Tomorrow's Vengeance (11 page)

‘Not much left for the ticket holders, then,' I joked.

Tyson laughed. ‘Well, can't claim we didn't sample the merchandise, but somebody had to make sure it was potable.'

‘A tough job, but somebody has to do it,' Naddie said.

‘Will I see you at the board meeting this afternoon, Mrs Gray? Something just came up that we need to discuss.'

‘With bells on,' Naddie replied, sounding grim.

‘Nice to have met you, Hannah.' Tyson extended his hand.

‘Likewise,' I said, shaking it, thinking Masud Abaza hadn't wasted any time taking his complaint straight to the top of the food chain.

After Tyson disappeared into the lounge, Naddie took a bite of her sandwich, chewed thoughtfully, then said, ‘To tell you the truth, Hannah, I can't
stand
board meetings. If they simply read what's been sent out with the agenda ahead of time, what the hell is the point? Should be spelled B-O-R-E-D, if you ask me.'

I'd been the records manager for a large accounting firm in Washington, D.C., so I'd attended my share of ‘bored' meetings, too. It was another thing I didn't miss about not having a career ‘outside the home' – that and the punishing commute.

‘I think you'll find there's an item on the agenda that wasn't included in the email,' I said. Over the soup, I gave Naddie a head's up on the vandalized
musalla
and Masud's tussle with Balaclava Man.

Naddie dabbed her lips with her napkin then threw it down on the tablecloth. ‘Damn, damn, damn!
Just
what we need.'

‘Do you think Tyson will report the incident to the police, Naddie?'

‘I'm
sure
of it, Hannah. If it were simply an act of vandalism …' She looked thoughtful. ‘… probably not. But you say Masud Abaza was attacked by this guy?'

In spite of the seriousness of the conversation, I smiled. ‘According to Masud, it was quite the other way around, Naddie. Masud caught the guy in the act and tackled him. That's when the fist fight broke out.'

After a pause, during which Naddie seemed to be marshalling her thoughts, she said, ‘So, other than that, Colonel Custer, how was your first day on the job?'

‘Uneventful,' I fibbed. ‘At least nobody yelled or threw things, or decided to take off their pants like Paul's great uncle William used to do whenever things at the nursing home didn't go his way.' I slid a homemade potato chip into my mouth, bit down and sighed with pleasure – crunchy, nutty, just a hint of salt. ‘Why me, though? Are you short-staffed or something?'

Naddie frowned. ‘Not at all, it's just that we've found that the residents benefit from the extra one-on-one attention they receive from somebody not in a uniform. Our volunteers tend to serve as an extended family for the residents, and they look forward to every visit.' She waved a dill pickle spear over her plate. ‘It's especially true for the older residents who have outlived most of their family. One of our volunteers brings in her children and the residents treat them like their own grandchildren. It's really heartwarming.'

‘How many volunteers are there?'

‘It varies but right now, counting you, there's eight.' She folded her napkin and laid it on the tablecloth. ‘There's another volunteer over there, in fact, having lunch with her husband, the guy we've just been speaking about.'

I swiveled in my seat. The dining room was full so I wasn't sure to whom she was referring. In addition to several faces I recognized from the sing-alongs in the lounge, I noticed Safa Abaza sitting with Masud at a table for two in an isolated corner of the dining room. A shopping bag from Nordstrom rested on the floor next to her chair and she was showing him a necklace she'd evidently purchased. His face remained blank, bored. He concentrated on his plate, where he seemed to be dissecting a lamb kabob. As I watched, he dragged a cube of lamb through a pile of rice, not seeming to notice either his wife or the necklace with which she seemed so pleased.

‘You mean the Abazas.'

‘Correct. Safa has been volunteering in the memory unit for several months. She's a quiet, gentle soul and the residents love her.'

‘Confession,' I said. ‘I've met Safa, too, while I was waiting for you the other day. Since you were so late …' I gave her a wink, ‘… we had time for a good chat. Interesting woman.'

Her mouth full of fruit salad, Naddie simply nodded.

