddered, wiping her face on her sleeve, overcome by the murky sea of conflicting emotions all hitting her at once.
God Almighty, co-wife…
—with Amara—the original queen of bat-shit crazy and the absolute worst neighbor from hell.
Like I’d agree to be her or anybody else’s co-wife—
Kalila softly closed her bedroom door.
It’s not my fault if Qasim has a thing for me…
I didn’t cause this to happen.
She hung her robe on the back hook and plopped on the bed; drawing the blanket up to her chin.
What are we talking about? A lawn? A few garbage cans? A school pick-up?
She huddled under the covers. “This is ridiculous…” she mumbled, slapping the pillow until it fit comfortably under her neck and head.
And why the sudden rush?
And for that matter, the cloak and dagger late-night visit?
Amara must not know what he’s up to.
Pressing on her temples, Kalila couldn’t rein in her frustration nor quiet the pounding in her head.
For someone who makes her living fucking strange men, you’d think I’d be smarter than this by now.
Kalila struck the mattress with her fists. A mad gush of tears stung her eyes, slipping out the corners, and sliding down her neck only to drop randomly onto her pillow. Unable to fall asleep, she opted to lie still in the dark, nursing her fears.
I should have thrown him out—kicked his arrogant ass to the curb; coming here in the dead of night like some thief…
… or better yet, I should have dragged his ass home and let his shrew of a wife deal with him.
Kalila lurched forward only to let her body free fall back unto her pillow; arms splayed to the side. “I give up!” she grumbled.
Qasim and his stupid visit…
—as if my life wasn’t already complicated enough.
As to Qasim’s real intent, who knew? Kalila had been around enough men to read between the lines, and Qasim, who wore his intentions plainly on his sleeve—was apparently no different—despite all his well-timed precipitous religiosity. Sister this and sister that.
What a cruel joke.
But Kalila did have to hand it to him, though. She would never have thought he’d try to slide under Amara’s radar the way he had. Sneaking over and then summoning up a list of well-timed hadiths to support his cause; as if his sole desire in broaching her with his proposal stemmed from a deep-seated desire to serve humanity.
Still, something about this visit wasn’t adding up.
Like why now? We’ve hardly shared a conversation, no less anything else.
Kalila rolled on her side.
And seriously? What in the world would make him think for one minute his throwing his wife under the bus would be the least bit appealing to me?
Kalila rolled on her back, putting her hands behind her head for support. “Guys kill me,” she grumbled.
As much as I despise that woman, if he’s willing to do this to her—the mother of his children—behind her back no less, how would he treat me?
Kalila yawned, becoming drowsy; her exhaustion finally winning the uphill battle against the ever-present adrenaline.
Why do all men think every woman wants to be married?
Kalila stretched her arms. Her eyelids grew heavy.
It’s partly my fault.
I’m the dumbbell who let him know money is tight, but still…
I can’t let this divert me. I’m moving on…starting over–away from this crazy place and haunting memories. I’ll find a new home where Hamza and I will have a chance to reclaim our lives.
Mentally ripped and bushed to speculate any further, Kalila decided to leave the whole sordid situation alone for now; content to give it a sufficient amount of time before slamming the door permanently shut.
Then another, more pressing thought shoved it way through her subconscious.
Melvin.
She’d made a promise to look into helping him. Hamza counted on her keeping to it, but how could a child begin to understand the level of commitment necessary to bring a grown man with learning challenges into their lives? He only saw his friend, his pal, and not the work involved, and although she liked Melvin, Hamza needed friends his own age.
No, she’d follow through, like she said she would. She’d call Felicia as promised, get a few details, express her sympathy and call it a day. The only consolation, once done, she’d be at least able to legitimately tell Hamza that there was nothing they could do to help Melvin. Of course, Hamza would be disappointed, that’s only natural, but for once, not with her. He’ll have to move on and get over it.
Kalila winced, hating how callous she’d become, but truthfully, was she being that coldhearted? Uncaring? Or just realistically dealing with life the same way it dealt with her— one taciturn slap in the face after the other.
