Tomorrow's Vengeance (3 page)

‘Yes, and it's generous support such as his that gives us hope for a cure.'

‘Forgive me if I'm speaking out of turn, Safa, but I think that you and your husband have made the right decision, both for you and for your children.'

Safa nodded in agreement. ‘Masud brought me here for a visit, we talked to Mr Bennett, the director, and Masud was happy with what we heard. We are fine for now in our town home, but later? Well, the concept of modesty is accepted here, that was of utmost importance to me.'

‘Do you mean the clothing you wear? The hijab?'

Safa blushed. ‘That is part of it, but more importantly, should I need one, I must have a woman doctor, and, when the time comes, women who tend to me.'

After I was diagnosed with breast cancer, a male surgeon and a male oncologist had pretty much saved my life, so I was glad the Episcopal Church didn't place such demands on its women.

‘What do you do about daily prayers?' I asked. I knew that devout Muslims pray five times throughout the day. We'd once had an airport pickup where the cab driver arrived at the crack of dawn and asked to use our bathroom so he could wash his feet before his sunrise prayer. With some pride, he'd showed us the Qibla app on his iPhone which featured a compass programmed to determine the direction of Mecca from anywhere in the world, even the cab parked in our driveway. What would Mohammed have thought of that? I had marveled at the time. I had a Daily Office app on my iPhone, but had only consulted it twice. The cabbie's devoutness put my half-baked efforts at regular daily prayer to shame.

‘Ah, prayers,' Safa repeated. ‘This was a real plus, especially for Masud. Calvert Colony built a
musalla
, a place where we can practice
salaat
.' She waved a hand in the direction of the gardens, where a modest building that I had taken for an oversized, elaborately decorated garden shed was nestled in a grove of young crabapple trees. ‘There are only three Muslims in residence now, and I am the only woman, but two more couples will be moving in as soon as the new block of town homes is finished.'

‘I hope you don't mind my asking, but you look so, so …' I paused, searching for the right word, not wanting to insult her.

‘American as apple pie?' she finished for me.

I felt my face flush. ‘Yes.'

‘So, you noticed!' A laugh bubbled out of her. ‘Until I went to college, I lived in McKinney, just north of Dallas, Texas. I met Masud when I was in the Peace Corp teaching English at a lycée in Tunis.'

I'd majored in French at Oberlin College, so I knew she meant a secondary school of some sort, most likely for girls, in Tunisia. ‘
Donc, vous parlez très bien le français, n'est-ce pas?'

‘
Oui, et je parle aussi l'arabe
. And once the language barrier disappeared,' she continued in English, ‘my eyes were opened and I became fascinated with the culture. It was ever so much richer than anything I had experienced before. I was totally sucked in. About halfway through my first year there, I was invited home to dinner by one of my students. Her family pretty much adopted me and treated me like a daughter.'

‘Is that when you started wearing the hijab?'

‘After a while, it seemed the natural thing to do.'

‘Don't you find it confining?'

‘Not really. For me, it is a religious act. The hijab tells the world I am a Muslim woman.' She smiled. ‘It saves a lot of time, actually. In social situations I usually don't have to explain, “Sorry, I don't drink,” or “I don't mean to be rude or anything, but I am a Muslim woman so I don't shake hands with men.”'

‘I see your point,' I said. ‘Like wearing a wedding ring says “hands off” to jerks at professional conferences.'

‘Exactly. In Tunisia, Western women are fair game. You wouldn't believe the cat calls I used to get while walking to work. Harmless, mostly, but still.' She turned to me, beaming. ‘I can teach you a very useful phrase:
Rude bellick, Allah bish yhizz lsaanik!
'

‘Is that the Arabic equivalent of “Your mother wears combat boots?”'

She flashed me a charming, gap-toothed grin. ‘It means be careful or God will seize your tongue!'

I laughed out loud. ‘I'll have to remember that next time I'm in Tunis.'

‘After I began wearing the hijab, Hannah, nobody bothered me. I was safer in the streets of Tunis than I would have been in downtown Dallas, that's for sure. I actually felt liberated.'

Safa's hands suddenly flew to her throat, her fingers rapidly working to adjust the hijab where the fabric folded under her chin. ‘You must excuse me,' she said, standing up. ‘Masud's waiting. It's time for me to go.' Her eyes flicked sideways.

