Deference By Association

 

When I kind of casually mention his rank, people are instantly deferential. Gives me a bit of a leg up, I soon enough noticed. Respect by association. Although I’ve earned my own, in fact. Still, it doesn’t hurt to mention that kind of thing.

My father always thought of himself as an astute judge of character. He could tell right off by closely examining someone, he always said, what they were made of. First impressions, he would tell anyone who’d listen, are important. I was really pleased when the first impression Mike made on dad was a good one. “Fine young fella”, he said.

I’d already been going out fairly steadily with him by then. My mom was less impressed. Mike was with the military, the air force, and my mother wasn’t thrilled with that, on my behalf, she said. Urged me to look around a little more. I could do better for myself.

“You wouldn’t like it, trust me, Sheila, living with someone in the military.”

“What on Earth would you know about it, Mom?” I recall asking. I wanted her to be as generous in her acceptance of Mike as dad so obviously was. Why I cared what my mother thought anyway, puzzled me more than I cared to admit. Truth was, I didn't know.

“I know”, mom responded. “I know that you’d have to share him with the military. His first allegiance will be to the military. That’s just the way it is. If he’s needed somewhere, called to duty, off he goes, and you’re left at home, holding the bag.”

“What bag might that be, Mother?” A little arch; she thought, since she knew what her mother was getting at.

“You want it spelled out? Ever thought what it might be like living on a military base? What kind of support do you think you’d have there, isolated from everything you’re familiar with? You’d be stuck there, with your kids, months, even possibly years at a time, if this country ever gets involved in another big war.”

“Kids!” she laughed. " There won’t be any.” Now that really shocked her mother. Mothers always begin thinking about grand kids. She’d have to get used the idea that her only kid won’t be having any. Tough, but that’s how it is. I can't envision myself as a mother.

“You can’t really mean that! You’re telling me you’ve given that thought and you’ve come to the conclusion you don’t want children? What about your future husband? Even if you don’t want any kids, what makes you think he won't?”

“Relax, Mom, he doesn’t want kids any more than I do. We’ve been through all that. It’s a mutual decision.”

“You’ve had that depth of conversation already? You’re that certain you want to spend your life with this guy?”

That was then. And since then so many things went down in our lives together. He took university courses and so did I. His were political history, economics, mine psychology, media studies. We had ambition. I often thought how alike my dad I am in identifying other peoples' strengths, and I was right; he had an abundance of great qualities.

Of course that wasn’t what brought us together. Sheer animal magnetism was what did it, back then. He was rough and ready, a handsome, tall male and I was ready to settle into some guy’s life. Things just seemed to mesh. I was lucky, I knew that.

He surprised me, frankly, about the sex thing. Just didn’t seem like he was prepared for it. Didn’t want, he said, to compromise me before marriage. My mouth kind of hung open. Was he for real? Was he just kidding me? As though I hadn’t had any experience. I was open with him, but that didn’t seem to impress upon him. He would wait. Bloody damn, I thought that was really, truly stupid, absolutely Victorian; antediluvian, actually.

I wasn’t, that way inclined, just bloody frustrated and just a little uncertain about him, over that. It just wasn’t … kind of … normal. For a guy not to press the issue. It made me a little uneasy. Besides which I had a good dose of sexual urges and saw no functionality in waiting. What the hell for? He wouldn’t budge. So despite some misgivings, we agreed, finally, to put the wedding date forward.

After that everything was fine. But again he surprised me. Oh, it wasn’t that he couldn’t perform. He was good, great, sent me into the high Cs. No complaints, just a bit of a surprise about his attitude. He waited for signals from me. Once he thought he had that - and those signals kept coming - he'd sweep me into the bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, anywhere, any time. He was amazingly good.

Still, I couldn't help wondering why he had this tactful delicacy about holding back until he thought the time was good for me. Sometimes that wasn't what I wanted. What the hell was his problem? Made me wonder about whether there was some kind of twisted relationship somewhere in his history.

I thought I would try something else, and began to practise being cold to the prospect of inviting him. Turn my back to him in bed, forget to kiss him, push him away after the perfunctory kiss and embrace when he arrived home in the evening. The cues were absent and he respected their absence. And that positively infuriated me.

Here he was, a big strong male, a military man no less, and he found it difficult to approach me demanding sex? What the hell!

He asked what was wrong a couple of times and I said nothing, nothing was wrong. He brought me flowers, took me out a little more often. But I stayed aloof. I was determined to wait this thing out, to make him puzzle out what was wrong in this relationship. But he was always so bloody busy, damn him.

Was anything wrong with that? I wanted him to assert his masculinity, wanted him to sweep me off my feet, let me know in no uncertain terms that he wanted me. I needed him to take no notice of my assumed coldness, to take me by storm, overcome my weak 'objections'.

Nothing. Finally I couldn't stand it any longer, and though I didn't really mean to, I blurted that found it strange that he wasn’t able or willing to be a little more sexually domineering. That’s what I wanted, I told him, what I expected from him. His passivity bugged the hell out of me. I couldn't understand what was going on, I could see he enjoyed sex as much as I did.

“That’s it, that’s what’s been bothering you?” he asked. “You’re my wife, I love and respect, cherish you, why would I be physically overbearing with you?”

“It’s just that … it doesn’t seem - kind of natural. The way you do it”, I said. “I … I’d like a little more physicality … know what I mean?”

“No. No, not exactly. But I’m getting a hint, here. My performance isn’t up to par, you want to be roughed up a bit, that kind of thing?” He said it with an air of disbelief. And maybe, I thought, a bit of hurt feelings. I was challenging his masculinity, after all, getting into dangerous territory.

Things changed after that, though. We had one hell of a time together. And he was ascending rapidly up the line of career appointments. Helped along by a stint at the Royal Military College where he obtained his Masters degree.

And I was getting plenty of experience working as a case manager for a local social services agency. And then transferring that experience to a career with another branch of the military myself, using my expertise in social welfare to advance myself as an advocate and support for military families. I felt pretty comfortable around the bases he was assigned to, and managed cross-stream assignments.

As he rose in the ranks, I often tagged along. Europe, East Asia. Secondments that increased his reputation. While he did his thing I did my own. That was another thing; through this exposure to foreign countries I learned more about people, formed some perceptions in opportunities to augment my formal training, sharpening my instinctual ability to diagnose idiosyncrasies in people. Kind of a more informed knock-off of my father.

So when Mike returned to National Defence Headquarters, there I was, ready to launch out again on another career tangent. We did all right, me and him. Some people (snidely I suspect) referred to us as a “power couple”, and I suppose that’s right on the mark.

Mike helped me through some tough times, too. A couple of times there were some really ugly, violent things that happened in places where he was stationed. The local media would cover these gruesome things, and for some reason, they bothered me more than I think they would have if I’d read about them back home. Women going missing, their bodies found later in desolate out-of-the-way places. Evidence they had been sexually assaulted before being cut up, partially dismembered. But all the pieces found together when they were finally discovered, in a state of decomposition.

Thinking about things like that made me pretty hysterical. Mike comforted me, reminded me how safe I was surrounded by the military, and being with him. He would never allow anything bad to happen to me, he always said.

Back home again we bought a nice little vacation property, and a house as well in a suburban area of the city. As part of the executive contingent of the military Mike makes good money, and so do I, working as a consultant with a large national health-advocacy charity. And then, Mike got a really terrific assignment; base commander of the largest and most important military base in the country.

There’s this about Mike; he doesn’t stand on ceremony; he’s affable and good-natured, and treats everyone well. People respect him, they like him. And that makes me really proud of this guy I married. I’d never have been able to imagine he’d make that rank and be given that kind of responsibility. He’s a full colonel; on track, I’ve been told confidentially, to becoming a fairly young full general in the near future.

I discussed that with him, of course. And he told me it’s in the future and fairly assured, but we’d do well not to say anything about it. Or, he said, if I really needed to tell someone, I could mention it to my parents, and he would to his, telling them to keep it to themselves. It was nothing that had to be spoken of, because there were no guarantees, only speculation at this point, despite what anyone said.

His parents were thrilled, naturally. And my dad kept saying how he knew all along that Mike would amount to one whole hell of a lot. My mom? Well, she smiles and doesn’t say too much these days. She’s not all there at times, she’s gone into a health decline; early symptoms of dementia. That worries the hell out of me. Not only for my mom and my dad, but for me, too. I imagine I’m genetically inclined toward the same. Mike laughs that off, tells me no one could be healthier, more involved with life than me.

