Chapter 3 Salma #4
She must think I’m being hyperbolic, because she says, “I hear you. Sometimes I wonder is this it? Is this really all there is? I mean, don’t get me wrong.
I love my kids.” She closes her eyes. “I love them so much that sometimes it feels unnatural. Like, am I supposed to love them that much? But about the rest of it. I have no life. What about me? Is this marriage-and-family thing supposed to be this hard?”
Our life circumstances are entirely different, yet I understand the general sentiment. The waitress brings our drinks. I take a sip. Marlene takes a guzzle.
“Did you work in Chicago? Outside of the house, I mean.”
She sinks in her seat. “Before kids, I was a speech pathologist. I thought I’d go back to it when Bear was a toddler, but now . . . he’s a toddler, I’m responsible for everything, and I can’t imagine going back to work.” She guzzles some more.
She looks so defeated that I, once again, feel compelled to ask her more personal questions than I normally would. “Poppy says that your, er, partner, is still in Chicago. I imagine that would be hard, trying to single parent and go back to work.”
“She’s my wife, actually. But yeah, she’s still in Chicago. She’s just wrapping up everything.”
There is something false about her statement.
“Will she be joining you soon?”
She looks at my almost-full bottle of cider and motions to the waitress to bring her another drink. “You know so much about me. Tell me about you.”
I am caught off guard. “I don’t know anything about you, though, do I?” It is also a well-honed skill. Keep the focus of the conversation on the other person.
Her green eyes shine after her first drink, and her accent becomes stronger.
“I am married to a woman named Roberta who loves her drink more than she loves our children or me. She’s depressed or has PTSD.
Or something. She’s unwilling or unable to get help.
In the beginning, it was romantic. I thought I could save her.
But ten years later, it’s lost its charm.
” She finishes the last watery bits of her drink and thumps the glass down on the iron table.
“That’s a lot, Marlene. I’m so sorry.”
She shrugs. “I gave up my career, my family, everything for her. And now, I’m back in a city I swore I would never come back to, and she’s in Chicago reading her old lover’s diaries and watching videos of her.”
“Whoa.”
“Yep.”
There is nothing I could say to put a positive spin on this, nor is it my job to do so.
We both lean back in our chairs and study the menu.
A group of women in exercise clothes gathers in front of the restaurant.
One stretches her arm across her chest. One has her leg bent behind her while she tries to grasp her ankle to stretch her quad, except her nails are too long, and she struggles to do so.
They are all impossibly skinny and wear lipstick. They take off at a slow canter.
Marlene and I look at each other and raise our eyebrows, judging without exchanging a single word.
Somehow, I know for a fact that what has caught both of our eyes is the lipstick.
To run. And then we both start laughing.
Oh, how I have missed this easiness and rapport.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve been with a woman and yukked it up.
I’m friends with female teachers at school, but they are professional relationships.
There is no expectation to share your heart.
Over the years, I have found it easier to be friends with men who have no need to plumb emotional depths.
But this is more than that. This feels painfully and wonderfully familiar.
“Do you want another drink, Miss Chaudhry? Or get a bite to eat? My parents are putting the kids down, and God knows I don’t want to get home too early.”
“Marlene, I’ve told you, please call me Salma. I can’t even finish this drink.” I hold up my half-full bottle.
She looks at me like she doesn’t know whether to believe me. Either that or whatever charm I had earlier presented has worn off.
“Right then. Let’s order food. Otherwise I’m going to be good and drunk in short order.”
There it is again. She reminds me of Mamoo. A clipping off the ends of words. The jolly-chap-ness of the language. “Where’s your accent from?” I ask. “England? New Zealand?”
“You are good, Miss Chaud . . . Salma . . . you’ll always be MissCh to me,” she singsongs, smug and playful. She picks up the menu.
We order a flatbread and calamari for appetizers. Marlene looks hesitant.
“You never answered. Where is your accent from?”
“You ought to meet my wife. She’s also very good at avoiding my questions. South Africa.”
“Wait. Really? You’re South African, and you have a Black child. That’s incredible.”
“Roberta’s Black.”
“Wow. That’s trippy.”
“I’m Jewish, not an Afrikaner.”