Before coming to lunch, Masud had changed into a clean shirt. Safa wore an ankle-length, long-sleeved shapeless black garment, possibly because she'd been out in public, shopping at the mall. A brilliant saffron-colored silk scarf covered her head and neck. ‘It's August, for heaven's sake. It must get hot under all those layers,' I mused. ‘She must feel like ripping them off and jumping into the swimming pool.'

‘From time to time, she does. You should see her burkini,' Naddie said.

‘You're kidding me. A burkini?'

‘It looks like a full-body wetsuit with a colorful hood to pull over your head. Safa's a modest but thoroughly modern Muslim woman.'

I considered going up to their table and introducing myself to Masud – he'd seen me at least two times, after all, but we'd never been formally introduced. He probably thought I was a member of the staff. Masud looked like such a sourpuss, however, that I decided to put that on the back burner. Besides, I might unwittingly be breaching protocol.

I decided I'd let Safa make the first move in that direction. I'd probably see her again soon enough anyway – if not around Calvert Colony proper, our paths might cross eventually in the memory unit.

It ended up being much sooner than I expected.

‘Regardless of a nursing home resident's age or mental capacity, they need touch and affection. Residents of all U.S. facilities have a right to romance – as long as it's consensual. “We try to keep residents as independent as possible,” said Suzanne Garside, executive director of Emeritus at Federal Way. Residents find love and get remarried at the assisted living facility. Caregivers have also walked in on couples by accident, but unless safety is compromised, they let the fireworks continue.'

FederalWayMirror.com, July 3, 2012.

A
s was quickly becoming our habit, Naddie and I lingered over our coffee for so long that the wait staff had begun to loom like vultures, preparing to pounce on our dishes the instant we finished with them. ‘Guess it's time to go,' I said, laying my napkin down and rising from my chair.

Naddie grinned at the bus boy. ‘We can take a hint, Michael!'

When Naddie and I entered the lobby a crowd had gathered around the fish tank, so we wandered over to see what all the fuss was about. ‘The fishkeeper's here,' Colonel Greene explained when we asked. ‘They've added a cownose ray.'

During our years of sailing the Chesapeake Bay on my sister-in-law's sailboat,
Sea Song
, we'd encountered schools of rays from time to time, particularly in the fall when they were migrating south. Brown, kite-shaped creatures, they swam by flapping their ‘wings,' often being mistaken for sharks when their triangular wing tips broke the water. I peered into the tank where a woman in full scuba gear – wetsuit, tank, facemask and all – appeared to be adjusting some filtering equipment.

‘She's from the National Aquarium,' the colonel added helpfully. ‘They do the maintenance.'

‘You're kidding.'

‘Would I kid you, Little Lady?' he drawled. He favored me with a thousand-watt grin. ‘The fish tank was a gift and it came with an endowment. Eventually they'll get around to putting a plaque up about it somewhere.'

As he spoke, the new ray swam into view, and I remembered what Naddie had told me about the arrangement with the National Aquarium. The ray was just a pup, with a wing span of about twelve inches.

‘They've taken the stinger out,' the colonel informed us. ‘Not that it'd do any more damage than getting stung by a bee.'

‘Let's not and say we did,' Naddie muttered.

‘There's a contest to name the little guy,' the colonel informed us. ‘Drop your suggestion into the box on the reception desk. I just did. What do you think of “Ray”? You can call me Ray, or you can call me Jay, or you can call me RJ …'

‘Must go,' I told Naddie, feeling a desperate need to blow the joint before the colonel trotted out the whole of his Ray J. Johnson routine. I gave her a hasty kiss on the cheek. ‘See you tomorrow? I'm scheduled to be with Nancy in the morning. Jerry has some medical appointments so she'll be on her own. She's made so much progress lately and they want to keep her engaged.'

Naddie gave my arm a gentle squeeze. ‘I hope you're enjoying your time here, Hannah. Maybe I'm just being selfish, but I'm glad of the excuse to be back in touch with you.'

‘The feeling is mutual,' I said and, with a nod of farewell to the colonel, who was still muttering to himself, I aimed myself in the direction of the door.

