Chapter 23

Hospitality is traditional among rural people all over the world, and though Cecelia and I live in a city, we're both from the country. So I invited Yasmeen into the house, where Cecelia was putting the finishing touches on what I knew she'd intended to bring into the study. "That was quick," she said as we came into the dining room.

"Quicker than I thought," I said. "But no quicker than it needed to be."

"Like Abraham Lincoln's legs," Cecelia said with a smile.

"Yeah, like that."

"I do not understand that joke," Yasmeen said beside me. We were both leaning on the counter on the dining room side, watching Cecelia in the kitchen.

"Lincoln, who was very tall for that time and not exactly short today, once said that a man's legs ought to be long enough to reach the ground."

"Ah." Yasmeen looked at Cecelia. "Then our meeting was like Mr. Lincoln's legs."

Cecelia smiled again. "How are you doing, Mrs. Hussein?" she asked as she poured coffee into two cups. I knew she'd drink one, and would give the other to Yasmeen. I'd as soon drink silt as coffee.

"I am having some disturbing questions," Yasmeen said, "but your husband has been helpful."

"Is there anything I can help you with?"

"No, Mrs. Carpenter. This is something a minister must take care of."

I shook my head very slightly at Cecelia. It was probably more of a matter, in Yasmeen's mind, of a man handling it, and I suspected Cecelia realized that. I wanted to keep her from saying anything, for I know what she thinks of people who regard men as superior and women as inferior.

Cecelia nodded very slightly at me – either she'd understood my meaning, or she'd already reached the same conclusion and chosen not to try to alter Yasmeen's culture all at once. "Then," she said, "I will not pry into it. If it is something I need to know, I'll learn it in due time, and if not, I won't."

I looked at Yasmeen, and she was smiling slightly. "You are nothing like I had heard American women are," she said.

"How long have you been in the United States?" Cecelia asked.

"Five years. I suppose that by now I ought to know more about American women – especially the fact that they don't always fit the stereotypes I learned in Bahrain. I can only say that for three years I lived in Los Angeles with my brother, who ... he did not exactly keep me isolated, but he governed my life according to traditional Arab customs."

Cecelia came around the counter now, with a tray in her hands holding the cups of coffee, a bottle of vanilla Coke for me, and a pyramid of sandwiches. I knew without asking, because I know Cecelia, that none of the sandwiches had ham in them, or anything else which might contain pork. As she set the tray down she read my mind, as she so often does after our years of marriage. "I am not intimately familiar with Muslim dietary laws, and so I cannot guarantee that everything will meet your requirements. I have, however, stringently excluded the flesh of swine from the refreshments."

"I won't inquire too much into it if you don't," Yasmeen said with a smile.

"In that case," I said, "I'm ready for a drink." And I sat down in my usual chair and snagged my Coke. Cecelia sat in her place, to my left at the head of the table, and Yasmeen took Darlia's customary chair opposite me.

"Perhaps before you guzzle your beverage," Cecelia said, "you might wish to thank our Lord for providing it."

I grinned at her inadvertently sounding more Catholic than Protestant – not that I'd have known much about Catholic usage if my best friend weren't Catholic. "I think I'll do just that, then," I said, and briefly thanked God for His provision.

We talked while we ate, being careful to avoid difficult subjects. We all had the idea, I think, that the heavy stuff was for the study, and since we weren't in the study we'd maintain a lighter tone. Yasmeen had no children, but was still in her 20s, or maybe in her early 30s – I'd never asked and she'd never said – and had hopes. We talked about Darlia, our only child – and it looks like she'll remain so too, for though we've never used any sort of birth control Cecelia's only gotten pregnant once, and she's going on 44.

We talked about our house, its situation in a nice quiet neighborhood, and the fact that it's across the street from a park. A mile or less from home there's the barbershop where I get my haircuts, and the library where I get my books. There are fast food restaurants, two malls, and a Walgreens within walking distance. There's even a church a short distance away, though we've only visited there a couple of times.

We talked about our differing backgrounds – I'm a half white, half Indian California desert rat; Cecelia's the daughter of an Alabama sharecropper; and Yasmeen had grown up in an affluent, traditional Arab family. If you looked at the surface, none of us should ever have met any of the others, and yet Cecelia and I were married, and Yasmeen had met us in, of all places, our church services. The most profound comment of the whole conversation came out of that, when I said, "I guess God's really in charge, ain't He?"