Where the sidewalk curved around a miniature Japanese maple a man stood, smoking. Masud was not particularly tall but he was dark and handsome, with abundant salt-and-pepper hair combed straight back. He was dressed in black trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt, the collar open. The fabric of the shirt was so sheer that I could read the label on the pack of cigarettes tucked into his breast pocket: Camels. Unfiltered. The only brand with a picture of the factory on the label, my late mother, a lifelong smoker, had always joked.

If Masud had been wearing a bow tie, I thought, as I watched him exhale a stream of smoke into the humid summer air, I might have mistaken him for a handsome waiter.

‘Of course,' I told Safa. ‘I'm meeting someone, too. But I've enjoyed our conversation and I hope we run into each other again.'

Safa bowed slightly. ‘I hope so, too, Hannah.'

After an awkward pause while I considered whether to extend my hand or not, Safa turned and glided down the steps to join her husband. As she reached the bottom step, Masud dropped his cigarette butt on the sidewalk, ground it out with the toe of his sandal, turned abruptly and strode down the path on his own. Safa, like a well-trained puppy, followed several steps behind.

Until he spoke, I'd forgotten about the elderly lumberjack. ‘Litterbug!'

‘Well,' I said, turning in the old man's direction, ‘at least the butt is biodegradable. Have to give the man points for that. No cellulose acetate filters to screw up the Chesapeake Bay ecosystem.'

‘Send that goatherder back to the desert.' He folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes, effectively putting an end to our conversation.

Hoping, for Safa Abaza's sake, that this wasn't the prevailing attitude at Calvert Colony and, as we used to say, a preview of coming attractions, I left the old guy to his snooze and headed inside to track down Naddie.

‘Today's 55-and-over retirement communities are not your grandmother's nursing home. You walk into a stunning lobby with beautiful lighting and carpeting, and there's an art gallery and a restaurant, just like a fine hotel. Some offer everything from entertainment centers with theater seating, videogames and computers, to state-of-the-art gyms with personal trainers where residents can take age-modified Zumba or belly-dancing classes. Some communities have dog parks so that family pets can also feel right at home.'

Annapolis Gazette
, March 28, 2013, Section B, p. 2.

D
irectly over a pair of tall walnut doors, whose frosted windows had been replaced with leaded glass, hung a modest sign painted in incised gold capitals on a tasteful blue shield: ‘Blackwalnut Hall.' Below, in smaller font, visitors were instructed to kindly check in at reception.

I straight-armed my way through the door, stepped into the lobby and slammed on the brakes. What had once been a dark, claustrophobic gallery where bygone priests had sat, smoked and read such runaway bestsellers as the
Spiritual Exercises
of St Ignatius Loyola
, had been transformed into a bright reception area. Light poured into the space from floor-to-ceiling windows, in front of which a double-wide staircase with carved wooden balustrades curved gently up to a mezzanine.

To my right, just beyond the reception desk – which remained where it had always been – an enormous stone fireplace rose like a rockslide, dominating the far end of the lobby, its chimney disappearing into the open rafters. Clustered around the hearth were conversational groupings of comfortable, overstuffed furniture, arranged on oriental carpets the size of your average three-car garage. All around, large, high-quality landscape oils in elaborate gilt frames decorated the wainscotting, which had been painted a warm vanilla.

I whistled softly. The decorators had bought big time into the ‘open-concept' idea I kept hearing about on HGTV. Blackwalnut Hall reminded me of a ski lodge I'd once visited in Vail, Colorado.

But what really took my breath away was the fish tank. Nestled in the curve of the staircase, it consisted of a cylinder at least ten feet in diameter and perhaps twice as tall, embellished at the base with elaborate wrought-iron scroll work. Outside of the National Aquarium in Baltimore and some kook in his garage on the Discovery Channel, I had never seen a fish tank so huge. Surrounding the tank were two semi-circular, highly polished walnut benches. A gentleman sat on one of them, his back to me, staring into the crystal-clear water where yellow tangs, electric-blue damsels, orange-and-white clownfish (hello Nemo!), a couple of angelfish and – I squinted – yes, even a lionfish now swam. I stepped forward for a closer look. ‘Was that a …?' I started to ask the seated gentleman, but I was interrupted.

