The gatekeepers notebook, p.5
The Gatekeeper’s Notebook, page 5
Amara rushed to pin her hijab to the front of her abaya while shoving her swollen feet into a pair of worn flats. Although the bus stop was within walking distance from the house, she needed to pick up the mail, inconveniently located a driving distance away.
Most days, Amara opted to remain sequestered in her car during pick-up; away from the empty blatherings of the three musketeers—Walaa Kamara, Nafiza Salaam, and the insufferable-two-faced Kalila Rahim. Since moving to the neighborhood, Kalila had been a constant thorn in Amara’s side, but nobody but she seemed to understand why. Just the mere fact Kalila existed and looked—at least from the outside—to have it all, had been more than enough to make Amara despise her.
By the time Amara parked at the bus stop, the other mothers were already bunched in groups. All huddled together in their cliques.
She glanced around. “Well, at least that freak Melvin isn’t here—the big dope.” First chance she got, she planned to have a word with her neighbor, Felicia Vine, about her grown ass son and his obsession with minding everyone else’s business. Just the other day Amara caught him standing like Lurch in his doorway, staring at her from across the street. Watching and writing a bunch of stupid stuff down in that ridiculous notebook of his like some degenerate spy.
Nafiza and Walaa offered their salaams to Amara from afar, while Kalila gave her a clipped, nondescript wave; then just as quickly diverted her eyes.
“You don’t fool me,” mumbled Amara, covertly watching as the three women laughed and exchanged stories; the way she had once done before that meddling Kalila Rahim moved into the neighborhood and ruined everything.
Walaa’s having a good time.
A pang of jealousy gored Amara in the gut.
Hold up! Did Nafiza just give Kalila a fist bump?
Amara squinted, but couldn’t get a good read on Nafiza since the darn woman insisted on wearing her blasted face veil all the time. “Turncoats,” she seethed, but any further carping would have to wait as the school bus lumbered to a stop.
As soon as the doors swished open, a rush of neighborhood kids disembarked from their chariot. One after the next, barreling down steps, swinging book bags, and skipping to their chatting parents. One boy—probably no older than ten—walked with his head bowed, shuffling his feet as if his entire world had come to an abysmal end.
“You think you got troubles, kid,” groaned Amara, her attention fixated on three young girls giggling ten octaves too loud.
By this time, all the children from this stop were off the bus, but Shirley—the bus driver—didn’t close the doors and drive away. Instead, she signaled Kalila over with an angry crook of her finger and a flip-wave of her weighty arm. Then she craned her neck, apparently searching for another parent. Shirley cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted out a name.
“Who do you want?” shouted Walaa.
Shirley shouted again, pointing over to Amara, waving for her to walk over.
Ah—damn it.
Amara slammed the van’s door and stomped the entire way over to the bus.
This had better be good.
“Shirley,” she said.
“Amara,” answered Shirley, equally as droll.
“Well? What is it now?” asked Amara.
Shirley jerked her chin towards the boys. “These three got into a physical altercation today,” she explained. “I kept tellin’ them to stop, but they wouldn’t listen. Just kept on duking it out. Name-callin’ and tossing each other around on the floor and all.” Shirley blew a strand of hair out of her face. “Then the rest of them kids got in on it, screamin’ and causin’ a ruckus so loud, I had to pull over. Twice!”
Kalila, clearly upset, yanked her son’s arm closer towards her, but Hamza managed to wiggle out of her grip. Undeterred, Kalila snatched him by the jacket collar. “Stand here and don’t move,” she warned him through lips drawn tight.
Shirley waited until she had Kalila’s full and undivided attention again before continuing. “Like I was sayin’—I asked them what started the fight, but they wouldn’t tell me. Even so, it makes no matter cause the school district has a zero-tolerance policy about fightin’ on the bus. I hate to do it, but I’m gonna have to write them up—all of ’em.”
Furious, Amara crooked her finger, motioning for Amir and Muhammad to stand next to her but they ignored her, preferring to keep a safe distance.
