A Sorority of Angels (15 page)

Laura arrived at her apartment after leaving the office at five o’clock. Judy waited there.

“Did you see the UN?” Laura asked.

“It was terrific then I walked around Sutton Place. What time is your shuttle?”

Laura poured a half-cup of coffee of fresh-made coffee.

“I’m staying in New York tonight.”

“Oh.” She caught Judy off guard.

“Adam called. He has to work late tonight. I’ll go in the morning instead. No reason why we can’t stay together tonight. One can sleep on the sofa, a pullout bed. As the gracious host, I will. And I insist on that.”

“A lovely surprise. I’ll have to thank Adam for working late.”

“Don’t. Adam might get the impression I threw him over to keep you company. You know how men think.”

“I never came to New York.”

“Good. Let’s have a cocktail then dinner at my favorite restaurant in Little Italy.”

“Perfect.”

“I’m glad I canceled the plane trip tonight.”

“So am I.”

“I’m working on a project with UNICEF. Also, I’m involved with a women’s group to help UNICEF fight starvation, hunger, and poverty around the world.”

“You mentioned that. I hope you people accomplish your needed goals.”

“I think we will. I’d like your views on war, warmongers, and the like. But first, I must shower.”

Laura left, ran the water to her temperature, and entered the shower. She pulled the plastic curtain and finished showering. She put on a white robe and entered the living room. Judy sat on the sofa sipping a martini.

“Ah, that was refreshing,” sighed Laura tying the robe tighter.

“Your martini awaits you.”

“Terrific.”

“Tell me your views and questions about warmongers.”

After her views, Laura added, “And you’re working for America’s warmonger.”

“I never thought of him as that.”

“No. You were busy hating. He’s our threat. I’ll give you an extreme premise. If he entered a room filled with warmongers from other countries, would you press the button to destroy the room?”

“And get away with it?”

“Yes.”

“I would do it but I wouldn’t want Bender to die right away. Maybe lose a leg. Then an arm and slowly suffer for a week in excruciating pain before he died.”

“I’d say you hated him.”

“You asked. I told.”

“Let’s go eat.”

Laura left to dress.

The rest of the evening passed comfortable and pleasant. Laura elaborated on the food and war philosophies. They arrived home at eleven o’clock tired. They slept – Laura on the pullout, Judy in the bedroom.

Laura awakened at eight-thirty.

Damn!

She forgot to set the alarm wanting to rise at seven-thirty. Already packed, she could hasten and catch the next plane but lacked enthusiasm about rushing, many drinks last night. Her head felt heavy. She picked up the phone to alert me of her late arrival. A thought made her hesitate. Intrigued, she put the phone down and didn’t call me then. Instead, she brushed her teeth then showered, scheming.

Last evening satisfied Laura. She and Judy were friends now, comfortable together, and with personal conversation. Laura had asked more questions about Bender. The satellite revolved in protest. Laura felt closer to Bender, and fast.

She needed to retain Judy’s friendship to continue selling her cause.

Her newfound thoughts kept urging, motivating, nudging then returned to thinking of me and she called me.

“Hello,” grumbled the sleepy me.

“Good morning, lover. Wake up. It’s me.”

“I know.”

“Did I wake you?”

“Yep. Where are you, the airport?”

“I’m home. I just woke up.”

“You’re late and I can’t breathe on the weekends without you. You know that.” I thumped by head to clear cobwebs. Then she threw a grenade at me.

“Adam, honey, I can’t come down today, this weekend.”

I pounced out of bed in panic.

“What! You can’t do that!”

“You’re ridiculous, one weekend.”

“No way! If you can’t come, I’m coming up.”

“Adam, come on. I can’t get away.”

“No!”

“I have to work. If you come up, you won’t see me.”

“We can sleep together,”

“Please. I want to see you more than you want to see me. I must work this weekend.”

I continued my useless protest.

Her robe opened. She tied it and sat.

“Adam, stop. Write it off as a bad weekend.”

Silence. I couldn’t breathe.

“Adam, you there?”

“I don’t believe this.”

“Stop acting juvenile.”

“I want you down here.”

“Please understand. I have much to do. Don’t make a scene. I’ll call you during the day, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay.”

“I promise, this time and never again.”

My pause stretched before I yielded. I was weak with her again. She was too unpredictable to believe her firm ‘this time and never again’.

“Okay, but call me. And I’ll call you later.”

Laura smiled knowing I would capitulate.

“Better if I call you. I’m in and out all day.” Her voice trailed off. She looked up towards the bedroom. Judy, in a red chemise and wrap stood in the doorway, listening. “Adam, I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

“No more, Laura. Understand?”

“Yes. Bye. I love you.”

Laura hung up and looked at Judy. They stared at each other for a few seconds without moving. Then Laura rose, walked towards the bedroom, untied her robe, let it fall to the floor then pressed against Judy and kissed her mouth.

