A Twist In The Tale(Firoze Hirjikaka) Wheezing slightly after his morning jog, Phillip stopped for a minute at the entrance to his driveway and stared at the house he had bought just nine months previously; soon after his retirement. It’s too big, he thought to himself – not for the first time. Seven rooms, not counting the kitchen and bathrooms; and there were just two of them; him and his wife Abigail. And it was not as if they needed extra space for the kids when they visited. There were no kids. It was so long ago that he no longer remembered – or cared – whose fault it was. And it wasn’t so bad, really. Sure, there was the occasional pang of envy when he saw a father-son duo having fun (actually grandfather-grandson would be more appropriate at his age), but he and Abigail had long ago made their peace with it. The upside was that, since they had no children to provide for, he had managed to amass a very tidy nest egg.

Phillip turned his thoughts back to the house. The house was big because, well, all the houses in the street were. He supposed that was the price you had to pay for wanting to live in an upscale neighborhood. Fortunately, he could afford it. Still, there were some things missing; white picket fences, for instance. Actually, none of the houses on the street had picket fences. Had they become extinct, he wondered? Well, it wasn’t too bad, he guessed. For sure, it was not Wisteria Lane and he had yet to encounter a desperate housewife, but it was quiet and shady – and even the neighborhood kids did not make too much of a racket. Most important, it wasn’t one of those retirement communities where everyone was older – or, at least, as old – as himself. He did not fancy the idea of being surrounded by old fogies; even if he would soon be one too.

A voice behind him said “good morning” and he turned. For no apparent reason, his ears turned red. It was Ms. Goodbar, from the end of the street. Nothing old about her; early thirties, maybe. And she looked gorgeous and slightly exotic: black hair, black eyes; about five foot four and with a firm, pert figure. Phillip wasn’t one of those men who rated a woman’s attractiveness based on her bust measurement. In fact, he thought top heavy women looked artificial and a little gross. Being a retired engineer, he valued proportion; one part blending seamlessly into the next. He didn’t know her well. He wasn’t close with any of his new neighbors; his natural reserve, he supposed. But she unerringly managed to send a jolt shooting through his spine whenever she smiled at him – like she was doing now. This was his moment to say something witty; to show her what an intelligent fellow he was. But all he could manage was a loopy grin. She looked at him with an amused smile, strangely free of derision; then went on her way.

Mentally kicking himself, Phillip went into the house. He supposed he should shower first, but that jog in the crisp autumn air had worked up an appetite. He strolled into the kitchen. Abigail was seated at the table, reading the paper. She looked up at him and smiled. After 32 years of marriage, they could still smile at each other. The passion in their marriage had long since cooled, but there was a healthy companionship and a mutual respect. It had been a long time since either had said “I love you” to each other, but he knew she did – and he loved her, in his own way. He had never been very demonstrative; even in the early days.

He saw that she had laid out a plate for him; along with muesli and a jug of milk. That wouldn’t satisfy him today. He wanted bacon and eggs; but he knew better than to ask her. He would have to get it himself. Abigail was definitely not one of those lord and master wives. She had a successful career too; and she had made it clear from the beginning that the housework would be equally shared. Being an only son with a doting mother, it had taken Phillip considerable time – and several battles – to get used to the new order; but he had adapted eventually. All said and done, Abigail was a good wife. She didn’t fuss over him, but she did not make unreasonable demands either. If there was one thing she was a bit paranoid about, it was paying bills on time. She could not bear to be in debt, even for a month. If a utility or a credit card bill did not arrive on the due date, she would actually call up the company to remind them. They probably thought she was nuts. Best of all, they still talked to each other; laid out whatever was on their minds. He was rather proud of that.

Phillip broke two eggs into the frying pan and added four rashers of bacon. He loved the sizzling sound it made. Someone had told him that it was healthier to put the bacon in the microwave, but it just didn’t taste the same. He wasn’t really surprised by that. Food that was “good” for you usually tasted like crap. Philip loved food and he did not intend to trade it for all that low fat, low cholesterol seaweed. If his gourmet lifestyle knocked five years from his life span, it was a fair exchange.