Move on and get over it, her new and improved modus operandi.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Love Story
Abdullah
THE CONVERSATION WITH THE brother had lasted longer than anticipated. By the time Abdullah returned home, the house was dark. Only a single light shone over the kitchen sink, thoughtfully left on for his benefit. Abdullah found a plate of dinner waiting for him in the fridge; a heart scribbled thoughtfully on a sticky note taped to the foil, ready to be popped in the oven. Exhausted and too worn-out to eat, he left the plate undisturbed, dragging his feet upstairs, determined to dive into bed. Upon opening the bedroom door, and much to his surprise, he found his lovely wife propped up with two pillows, reading in bed, wearing his old college tee-shirt. Nafiza had her reading glasses perched seductively on the base of her nose. Wisps of hair escaped her messy bun piled adorably high on her head.
Cute as all hell.
Leaning over, he placed a single kiss softly on her lips.
“I didn’t think you’d still be up,” he whispered, running his hand beneath the blanket, pleased to feel nothing but warm, soft, skin.
“Wa alaikum salaam,” she purred tenderly, giving him a jolt. “Just getting some reading in while the inmates are asleep.”
Abdullah’s mouth laughed, but his attention focused solely on the way her slender hand fidgeted with the blanket, slipping the corner between her thin, delicate, fingers.
Oh man.
Abdullah cleared his throat. “Rough day?” he asked, turning towards the bathroom, removing his clothes, anxious to join her in bed.
“Not more than usual. Just our typical shenanigans at dinner.”
Abdullah popped his head out of the bathroom and smacked his forehead. “Before I forget,” he said, wearing nothing but a towel knotted around his tight, lean waist. “There’s a brother who wants to talk to your friend,” he said, leaning against the door frame.
“My friend? Which one?” inquired Nafiza, her light chestnut eyes glued to her paperback; the same exact one she started and stopped for the last few weeks, but never seemed able to complete.
“Kalila.”
Nafiza jolted upright, “Oh?” she asked, no longer engrossed by her book.
“About her iddah. It’s been over three months, probably closer to six, correct?”
“Eight.”
“Eight. So, it’s finished,” he said, exiting the bathroom, and drying his face with a hand towel. “Still not the longest time, but I told the brother I spoke to tonight that I’d inquire as to whether or not she’s prepared to get married again.”
“Or wanting to,” Nafiza immediately corrected.
“Yes, or wanting to. You’re absolutely right. In my defense, that’s why I am bringing this to you.” Abdullah casually tossed the hand cloth over his narrow shoulder. “I was hoping you could give me some insight.”
“Like?”
“Like whether I should tell him to proceed or tell him to wait. Maybe she needs more time?”
Nafiza’s expression hardened. “I’m not sure, to be honest,” she answered, giving Abdullah a non-committal half shrug.
“I think I understand,” he said judiciously, unwilling to make Nafiza feel as if she had to impede on the boundaries of her friendship for his sake. “I guess I just thought the sister might have mentioned something in passing.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I get that, but these past few months have been rough for Kalila. There’s a lot to digest, work through. It’s not easy picking up the pieces after losing a spouse.”
Abdullah listened, remaining quiet.
“Kalila may put up a good front, but she’s struggling.” Nafiza removed her glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. “Plus, she’s not the type to broadcast her problems or even ask for help.” Nafiza tucked a lock of fallen hair behind her ear. “Between you and me, I’m not sure how she’s making ends meet.”
“Didn’t she get an insurance payout?” asked Abdullah.
“No. Bashir let his policy lapse and left their bank account drained.”
“I didn’t know that.” Abdullah stroked his beard. This situation was quickly becoming more complicated than initially anticipated, but from experience, he knew nothing was as it appeared. This news gave him a lot to think about.
Nafiza shrugged. “Now you see what I mean, right? Kalila may not be ready to deal with another man right now or…or she might. I can’t make that call for her.” She opened her mouth as if to say more, then stopped.
“Where are you?” Abdullah asked Nafiza, before scooting underneath the blanket to join her, playfully tapping the bed as if she had disappeared. “Maybe a man in her life would be a positive thing. Marriage could take away some of the financial pressure, and perhaps the brother could be a father figure for Hamza.”