BOOK OF SHABA

“Force has no place where there is need of skill.”
Herodotus
485 - 425 BC

“When asked, ‘What is a friend?’ Another I.”

Zeno 335 - 263 BC

Telling you about Laura and Judy is painful, so I’m shifting to Shaba’s story to return to Laura and Judy later, and my involvement.

Two weeks after the initial meeting.

Shaba should have been a model or one on a pedestal to view and admire. No surprise that Thursday as people stared as she strolled up the west side of Fifth Avenue by 52
^nd
Street. The avenue crowded at six o’clock as liberated workers rushed in New York City impatience at business day’s end. Shaba’s attitude contrasted the hurried drone and movement.

Shaba had nothing specific planned for tonight knowing a decision should surface sometime in the next hour – if nothing stimulating, maybe a movie, a great time killer and entertainer.

She had to stay away from her apartment until ten-thirty.

Shaba could have objected to the relationship that thrust her out of her home tonight. She accommodated Alise, the sacrifice willing, leaving once a week sometimes twice for Alise, who she loved as a sister. Alise expected the Syrian ambassador tonight.

Shaba decided to defer visiting others or having dinner with advertising art director Erron Horsford. Erron brought a quiet and pleasant smile.

Evening was pleasant for walking and for a nonchalant, drifting attitude. She stopped and browsed a bookstore window. Cursory glances absorbed the display. She crossed to the east side. Continuing on, the Tiffany windows drew her like a magnet, widening eyes bigger than her purse. She entered; browsed and dreamed for forty minutes, handling the jewelry and glassware with yearning pretending they belonged to her and Tiffany held them on consignment – looking, only touching. Buying exceeded her means. Shaba never knew wealth. Her family always lived poverty stricken on essentials in Congo. Her economic status improved after she married Kintubi, a young army officer. Her salary in New York was barely comfortable. She left Tiffany when reality overcame fantasy.

Oh, well, maybe someday.

Regulations restricted her husband from sending money to her. Just as well, she reconciled.

The unchartered course continued to 58
^th
Street. At the Plaza Hotel, she turned left and headed west. At Avenue of the Americas, she crossed northward and strolled westerly along the southern edge of Central Park floating in a casual meandering state.

A cafeteria invited on Broadway past Columbus Circle and she entered. She exited at 7:30. The walk placed her at Lincoln Center. Her first visit, she gazed as a tourist awed by beautiful architecture and enormous Chagall painting in the Metropolitan Opera lobby. She studied sidewalk billboards at the entrance to Symphony Hall. The New York Philharmonic performed. She gambled on a ticket although signs advertised the performance as sold out. Standing room was available. She accepted, entered, and then swept away by Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony and Tchaikovsky’s Pathetique Symphony Number 6. The concert ended at 10:50.

She arrived at her apartment building on 51
^st
Street at 11:20.

Ali Fuad Kahil, the Syrian ambassador, always left the apartment before 10:30. Standing through the concert was reason to look forward to getting into bed, stretching out, and allowing the symphonies to carom within her. As she exited the cab, Kahil, dressed in suit and tie rushed from the building to reserve the taxi. She got out. He dashed in head down thoughts elsewhere. Shaba almost said hello but the door closed. With despair, she watched him pull away.

There’s a problem
.

She was glad coming home later than usual. On the occasions she arrived late, Alise slept; unlikely Alise slept tonight. When Shaba entered the apartment, Alise stood near a window, arms folded, staring out, unseeing.

Although expecting Alise in a sad mood, Shaba alarmed at her dejected posture. She approached with curiosity and sensitive footing.

“Alise?” Shaba nudged her shoulder. “What happened?”

Alise remained expressionless.

“I’m beginning to hate him for the first time.”

Shaba enveloped her with a comforting hug.

“Come, let’s talk.” She herded Alise towards the red crushed velvet sofa. “We know you’ll never hate him enough to leave him. What did he do this time?” Alise delayed a response. Removing shoes from tired feet, Shaba curled her feet as she sat next to Alise. “He’s definitely a constant aggravation, unworthy of you. I know you love him, but what good is it if he doesn’t love or respect you? He’s punishment and heartache.”

Tears overcame Alise, flowing having Shaba for consolation.

She sobbed. “Can’t help myself.”

“Looks like a long night. I’ll make coffee.”

Shaba jumped up, prepared instant coffee, and returned with two cups. Alise lit a cigarette, inhaling deep for the smoke to repress her remorseful demeanor.

Shaba tried to brighten the moment with a new subject.

“Alise, you know what I did tonight? I surrounded myself with elegance. First, I went to Tiffany then to Lincoln Center.”

Alise remained distant. “Whom did you see?” she mumbled as a courtesy.

“The New York Philharmonic. Shostakovich and Tchaikovsky.”

Alise retained the distant look. Shaba realized the futility of changing subjects. Her lover consumed her.

“Did he hit you?”

“No, Ali will never hit me, not the type.”

“Dump him.”

“I can’t.”

