Read Online American Taliban by Pearl Abraham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pearl Abraham
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she mouthed.
A smoker, seeing John on crutches, offered his perch on the little bench out front, and before John could decline, Barbara intervened. He’ll take it, she said. Thank you.
It’s a lovely spot, Barbara said, and wandered away to look at the shopwindow next door.
John leaned back, felt the sun on his face, a warm September glow reflected in the red brick across the street.
Noor returned and perched beside him. How are you?
He moved to give her space. Don’t, she said. I can’t stay. Did you find an apartment?
John nodded. On Nevins, on the ground floor, which is necessary until I get this thing off, he said, pointing to his fat dirty white leg scrawled with colorful Katie & Co. signatures. He wished now that he’d waited to meet her without it. On wheels, she would have known him as he was and wanted to be known.
I’m sorry about this, he said, but it’s coming off in a few weeks.
But that’s how I knew it was you, she said.
She smelled of apple or rose or currants, but intermingled with garlic and something else.
And then Barbara appeared, carrying a tiny bouquet of almost black hothouse roses. I had to have these, she said. They’re exquisite. The entire shop’s exquisite, including the girl behind the counter.
Nathalie, Noor agreed. She looked over her shoulder into the café. Your table’s ready.
They followed her to a tiny corner near the window. It’s a little quieter here, she said, handing them menus. Can I bring you a pot of Moroccan tea?
Yes, for me, Barbara said. John, a hot cocoa?
John nodded without taking his eyes off Noor, off her thin face, her prominent nose, her wide dark eyes. Her skin, he thought, was light cocoa, cocoa with plenty of milk. Desert skin and hair, desert Bedouin eyes, with the depths of sand and caves. He was thinking like a book, in clichés, and he was ashamed of it, but he couldn’t help himself. Noor was as deep and brown as Katie was clear and blond. And somehow, though he was only one man, the same man, he found both beautiful.
When Noor stepped away to place their order, John exhaled and stretched his good leg, glad to watch from a distance, relieved to have her probing black eyes and inquiring brow, which sent him into meltdown, preoccupied elsewhere. He looked up to see Barbara smiling into her menu, looking too pleased.
She decided on the stew. John asked about desserts.
I’ll bring you something, Noor promised, and soon returned with a Persian bird’s nest, made with honey, apricot, and pistachios, she explained. In truth it goes best with tea. I’ll bring an extra cup.
John broke off a piece and tasted. Not bad, he said. Though it’s not chocolate.
Barbara tried it. Not a bad start to a romance.
Mom, John said. We’re chat-room buddies. I thought you liked Katie.
Barbara nodded, but she made no effort to hide her smile, and John wished she weren’t there, or that he were anywhere but here, that he had waited until his cast was off and come alone. Who in his right mind brings his mother to a first meeting with a girl?
————
BACK HOME IN D.C. , Barbara took to self-dramatizing. On the phone, in the street, at the supermarket, in the diner, gym, wherever she met someone who had the misfortune to ask how she was. In response, she would plunge into a run-on:
John Jude is moving to Brooklyn, and though I love New York, and it really isn’t so far away, and this move will give us more reason to spend weekends away, still, Barbara lamented, my baby’s leaving home and he’s only eighteen, and he’s not fully mobile.
He’s perfectly self-sufficient, Bill pointed out. He was fine this summer.
She nodded, she agreed, he had been fine, but still she went on. It was the end of an era: they had raised a son, and now he was moving out, into the world, into the lives of other men and women. Would they love and protect him as she had?
If this is the end of a phase, Bill soothed, it’s also a beginning. John survived the
A smoker, seeing John on crutches, offered his perch on the little bench out front, and before John could decline, Barbara intervened. He’ll take it, she said. Thank you.
It’s a lovely spot, Barbara said, and wandered away to look at the shopwindow next door.
John leaned back, felt the sun on his face, a warm September glow reflected in the red brick across the street.
Noor returned and perched beside him. How are you?
He moved to give her space. Don’t, she said. I can’t stay. Did you find an apartment?
John nodded. On Nevins, on the ground floor, which is necessary until I get this thing off, he said, pointing to his fat dirty white leg scrawled with colorful Katie & Co. signatures. He wished now that he’d waited to meet her without it. On wheels, she would have known him as he was and wanted to be known.
I’m sorry about this, he said, but it’s coming off in a few weeks.
But that’s how I knew it was you, she said.
She smelled of apple or rose or currants, but intermingled with garlic and something else.
And then Barbara appeared, carrying a tiny bouquet of almost black hothouse roses. I had to have these, she said. They’re exquisite. The entire shop’s exquisite, including the girl behind the counter.
Nathalie, Noor agreed. She looked over her shoulder into the café. Your table’s ready.
They followed her to a tiny corner near the window. It’s a little quieter here, she said, handing them menus. Can I bring you a pot of Moroccan tea?
Yes, for me, Barbara said. John, a hot cocoa?
John nodded without taking his eyes off Noor, off her thin face, her prominent nose, her wide dark eyes. Her skin, he thought, was light cocoa, cocoa with plenty of milk. Desert skin and hair, desert Bedouin eyes, with the depths of sand and caves. He was thinking like a book, in clichés, and he was ashamed of it, but he couldn’t help himself. Noor was as deep and brown as Katie was clear and blond. And somehow, though he was only one man, the same man, he found both beautiful.
When Noor stepped away to place their order, John exhaled and stretched his good leg, glad to watch from a distance, relieved to have her probing black eyes and inquiring brow, which sent him into meltdown, preoccupied elsewhere. He looked up to see Barbara smiling into her menu, looking too pleased.
She decided on the stew. John asked about desserts.
I’ll bring you something, Noor promised, and soon returned with a Persian bird’s nest, made with honey, apricot, and pistachios, she explained. In truth it goes best with tea. I’ll bring an extra cup.
John broke off a piece and tasted. Not bad, he said. Though it’s not chocolate.
Barbara tried it. Not a bad start to a romance.
Mom, John said. We’re chat-room buddies. I thought you liked Katie.
Barbara nodded, but she made no effort to hide her smile, and John wished she weren’t there, or that he were anywhere but here, that he had waited until his cast was off and come alone. Who in his right mind brings his mother to a first meeting with a girl?
————
BACK HOME IN D.C. , Barbara took to self-dramatizing. On the phone, in the street, at the supermarket, in the diner, gym, wherever she met someone who had the misfortune to ask how she was. In response, she would plunge into a run-on:
John Jude is moving to Brooklyn, and though I love New York, and it really isn’t so far away, and this move will give us more reason to spend weekends away, still, Barbara lamented, my baby’s leaving home and he’s only eighteen, and he’s not fully mobile.
He’s perfectly self-sufficient, Bill pointed out. He was fine this summer.
She nodded, she agreed, he had been fine, but still she went on. It was the end of an era: they had raised a son, and now he was moving out, into the world, into the lives of other men and women. Would they love and protect him as she had?
If this is the end of a phase, Bill soothed, it’s also a beginning. John survived the
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