We keep fit, both of us. Lots of time spent building up muscle and resistance to ageing; we’re in good shape. Couldn’t do that kind of thing if we had kids. No spontaneity. No fun, too many constraints. Our leisure time activities are heavy on golf. There’s a golf course close to where our summer cottage is located.

A few weeks after Mike took up command of the base, some young Corporal, a military flight attendant at the base, was found dead in her home. Her boyfriend found her there, dead. In her nightclothes, torn, throat slit, sexually abused. Her boyfriend, evidently, wasn’t a suspect. He was military too. Mike said these things happen, they happen anywhere. There are plenty of sadistic people around, psychopaths. Society would never be rid of them, he said. It’s simply an unfortunate fact of life.

More stuff went down. Seems to me women are plagued by men who turn out to be these criminal misfits. I can’t understand for the life of me how a mother can raise boys without imbuing a stiff sense of respect in them for other people, for women in particular. What kind of a man would brutalize, rape and torture a woman? A lost soul, Mike says, trying to comfort me. But they’ll get their own in the end, he said to me.

There were two home invasions a week apart in the area during the summer. In both instances it was women alone at home at night. A masked man entered their homes, raped and robbed them. This is a small town not used to this kind of stuff. Doors often not locked. One of the women had recently been separated from her husband. Both women reported intimate apparel missing, afterward, that they'd been photographed, naked, in degrading positions by this monster.

I thought about our neighbours, the people we bought our cottage from. He’s an amateur photographer. And I kicked myself for having those thoughts. He’s a nice enough guy, and his wife, too. He's not much of a conversationalist, but we don't have much in common; they're country people, and we're busy; he's retired, got lots of time to shuffle around. She shares garden produce with us, mostly zucchini; guess they grow too much of the stuff and don’t know what to do with it. I don’t either; I tend to just toss it.

When the second of the two home invasions occurred, soon afterward police actually arrived at the place next door to question this guy. Even though I’d thought about him, I was appalled. I just couldn’t believe it. They came back a second time to question him and his wife again. We never had much to do with them after that, hardly spoke beyond the occasional brief hello, that kind of thing. Never said anything to her about that, didn't want to hurt her feelings.

But I did say a lot to Mike about it. He tried to steady me, told me that if the police had any leads, any evidence or witness accounts that supported their suspicions they would arrest the guy. Sure he was questioned, Mike said. So were a lot of other local males. It was standard procedure. People were nervous and angry and upset and wanted some answers. So the police react and go around questioning everyone. Probably, he said, everyone but the person who did it. Often, he said, that’s the way things go.

I told him I just didn’t feel comfortable there any more. We should sell the place. I wanted to return to the house, summer be damned. I wouldn’t spend another night sleeping next to where this guy lived. So he agreed. He always does, he never gives me any grief about anything. He has pointed out often enough that I might be a more effective social worker if I managed to remain personally calm in the face of human relation difficulties. I know that. That’s why I switched over to fund-raising isn’t it?

That’s why I’m back here again, at the house. And Mike, of course, can’t be here right now, since he’s no longer stationed at Headquarters. He’s back at the base. With his responsibilities. Enormous responsibilities, I might add. But he’s more than able to match his abilities and his talents to the work needing attention.

I miss him. But he comes along most week-ends and he tells me it won’t be all that long before he’ll be re-assigned. Likely back to Headquarters. A year, maybe two. In any event, it’s far more convenient for me to be able to drive down to my own office from this location. Tele-commuting is a drag.

My God, another young woman missing. An alert went out when she didn’t report to work as expected. Her family is frantic and search parties have gone out looking everywhere. The community is helping, people are putting up posters. Word has spread through Facebook postings and the news media are really playing this one up. Probably went off on her own, sick of living in a small town, the cloistered atmosphere, lack of privacy. I hope. God, I hope her body isn't found somewhere, that would be horrible for her family. I think I knew the girl, her face looked familiar from the news shots.

And then. And then I discovered, listening to the radio early Sunday morning that that young woman who has been missing for weeks now - her body was discovered in a remote location. Mike heard it too, he was in bed beside me. On the week-ends when he’s home, we sleep in. And we listen to the radio when we wake, trying to stretch out as long as possible the luxury of staying in bed before we’ve got to get up and going.

Things happen so fast, when they happen. Our house is surrounded by yellow tape. I was advised I’d have to leave, to somewhere else for the time being. I went to my parents’ home. I’ll stay there for a few days, I guess. Or as long as it takes while they search our house. They'll let me know when I can return ... home. My mother knows absolutely nothing, she's just kind of back at an earlier time in her life. My dad is grim-faced and tries his best to comfort me. He’s going nuts, I think, going from my mom to me.

Mike, he’s been arrested. Two separate first-degree murder charges. And two home invasions. Investigating authorities say they’ve launched further enquiries into unsolved assaults against women that occurred over the past years, in places where he’s been stationed. There's all kinds of police forces working together on this, the media are reporting. Mike's face is everywhere, standing in uniform, handsome and resolute, standing next to the Minister of Defence, showing him around the base.

That guy who lives in the cottage next to ours said something to the press that really infuriated me. He said that while he was being treated as a prime suspect in the murder of the missing woman his wife was getting telephone calls and people at the other end would say to her “What’s it like, being married to a murderer?”

 

 

Entitled

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is an appealing picture, on a pleasant day. A solitary figure, an elderly man seen from a distance, walking along briskly enough, slightly hunched into himself, traffic on the busy thoroughfare steady, but he seemingly absorbed in private thoughts. As the onlooker strides closer, it can be seen that the man has a shock of white hair, reaching to his shoulders, but neat, very nice looking. He also has a white moustache, a neatly-trimmed beard, bearing still a touch of his dark colour when he was a younger man. Closer still, and it becomes obvious this is not an old man, simply one in his late-middle years whose hair has been prematurely cleansed of colour. When he reaches a street forking off the main street, he turns abruptly, as though shaking himself out of a reverie, looks around him, smiles to himself and proceeds up the street.

This, he feels, is the best part of his daily routine. He used to walk a little further, over to where they had first lived when they came to Canada. A far more modest home, in a different neighbourhood. It’s been two decades since they sold that one, and bought up, to a four-bedroom, two-story with a double-height great room. As he ambles up the street he lives on, familiar with every house on the street, the semis, the singles, the larger houses mounting up the street close to his own, he indulges in his daily scrutiny. Anxious to discover any alterations in his familiar landscape. Comparing, always comparing his property to those of others, and never finding his wanting in any way.

He still holds a grudge close to his familial considerations for his cousin, the pharmacist, who had badgered him into opting for surgery. This doctor, this specialist he knew personally and would personally vouch for, was capable of operating on his shoulder. He’d make it as good as new. He’d been a pipe-fitter, and injured himself on the job. Workers’ Compensation had been reluctant at first to acknowledge that it was a workplace injury, but how else could he have injured himself like that? (Even if it hadn’t occurred when he was at work, not exactly.) The operation had been partially successful, but hadn’t restored him to full use of his arm. His right arm. Still, he looked around, took a part-time job with the new Home Depot that opened nearby. He could still drive, still do physical things.

Such things happen; he re-injured the arm. Little wonder, those racist bastards made him work back in the warehouse, slinging heavy boxes around. His old injury, that shoulder that had never really healed, was now more painful, he was unable to do anything, even drive. Again, his cousin implored him to submit to another operation; the surgeon, his friend, would this time solve the problem. His own fault for succumbing, and the succeeding operation really put him out of sorts, constant low-grade pain. Now he had less use of that arm affixed to that accursed shoulder, than ever before. Why did he listen to cousin? His own fault, for believing, for trusting family. He’d be more careful in future.

Meanwhile, work was out of the question. He was now permanently retired, disabled. Dependent on his wife, who went out to work every day. Good thing she had a responsible, well-remunerated professional position with the federal government. Good thing she didn’t really mind. Good thing she felt responsible for his well-being, was stricken by the fact she could do little to alleviate his frequent descents into depression.

Unlike his brothers he never had worn a turban, living in Canada. He’d lived on this street for two decades and none of his neighbours had ever seen him like that, wearing a turban. His wife occasionally wore a sari, but not in public, only ceremonially, for special occasions. She was as modern and forward-looking as he. They attended a local gurdwara, but only for special events. Family occasions. When there would be a sudden influx of family members from all over Canada, the United States, and India, and their house would be filled to overflowing. Of course his brother’s house, and his cousin’s too, were also expanded to warmly welcome their relatives. Neighbours in their pluralist-inhabited street had become familiar with the fragrant, attention-demanding odours redolent primarily of onions and spices, wafting over the area. That’s one thing his cousin was good for, to help with the cooking.

