Grand Canyon. The family stood at the top of a lookout point on the South Rim. Jihad was on his mother's hip. Her sky blue jilbab swept the ground and her white crepe wimple outlined her head against the sky. Khadra's father stood next to her in his double-stitched tan leisure suit, his arm around Eyad. Khadra brought them into focus and snapped the picture.
An elderly white-haired man in an old-fashioned suit coming up the stairs stopped short before this family scene. "Santa Maria.'" he murmured. He came up the rest of the stairs without taking his eyes off Khadra's mother. "Beautiful, beautiful," he said, to himself-or to her, it wasn't clear. He had some kind of European accent.
Ebtehaj looked flustered, and shifted Jihad from one hip to the other. Wajdy seemed amused.
Later in the day, the family was walking along Hermit's Road, the sunset painting thick magenta and turquoise streaks across the sky above the deepening indigo and saffron of the canyon, when a siren wailed behind them. They scurried to the side of the road to let the police car pass; instead, the officer waved them down.
An elderly man had climbed out to a ledge and was poised to jump. He kept calling for "Madonna in the blue robe. Madonna with the angelic child! Madonna of the mountain!" Would Ebtehaj talk to him?
It ended well. Afterward, before she could stop him, the old gentleman lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. "God sent Beauty to save me!" he said.
Khadra's mother got all flustered again. She didn't even shake hands with men, and now her ablution had to be remade, of course. "It was not me-it was God's will," she said sternly, but not without compassion.
"What happened up there?" Wajdy asked, back at the Motel 6. The children were piled into one of the two double beds with chintz coverlets, asleep, except for Khadra, who heard her parents talking as she drifted to sleep.
"He said he just loved God and wanted to be with Him," Ebtehaj said, taking her hair out of the clip at the nape of her neck. "He said the world was too ugly. He wanted to see God's Beauty."' Her chestnut hair fell down her shoulders, curvy from where it had been held back all day.
"And then?"
Ebtehaj made an impatient noise. "I said you can't do that, that's haram, of course! In your religion like in ours. Ifyou love Him, you must obey Him." That was love, she felt. Not following your own desires, willy-nilly. The sun was setting and she'd said to the man, My God isn't this enough beauty for you, Mister? She now dabbed a bit of night cream on her face and smoothed it. "Wajdy, do you think," she said, considering a brand-new problem, "their prayers are counted by God?"
"They're People of the Book; of course their prayers count," Wajdy said, yawning. "Though not like ours," he added, before he fell into the silence toward sleep, leaving Ebtehaj staring absently at the hairpins on the chipped veneer of the nightstand and behind it, the grubby hotel drape.
Beyond that lay the striped asphalt road with its caravans of people and the immense gaping canyon and the question of what does it all mean, the question which, if not answered by faith, is answered by what? Then what railing would hold us from falling into the great gulch? No. The sure footing is the straight path, the rock-solid first ground of faith, where she was. She settled into the thin pillow.
Returning, there was always that funny Indiana smell. A sign of home.
"What is that smell, do you think?" Ebtehaj asked. "That Indiana smell?"
"Gas," Wajdy said.
"Who farted?" Khadra wondered, joining the conversation from the sleeping-bag-padded cargo area, and Eyad guffawed.
"No really, the smell of the state comes from natural gas," Wajdy insisted. Everyone in the car was laughing now. "All these towns in Indiana used to sit on top of natural gas reserves."
"Indiana has to make wudu!" Eyad hooted.
"Gas used to be the basis of the whole state economy," Wajdy went on, but it was no use. Even their mother
An elderly white-haired man in an old-fashioned suit coming up the stairs stopped short before this family scene. "Santa Maria.'" he murmured. He came up the rest of the stairs without taking his eyes off Khadra's mother. "Beautiful, beautiful," he said, to himself-or to her, it wasn't clear. He had some kind of European accent.
Ebtehaj looked flustered, and shifted Jihad from one hip to the other. Wajdy seemed amused.
Later in the day, the family was walking along Hermit's Road, the sunset painting thick magenta and turquoise streaks across the sky above the deepening indigo and saffron of the canyon, when a siren wailed behind them. They scurried to the side of the road to let the police car pass; instead, the officer waved them down.
An elderly man had climbed out to a ledge and was poised to jump. He kept calling for "Madonna in the blue robe. Madonna with the angelic child! Madonna of the mountain!" Would Ebtehaj talk to him?
It ended well. Afterward, before she could stop him, the old gentleman lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. "God sent Beauty to save me!" he said.
Khadra's mother got all flustered again. She didn't even shake hands with men, and now her ablution had to be remade, of course. "It was not me-it was God's will," she said sternly, but not without compassion.
"What happened up there?" Wajdy asked, back at the Motel 6. The children were piled into one of the two double beds with chintz coverlets, asleep, except for Khadra, who heard her parents talking as she drifted to sleep.
"He said he just loved God and wanted to be with Him," Ebtehaj said, taking her hair out of the clip at the nape of her neck. "He said the world was too ugly. He wanted to see God's Beauty."' Her chestnut hair fell down her shoulders, curvy from where it had been held back all day.
"And then?"
Ebtehaj made an impatient noise. "I said you can't do that, that's haram, of course! In your religion like in ours. Ifyou love Him, you must obey Him." That was love, she felt. Not following your own desires, willy-nilly. The sun was setting and she'd said to the man, My God isn't this enough beauty for you, Mister? She now dabbed a bit of night cream on her face and smoothed it. "Wajdy, do you think," she said, considering a brand-new problem, "their prayers are counted by God?"
"They're People of the Book; of course their prayers count," Wajdy said, yawning. "Though not like ours," he added, before he fell into the silence toward sleep, leaving Ebtehaj staring absently at the hairpins on the chipped veneer of the nightstand and behind it, the grubby hotel drape.
Beyond that lay the striped asphalt road with its caravans of people and the immense gaping canyon and the question of what does it all mean, the question which, if not answered by faith, is answered by what? Then what railing would hold us from falling into the great gulch? No. The sure footing is the straight path, the rock-solid first ground of faith, where she was. She settled into the thin pillow.
Returning, there was always that funny Indiana smell. A sign of home.
"What is that smell, do you think?" Ebtehaj asked. "That Indiana smell?"
"Gas," Wajdy said.
"Who farted?" Khadra wondered, joining the conversation from the sleeping-bag-padded cargo area, and Eyad guffawed.
"No really, the smell of the state comes from natural gas," Wajdy insisted. Everyone in the car was laughing now. "All these towns in Indiana used to sit on top of natural gas reserves."
"Indiana has to make wudu!" Eyad hooted.
"Gas used to be the basis of the whole state economy," Wajdy went on, but it was no use. Even their mother
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