“It’s likely they’ll be suspended from the bus for at least a week,” explained Shirley, coughing. “Pardon me.” Her gravelly voice marked by the unmistakable sign of a chain smoker. “Where was I? Oh, right,” she sighed. “Yeah, so the school should call or send somethin’ home for you to sign.”
Speech done, Shirley nodded to both mothers, saving a special sneer for the three boys. Pulling the bus doors closed, she drove off to finish making the last of her human deliveries.
By this time, Kalila had already hauled Hamza off to the side of the road; but this didn’t stop Amara from trying to eavesdrop on what appeared to be quite the heated conversation. Unable to hear enough, she focused on her two offenders. “So? Which one of you wants to speak first?” Amara asked.
Amir, forever the self-anointed politician of the pair, stepped up to the plate. “Hamza started it,” he declared.
“You got three whole seconds to do better than that, mister.”
Amir knew his mother rarely bluffed. “Hamza said his mother was a better Muslim than you.”
“No, he didn’t,” corrected Muhammad, smart enough to hedge his continued good health on lying less than his brother. “He said his mother was a good Muslim, too.”
Amara rubbed her eyes. “Amir, keep your mouth shut. Muhammad, I want to hear what happened from you—and don’t lie.”
Muhammad kicked at a piece of gravel with the tip of his sneaker.
“Now, Muhammad—” Amara’s patience was quickly waning thin.
Lips pursed, Muhammad appeared to be weighing his limited options, smart enough not to get on his mother’s bad side. “We weren’t even bothering Hamza or nothin’. Then Amir said something about fake Muslims and…” he paused, squinting, unsure how to continue without digging his brother’s grave.
“And?” Amara repeated, her gaze fixed and hands aching to get busy.
“And then he said something like ‘Hamza’s mom.’”
Amara glared at Amir. “Is that true?” she asked, already knowing that sounded exactly like something he would say.
Amir stared down at the ground as if by avoiding eye contact he could ward off his mother’s certain reproach.
“I asked you a question.” Amara’s voice rose, reaching full roar status and earning stern glances from the rest of the bus stop moms, but Amara neither noticed nor cared. “Did-you-say-that?” she repeated, stepping closer to Amir, nose-to-nose. “Well? Did you?”
“Yes,” Amir grumbled.
“I didn’t hear you. Speak louder.”
“Yes,” he said louder. “But it’s because of what Hamza said first.”
“Which was what?”
Amir rolled his sneaker over a pebble.
“Which was what, Amir?”
Shoulders slumped in defeat, Amir cocked his head and peered up. “—that at least my mother isn’t a fat, mean, sloppy bitch.”
Amara gasped.
From the mouths of babes.
“Let’s go,” she ordered,” marching towards Kalila and her son. “You two will apologize for what you said,” Amara ordered under her breath. “And if I ever catch either one of you two fools talking to Kalila’s kid again or even so much as looking in his direction, I swear to Allah, I’ll tear you a new one. Understood?”
“But, Ma,” whined Amir.
“Shut your trap. It’s bad enough I have to see that woman at the masjid, at the same bus stop, and across the street—and now because of your stupid behavior—” she shook her head in utter disgust. “Trust me when I tell you I’ve had enough.”
“But what about Hamza?” complained Amir, not heeding his mother’s warning. “He said a bunch of bad stuff too.”
Amara raised her hand in the air and lunged at Amir causing him to fall back and trip backward into his brother.
“Hey!” yelped Muhammad, hopping. “Get off my foot.”
“Shut up.”
“No, you shut up.”
“Both of you, shut the hell up!”
With her boys in tow, Amara begrudgingly gave Kalila the salaams. “As salaamu alaikum.”
“Wa alaikum salaam,” responded Kalila and Hamza in unison, both visibly bracing for the onslaught.
Amara yanked both sons front and center. “Don’t you two have something you want to say to Hamza?”
Amir sucked his teeth.
“Amir?” prodded Amara. “Suck those teeth again. I dare you.”
Amir winced and cut his eyes at Hamza. “Sorry,” he grumbled.
Amara jabbed Amir in the chest with her finger. “And…”
“—and for what I said,” he muttered, hands dropped to his side.