In any event, they were now Canadians. Their adopted country had been good to them. And they have reciprocated. They pay taxes. They have the same values as all those around them in the greater society. His son plays hockey, he plays soccer, he’s in house leagues. Their daughter - well, her wedding was a traditional one. Costly. Their family, their guests expected no less. Extravagant, but that’s how Sikh weddings are.

Nor had they neglected their obligations to their heritage, had taken the children with them twice back to the Punjab, to see family. Second time around, when he went alone, himself with Deepak, wasn’t so good. As though family ties had weakened, somehow the respect he always felt entitled to, was absent. Everyone too busy. It was deplorable, he said later, to one of his favourite neighbours, how materialism had overtaken good manners. His favourite sister’s son too busy to come and visit, to see his uncle, come so far, from Canada to India. Couldn’t get away from work, had important deals to conclude.

He was a gregarious figure, happy to ingratiate himself with his neighbours. Didn’t matter who, though he had his favourites. French, Black, Chinese, Egyptian, Jewish, Christian and run-of-the-mill Canadian-born, he liked to stand around and talk. He enjoyed his good relations with his neighbours. With one exception, the little dark Bangladeshi fellow who lived around the corner and who would stand off any time he saw his Indian Sikh neighbour holding forth. He could sense the fear and suspicion emanating from his Muslim neighbour, and he strangely relished it. It felt empowering in a way he couldn’t quite finger. Even though, when Luvaleen married, the Bangladeshi neighbour’s wife sent a very courteous note of congratulations.

Cordial relations with neighbours are important. Just as frequent trips to Toronto are, to visit with all their relatives there. It’s where Luvaleen completed her education; York University, pharmacy. It’s where she met her future husband, same university, specializing in nephrology. It’s where Luvaleen and Imran now live, where they’ve bought a nice house. And Luvaleen is expecting a baby. About time: she’s almost 29. Who ever heard of an Indian girl waiting so long to start a family?

Well, he may be unable to work any longer, but he knows his way around. They’re not short of money, and when he decides to get something done, he knows how to do his homework. Calling in the trades, getting estimates, bargaining. Finding out from others if they’ve been satisfied with the work they had done. Getting in touch with that place … what’s it called? Yes, to see if there have been any complaints about workmanship, after-service. He knows how to beat down the prices. If they’re too low, what he offers, then the trades people always have the option of bowing out. They never do, he smiles to himself. Feeling pretty good about his bargaining prowess. Which doesn’t stop him from later complaining over perceived inadequacies in workmanship. He lets them know, the owners, how he feels about their workers’ lack of diligence to the job at hand. Refuses to hand over the last cheque until they come themselves to his house to hear his litany of complaints, and shows them what he considers to be sub-standard work. Up to standard, they claim, thanking him for his business, for the long-awaited cheque now grasped tightly in hand. And they leave, beaming; another customer satisfied.

He found his match in buying a new car, though. Trading in the old van, that General Motors piece of junk that began to fall apart in no time flat, although they don’t drive all that much. Well, regular trips to Toronto, that’s all. And that bright green little Toyota that was such a fuel-efficient vehicle, but a colour his wife hated, and his son complained it had no air conditioning. He’d bought it second-hand, got it at a really good price. He consulted with some of his neighbours. The fellow right next door works for a car leasing company. He’s young, with a family of kids all under six, eager to make a deal. But no deal, don’t like the vehicles he has. Because they’re leased, they’ve got all kinds of fancy, useless gadgets and luxurious details, and who needs them. They bring the price up too high.

Discussed cars with the neighbour whose wisdom, as an elder, he most respects in the neighbourhood. Recommended Honda. Toyota a good second. So what’d he decide on? Hyundai. A lot of car for the money. He thought. Didn’t take long before all kinds of little irritants popped up. Went back to the dealer who offered him a rebate. Offered to take the car back, but it would cost him. Found his match in their sly, unacceptable solutions to the problems that ground away at his good nature. Never again would he buy such a vehicle; lousy service, poor mechanical performance.

He prided himself on giving sage advice. He listened politely, even solicited the advice of those few he liked and respected - well, he liked everyone, just withheld respect from a few. There are those whose opinions he valued. Yet he always came to his own conclusions, largely based on the bargain principle. Then, of course, groused unendingly with dissatisfaction afterward, that black and bleak temper descending, convinced he had been hoodwinked. Lack of diligence to his personal code of consumer triumph. A code he saw foolishly rejected when a neighbour to whom he had referred a roofing contractor had deigned to follow his advice and bargain down the man’s calculated cost estimate. That neighbour had sunk in his estimation.

People, he concluded, are their own worst enemies. When they could save a few hard-earned dollars, they just forge ahead and carelessly spend more than they should. And it’s not just money, it’s convenience and certain entitlements as well. After all, they’re all taxpayers, aren’t they? We’ve all got standards and there’s a social contract that speaks of an egalitarian social contract, isn’t there?

And just yesterday he came across that elderly couple out for their daily constitutional. Carrying their two little dogs, instead of walking them on leashes. They’re dogs, not infants, after all. But they don’t like their dogs walking on the street. They rove up to the greenbelt and then set the animals down, free to roam in a natural setting.

Get your flu shot yet? Talk of the pandemic and the long line-ups of people in the ranks of those deemed to require inoculation before the general public was everywhere, on the radio, television, in the newspapers. Fodder for conversation. He asked, beaming at them, got your shot yet? It’s like a game, one-upsmanship. No, they hadn’t, they shrugged unconcernedly. After all, the clinics are administering the vaccines only to high-risk groups.

They’re older than him by fifteen years, but hale, hearty. They can wait, no hurry for them, they said. Did get their annual seasonal flu shot, though.

Had my H1N1 shot, he says proudly. No one at the clinic asked anything. Whether he was in the critical category. Despite all the news about long line-ups and disgruntled people having to wait interminably to get their shots, his was quick. No line-up, no waiting, well, just a short wait. Smiling at their surprised countenances, he averred he hadn’t been feeling at all well that day.

 

 

Boredom's a Bastard

  

She was bored. Achingly, mind-numbingly bored. Boredom had been her companion in place of any other. Boredom greeted her as casually as her husband once did, as she rose from her bed in the morning. It had its coffee companionably with her, followed her to work, and came back home with her at night. The most faithful companion she could ever imagine. It never lied to her, encouraged her, disparaged her, or evaded her.

But it did drive her to the same kind of despair she had experienced when she'd had her affair - once she realized her husband was doing the same. That despair over the unfairness of it all. Him leaving her in utter contempt, simply for doing what he had.

Her boredom is all-encompassing. However, she does not live alone with her boredom. Her 15-year-old daughter, busy with high school, her friends, and everything that entertains and inspires and brings delight to the morose mind of a teen-age girl, lives with her. Unlike her younger brother, she has never forgiven her father for leaving them. Mostly because, as she said, her mother’s incessant moody fatigues and lectures about the untrustworthiness of men drove both her and her brother to distraction. It was not exactly fun for them, living with their mother. Still, she refused to even see her father, acknowledge his existence. Her mother had succeeded in at least instilling that level of defiance and anger in her daughter.

She herself never sees him. She hasn’t ever once confronted him, looked him in the face, spoken with him over the last seven years that saw them first separated, then finally divorced. If he calls, to speak with their son, she listens mutely, puts down the receiver and calls her son to the telephone. She never says “it’s your father calling”, she says instead “someone wants to speak with you”.

Her son, now that he’s thirteen, spends week-ends with his father. Her family tells her that’s the best thing, that he needs to be around his father, pattern himself after a man, have a man’s influence in his life, to grow up normally. Although she bitterly resents this, she is resigned to it.

She tries not to dwell on the thought of her son accepting his father’s second wife, her replacement. Although she wasn’t certain, she felt her ex-husband’s new wife was likely one of those easily-laid women he’d been with while married to her. Her son says not so much as a word about either his father or his step-mother. He knows his mother has no wish to hear anything unless it is to condemn either of them, and that he would not do. He had said, at first, that his father’s new wife was 'OK', didn’t bug him. Obviously then, her ex-husband wasn’t bored. She really, truly resented that, the bastard.

He didn’t have to leave her. He could have said to her that he understood how it was, how his philandering had led her to do precisely what he was doing. But he wouldn’t admit it. He refused, adamantly, to say he had started it, that it was his sleeping around with other women that initiated her into the possibility of sticking it to him by doing the same.

“You’ve no proof” he said. “What you have is a dirty little mind, accusing me of sleeping around.”

“Right! I’ve got the dirty little mind, have I? You’re not nearly as clever as you think, mister. I’ve had reports back from mutual friends that you’ve been seen in pretty compromising situations.”