“Why stick with blight void of emotional attachment. When did a month pass, a week when he didn’t cover you with his depression blanket? He has no love for you, Alise. He may say so but…” She shrugged. “Is his attitude the same?” Alise nodded with a sob. “What now?” Shaba asked. Alise lowered her head. “He refused to marry you?”

“Yes.”

“What about the baby?”

“He couldn’t care less.”

Shaba fumed. “Force him to marry you, create a scandal over this. In his high position, a scandal will ruin him.”

“No, I don’t want him that way.”

“What about your pregnancy?”

“I want his child more than anything. But it’s unrealistic and I can’t support my baby.”

“Meaning?”

“Abortion.”

Shaba threw her hands up with sarcasm. “That’s terrific. Terrific! Do you want me to talk to him?”

“No. Your interfering will outrage him. I’m convinced he never respected me even after I changed for him. I guess he’ll never forget or allow me to.”

“Paying you for sex is an imprint he’ll never forget though a long time ago. Men like him are users. Best is to drop him.”

“Can’t. I want to stay here and work.”

“Either put out or get out. Is that it?”

“I don’t want to go back to Syria at this time. War and civil unrest is a continuing threat. I’ll pretend things are all right with Ali and me, have the abortion then smiling challenge him to try and do it again.”

“You sound like a fool.”

“Maybe he’ll change.”

“The only thing he’ll change is his socks. If you continue your foolish ways protect yourself.”

“My pregnancy wasn’t an accident.”

The stunner came as a casual statement.

“Don’t tell me. Do…not…tell…me. I don’t want to believe it.”

“I panicked, afraid he was slipping away.”

Shaba seethed considering Alise’s reason – stupidity.

“Three years, Alise. Three years hoping and waiting shutting out the world for that leper. I bet he doubts it’s his, right?” Shaba hit a soft spot. Alise nodded demurely staring at the floor. Shaba threw up her hands again. “That figures. Drink your coffee!” It was an order. Alise obeyed. “I ought to take you to Africa with me and have you circumcised.”

“Circumcised? What are you saying?”

“Circumcision is a ritual to discourage women from having unsanctioned sexual intercourse. According to United Nation’s estimates the practice is common in twenty African nations and affects over one hundred and fifty million women.”

“How horrible! How do you circumcise a woman?”

“Young girls are circumcised, many forcefully as a rite of passage. Their clitoris is cut with a knife or razor without an anesthetic.”

“What a horror. The thought is painful.”

“Then they stitch the vulva together. It is ancient, cruel, backwards and unhealthy depriving the woman from enjoying sex. The UN is attempting to educate women to end the abusing practice of clitoridectomies.”

“Were you circumcised?”

“No, thank goodness. Knowing what sex is like I’ll kill anyone who tries to circumcise me today.”

“What a terrible practice. That’s child abuse.”

“Not to the societies and religions that practice it on boys and girls. There is social pressure to be a virgin at marriage. Many women accept circumcision, brainwashed to believe sexual pleasure is men’s domain. I’ll bet your man Ali subscribes to that philosophy.”

“Please. Change the subject.”

“Nothing will change your feelings about Ali?”

Alise shook her head, sipped her coffee and turned pensive, withdrawn. Shaba meandered out to the balcony to let the night air massage aggravated nerves, to pacify their scraping by Alise’s hopeless position. The situation tore Shaba’s heart. Medicine was absent in the night air, only heavier scraping. Alise was desperate, and desperate people do desperate things. She breathed deep, closed the door, and looked at Alise sitting defeated then sat on the sofa again. Although Ali never abused her physically, mental abuse proved as bad. Shaba’s pain witnessed her closest friend’s abuse and knew there was no alternative to abortion, what Ali wanted.

“Shaba, how does one get an abortion in this country?”

“Beats me. I’ll ask Laura or Kim. Kim should know.”

“I don’t want them to know yet. Soon, later.”

“You have legal choices; a hospital or an abortion clinic. I’ll check tomorrow. What about cost? Is he willing to pay the clinic?”

Alise pointed to an envelope on the cocktail table.

“What’s in the envelope?” Shaba inquired.

“Five hundred dollars.”

“Looks like he bought his conscience. But that doesn’t seem like a sufficient amount.”

“I’ll check around, also. I recall seeing an advertisement last week for an abortion clinic for pregnancy tests and termination with anesthesia, a nonprofit organization. Maybe I can find the ad.”

“You ought to make the bastard accompany you.”

“That’s public suicide to him.”

“Incredible! You’re more concerned about him than about yourself. I guess love also makes people stupid. I’m glad I never loved a man. Somebody has to be concerned about you. Let me know when and I’ll take the day off.”

“I can go alone.”

“Going with company is better. You need support.”

“From what I hear you go in and out the same day. Is that true?”

“Don’t ask me. Sure,” came with sarcasm, “like going to the dentist for a cleaning. Like it or not, one day in or not, I’m going with you.”

Alise smiled and held Shaba’s hand.

“Thanks. The thought scares me to death.”