I paused on the porch to check my iPhone for messages – Emily wanted me to run the soccer carpool for my grandson, Jake, that afternoon. I texted back that I would, then headed to the parking lot where I'd left my car. As I rounded the corner of the building I heard raised voices. Déjà vu all over again, I thought. This time, though, there were three people clustered outside the service entrance door. One of them was Safa, a standout even from a distance in her black outfit and brilliant saffron-colored hijab.

Sue me, but curiosity took over. Keeping as much of the ornamental hedge as I could between me and the kitchen door, I eased as close as I dared.

When I was about thirty feet away I separated the branches a bit and peeked through. Masud loomed tall, leaning forward, inches from Safa's face. ‘What are you doing to incite him, Safa?'

Safa shrank back, her lower lip quivered. ‘Nothing, Masud.' She extended her arms, palms up. ‘I am as you see me.'

Masud threw his arm back, his palm flat and stiff, while Safa flinched and covered her face protectively with her hands.

‘Sir!' Raniero took a step toward the couple.

As if suddenly realizing where he was and what he was about to do, Masud let his arm fall to his side. ‘Go home, wife. I will have a few words with the chef.'

Safa bowed her head, backed up a few steps then spun and fled down the sidewalk, rapidly closing the distance between us. When she got even with me I reached out and pulled her into the shrubbery.

Safa sucked in air. ‘What are you
doing
, Hannah?'

I kept my voice low. ‘Are you OK?'

Safa brushed imaginary dust off her clothing and her face stiffened. ‘Of
course
I'm OK! Masud is having a little discussion with Raniero, that's all.'

‘So I see.'

‘I need to go.'

‘Shhhh,' I said, still keeping a light hold on her arm, as the two men raised their voices.

‘I must speak to you,' Masud snarled. ‘You have been disrespectful to my wife.'

Raniero wiped a hand down the front of his white jacket. He looked genuinely perplexed. ‘Sir, you are mistaken.'

‘I am not. You are too friendly.'

‘I am friendly to
all
of the residents,' Raniero countered. ‘It is my nature to be friendly. It is my
job
to be so.'

‘You talk, you laugh, you touch her arm. This is not showing respect to a devout Muslim woman.'

‘Your wife is a beautiful woman, Mr Abaza. Only a dead man would not notice. I meant no disrespect, I assure you, and I'm sorry if my friendliness is being misinterpreted.'

‘I have spoken to you about this before, Mr Buccho. Perhaps I did not make myself clear at that time. You must cease this unacceptable behavior.' His hands began to tremble. Was it from rage, or his Parkinsons?

Raniero stood his ground. ‘I'll keep my distance in future, sir. But you should know that in America, touching another person in a friendly way is not considered unacceptable. No court of law …' he began, but Masud stiffened, silencing the chef with a laser gaze that could have sliced through steel.

‘I don't care how well you cook, Mr Buccho, I can see to it that you lose your job.'

‘Sharia is not the law of
this
land, sir,' Raniero continued, taking a brave step forward. ‘You choose to live here.'

Next to me, Safa tensed. ‘I have
got
to go! A jealous husband is a problem, but a jealous
Muslim
husband …'

Before I could stop her, she fled.

I started to follow, but decided it might only exacerbate the situation if Masud found me in their home when he returned. Instead, I hung back and waited to see what would happen next.

Suddenly, it hit me. I realized that it had been Masud I'd seen arguing with Raniero in the same spot the previous day. In his white shirt and black pants I'd mistaken Masud for one of the wait staff. And, clearly, the disagreement between the two men was far from resolved. Masud made a fist then drew his right arm back, while Raniero raised his own fists protectively. Still cowering in the bushes, I waited, wincing, expecting the inevitable.

Masud didn't disappoint. His fist shot out, catching Raniero on the chin. Raniero staggered, momentarily stunned. He shook his head as if to clear it, then drew his own arm back and landed a solid blow to the older man's midsection.

Masud doubled over. Raniero watched him heave for a few seconds, then spun on his heel and stalked off toward the loading dock.

Quickly, I scurried in the opposite direction, not stopping to breathe until I was safely in the driver's seat of my car in the visitor's parking lot with the door locked. Raniero's goose is cooked, I thought as I started the car and peeled out of the parking lot, tires squealing. What were the chances of Masud not reporting the wayward chef to Tyson Bennett?