“Gossip? You depend on gossip about me to take it as proof positive that I’ve done those things?”

“Damn right, bud. I have it on the best authority. Augmented, I should add, by little clues I’ve picked up on my very own.”

“Clues? Madam Holmes, you picked up clues?”

“You’ve been too sloppy with some of your credit card charges. I’ve seen them. I can put two and two together. I never received any gifts from you from the places on that detailed listing.”

“That’s it? That’s the extent of your ‘proof’?”

“No, no it isn’t. Don’t you think even from a male perspective that it’s odd a man chooses not to have sex with his wife over a period of months at a time? Am I supposed to think that’s normal? Or might I somehow deduce that it’s normal for someone who’s getting off somewhere else?”

“Yes, you do have your mind in the gutter. I don’t have to explain, and I won’t. If you wondered you could have come directly to me to discuss any concerns you might have had. You might have been surprised at the answers.”

She was no fool, and she knew what she knew. It was indisputable. He didn’t have the kind of job that required working late nights, nor week-end trips. And suddenly there it was, his professional life requiring both those elements, with nothing but the most casual explanation from him.

In the end everything worked out to favour him, not her. They’d split everything, the proceeds from the sale of the house, the furnishings, everything. She might have looked for another house, but she decided to rent an apartment, instead. She did, though, move as far from their old neighbourhood as possible. No wish to see their old neighbours, suffer their pitying looks; try to overlook the awkwardness. Anyway, she never did like that neighbourhood, it was his choice, not hers.

And then to discover, once she was settled with the kids in their new home that he had decided to rent nearby as well. It was infuriating. She always feared, going out, that she would run into him. Worse, coming across his new wife, even not knowing who she was, what she looked like. She would have the advantage on her; likely recognizing her from a family photograph. It was too much to bear. She hated him with a grinding passion.

Which did nothing whatever to relieve her constant state of boredom. And the two companion emotions, depression and loneliness. She deserved better. The man she’d had that affair with thought so too. He had offered to pay for her apartment. Of course that came with a price. He would also have a key. And that was just too awkward, even if the kids were seven years younger, back then. Unlike her husband he had no intention of leaving his wife. He no longer loved her, he said, but he felt responsible for her, felt pity for her, for her compromised health condition.

“You said you love me” she wheedled him.

“It’s true, I said it, I meant it” he retorted, after one of their many heated discussions, when she had tried to patch the hole in her life by convincing him that he should leave his wife and marry her.

“You love me”, she said scathingly, “but not quite enough to want to live with me. Instead you’re happy living with a woman whom you no longer love, and you won’t commit to me. That’s your idea of love?”

“No, no it isn’t, but you’ve got to understand, she has no one else, she needs to be cared for, and I have that responsibility.”

“What about me?” she'd wailed, despairingly, when he would not be moved by her argument. “What about me? I’ve lost my husband because of you, and now I have nothing.”

“You can still have me” he said quietly.

“I won’t agree to those terms” she said sharply. “I won’t be a kept woman, living in an apartment you pay for, worrying about my kids getting screwed up, seeing some guy they don’t know hanging around, waiting for his intimate opportunities as soon as their heads hit the pillow. How long could people keep up that kind of relationship anyway?”

“You’re right” he finally allowed. Said he was sorry. Sorry about everything. About both of them succumbing to the relationship they had developed, each of them covertly and deliberately enjoying the thrill of illicit sex and misleading their spouses. It was no way to live. And she was right about that. Still, he would not leave his wife. And that left only one alternative.

And so they parted. It was far easier for her to part with him than with her husband. It was the idea of it; one relationship carnal and infused with the excitement of the forbidden, the other comforting in its implied social and relational security, infuriating though her husband’s stealthy forays for sex outside their home was. It seemed important at the time, and far less so as time widened the distance between the reality of her discovery and her resultant rage, and what she now experienced -- a great yawning distance of boredom.

She’d given a lot of thought to the barrenness of her social life, her lack of intimacy with anyone. Confided in one of the women she worked most closely with that she had decided to start an Internet-based dating service. Her friend observed that there seemed to be a lot of those around; why did she think she might be successful in starting up yet another one?

It was, she responded, her experience with being single, with being deprived of a life-mate, of a partner in life, that made her perfect for such an enterprise. She would bring to it a deep understanding of the trauma that people suffer after relationship separations. She knew from her very own experience how difficult it was to initiate new relationships, to discover others who shared similar interests, had like values, desperately wanted to find a companion. She could easily be a leader, someone to whom others could confide their disappointments and look to for guidance. Her explanation sounded entirely rational and impressed her friend no end.

Who then responded by offering a name for such a dating service. “Call it Lilith Garden”, she said. She had considered something like “Adam and Eve”, but then discovered that name had been taken. There were other possibilities, names including the word “Paradise”, that kind of thing, but when she did her Googling homework she always discovered those names had been taken. No one had co-opted Lilith, Adam's original mate, and she decided that made sense. She had someone help her with the artwork, and putting together a Web page, and couldn’t believe the number of people who responded, emailed her, eager to join her new group. The charge, she thought, was fairly modest; she had done her homework.

It was amazing how it lifted her spirits, brought her out of herself, to communicate with all these people. Lonely, like her, desperately looking for a companion, tired of looking in places where no one ever turned up but losers. Like themselves, though they never said that. She was generous in giving out advice, and people were eager to know what she had to say, they sought out her opinion. After all, she was running this greet-and-date operation, she had to know things that eluded them. She began matching people up according to their stated values, their tastes, their interests, their backgrounds. And encouraged them, when initial impressions didn’t match their anticipated longings, to be patient, give it a try, dig a little deeper into themselves to find a more co-operative spirit. In the short few months since she had launched her little enterprise she became a different person.

She felt alive again, fascinated by what she had begun, happy to act as a social chaperone, introducing people, encouraging them. She more than earned that money she extracted from her clients, she felt. They needed her, and she was happy to accommodate that need. She was less than thrilled when, on a few occasions, disgruntled clients blamed her for a series of unfortunate couplings when things most certainly did not turn out they way they even modestly hoped for. But that, she emphasized to them, sagely, was what life was like, wasn’t it? You had to take some chances, and your lumps along with them, to find in the end what you really wanted. And guess what? She archly said to them, it works, you’ll find the one you’re aching for, they’re there, you just have to keep on trying.

After another month or so she became acutely discouraged. It just seemed to flood over her all at once, as it were. One day she was alert and enthusiastic and everyone’s mentor, the next she was completely deflated, demoralized again, wondering what on earth she was doing. Finally admitting to herself she really had no idea what she was doing, playing around with peoples’ lives, encouraging them, pushing them toward a future that had no guarantees and, admittedly, most often no promise of success in discovering that coveted pot of gold at the end of their desperate social lives devoid of contact, of meaning.

Because, in fact, that was precisely where she was stuck. Mired in a life without satisfaction to her, without meaningful contact, a relationship with another person to whom she could devote herself, and who, in the end, would find her enchanting, desirable, who would cherish her.

She had lapsed back to the beginning of her intolerable, prolonged courtship with misery. And it was eating her up with anger, bitterness and utter dejection. Her children had no idea why their mother became once again that harridan that kept plaguing them with her objections to whatever it was they wanted to do.

Her friend at work hinted that perhaps she’d bit off more than she could manage, with her dating service. It was dragging on her, convulsing her own emotions with its incessant demands.

She agreed. She felt she could no longer continue the sham. She sent out a long emailed message to all of her subscribers, admitting that she simply wasn’t fit for the task of guiding them any longer. She realized, she said, that she was disappointing them all, but she emphasized that she was as greatly disappointed in her surrender to this defeat, as they would be. She had appreciated that they needed someone to lean on, and she thought she was strong enough to help them all, because she really, really cared about them. And, she said, she was prepared, to fully reimburse to any who were interested in making such a claim, that portion of their unused monthly dues that fell into the time-frame of the suspension of Lilith’s Garden's dating service.

People upbraided her through a series of emails, accused her of trifling with their lives, told her they detested her, that she was an egotistical user of people. It wasn’t the money, they argued, it was the trust they had placed in her, and she had never had the slightest intention of honouring that trust. They would never forgive her. Some threatened to take her to court, and she worried immensely about that, but it never did materialize. She emptied her bank account, grown so nicely over that six-month period, in reimbursing all the people who demanded their money back. Surrendering those funds did nothing to ingratiate her with those who now considered her a pariah, a social monster who took pleasure in manipulating other peoples’ tender emotions.

Finally, in worse emotional shape than ever, there was a telephone call. The voice sounded familiar but her mind was completely blank. It’s me, he said. Me? Who the hell was me? Frank. Frank?

