argued women are fair game because they’re now in the military, and civilians are fair game because they elect their governments and are culpable for their actions. All I’m saying is jihadists aren’t going to hesitate to use nuclear weapons. They just don’t have them yet. We should use ours first.”
“You want us to drop a nuclear warhead on Mecca?” asked my father. “Great. Then Iran takes out Israel.”
“Why do we care so much about Israel?” Alex retorted “What has Israel ever done for us? We give them a gazillion dollars in aid and they continue to kill Palestinians. Why do we want to support that? If they want a homeland, why don’t we give them part of Arizona? They could have five times the land of Israel. Do you realize how much money we waste trying to keep them safe in the Middle East? What’s the point?”
My father’s face turned red with fury. He had raised us to argue, to question, to read between the lines of newspapers, to flummox teachers with impertinence, and now his son was using those weapons against him. He looked like he was about to explode.
“The point,” my father said evenly, “is religious freedom. If America doesn’t defend religious freedom, then we are morally bankrupt as a country. And as individuals. Everyone of us.”
My mother appeared to be engrossed in her eggplant, smooshing it onto her fork with her knife, English style, chewing thoughtfully. She had a remarkable capacity to look oblivious. Cynthia had stopped eating all together, her hands under her thighs, her eyes round with apprehension, on the verge of tears.
“I just think we should use the bomb and be done with it,” said Alex, attempting to strengthen his argument with repetition.
“Well,” said our father grimly, “if the republicans win the election, you may get your wish.”
“ Allahu Akbar ,” said Alex, raising his water glass in a toast.
Cynthia began to whimper and dashed away from the table.
#
I realized I had paid hardly any attention to Cynthia since my return. Her distress over our dinner conversation filled me with guilt. She had always had a tendency to take family “discussions” to heart. Now Dad was losing his temper. It was too much for her.
I knocked on the door to her room. She didn’t answer, but the door was ajar. I pushed it open.
Sometimes Cynthia took my breath away. It was hard to believe we were sisters. She had long blond hair, huge violet eyes, a heart-shaped face with flawless skin, a tentative smile, a slim coltish body. Her sweetness and vulnerability made her beauty almost painful. I knew her looks would always set her apart, and that made me afraid for her.
She sat on a large cushion on the floor reading, dressed in billowy pants with a gauzy veil over her head. A cascade of pink-dyed cheesecloth hung over her bed like a mosquito net. On one wall hung a poster of a flying white horse. Brocade and satin pillows covered the bed, larger ones on the floor. On top of the carpeting was a Persian rug, the kind of knockoff you find for sale draped over hurricane fences on Jefferson Boulevard. A potted palm tree sat beside a futon on the floor. It was—in the mind of a thirteen-year-old girl—a perfect Bedouin tent.
“Hi,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Homework.”
I was surprised at first, but then remembered her school went year round, which I wasn’t sure was necessarily a good thing for Cynthia. She tended to be too serious, and it seemed to me she was missing out on an essential part of childhood. Summers had never felt like wasted time to me. “What are you working on?” I asked.
She gave me a sly glance, cleared her throat, lifted her book as if to read, then shut her eyes. “‘God brings forth the living from the dead, and brings forth the dead from the living; and God enlivens the earth after
“You want us to drop a nuclear warhead on Mecca?” asked my father. “Great. Then Iran takes out Israel.”
“Why do we care so much about Israel?” Alex retorted “What has Israel ever done for us? We give them a gazillion dollars in aid and they continue to kill Palestinians. Why do we want to support that? If they want a homeland, why don’t we give them part of Arizona? They could have five times the land of Israel. Do you realize how much money we waste trying to keep them safe in the Middle East? What’s the point?”
My father’s face turned red with fury. He had raised us to argue, to question, to read between the lines of newspapers, to flummox teachers with impertinence, and now his son was using those weapons against him. He looked like he was about to explode.
“The point,” my father said evenly, “is religious freedom. If America doesn’t defend religious freedom, then we are morally bankrupt as a country. And as individuals. Everyone of us.”
My mother appeared to be engrossed in her eggplant, smooshing it onto her fork with her knife, English style, chewing thoughtfully. She had a remarkable capacity to look oblivious. Cynthia had stopped eating all together, her hands under her thighs, her eyes round with apprehension, on the verge of tears.
“I just think we should use the bomb and be done with it,” said Alex, attempting to strengthen his argument with repetition.
“Well,” said our father grimly, “if the republicans win the election, you may get your wish.”
“ Allahu Akbar ,” said Alex, raising his water glass in a toast.
Cynthia began to whimper and dashed away from the table.
#
I realized I had paid hardly any attention to Cynthia since my return. Her distress over our dinner conversation filled me with guilt. She had always had a tendency to take family “discussions” to heart. Now Dad was losing his temper. It was too much for her.
I knocked on the door to her room. She didn’t answer, but the door was ajar. I pushed it open.
Sometimes Cynthia took my breath away. It was hard to believe we were sisters. She had long blond hair, huge violet eyes, a heart-shaped face with flawless skin, a tentative smile, a slim coltish body. Her sweetness and vulnerability made her beauty almost painful. I knew her looks would always set her apart, and that made me afraid for her.
She sat on a large cushion on the floor reading, dressed in billowy pants with a gauzy veil over her head. A cascade of pink-dyed cheesecloth hung over her bed like a mosquito net. On one wall hung a poster of a flying white horse. Brocade and satin pillows covered the bed, larger ones on the floor. On top of the carpeting was a Persian rug, the kind of knockoff you find for sale draped over hurricane fences on Jefferson Boulevard. A potted palm tree sat beside a futon on the floor. It was—in the mind of a thirteen-year-old girl—a perfect Bedouin tent.
“Hi,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Homework.”
I was surprised at first, but then remembered her school went year round, which I wasn’t sure was necessarily a good thing for Cynthia. She tended to be too serious, and it seemed to me she was missing out on an essential part of childhood. Summers had never felt like wasted time to me. “What are you working on?” I asked.
She gave me a sly glance, cleared her throat, lifted her book as if to read, then shut her eyes. “‘God brings forth the living from the dead, and brings forth the dead from the living; and God enlivens the earth after
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