‘May I help you?' someone loudly inquired.

‘Sorry,' I said, turning toward the woman behind the reception desk. ‘I was mesmerized by the fish tank, I'm afraid.'

‘It happens to everyone the first time they see it. Spectacular, isn't it?'

I had to agree. ‘It knocked my eyes out. I'm here to meet Nadine Gray,' I told her.

The woman consulted a computer screen on the desk in front of her. ‘Right. Mrs Gray called ahead and told us to expect you, Mrs Ives. Would you mind signing in?'

On the highly polished walnut counter an iPad-like device was mounted on a swivel stand. She turned the screen in my direction, and I used the stylus she provided to scrawl a signature in the box after my name. ‘Thanks,' I told her. ‘I think I'll wait over by the fish.'

I settled down on one of the benches and stared into the tank, half expecting a shark or a killer whale to make an appearance. As if it knew what I was thinking, an eel poked his snake-like head out from behind a sea fan and bared its teeth at me.

‘Zen-like, isn't it?' a nearby voice rasped. It belonged to the gentleman I'd noticed earlier. In his mid-seventies, I guessed, dressed in a blue, button-down oxford cloth shirt neatly tucked into a pair of khaki shorts, and secured with a Smathers & Branson needlepoint belt with elephants and martini glasses stitched into it. White socks stuck out of the toes of his sandals.

‘It is,' I agreed. ‘I could watch sea grass undulate for hours.'

‘They cleaned it the other day,' the old man advised me.

I figured he meant the tank. ‘Oh, yes?'

He nodded, raising one of the grizzled, fly-away eyebrows that shaded his eyes like awnings. ‘Sent two divers down. Masks, fins and all. Extraordinary.' After a moment he added, ‘But everything about this place is extraordinary.'

‘It's my first visit,' I told him.

His gray eyes fixed on me and moved slowly up and down. ‘Checking out one of the town homes, I imagine?'

‘Let's just say I'm casing the joint.'

‘Well, you'd better hurry, young lady, because from what I hear they're selling like hotcakes.'

Young lady
. Nobody'd called me that since George Bush was president. The first one. I was a grandmother three times over. ‘I'll give it some thought,' I said with a smile before turning back to my in-depth study of the fish.

‘I see you've already met Colonel Greene,' Naddie chirped from behind me a few stress-free minutes later.

I swiveled on the bench, smiled, and patted the empty space next to me. ‘The colonel and I have been discussing aquaculture.' It didn't surprise me to find out that the man was a veteran. His ‘high and tight' buzzcut was a dead giveaway.

‘Get a room!' boomed the colonel, making me jump.

I followed his gaze. A pair of mature gouramis floated by engaged in a lip lock.

Naddie leaned forward, addressing our companion. ‘They're not kissing,' she explained gently. ‘They're having a discussion over territory.'

He considered her with steel-gray eyes. ‘Humph.'

I imagined the colonel wasn't used to being contradicted.

After introducing us formally – Hannah, Nate, Nate, Hannah – Naddie sat down between Nate and me and asked, ‘How's Sally, Colonel?'

‘Took off in the golf cart after lunch and I haven't seen her since. Damn fool game, if you ask me.'

‘Golf?' I was surprised since an article in the local newspaper had mentioned that construction of the Calvert Colony club house and a nine-hole golf course was on hold pending Anne Arundel County approval of the developer's plans for sediment containment in Blackwalnut Creek.

‘Bingo,' he barked. ‘Every Wednesday at one-thirty. The woman is insane.'

Thinking about the spa's deep pockets, I said, ‘I imagine there are some excellent prizes.'

‘Oh, sure. Bottles of wine, movie tickets, Macy's gift certificates …' Nate paused to draw breath. ‘Last week she won a Brazilian wax job. Now what in
hell
is Sally going to do with that, I ask you?'

Next to me Naddie snorted, and I realized she was stifling a laugh. ‘Be nice, Nate,' she scolded gently after she had sufficiently recovered. ‘The grand prize this week is a Circle Line River Cruise for two. You have to admit that would be pretty cool.'

The colonel shrugged. ‘Not much of a cruise man, myself.'