“How are you?”

“Fine, I was just wondering how you are. I’ve missed you. You’ve no idea how much.”

“Really? How good to hear from you. I hardly recognized your voice, it’s been so long.”

“Yes, it has been. But you know, I thought of you constantly through the years. I haven’t been able to put you out of my mind. I recall all those good times we had together. I’d like to see you.”

“You would? Well, I suppose that could be arranged….”

She felt ecstatic, suddenly her boredom dissipated, she felt anticipatory, gloriously happy. Unaccountably happy, in fact, since this was a call from someone she'd scarcely given much thought to, over the years. Now, hearing his voice, she too thought back to the times they’d had. She contrived to recall those times as exciting, pleasurable, meaningful. Pushing back another memory of demeaningly covert meetings, guilt, and in the end, a bitter parting.

At work next day she told her friend all about the call, about the invitation, the yearning both had to see one another again. She knew, she confided, that if she agreed to meet, they would end having sex. She wondered, she threw out casually at her friend, if it would be worth it. She was dying to see the guy, he’d been really good-looking, skilled at love-making, said all the right things, brought her wonderful gifts, made her feel really special.

Well, responded her friend carefully, what’ve you got to lose? This, from a woman who actually felt scandalized by these revelations, who would never herself ever consider such an assignation. Of course this woman was sturdily, safely married, she could afford to spurn an opportunity for a little imaginative fun. She wasn’t lonely, bored, bitter. These thoughts running through her mind, she upbraided herself for thinking of her standards, not her friend's obvious need to be encouraged, to go ahead with what she most obviously wanted to do. It just puzzled her that her advice would be sought, under the circumstances. So she simply repeated, why not, what had she got to lose?

So, it was done. They met, they had sex, they parted. Meeting one another after that seven-year gap was interesting. Amazing how seven years could alter someone’s physical appearance. He wasn't so handsome, after all. Sexy, well not so much, why did she remember him like that? But he did relay to her some interesting information. His wife had died. Of natural causes, due to her medical condition, and he was now single. After relaying that information there was an awkward pause; neither had much to add, other than her “sorry to hear that”.

And the sex, well it wasn’t anything, in fact. She had shopped beforehand, bought slinky black underwear, imagined the sensuous delight of allowing him to undress her, fondle her, speak of his urgency. That was what had happened years ago, wasn’t it? So much a part of his appeal to her? Well, all that happened, and big deal. She could tell he felt as awkward as she did, throughout the evening they spent together. Dinner was nice, the flowers he brought along very nice, but what the hell was she supposed to do with them?

Checking into the hotel was not very nice. She didn’t enjoy that. It had lost its appeal, that mysterious, mischievous frisson of pleasure mixed with social guilt that had shot through her when they’d done that, repeatedly, years ago. It had heightened the pleasure they both extracted from their furtive meetings; their frantic, exuberant, sex.

She was glad when the evening was finally over, when they parted, each awkwardly promising to keep in touch. Neither had any such intention.

Remarkably, afterward, she no longer felt bored, restless, miserable. She felt … all right. 

 

 

I Just Don't Get It...!

 

That’s just the way it is, I guess. I don’t have any brothers. Or sisters too, for that matter. But then, you know that, don’t you? I figure you know quite a bit about me. On the other hand, I thought I knew a lot about you. I understand now that I don’t know as much about you as I thought I did, once. I imagine you just think you know me, actually.

I thought that was neat, you having two brothers. Especially that they were so much older than you. You, their kid sister, so they could do nice things for you. Take you places, buy you things, help you out with your homework. Maybe there was a little bit of envy there. I often thought how it might be if I had a brother or a sister. Especially a sister. How maybe it would be really nice. I’d have some company, kind of. It’s lonely, sometimes, being the only kid in the house.

My grandmother told me that it doesn’t always work that way. She said to me sometimes siblings get along well with one another, and sometimes they don’t. She said take her, for example; she took very little notice of her younger sister, and to this day they aren’t all that close. As for her brothers, well, they were all years younger than her, and they were just kind of there, she hardly noticed them.

I don’t know how it would be if I had a brother or sister. Either older than me, or younger. I’m not certain if I even have a preference. I suppose someone older could be kind of a help, a guide, someone to talk to when Mom gets pissed off with me for something. That would mean I’d do an awful lot of talking to an older sibling, if they allowed me to. If they were interested in hearing me. I don’t know if that older brother or sister would be sympathetic, or whether they’d just laugh at me.

See what I mean?

And then, too, if I had an older sister would she even be interested in me ... or think of me all the time like being a pest she couldn’t get rid of? I’ve got friends who talk about their kid brothers or sisters like that. They talk about what a nuisance it is, how they just can’t get away from them, how they screw everything up, at home. I don’t think I’d be interested in trying that one out.

But, say, if I had a sister maybe a year older than me? A year isn’t all that much difference in age, is it? So say there was her, and then I came along and we grew up together, wouldn’t it make sense that we’d play together as kids, and then got to like one another and spending time together, and confided in each other, and were best friends?

I asked one of my friends if that was what it was like with her and her older sister. She just looked at me like she hadn’t exactly heard my question. Then she laughed, and I understood that she had heard what I’d asked. Her laugh was the answer.

So I guess I’m just day-dreaming about something ridiculous, anyway.

And I guess, Erin, I’m trying my best to understand what’s happened to you. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re feeling. I mean here you have a complete family, your Mom and Dad are there at home, even if they’re both busy, working all the time. They’re there some of the time. And then when everyone is together, you’re all there…together. I know I’m not saying what I really mean, but it’s hard to put into words.

So there’s you and your Mom and your Dad, and there’s also your two big brothers. One’s married now, I know, and the other one’s going to university. I know your family. We’ve been friends for years, after all. I’ve slept over at your house, had dinner together with you and your family. I’ve been around your family for years. I’ve even gone to church with your family, even though I don’t believe in God.

Neither does my mother. And she’s a single mother, left my father years ago. She’s really busy all the time, since she’s got to earn a living for us. She refused to take any money from my father. My grandmother said the arrangement they made, even though she signed papers written up by my father’s lawyer, was that he would have no visiting rights with me, in return for not paying child support. I can’t understand that, actually.

Is money that important, after all? You’ve got a father, a biological father and he’s not interested in seeing you, ever? He doesn’t even know what you look like, after all these years. He’s just kind of happy not having to pay child support. That really, really bugs me.

There’s no photos of him at home, but I know what he looks like. My grandma has lots of family photographs in her house, and there are some photos of him and my mother, in their frames, sitting on pieces of furniture there. There are more pictures of him in some of the family albums, but I’m not all that interested in looking for them actually. I don't remember much about him, it was so long ago. But I don't believe I want to remember anything about him. He's out of my life.

Anyway, this isn’t about me, is it? All right, it is about me, partially. I am involved, after all. Since I am - or was your best friend. Erin, I loved being your best friend. I want to continue being your best friend. You have no idea how hurt I feel that you keep shoving me away. I’m … disconsolate … that’s what I am. That’s what my grandma said, when I told her about all of this. She’s upset for me. I can always count on her for that.

But you’ve got family all over the place, even if they’re kind of distant in relationship; they live close by. My only two uncles live in Toronto and Vancouver, and I only get to see them maybe once or twice a year, when they come visiting. And neither of them has any kids, so I don’t even have any cousins.

Your family, even though they live close by, kind of ignore one another. You’ve got two cousins, girls your age, but you’ve always told me they’ve been mean to you, and you just don’t like being around them. I could see where you were coming from, but I found it puzzling, anyway. I’d have made an effort, I’m sure, to get my cousins, if I had any, to like me. I think. But then, what do I know, I don’t have any.

Erin, I do so very much miss you. I realize now that this isn’t new, this distancing from me, this hostility I feel and see from you. It’s been happening for a while, and it disturbed me and perplexed me and I didn’t know what to do about it. For a while I thought I’d just drop you as casually as you seemed to be doing to me.

It didn’t work for me, Erin. There’s a dark little worm inside me, squirming around, making me miserable, and that worm is the disquietude I’ve felt about our relationship, about its having suddenly seemed to dissolve, and I couldn’t figure out why. It’s worse now, your hostility toward me is more aggressive, more overt. You’ve progressed from speaking nasty things about me to the other girls when I haven’t been around to actually doing it in my very presence; I can hear you whispering about me and when I turn around, I can see that odd smile on your face.

What, exactly, does it mean? You can’t possibly have decided, after all these years, that our friendship was meaningless. We both invested a lot of time and emotion in our friendship. We’ve done things together, helping one another, that most people would never credit. You’ve told me things you told no one else. I confided to you things that I would never even speak about to my mother.

