Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [29]
We kept walking, and though I didn’t turn toward Aalia, I could feel her falter.
“Aalia.”
“Yes?” Her shoulders were still pulled back and somehow she had learned to lead with her hips, but her pace had slowed the slightest degree, and her voice sounded vague.
“Do you know what a lesbian is?”
“In my country they are put to the death.”
“In mine, they get their own talk shows.”
She shook her head, but her attention was on the suits. “It is a mortal sin.”
“We kind of frown on wife-beating here,” I said.
A degree of color seeped from her face. Then, reaching out, she took my fingers in hers. They felt as cold as Popsicles. Our gazes met and stuck. I swung our hands between us and forced a smile. It took her a moment to reciprocate, but when she did the world lit up like a carnival. Just when we were even with the suits, she leaned over and kissed me.
I stared, agog, and she laughed. Slipping her arm through mine, she toted me outside.
“Give me the keys.”
I jerked toward the speaker. Rivera was right beside me, face hard, body language unspeakable. I hadn’t even heard him approach, but he was matching my stride.
“The keys,” he said again.
“I can drive,” I said.
“She needs you.”
“She’s fine … and amazing,” I said, but he was already slipping my purse from my shoulder.
“Hurry up,” he ordered, and it wasn’t until that moment that I realized Aalia was crying.
11
It is better to be a coward for a moment than to be dead for the rest of your life.
—Irish proverb
Even though the traffic was atypically light, it was still a long ride home from LAX to Sunland. I sat in the backseat with Aalia. For the first few miles I just stared out the back window, but if anyone was following us, I couldn’t see them.
I was able to coax almost nothing out of Aaila. In the end, she fell asleep, head resting against the cushion behind her. I tried to call her sister, but my message went instantly to voice mail.
By the time we reached the 101 I had given up, but Ramla was out her door before Rivera had pulled the Saturn to a complete halt. Instead of rushing toward us, however, she stood absolutely still, waiting on her stoop, hands clasped in front of her mouth, brows drawn painfully together in the sweep of her porch light.
Rivera turned off the car and glanced back at me. Aalia came awake slowly and blinked, then started slightly as she saw us staring at her.
“It’s okay,” Rivera said.
“We’re here,” I intoned, and nodded toward the Al-Sadrs’. “Your sister’s waiting.”
Aalia lifted her beautiful face toward my neighbor’s house. “Ramla?” She said the word strangely, almost like a prayer, and then she was fumbling for the door handle. Ramla was running toward us. I sat perfectly still, watching as the two women met and clasped, cried and hugged and cried some more. Sitting in the backseat, I felt my eyes well up as Ramla and Aalia turned, still hugging, toward the house. One hot, fat tear slipped down my cheek.
The night went silent. Even Rivera seemed beyond complaints.
“I’d join you back there,” he said, “but I’m probably in enough trouble for harassing strangers without being found in the backseat with a weeping woman.”
“I’m not weeping,” I said, and inconspicuously wiped away the tear.
It was very dark, but I could still make out his cut-granite features in the dimness. “Is that an invitation?”
“No,” I said, but truth to tell, I did kind of need a hug … or something.
“You okay?”
“Sure,” I said. “It was easy peasy.”
He raised one brow. “You dressed a Muslim woman in a garbage bag.”
I sniffed a little. “There were Muslim men nearby.”
He nodded.
“I’m getting a kink in my neck,” he said, twisted around in the seat. “We should get you inside.”
I didn’t say anything. The memory of Ramla wrapping her sister in her arms still made my throat feel tight.
“Or I could join you back there.”
“Geez,” I said, and shedding the melancholy mood, clambered out of the car. He followed me to the door, where I put my key in the lock.
“I’ll call you in the morning,” he said.
I turned toward him. “You’re not coming in?