“Muhammad?” Amara raised a brow expectantly at the boy. “You’re up.”
Muhammad stomped his foot. “Why do I have to say sorry? I didn’t even do anything.”
“Muhammad!” roared Amara, her hand back up in the air, at the ready.
“Fine,” Muhammad whined. “I’m sorry, okay?” he mumbled half-heartedly, “even though I didn’t do anything.”
Kalila nodded. “Hamza?” she nudged her son. “What do you have to say to Amir and Muhammad?”
Hamza glowered first at Muhammad, then at Amir. Then he looked at his mother with eyes begging her not to force him to apologize, but Kalila merely motioned for him to continue.
“Sorry for saying what I said,” Hamza muttered, resigned to the madness.
“That’s it?” Amara interjected. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”
Hamza shrugged, wearing a puzzled look across his face.
“Don’t act confused. I think you owe me an apology as well,” Amara demanded, “I don’t appreciate what you called me.”
Palms in the air, Hamza shot his mother another beseeching look, pleading for her to intervene in his favor.
“Go on,” coached Kalila, oblivious. “Apologize.”
“Sorry, Sister Amara for calling you the ‘B’ word,” mumbled Hamza.
Kalila turned her head and glared expectantly at Amir, waiting for her apology, but nothing followed, which didn’t go unnoticed.
“Amir should apologize to my mom, also!” insisted Hamza, demanding equal justice, but Amir merely smirked.
“Don’t you tell me how to deal with my kids,” Amara snapped at Hamza, before grudgingly prodding her son. “Well, go on. Apologize,” but Amir refused. Amara nudged his shoulder to remind him she meant business. “I said apologize.” But again, the boy stood mum.
In truth, Amara didn’t give one fig if Amir apologized to Kalila, but she’d be damned to hell and back if this insolent child of hers would disrespect her in front of the entire neighborhood crew. “Apologize,” she roared, eyes locked onto his.
All heads turned, young and old; snapping to attention—watching, waiting …
“Why should I?” challenged Amir, his small chest puffed out. “You’re the one who said she’s nothin’ but a two-bit, no good—” but before Amir could finish, Amara had already backslapped him hard across the mouth. Everyone within a mile radius gasped in unison.
Amara snatched her son by the arm. “Shut your mouth,” she warned him, dragging him to the car.
“It’s not fair,” Amir kept yelling in protest. “You said she’s a—” SLAP! Another crisp smack. This time Amir tried to block the blow but failed, but no number of whacks or threats would keep him from hollering.
Head bowed, Muhammad kept his eyes directed down to his feet and trailed behind, remaining at a safe distance. Smart enough not to volunteer as the next beneficiary of a mother’s unhinged wrath. Everyone else dispersed equally as fast, including Walaa and Nafiza, who each bid Kalila a hasty, combined salaam and left.
“Let’s go,” said Kalila, putting a protective arm around her son’s shoulder, but Hamza twisted his body out from his mother’s range, fuming.
“Hamza!” Kalila scolded, but like Amir, Hamza no longer cared what his mother wanted. Fuming, he stomped his way around to the passenger side of the car, ignoring his mother’s pleas.
“Listen, okay, I’m sorry,” she said, slapping the top of the car with her palm. “I shouldn’t have made you apologize, but I didn’t realize at the time that—”
Hamza smirked in disgust. “Right. So now you’re sorry,” he goaded, jerking the car door open. “That’s all you ever are.”
Amara
“Put your shoes on the shelf, hang up your backpacks, make your salat and then go straight to your rooms,” Amara ordered. “And don’t dare come out until I call—either one of you.”
Amir, who lived life on the edge, continued to grumble, but Amara, more interested in the tempting aromas wafting from the kitchen, chose to ignore him. Grabbing her cell, she texted Walaa. “As salaamu alaikum. Can you talk?”
While waiting for a reply, Amara lifted the top of the crockpot. Inside, a delicious mixture of cubed beef, mixed vegetables, and wedged potatoes simmered and bubbled; her grandmother’s no-fail beef stew recipe.
Thank Allah I started dinner ahead of time.