During breakfast, Phillip mentally planned his day. It was less than a year since he had retired as an engineering manager; and the novelty of doing nothing in particular was still fresh enough to be enjoyable. He sure did not miss the field trips, the impossible deadlines and some plumb ornery clients. There was a small community centre down by the edge of the lake – well, it was a pond, really – and he thought he might stroll down there after a shower and seeing Abby off to work. She was seven years younger than him and had a while to go before she retired. He did not visit the community centre to mingle – he was no good at that – but they had a few deck chairs laid out at the edge of the pond and he liked to lounge around and watch the ripples in the water. He would carry his writing pad with him, of course. He had always fancied himself as a writer, although his output was anything but prolific. His career had become a convenient excuse for the lack of productivity; but now, though he had time to spare, he was discovering that generating creative ideas was not as easy as it seemed.

Another reason for visiting the community centre – one that he would never openly admit to anyone – was the possibility of running into Ms. Goodbar. He didn’t even know her first name: how pathetic was that? Moreover, he had no idea whether there was a Mr. Goodbar on the scene – he certainly hadn’t seen her with a man. Philip had always had a problem making small talk and striking up a casual conversation with strangers. Most of his: “friends” were folks Abby had introduced him to. He had never been a skirt chaser – though not from lack of inclination. All through school and college, he had been the quintessential nerd – and nerds seldom blossomed into lady killers. It had occurred to him, somewhat humiliatingly, that one reason he had never cheated on Abby was that other women showed no interest in him; not that way, anyway.

But this lady intrigued him. She was beautiful, but it was more than that. This one had got under his skin. Perhaps it was the way she looked at him – he couldn’t describe it, but it was not the way women usually looked at him; especially not beautiful women. He just knew he wanted to know her better. His plans hit a tiny bump, when Abby told him they were out of milk, but he managed to run the errand and make it to the centre by ten thirty. He never made it inside. She was there; leaning against her Mazda and smoking a cigarette. He did not smoke himself, but he did not pass judgment on those who did. And if cigarettes had done any damage to her lungs, it sure was not apparent. She had on a fuchsia turtleneck, so it was not as she was displaying anything, but he thought she looked incredibly sexy. She gave him a smile and he could swear her eyes were inviting him to come over. Trying to look casual – and failing miserably – he walked over to her; and that loopy grin flashed again. It never failed, dammit. She didn’t flinch, however. She gave him a measured look, pursed her lips; and spoke.

“Would you consider me very forward if I asked a favor?” she asked. The way she was looking at him, he would have gone to the moon and back for her. He tried to speak, but just ended up nodding lamely. She went on, “Ikea just delivered this coffee table I’d ordered, but it’s in a box and I have no idea how to put it together.” Phillip found his voice at last. This was something he could handle. “I can help you with that”, he said, “I am an engineer.”

She clapped her hands like a little a girl and did an impromptu jig; then held out her hand. “My name is Ferishteh,” she cooed, “thank you so much.” Seeing the slightly puzzled look on her face, she added, “I’m Iranian.” No wonder she looked exotic, he thought. “Shall I follow you home?” he asked.

Seven minutes later, they pulled up in front of a house, pretty similar to his own but, to his surprise, she didn’t go inside. Instead, she headed for the two-car garage and he noticed an external flight of stairs leading up to a room above. She laughed at his look of bewilderment. It was a tympani sort of laugh, not overdone and very feminine. “You don’t think I can afford a big house like this,” she mocked, “I’m just a poor working girl. Come on up.”

Phillip followed her up, a little nervous. It was a long time since he had been alone with a woman – and certainly not one who looked like her. He blinked when he entered. There was nothing remarkable about the furnishings; and that was what surprised him. He had subconsciously expecting Persian rugs, divans, things like that. He also noticed there was no IKEA box.

Before he knew what was happening, she was standing very close to him; her lips slightly parted, her look slightly mocking. The invitation could not have been more explicit; and yet he just stood there, frozen. His hormones were in full flow; he could feel that. His basic instinct was to grab her, crush her to him and experience a few moments of physical ecstasy he had, perhaps, never felt before. But, in spite of himself, his analytical, engineering mind was racing two steps ahead. What if he started this; would he be able to stop it? Where would it lead? Could he do this to Abby? It was crazy and he knew it. Such opportunities did not come one’s way often – in his case, they never had and probably never would again. So why was he displaying all the symptoms of rigor mortis? The frozen tableau seemed to stretch on to eternity.