And yet, you said not one word to me, gave me no hint of what was really happening with you. To you. Instead, you told some of the girls at school we’ve always liked and hung out with. But not me. I had to learn from someone else. I couldn’t believe it. I felt horribly for you, and felt sad for me, too. I tried to let you know that I now knew, so it was all right. I was determined to do what I could to help you overcome this dreadful thing that happened to you.

And I tried, and I kept trying, but you kept slamming my words right back at me. That really devastated me. I didn’t want to say anything to my Mom, because I knew she would tell me that I was doing something wrong. She would defend you, saying that you had been traumatized, that your psyche had been damaged, that you needed understanding and patience from your best friend. That this was no time to abandon you, that I had to stand by you and do whatever I could to extend my friendship, to help you heal.

She just won’t hear what I want to tell her, she doesn’t actually hear what I’m saying. She’s so fixated on what you’ve gone through that she sticks to that, and won’t hear about my pain. To her, I’m just being selfish and self-absorbed.

I’m not!

My mother says she knows me better. She says I am being selfish. That I’m concerned with the way I feel, not the way you feel. That I’m missing the connections. That I’m taking offence because I feel you’re not responding to me the way you should, the way a best friend should. She says I’m expecting too much of you under the circumstances, because of the trauma you’ve suffered.

I’m trying to understand that, Erin. I’m trying to get my head around the fact that you’ve had six years of your life to tell someone what was happening to you, and you just never got around to it. My mother said that I couldn’t begin to imagine such a thing because I’ve never lived it. I guess she’s right there. But I still don’t understand, anyway, Erin, why you never, ever said anything to your mother. Or your father. Right, I forgot, you aren’t into telling your father all that much.

I’m trying to get it through my thick head, that same head that hears you calling me stupid all the time now, how it could possibly be that for all the years we’ve known one another, you’ve lived with this. There was never any hint that there was anything wrong with your life at home. I thought that your family was normal, in the sense that mine isn’t, since you’re all together, father, mother, kids.

Well, there’s nothing normal, obviously, about what happened with you. Migod, since you were seven years old! How could you stand it? I know you love your brothers because they’re your brothers. They seem nice enough; they were always nice to me. But your brothers … doing that kind of thing …

Remember when we were in grade six and they began that sex education course with all of us? I was so mad, remember? I really, really resented that they were taking us kids, just in grade six - we were only ten and eleven, after all - and making us learn all that stuff. Who wants to know about it? Won’t there be enough time to tell us about stuff like that when we’re older? I thought, back then, that maybe when we were in grade eight, or beginning high school, that would be a more appropriate time.

You never really responded when I spoke about that. You just shrugged your shoulders. And told me to just forget about it. I remember that. I remember how kind of distasteful it was to me to hear about that stuff. I hated it. I tried to talk to you about how I felt, but you weren’t interested in discussing it, you said. No wonder. Now I know why.

There wasn’t too much they could teach you, after all. I don’t mean that in a hurtful way. It’s not your fault. You were only a kid, and you were kind of trapped, weren’t you?

I mean your brothers are a whole lot older than you, you looked up to them, you trusted them. Your parents trusted them too, to kind of keep an eye on you when they weren’t around. And they weren’t around a lot of the time.

And me, I envied you, having big brothers who were around so you weren’t lonely or anything. Guys you could kid around with sometimes, that kind of thing. Because you’d be relaxed around them, you knew them so well….

 

 

Freed At Last

  

The Book of Women 4:3

English translation by M. H. Shakir

"You can never be equitable in dealing with more than one wife, no matter how hard you try. Therefore, do not be so biased as to leave one of them hanging (neither enjoying marriage, nor left to marry someone else).... "

The viper that consumed her heart and her spirit, the adder that took dainty nibbles of her liver and her spleen, the asp that sucked the very marrow of her bones; defeated, all. Her vital organs consumed, she has peace. Her agony of existence dissipated. She awaits the final release of Death. To be welcomed as a pious Muslim to her everlasting reward.

IN the context of proper attire and conduct, the Quran lays down one basic principle, namely, modesty which is stated in Surah 24: 30-31: Tell the believing men to lower their gaze (avoiding its concentration on a person’s body, or a certain part of it) and to be mindful of their chastity; in this they will be more considerate for their own well-being and purity, and surely God is fully aware of all that they do.
And tell the believing women to lower their gaze (avoiding its concentration on a person’s body, or a certain part of it) and to be mindful of their chastity, and not to display the charms of their bodies (in public) beyond what may (decently) be apparent thereof; hence, let them draw their head-coverings over their bosoms.
And let them not display (more of) their charms to any but their husbands, or their fathers, or their husbands’ fathers, or their sons, or their husbands’ sons, or their brothers, or their brothers’ sons, or their sisters’ sons, or their womenfolk, or those whom they rightfully possess, or such male attendants as are beyond all sexual desire, or children that are as yet unaware of (the physical attractions of) women’s nakedness; and let them not swing their legs (or other actions in their walking) that may aim to draw attention to their hidden charms.

They too, are at peace, saved from themselves. They will be re-united with us. No vestige of the struggle will remain, between their unheeding denial of God's instructions and their final submission. That submission to His divine will complete, irrevocable.

Her inner furies erased by the grace of God, she is prepared to embrace them; her sister, her daughters. Compassion now replaces enmity. Calm resides in her breast; an hitherto-unknown quantity; a soul-restorative.

Allah absolves those who do His work. He takes them gently unto Himself, cradles their weary essence, brings them final comfort.

You it was he loved, not me. His choice was you, when he had from among so many to make his selection. In our tribal village, the dashing, handsome great grandson of the village founder, son of the tribal chief, an integral portion of the wealthiest local family; he chose you, Dahlia.

The homely one, his first cousin with whom he shared childhood memories. Quiet and unassertive, her only obvious quality one of kindness, warmth of presence. Her form dense, already matronly. Why her? Years passed and she did not conceive. Whispers ran through the village. His family took note, and became impatient, yet he begged them not to press him. When several more years passed it was clear she was barren, a disgrace to herself and to her family.

When he set her aside, gave her freedom to leave, her family would not welcome her return, they disowned her. And when his eyes turned elsewhere though his heart was heavy, he looked at younger women, and in particular one whose clear complexion, long, lustrous black hair, sultry eyes and vivacity marking a vast contrast to his cousin,e became his choice.

She, Amirah entered his life. And she made his life pleasant and comfortable so he might wish to remain with her. When her father informed her of Almadhi's interest she was happy beyond comprehension, and she was anxious for formalities to be concluded, for the ceremony of marriage to be done with, to have him welcome her into his strong arms. It did not take long for her to pridefully advise him and her family that she was bearing his son.

For a son it was; Alhusain, their first child. She had fulfilled his desires and his need to have a son, and there would be more children for she was fecund and more than prepared to do all that was expected of her.

When Alhusain was yet an infant her husband became restive, and it was clear he was dissatisfied with something. Her relief was great, but she came close to despair in any event, when he advised her he had begun proceedings to emigrate with his family to North America.

She dutifully made all the required arrangements on her part, and determined which of their belongings would accompany them. Drying her tears she did what a good wife must do to follow her husband. She was fearful of leaving her family, her friends, her village, her society. And then, a catastrophe; a fortnight prior to their departure, Almadhi claimed to have had a vision and in that vision he was instructed to bring Dahlia back into his household. She would, he informed her gravely, aid her in the raising of their children, for Amina was yet again gravid.

She knew, even before they left, that Almadhi would be visiting Dahlia in the night-time hours, for he was permitted as many wives as he could afford to support, and he could afford to support more than merely two wives. From scorning the woman who she had replaced, she turned to detesting her and spoke harshly to her, although Dahlia made no protest.

When they settled in their new place on another continent and Atifah was born, Dahlia held the child as though she were hers and hers alone. She brought Atifah to Amina to be nursed, and did everything else for the baby, leaving the care of Alhusain to his mother.

Amina resented Dahlia on the one hand, but was grateful that she was spared having to look after an infant and a baby on her own. She was unrelenting, however, in her spite toward Dahlia and would never permit her to forget that she had been the spurned one and it was Amina who had brought honour to Almadhi's family, not she. Dahlia would never respond, merely dip her head in assent.

And then two other babies were born in fairly short order, two more girls, Daniyah and Bhashira, and Dahlia opened her great heart to the new babies each in turn, while their mother turned away from them. The three girls felt Dhalia to be their mother, for it was she who comforted them, encouraged them, supported them. With Almadhi's approval, Amina focused on their son, and Dahlia on the three girls.