She didn’t feel inclined to cook after this latest debacle. She checked her mobile; still no call or text. Amara stirred the pot and clamped the lid back on.
Qasim passed through the kitchen to grab something to drink when he noticed his wife’s latest dinner preparations. His face said all that needed to be said. Disapproval.
Always disapproval.
It irritated Amara to no end how Qasim expected her to cook all his favorites, much like his mother did for her husband, and his mother did before that. If she dared apply her culinary skills in any other direction other than the one he expected, he’d refuse to eat. Pouting like a petulant child.
“I work hard all day. Customers, phone calls, meetings, you name it. I leave early and get home late. All I ask is that when I come home, I can expect to find a nice dinner waiting for me,” he complained, slipping on his shoes.
“I made a nice dinner.”
Qasim scrunched his nose taking an exaggerated sniff of air, “You made something. I’ll give you that much.”
“Your nose would know,” came Amara’s cutting retort. Qasim broke his nose back in high school and it never properly healed. While the slight curve didn’t distract from his overall appearance, it was enough to make him feel self-conscious. He shot Amara a stern warning look.
“I have to go back to the office,” he said, abruptly. “I’ll be home late.”
In fact, Qasim came home particularly late that night. Unable to sleep, Amara lay in the dark listening for his car to pull in the driveway. She must have dozed off, awakened by the familiar sound of his keys landing loudly in the shell tray kept by the front door. She heard his footsteps coming closer, but stopping in front of the hall closet instead, followed by a muffled swoosh, as if he were pulling something down from one of the higher shelves. From the sound of it, probably a pillow and blanket. Then another door opened—his office. Apparently, Qasim planned to sleep on the couch. Amara’s punishment for contradicting The King in front of his subjects. Amara slunk under her blanket, consumed by loneliness.
It took a few more minutes of rustling from down the hall before the house fell noiseless again. Its slumbering inhabitants blissfully unaware of Amara’s soft sobs, muffled by an already damp pillow.
A time before children. A time before Amy catapulted into Amara.
It had been roughly three months after graduation when she and Qasim decided to marry. They’d had a simple ceremony at a small masjid. Only a handful of his family members and a few of Qasim’s friends attended. Amy’s parents refused to come, taking the news of her conversion and pending nuptials as poorly as she expected. Most of her so-called friends also boycotted the event. No one except her new friend, Walaa, a lovely, young American Muslim woman came to share in her excitement. Amara pretended not to care, putting up a strong front to hide the hurt.
The two friends had met at the weekly masjid halaqah—a Quranic study group Amara joined right after taking her shahadah. Their friendship blossomed quickly as all of Amy’s relationships tended to do; steamrolling ahead.
Less than one month after the ceremony, Amara became pregnant. Despite her getting hit with a severe case of morning sickness, the young couple was elated. However, when the sonogram indicated twin boys, Qasim soared over the moon, doting on Amara day and night.
Amara basked in all the enthusiastic attention being bestowed upon her. As anticipated, her appetite during the pregnancy increased; so did her girth, but everyone, including Amara and Qasim, naturally assumed the additional weight was a result of having two babies, and certainly not the consequence of all the late-night snacks, pizzas or the midnight ice cream runs.
To his credit, Qasim never made mention of Amara’s added bulk during the pregnancy. However, his adoration towards his young wife came to a screeching halt. No longer bewitched by the pending births of his sons, his pretense of being a loving husband careened to a standstill with him often refusing to touch or embrace her for days at a time. And even when he did, only just barely. But his lack of attention never stopped Amara—desperate for his affection—from trying.
“Hon,” Amara said one morning with a flirty lilt. “I was thinking…” Qasim squinted in her direction. “maybe after the boys go to bed tonight, you and I could have ourselves a date.”
Qasim dropped his coffee mug in the sink and sneered at the woman standing before him clad in the same ugly sweatpants and stained tee shirt he’d seen her don a thousand times before. Her once luxurious long, curly mane was now pulled back severely off her face in a slapdash ponytail; tied with a regular office rubber band which did nothing but accentuate her round, puffy cheeks. “I’m working late tonight.”