She seemed equally nonplussed. She just looked at him, the wonder increasing in her eyes. Then, without any warning, her face crumpled. She turned away, stumbled over to the sofa and collapsed; her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving. Phillip was flabbergasted. This situation was way above his emotional pay grade. His logical mind told him he should quietly leave but, for once, he didn’t give a damn about logic. Almost in a trance, he sat down beside her, put his arm around her and gently pushed her face into his shoulder. His traditional reserve seemed to have taken a leave of absence. He found himself stroking her hair as she sobbed uncontrollably. Something was happening inside him and, even with his high IQ; it took him time to figure it out. He got it eventually. He was feeling; not analyzing, not evaluating, just feeling. The funny part was that he didn’t know what he was feeling. It wasn’t lust, it wasn’t necessarily sympathy, but it felt good.

After what seemed like eternity, she subsided. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose and looked embarrassed. He withdrew his arm from her shoulder and just looked at her. She looked like a delicate fawn, debating whether to come forward and accept the fruit he was holding out. She lowered her head and whispered, so softly that he had to strain his ears to catch her words. “I’m so sorry… You are the first decent man I’ve met in a long, long time. It reminded me that I was…once…decent too.”

He was holding her hands, gently, and drew out her story. The words came out haltingly at first, then in a flood. She was a second-generation immigrant. Her parents had come over in the late seventies; having a premonition of Khomeini’s impending revolution and the blight that was to descend on their ancient and cultured nation. She was just five then, an only child. Her father had been a prosperous merchant in Tehran and, fortunately, he managed to bring over most of his savings. He took over an upscale Seven-Eleven franchise in downtown Charlotte; rented a compact two bedroom apartment above the store and they settled in. The language was not a problem for her dad. He had studied for a couple of years at UNC – hence the choice of Charlotte. Her mother struggled with English at first, but soon picked up enough to get by. She helped out at the store with her dad and their traditional Iranian hospitality, which made them treat each customer as an honored guest, soon endeared them to their almost all-white neighborhood. The neighborhood had been a deliberate choice. Her father did not believe in seeking refuge in ethnicity. He had come to America so that he and his family would assimilate, become American. In particular, he did not want his daughter to feel that she was different; that she didn’t belong.

Ferishteh was a bright, egregious little girl and, later, a teenager. She always got good grades and respected her teachers – another Iranian tradition. Her undeniable beauty made it inevitable that she would be popular with the boys – but not too popular. In his eagerness to assimilate, his father allowed her more latitude than most mid-Eastern parents would, but there were limits. This meant strict curfews and dates only with boys who had been vetted by him first.

After graduating from high school, Ferishteh enrolled for a diploma in nursing at UNC, Charlotte. Her grades were good enough to get her into an Ivy League college – and the money was not a problem – but her dad couldn’t completely escape the Iranian mindset. He wanted her close by and wouldn’t hear of her staying in a dorm. College was fairly uneventful; a few casual relationships, but nothing serious – and she remained a virgin. She graduated among the top five of her class and gained an internship at Mercy Hospital.

That was where she met David Goodbar, a male nurse. She liked him instantly, because he was not cocky – like most men she met tended to be – and he made her laugh. Plus, though he was obviously attracted to her, he was in no rush to take it to the next level. She respected that; and she knew she was falling in love with him. She told him she was a virgin and expected to remain that way till her wedding night. She wouldn’t have been surprised if that was a deal breaker but – after giving her one of those ‘are you kidding me?’ looks – he took it like a man (actually unlike a man); and she loved him the more for it. After a lot of soul searching, she finally took him home to meet her parents. They liked him, but she could tell her father was a bit disappointed. He had hoped she would marry a doctor. Still he could see that they were his love and he gave his consent. David joked that it was delightfully old world, but she could tell he was touched. They were married five months later, just at the start of the new millennium. David told her that portended a promising future for them. She hoped he was right.

He seemed to be. The honeymoon was brief and – although the Smoky Mountains were hardly Hawaii – and happy. Her father would have paid for Hawaii, but David was too proud to accept a handout; and she respected him for that. They mutually decided to put off having kids for the first few years; they wanted to enjoy each other first. And they did. They ate out every week, went to shows and he cracked her up at times with his loopy observations on subjects he hadn’t a clue about. She was a full fledged nurse now; the pay was good and the patients genuinely seemed glad to have her around.

Then 9/11 happened – and her world collapsed. Well, it would be more accurate to say it systematically disintegrated. It started out gradually. David and she used to carpool to work, since it was the same hospital; but he began to make excuses for leaving earlier or later; and taking his own car. Suddenly, he could not schedule his lunch break to synchronize with hers. It was almost as if he was embarrassed to be seen with her. Patients who had treated her with respect – even a little affection – began to look at her oddly. Some even tried to grope her. When she complained to the matron, the woman just shrugged her shoulders and told her not to make a big deal out of it. She was intelligent enough to know what was going on. She had been branded as “the enemy.” It was ludicrous; most of all, it was grossly unfair. She was as American as any of them. And even if they could not forget her ethnicity, the attack on the twin towers had absolutely nothing to do with Iran. Not a single one of the hijackers had been Iranian. But it seemed to make no difference. She came from a mid-eastern background; therefore she was one of “them.”