“Agreed, but not just any guy—the right guy.” Nafiza slipped the bookmarker between the pages before leaving the book on the night table. “What makes you think this brother has what it takes to marry a widow with a son?”
“Good question.” Abdullah kissed her shoulder. “For one, he’s gainfully employed.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she chastised. “Money isn’t everything, although that’s in his favor. What else?”
“Two,” Abdullah said breathily into Nafiza’s ear, his hands exploring underneath her tee-shirt, “He’s got no issue with the fact she’s a widow with a child.”
“That’s big of him,” Nafiza snorted, removing his hand currently creeping under her shirt.
“And three, and probably most importantly, he seems sincere.” Abdullah gently removed his wife’s glasses. “Take your hair down,” he whispered.
Nafiza coyly complied, unclipping her bun. Her hair cascaded down around her shoulders, framing her pretty face.
Abdullah smiled. “You’re gorgeous.”
“You’re horny.”
“I am, but you’re still gorgeous.”
“Stop changing the subject.”
Abdullah cleared his throat again. “Where were we? Ah, right—so, if I understand you—your opinion is she’s not ready?” he asked, wishing to Allah he never brought this topic up in the first place. Playing with the edge of Nafiza’s shirt, his fingers lightly brushed along the inside of her thigh. The heat of her body called to him.
Flushed, Nafiza placed her hand over Abdullah’s, attempting to redirect his fingers to a safer, less sensitive zone. “Not exactly. I’m just saying that Kalila’s struggling, especially with Hamza. He’s not taking Bashir’s passing well at all.”
“That’s understandable.” Abdullah nuzzled his wife’s neck. “That must be really,” kiss, “really,” kiss, “really hard,” he mumbled.
“Jerk!” Nafiza laughed, attempting to push his face away.
“What did I do?” he asked, letting out a mirthless laugh, one hand still cupping her ample hip. Pulling his head back, he stared into her eyes. “Honestly, from what I hear and know, he’s a good brother.”
“Ah huh.”
“No, seriously, he seems genuine.” Abdullah caressed Nafiza’s face and neck, raking his fingers through her strands, working his lips down the nape of her neck.
“You’re terrible,” she murmured, her breath quickening. “You need to stop,” she moaned, playfully elbowing him, her eyes locked onto his. “And I suppose you want me to ask her?” Nafiza pursed her lips; something Abdullah found irresistible.
Abdullah pulled his curvaceous wife closer, no longer willing to sacrifice his night for anybody else. “I’d appreciate it,” he said, nibbling her ear, savoring her sweet taste. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. “Let me show you how much.”
Nafiza gasped as his hands ran down her thighs. “Fine,” she moaned, goosebumps rising on her arms. Tilting her head back, she stretched her slender neck, toying with him. “You missed a spot.”
That’s all he needed to hear. Abdullah covered her body with his, licking and kissing, lost in the sensation of feeling her under him.
“I’ll-speak-to-her-tomorrow,” Nafiza whimpered; her every word breathlessly abrupt.
Abdullah extended his arm, stretching his fingers to flip off the light. Tugging the blanket over them both, he moaned. “Take your time…there’s no rush.”
The morning arrived quickly.
Abdullah heard the shower running upstairs. A surge of delicious images of his wife’s delicate curves and the touch of her silken skin came careening into his mind…especially when she—
“Dad!” shouted Ra’id. “It’s gonna spill!”
“Sorry, sorry.” Damn.
Dalia giggled. “Daddy’s funny.”
Mornings were hectic for Nafiza. Abdullah tried to lend a hand before hurrying out the door to his day job, but between working full time and being an assistant Imam, time with the family had unacceptably dwindled.
“I can’t have reg-ala milk,” wailed Dalia. “Mommy said.”
“Re-gu-lar,” corrected her father. “Okay, switch bowls with Munir. I didn’t pour any milk in his yet.”
“I’m not eating out of a pink bowl,” whined Munir, none too happy about the change.
“Cut me some slack, son,” teased Abdullah. “Give your old dad a break—just for today.”
Munir grumbled but obliged, sliding his sister’s bowl his way.
“Daddy? Are you gonna bring us to the bus stop today?” asked Dalia.
“No, honey. I have to get a move on.”