And Amina's hatred for Dahlia, even while she gave up maternal custody of her three girls to Dahlia, festered and caused unrest in the family. Almadhi chose to ignore the tension, and he continued also to take his conjugal rights with Dahlia, far more often than with Amina, which she knew, and which drove her to a frenzy of raging acrimonious execration.

Dahlia deftly, in their large spacious home, kept to her own apartment, and it was there that the three girls spent most of their time at home, as well.

Almadhi's business continued to flourish, and life was good to the family. Their circle of friends and acquaintances remained firmly within the Muslim community where they were well known. Dahlia, however, was open and committed to casual friendships with those of their neighbours who were non-Muslims, and this too infuriated Amina, and she demanded that Almadhi do something to discourage this un-Muslim-like behaviour, one that their regular Muslim cleric, the respected imam of their mosque warned against.

As the children entered adolescence and beyond, the girls began to emulate their beloved Auntie and became freely engaged outside the confines of their home, with their peers who were not Muslim. When this became apparent to Amina, she railed against the girls' behaviour, warning them that their father would not approve of it.

And when she informed Almadhi of the girls' indiscretions he became more alarmed than she might have imagined. He brought the girls to his study and lectured them sternly, and later spoke privately to Dahlia, forbidding his children to mingle with non-Muslims in any kind of social situation.

As the years passed and the girls became older, one 18, the second 15, the last 13 years of age, tension in the household increased. Particularly as their mother announced she and their father had decided their girls would now not only wear the headscarf, but also begin wearing an abiya.
the girls were horrified and Dahlia was distressed for them.

As soon as they left the house they would discard the abiya, push it into their school bags, to be retrieved when departing school for the return journey home. But Alhusain, witnessing this, reported it to their father. And reported also that his sister Atifah had been seen speaking to non-Muslim men.

The household became a hothouse of accusations, denials and counter-accusations. The girls were desperately unhappy and their aunt became extremely worried for them. Nothing was resolved despite the threats of dire punishment, for the girls became more defiant, refusing to even wear the abiya on leaving home and Dahlia tried to explain to Almadhi who was not closing his mind yet to her, and to Amina, who loathed her, how in their new country the girls were being influenced by other social mores that would not impact deleteriously on their personal faith.

Almadhi became furious with Dahlia, something that had never before occurred. And Amina watched, fascinated, as he set Dahlia aside, refusing to hear her out, shunning her company. And it was when Almadhi approached Amina, together with Alhusain, and, face stone-hard, infused with an anger they might never have suspected resided in him, said they must take steps to save their family's honour.

So it was that a dreadful accident occurred, when one of the family vehicles driven by Atifah, with her aunt sitting beside her and her sisters Daniyah and Bashirah seated in the back somehow managed to plunge into a wintry-icy canal, in the city where they lived. The submerged vehicle and the four dead bodies were discovered by a police patrol, for their family had reported them missing.

A truly dreadful tragedy. The three remaining family members went into deep mourning.

It is in a jail operated by infidels that they now await trial and judgement by kuffars; completely unjust, without divine guidance, meaningless. 

Duty Above All

 

May 31st, 1884 The gale continued all day and was accompanied by a heavy snowstorm. We were not only held close prisoners in our shelter, but also in our bags, as drift over a foot deep covered us. We were unable to cook and consequently had nothing to eat during the day, not even a swallow of water. Of all the days of suffering, none can compare with this. If I knew I had another month of this existence, I would stop the engine this moment. *

 

 

He might never have been able to imagine, even in the most feverish of his dreams, that he would himself experience such desolation, fear and privation. There is nothing, he thought grimly to himself, like living through such a nightmare to bring a human perspective to the heights to which human resources might aspire, and the depths to which the human spirit could plunge. It was only through the desperate cauldron of facing death on a daily basis that each man’s strength and weaknesses surfaced, so one could finally know what lay beneath the carefully maintained and structured façade of civility that society demands of its creatures.

This was a society he was familiar with, not the kind which also existed in the world of those with scant resources, ruled by tyrants who made short shrift of human values and rights belonging to others. In his world, occasions abounded for individuals to recognize and make the best of their opportunities, and those who strove to find satisfaction in their lives thrived, while those who merged their inertia with society’s constraints remained maladapted to the vision of their very future attainments.

For him that vision encompassed adventure, glory, serving his country as an educated, astute military man gifted with certain attributes that made him the perfect selection to help lead an expedition into the frozen distances of the globe where animal life abounded despite the severity of the atmosphere, the geology and the weather, but human life could not.

So here he was, on Ellesmere Island. Two winters of it. That was the assignment. Collecting weather data, scrupulously reporting on atmospheric conditions. So his country would have a record and an understanding of conditions there to advance the science and knowledge of the geography and the hostile-to-humankind-environment. It was past time they left.

The understanding was that after the two years they would be relieved. Short of food, their equipment in a failing state. Tired of waiting. No option but to have faith, to hope for relief. Stoicism was their current lot in life. One that began slowly ebbing, as some among them became ever more disoriented, dysfunctional, minds and bodies severely malfunctioning.

It’s not easy living with that kind of cold. It is a beautiful environment. Aloof, pristine, lovely beyond belief. But even a clear day with full sun does little-to-nothing to alleviate the dread cold. The men are tired, underfed, on the verge of starvation, ailing and desperate. Some of them lie in their virtually warmth-useless sleeping bags, refusing to rise. Preferring to invite death through surrender of their imprinted imperative to survive. They have admitted to themselves that they are incapable of flailing against imminent death.

They are, however, my responsibility, he sternly reminded himself, and one I do not take lightly. I go out every day and do what I can to obtain some element of nutrition to help keep us all alive and hoping for another day. I am by no means the only one to attend to these mutual duties, but it has fallen to me and me alone to gather as much shrimp as I can manage with my inadequate nets and failing store of bait, to keep death at bay.

June 1st, 1884 Breakfast consisted of three ounces of shrimp and a cup of weak tea to each man. We were without food for thirty-six hours. Lieut. Kislingbury became unconscious at 8 a.m. and breathed his last at 3 p.m. Before he lost consciousness he begged piteously for a drink of water, but this the Doctor denied him. He then sang the Doxology in a clear but weak voice and, falling back in his sleeping bag, was soon in the embrace of Death. *

We’re all progressively weaker. But some of us do our utmost to remain of good cheer in this cheerless atmosphere, despite the beauty surrounding us. Some of the men, those whose physical condition is far worse than those of us who still go out every day to find edible mosses and lichens, or shrimp as I do, say nothing, do nothing, appear to have closed down their minds.

Awake, they lie limp and unresponsive. Some have close at hand photographs of wife, children, mother. And stare at these photographs unceasingly. Occasionally mumbling names and perhaps reminiscing about happier times. They have utterly given themselves over to the prospect of never again seeing their loved ones. The visages of their wives, mothers, children, will be the last their eyes see before they glaze over in death.

June 2nd, 1884 Salor died at 3 a.m. I was lying by his side in the same bag at the time. Not having the necessary strength to remove him and not feeling inclined to get up, I went to sleep in the same bag with the remains and did not awake until breakfast was announced at 9 a.m.
Doctor Pavy was making some rather absurd prescriptions this evening and talking incoherently.
For weeks I have noticed Linn’s feet protruding from the gravel heaped over his body. Day by day the elements have reduced the scanty covering until Linn’s feet are fully exposed to the gales sweeping over Cemetery Ridge. I have often thought that I would replace that which had blown away, but my waning strength has caused me to defer this for so long that I cannot think of attempting it now. *

Each dawning day appears more beautiful than the one it succeeds. In any other circumstances, we would be transfixed with awe at the wonder of nature’s paint brush. This morning there is but little wind, a decided relief from previous days’ incessant blowing. We have had good hunting today for a change. Along with the shrimp I have managed to gather, a dovekie was shot, and it will be cooked slowly to produce a hot, nutritious soup for all of us. We require something like that to restore a trifle of capacity to our failing bodies and a modicum of hope for the near future. For if we survive the near future it is entirely possible that the ship will sail through and bring us the relief all of so dearly hope for.

Some of us have been able to eat the rock lichens that have been collected, and found some nourishment in them. Others, however, suffer greatly from the after-effects of eating these unpalatable lichens.

The Sound, because of lack of the usual high blustering wind storms, looks calm, smooth and wonderfully blue. A calming, restorative sight for weary eyes, tired of tearing from the cold and the wind.

It’s come to this; our medical man is so weak and dispirited we may soon lose his professional capabilities. He refuses to any longer partake of our communal shrimp stew. He will now agree only to taking weak tea and as anyone might know, most particularly a man blessed with medical knowledge, no human body is capable of surviving long without adequate - or even in our parlous state - a minuscule amount of nutriment.