All this was just the warm up to the main event, however. She made it a point to look in on her parents every Wednesday, on her way home from the hospital. It had become almost a ritual, albeit a pleasant one. This particular Wednesday, as she was driving down, she heard sirens behind her. A fire engine, followed by an ambulance, flashed past her. Some premonition told her this was going to be bad. As she approached the shop, she first smelt the smoke, then saw the leaping flames. The whole building was on fire and flames were leaping from the upstairs windows. She was trembling so violently, she ran her car into a fire hydrant. She didn’t care about that. She tried to run inside, but a fireman stopped her. “My parents,” she gasped, but he shook his head, not unkindly. She read the awful truth in his eyes and fainted dead away. She learnt a few days later that the shop had been firebombed by a bunch of “patriots”; skinheads who wanted to “strike a blow” for their country.

Ferishteh totally lost it for a week after the tragedy. She was like a rag doll, devoid of any will power. She just sat on the bed all day, her knees bunched up under her chin, rocking back and forth. David tried to cope, but gave it up after one day. He slept on the couch. Fortunately, the hospital sent over a case worker to be with her and prevent her from doing something rash. Finally some semblance of sanity returned and David felt emboldened enough to move back to the bedroom. That first night, she clung to him and sobbed her heart out. “How could anyone do this?” she pleaded, over and over. David’s response was the deathblow. “I’m not condoning it, of course, but, well, their county had been savagely attacked and…..” His tone clearly implied that she was not included in “their”. She could only stare at him, drained of all emotion. The next day, she cleared out and moved to a small hotel, then rented a studio walk up. She never spoke to David again.

She tried to bury herself in her work at the hospital, but the memories were too fresh, too painful. She had to get out of Charlotte. She quit her job and moved to Raleigh. With her credentials, she did not anticipate a problem with getting employment at another hospital, but she was mistaken. Sure she was called for interviews (the name on the application said Mrs. Goodbar), but as soon as her ethnicity was revealed, there were always reasons why she could not be hired. Because of the considerable sum her father had left her, she was all right for money – at least for a few months – but it was a humiliating experience to be rejected time after time, for reasons that had nothing to do with her suitability for the job.

In due course, the humiliation transformed itself into bitterness, then blazing anger – against an unjust world in general; and men in particular. The lowlife who had murdered her parents were men; David was a man. She decided to get her own back. She had long observed that men looked at her and it did not take a genius to figure out what they were thinking. Now she decided to use her good looks to her advantage. She found her first victim in Lenoir, a small town she had moved to, outside Raleigh. He was an investment banker, in his late fifties; overweight and jowly. Entrapping him was child’s play. He didn’t stand a chance. He plied her with bracelets and other baubles; and designer clothes. She made sure his wife found out about their affair: she left him, of course. That was the start. She moved on to other towns and other men.

That had been the game plan with Phillip too. Until now, her rage and bitterness blazed brightly enough to submerge any pangs of conscience, but today, for no apparent reason, that conscience had struggled to the surface. Well maybe there was a reason. Just when she thought the species did not exist, she had come across a decent man; one who still had principles; one who did not willingly surrender to his baser inclinations. She had bared her soul to him. Now she waited for his judgment.

Phillip had run through a gamut of emotions while listening to her: anger, compassion, even confusion. He knew she was waiting for him to say something. She was asking, nay begging, for absolution. What was really unsettling him, however, the physical attraction, like it had a life of its own. It was a surge of pure desire he had not realized he was even capable of. Yes, he had been “noble”; he had remained faithful to his vows, despite extreme provocation. But he had been severely tested; she had no idea how close he had come to succumbing. He knew that if they remained in the same town, he would succumb; his loyalty to Abby notwithstanding. It was a risk he could not take.

Still the words would not come out. She decided it was up to her. “Tell me what you want,” she said, “I’ll do whatever you want me to.” His answer, when it came, surprised her. “Leave town.”

“Do I disgust you that much?” she asked, “I can’t really blame you.” Phillip shook his head. “No,” he explained, “you do not disgust me.” He did not need to elaborate. She understood. A week later, she left town.

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