Page 68 - A Woman Is No Man

staring absently at something behind her, lost in a faraway place, as though
he had forgotten she was there.
It wasn’t until they were in bed that Adam looked at her again, and

when he did, she smiled at him.
The smile surprised her as much as it surprised him. But Isra was
desperate to please him. Last night his body had taken her by surprise, but
now she knew what to expect. She told herself perhaps if she smiled and
pretended to enjoy it, pleasure would come. Maybe that was all she had to
do to make Adam love her: erase all traces of resistance from her face. She
had to give him what he wanted and enjoy giving it to him, too. And she

would do that. She would give him herself if it meant he’d give her his love.

It didn’t take Isra long to learn the shape of her life in America. Despite her
hopes that things might be different for women, it was, in most ways,
ordinary. And in the ways it wasn’t, it was worse. She hardly saw Adam
most days. Every morning he left the house at six to catch the train to
Manhattan, and he didn’t return until midnight. She’d wait for him in the
bedroom, listening for the door to open, for the clomp of his feet as he

descended the stairs. There was always some reason to explain his absence.
“I was working late at the convenience store,” he’d say. “I was renovating
my father’s deli.” “I couldn’t catch the R train during rush hour.” “I met up
with friends at the hookah bar.” “I lost track of time playing cards.” Even
when he did manage to come home early, it wouldn’t occur to him to take
her out somewhere. Instead he spent hours idling in front of the television, a
cup of chai in his hand, both feet lifted up on the coffee table, while Isra

worked with Fareeda in the kitchen, preparing dinner.
When Isra wasn’t helping Fareeda with the daily chores, she spent most
of her time peering out the window. Another disappointment. Outside all
she saw were rectangular houses. Bricks upon bricks, crammed against one
another on both sides of the street. Plane trees stood in neat, straight lines
along the paved sidewalk, their roots shooting through cracks in the cement.

Flocks of pigeons glided across gray, overcast skies. And beyond the row of
dull brick houses and worn cement blocks, beyond the line of London plane
trees and dark gray pigeons—Fifth Avenue, with its tiny shops and zooming
cars.
Fareeda was very much like Mama, Isra soon realized. She cooked and
cleaned all day, dressed in loose cotton nightgowns. She sipped on chai and