My Accidental Jihad by Krista Bremer Read Free Book Online Page B

shimmering white platinum looked virginal, pristine. Everything about it suited me; it was perfect. The jeweler slid the case gently open in one smooth motion, as if trying not to wake me from a sleepwalking dream. Instead of handing the ring directly to me, he placed it suggestively in Ismail’s upturned palm. This was Ismail’s cue to act out the longstanding middle-class American courtship ritual.
    When Ismail turned to me and slipped the ring onto my outstretched finger, the bright fluorescent lights of the jewelry store turned fuzzy and soft, the water in my ankles seemed to recede, and even his thinning hair seemed to curl with new vigor. I held my hand up to the light and saw an appendage transformed: my fingers slender, elegant, finally all grown up. Ismail was absolutely right: I needed this diamond in the delivery room—more than Ismail’s comforting touch, a supportive midwife, or my own deep, measured breaths.
    “It’s very beautiful,” murmured the jeweler in a near whisper, as if it were the face of my newborn.
    “How much?” broke in Ismail gruffly, in a voice loud enough for everyone in the store to hear, the voice of a man who was wide awake. The jeweler told him the price. An explosion of air burst through Ismail’s lips: somewhere between a cough and guffaw. He fixed the salesman with a broad smile that said,
Let’s stop messing around and get serious now, shall we?
    “Listen: I will pay you
half
that, in
cash
, and I plan to take this ring home with me
tonight
,” Ismail announced loudly, pounding the glass countertop with his index finger.
    Silence fell as the jeweler tried to figure out how to respond. Nearby shoppers glanced furtively over at us, unsure if they were witnessing a negotiation or a holdup.
    I gasped, as if water had been thrown in my face. I was painfully aware of the curious stares of other shoppers, suddenly aware, too, of the bloated fingers of my own raised hand in this harsh light, my borrowed maternity shirt creeping up to reveal the orb of my enormous belly and the stretched elastic band of my borrowed maternity pants. In the blink of an eye, Ismail had transformed my glittering fantasy of happily ever after into a nightmare of public shame.
    This was not the first time Ismail’s bartering had made me intensely uncomfortable. It had happened a few weeks prior, in a cavernous rug store that smelled of incense and damp wool. A Turkish shopkeeper had unrolled a carpet with a flick of his wrist: the perfect size and color for the hallway between our bedroom and what we hoped would become our nursery. Ismail and I had looked from the rug to one another in wordless agreement; this was just the piece we were looking for, at a price we could afford. I turned toward the cash register and dug into my purse for a credit card, expecting Ismail to load our purchase into the car.
    I glanced back just in time to see him pat the shopkeeper on the back and ask, with a broad smile, what he
really
intended to charge us for the carpet. The shopkeeper’s eyes widened briefly in surprise, and then he smiled at Ismail as if he had just recognized a long-lost friend, even as he began to shake his head back and forth in emphatic disagreement. It was as if both men had stepped onto an invisible stage—their gestures suddenly larger, their expressions more melodramatic. For the next few minutes they hurled prices back and forth—their voices rising in anger, dropping in concession, then rising again in disbelief—until finally, smacking his palm against his forehead, the shopkeeper consented to Ismail’s price. He rolled up the rug while I stood behind Ismail feeling sheepish, flashing the shopkeeper apologetic looks and grappling with the temptation to slip him more money. The men loaded the rug into our car and shook hands. Then Ismail gestured toward my swollen belly. “Now what do you intend to give us as a present for our new baby?” he asked casually.
    The shopkeeper chuckled, shook