She has an edge in her voice, and I think I might have crossed a line. Maybe that cider is getting to me. She butters a piece of bread that’s been delivered to the table.
“I’m sorry, Marlene. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Oh for God’s sake. You didn’t offend me! My kid is Black. That’s not exactly a state secret.”
I stay silent, wondering whether she is actually drunk and whether I should extract myself from this evening.
“Come on, MissCh. You’ve got to give me something.”
Ah. She sees through me. “Oh, sorry. It’s just that there’s nothing much to tell. Never been married. No kids. Not seeing anyone. It’s just me and my uncle and my cat.” I shrug. “Footloose and fancy free.” I attempt a casual laugh.
Marlene doesn’t seem to buy it, but thankfully our food arrives.
As Marlene serves me a piece of the flatbread, she asks, “Has Poppy said anything to you about what some of the girls call her?”
My stomach drops. “No . . . what?”
“Poopy.”
“What?” I shake my head with disbelief. “What?”
Marlene visibly relaxes. “Thank you for that reaction. Obviously . . .”
“Who? Who’s saying this?” I demand.
“She won’t tell me because she doesn’t want to get them in trouble.”
I tick quickly through the kids in the class.
If someone was making fun of Winifred or Hong, I would be upset, but my teacher brain and professional sense of responsibility would help me take constructive action.
What I am feeling is far more visceral, something vengeful.
I am enraged that someone would be cruel to Poppy.
She is such a sweet kid. She keeps to herself.
She goes out of her way to not infringe on anyone.
She’s a rule follower and caretaker. I’ve seen how she responds to Marlene when Marlene is low.
Why would someone want to hurt her? We did the name activity the first week of school to avoid exactly this type of thing.
I do not feel like a detached professional.
I want to thump the kids who would do this. Maybe it’s the shared birthday.
I work hard at tackling the bully mindset.
Some years and with some groups of kids, it can take a substantial and consistent amount of time.
I am always upset if kids make fun of someone, especially those that are different or don’t fit in as easily.
The feeling of being excluded, or on the outside, is a core personality trait, not just reserved for those of a different skin color or accent.
There are the children who, within a year of arrival from some far-flung shore, become leaders in the classroom and on the playground, utterly free and comfortable in their own skin and preternaturally aware of social dynamics and how to navigate within them.
And then there are the children, blond-haired, blue-eyed, born and bred in this country, who are so sensitive, they believe that they are different from everyone around them and that something must be wrong with themselves.
No, the internal feeling of otherness is a universal human condition. But there is no excuse for bullying.
I am fairly certain I know the culprits. It’s Kirsten V. and her little sidekick, Kristin B. “I think I know who it is, and, oh, trust me, I’ll take care of it.” I am steely. “And Poppy won’t know.”
The waitress clears our plates and asks if we’d like something else.
“Thanks. I’m done.”
“You’re full?” Marlene looks at me, dumbfounded.
My mind is on Kirsten and how I’m going to deal with this situation. “I’m just not that hungry. This making-fun-of-Poppy thing is really upsetting. But get something else if you’re hungry. Seriously.”
“I’m covering dinner, okay? You’ve hardly eaten or drunk anything.”
So this is what she’s worried about. That this meal may be too expensive for my teacher salary.
“You are so silly. Get what you want. We’ll work it out.
” What I don’t say is that I do not have to worry about money.
I have what I need and, as Mamoo’s heir, always will.
I work because I want to. Ten years ago the seven-year-olds saved me, and I’m sticking with them.
Marlene orders a burger and fries and mutters, “Just like those skinny little runner bitches.”
I throw a sugar packet at her. I came out of a sense of obligation but am enjoying myself more than I have in a very long time. Emil and I don’t tease each other, and we certainly don’t laugh like this. For some reason, I have not told Mamoo yet about this woman. I think he would love her.
“How old were you when you came?”
“Nope. Not doing this.”
Now what have I done?
“For everything I tell you, you need to tell me something. This is quickly developing into a one-way relationship,” she says.
I hear an echo of Asma bossing me around and am shocked at how good it feels, how much I’ve missed it.
“I was seven when we came to America. Your turn.”
Her burger comes, and she drowns it in ketchup.
“Nice. Was that so hard? Eleven. Do you have a boyfriend?” Quickly, she tags on, “Or girlfriend.”