We continue to realize that one among us is a predator, caring little for the common weal in our miserable situation. Lieutenant Greely, after some brief consultation has been forced, by unfortunate circumstances, to issue an order:

Near Cape Sabine, June 5th, 1884 To Sergeants Brainard, Fredericks and Long:
Private Henry having been repeatedly guilty of stealing the provisions of this party which is now perishing slowly by starvation, has so far been condoned and pardoned. It is, however, imperatively ordered that if this man be detected either eating food of any kind not issued him regularly, or making caches, or approaching any article of provisions, you will at once shoot him and report the matter to me. Any other course would be a fatal leniency, the man being able to overpower any two of our present force.
(signed) A.W. Greely, Lt.5th Cav.A.S.O.& Asst. Comdg.Lady Franklin Bay Ex. *

We simply have no other choice but to this grim task of sentencing one of our own to death in the hopes of securing the lives of others of us. I find, despite my assiduous attention to the tedious work of fishing for our little life-saving shrimp that they are no longer taking to the bait. My strength is steadily diminishing and I have little appetite for further strenuous attempts beyond my present state of energy-depletion.

As it is at the present, it is all I can do to muster the energy required to stagger toward the shrimping grounds, remain there for the hours required to attempt to fish out a goodly portion of what remains and then painfully pull myself back up with my catch to the camp.

My mind and thought processes are dulling. My brain appears to be refusing to work as it should. I cannot recall what I should automatically be doing in the performance of my duties. My obligations to the men partially under my command are foremost in mind, but what, precisely, I should be doing, to ameliorate their condition, is now eluding me.

This is a most unfortunate situation. I cannot quite conceive of the reason why our rescue party has been so agonizingly tardy. Surely they must realize the situation we are in? Surely they have some intuitive knowledge that our situation is parlous? Perhaps it is better that we do not torture our minds by these useless conjectures.

We must acknowledge that something disastrous may have occurred to our relief party. That, or somehow conditions leading to their being able to reach us have somehow conspired to leave us in our present state, and they in a worried consternation over our situation.

Near Cape Sabine, June 6th, 1884 Sergeants Brainard, Long and Fredericks:
Notwithstanding promises given by Private C.H. Henry yesterday he has since acknowledged to me having tampered with seal thongs, if not other food at the old camp. This pertinacity and audacity is the destruction of this party if not at once ended. Private Henry will be shot today, all care being taken to prevent his injuring anyone as his physical strength is greater than that of any two men. Decide the manner of death by two ball and one blank cartridge.
This order is imperative and absolutely necessary for any chance of life.
(signed) A.W. Greely, 1st Lt.5th Cav. A.S.O. & Asst. Comdg. L.F.B. Ex. *

This is a sad and sorry business. But duty insists it must be met. As honourably, given the circumstances, as humanly possible. No one is the better for the situation.

After the execution was accomplished, a search of the poor man’s effects revealed him to have availed himself of a pair of seal boots, a coil of seal skin thongs, various knives and other items, some of which could be rendered down to edible product, some of which could be silently chewed in his sleeping bag in the dark of night, empowering him to a greater state of bodily comfort than has been afforded the rest of us. God save his soul.

We do know, however, that his was not the only such sin among our desperately suffering men. There are others suspected of indulging in the same, or like conspiracy to obtain for themselves certain advantages toward prolonging their lives.

Had we a trifle more strength between us we could undertake to bury the most recent dead. It is not at all decent that their bodies lay there, just beyond the camp where we have managed to drag them, away from our immediate presence, frozen and silently condemning our inaction in providing them with a resting place where they may meet eternity with equanimity.

June 7th, 1884 Biederbick and Connell gathered a few lichens and a little reindeer moss. This evening we dined on a stew composed of a pair of boot soles, a handful of reindeer moss and a few rock lichens. The small quantity of shrimps which I furnish daily is sufficient only for the morning meal.
We dressed the bodies of Dr. Pavy and Bender for their graves, but were unable to bury them. *

It is simply soul-destroying to witness the swift deterioration of the men’s earlier inspirational will to live. We who are in relatively better health than those gravely ill unto death do what we can to instill a little bit of cheer by commenting about the break in the weather and the beauty of the sky and the full sun, the import of which confuses us as we derive no benefit from any of it.

But there we are, all things being relative; we can, should we wish to do so, drink in the loveliness of our surroundings in this brief respite between storms.

Scurvy is plaguing the men, and little wonder. We celebrated the birthday of one our men by permitting him - and he alone - a spoonful of rum. Spirits are normally retained for other, more medicinal purposes. It was hoped that allowing that poor man a respite from his misery by a mere taste of what in other circumstances is taken for granted and taken in abundance, will momentarily bring cheer to his fading life. And he but 32 years of age.

We have found black rock lichens stew up nicely enough. Certainly not to everyone’s taste, as the result is rather gelatinous and tasteless, but we are certain, possessed of slight nutritive qualities. Everything we can manage to recognize as possibly nutrient-rich in some manner helps. We have taken to carefully and slowly chewing bits of seal skin cut from garments. This is not possible for those with advanced scurvy, and their end, we feel is lamentably nigh.

June 12th, 1884 We had only a cup of tea for breakfast. I found a new shrimping place this morning near the tent. After several hours’ work I returned with two pounds. Our evening meal - a few boiled lichens and a cup of tea.
Connell’s face appears full and healthy, but it is only swollen. He expressed a wish to work, cook and live by himself. This request Lieut. Greely would not grant.
Gardiner died at 5 p.m. Patience and fortitude have characterized his sufferings. He clung to life with a wonderful pertinacity and only succumbed when physical weakness had crushed his will. *

I try not to think overmuch of what I cannot do much about. We fumble and stumble through the long days of agonizing descent into hopelessness. What we remain aware of, those of us still capable of some minimal functioning, is that we must not convey to the others whose state of health is extremely delicate, our own sense of descending hope. We do what we must. And we do what we can to ensure that a small glimmer of hope remains in the wounded minds of our men.

The high winds have finally resumed. Resulting in our having had to remain close to camp, rather than venture further in our everlasting search for nutriments. I have been unable, of late, to catch more than a few ounces of shrimp. I did construct a nominal net to replace those washed out by a brief but sturdy spurt of ice-melt swelling the stream, but somehow lost the shrimp caught in it. And watched, helplessly, as they washed out of the utterly useless net and made their way downstream, depriving us of even that small portion of food.

We have no more tea left to us. We must now consider utilizing some of the lichens as the stuff of tea-making. The taste of which will doubtless be unpleasant to those still anticipating our own tea of a morning.

June 17th, 1884 The sense of hunger appears to have disappeared. We eat simply to preserve life. Crumbs of bread at our winter quarter which are occasionally exposed through the melting of the snow are picked from heaps of the vilest filth and eaten with relish. Henry ate ptarmigan droppings; Bender ate caterpillars, worms, etc. Saxifrage, lichens and other vegetation together with the intestines of animals would now be luxuries. I worked several hours in the raw, chilling winds and caught little more than a pound of shrimps. *

Some things are indescribable. How to describe to an interested ear the folly of a venture to which no ending can be visualized, but which must be embarked upon to obey orders from superiors who have their own reasons for the successful completion of a venture they themselves will never have to suffer the hardships thereof? In any event, those who have never undergone the travails which we have been exposed to, can never imagine how dreadful the assault on human endurance can conceivably be. Even those who have experienced such deprivation and exceptional danger to body and soul and survived the ordeal, cannot find words adequate to paint a picture with complete verisimilitude.

Perhaps this is just as well. For if those whose spirit takes them toward exploration and the adventure of discovery, those who fall under the spell of that great white presence of the frozen north were to completely understand what lies awaiting them, why they might never venture into the enterprise of discovery. And then, perhaps, the world would be a poorer place for lack of intelligence relating to the data thereof derived.

Now, to other more intimate things. Which have been gently pushed aside in my mind, heretofore. For I now find myself in that situation where I too, must think about that which is most precious to me.

What will I say when I greet my beloved wife? I will look deep into the wells of her soft eyes and I will absorb her love for me into the wellsprings of my soul. I will feast my tired eyes on her loveliness, her familiar face and presence. I will breathe the fragrance of her hair, the aroma of her being, and fill my tired lungs with her essence. I will carefully listen to the soft, sibilant tone of her voice expressing her undying love for me. I will embrace her and hold her and tell her I shall nevermore leave her.

My destiny approaches but my ultimate duty yet awaits me.

*From Six Came Back - David L. Brainard