Learning Their Ways
Amina’s Story — part 3. “Get a feel for the place and its owners.”
“You need a lawyer,” Grandfather informed me in our next call, him in Singapore and me in my small Minnesota apartment.
So he found one for me in St. Paul, a man who appeared to be 80 years old. Not Somali. The lawyer was a quiet, short man with thick glasses and an even thicker leather briefcase he brought with him everywhere. His lilting accent made it clear he was a Minnesotan born and bred. Most importantly, he didn’t flinch at any of my background’s unusual characteristics.
We discussed the many details I would need to examine before offering my price. I should investigate the structures beyond the house — barns, sheds, garages and out buildings — their composition, their condition, their potential for activities that make a profit. And trees. What types? How many? Were all of them healthy? Did any protected species of birds or mammals make these trees their home? A checkmark yes would certainly bring with it a host of time-consuming inspections, something to avoid.
Was the land amenable to hunting? This was an option for additional revenue, my lawyer told me. As was raising animals of my own. Typically this involved hogs or horses, however, more bohemian types tried ostriches or llamas with varying degrees of success. For early risers, there was dairy farming. Did Brandon’s farm come with facilities for these activities, or would I need to build my own?
I would need to check utilities and services, make sure these were present and reliable, as well as the roads leading in, out and across the site. “Remember, Amina, these roads will be covered in snow in just a few weeks.” Then there was the matter of the land itself. How much was tillable? How much was irrigated? Was the equipment included with the sale or would it be sold separately?
Ask for reports of the crop yields, my lawyer told me. At least five years’ worth. In the meantime, he would research ownership and tax history in the public records.
I never mentioned the stories I had been told, the wild tales of the sister and brother-in-law, the teenage children sent away to live in the city. If this man was good, and if this information mattered, he would find it out for himself in due time.
I called Grandfather to thank him. Keep on visiting, he advised, even though I never told him about the snub, or the stories. Get a feel for the place and the owners. Or, rather, the only owner who mattered. Brandon. The man of the house.
I made my next visit a surprise.
You cannot predict traffic in Minnesota. Road construction and congestion hinder when least expected, and clear passage always comes as a surprise.
That morning, I arrived early. A fine crust of frost crunched beneath my boots as I approached the porch. I knocked, and — hearing no answer — settled into a rocking chair to wait. Because I had bundled myself up appropriately in my REI winter gear, this was not a hardship. Neither was listening to the birds chat among themselves then take to the skies in majestic chevrons, or feeling the sun warm my face.
I listened to the household wake. Because the country air was so crisp and still, I could hear everything. “Melissa, where did you put the-” Niko asked from somewhere in the house. “In the bottom cupboard,” she shouted back, clanging through the kitchen before stopping just an arm’s length away on the other side of the porch wall.
“So, what do you think, Brandon? I think she’s nice.”
“Where does she get the money? That’s what I think.”
“Her dad was with the World Bank. He died a while back, but I think there’s a lot of family money as well. She used to live in Dubai and that’s not cheap.”
“I want to run a background check.”
“Through the local police records? I highly doubt you’ll find anything. She doesn’t even drink.”
“No, the terrorist watch list.”
“Oh please you cannot be serious.”
“I am dead fucking serious. She’s from a country swarming with pirates. She’s a Muslim. And she’s all veiled up.”
Pirates. I sighed.
“She wears pants and modern clothes with that veil. Which is called a hijab, by the way, dumbass. Didn’t you see that NPR story last week? Oh no, of course you didn’t. And she studies world religions at Macalester, for Christ sake.”
“So she can learn our ways.”
“You cannot be fucking serious.”
“Melissa, think about it. How many lone women can walk down the street and say, ‘oh, look, there’s a thousand acres with equipment. I think I’d like to buy that just for shits and giggles because I got bored living among the camel jockeys.’ Not too many, I think.”
“Nevertheless, Brandon, you need to meet with her. You put the ad on the Internet. You want to sell this place. You need to be polite and follow through.”
“I don’t need to do anything.”
Their footsteps receded into the distance, and I waited for several moments afterward. Eventually, as neither the day nor I were getting any younger, I rose from my chair. I knocked on the door.
“Amina!”
Melissa, wet-haired and makeup-free, had not been expecting me.
“How long have you been waiting?”
“Not long,” I lied.
I lied again when I told her that Shelly had invited me for a return visit. What, she’s not here? I feigned astonishment. I must have written the day and time down incorrectly.
“She had to go downtown, something at the kids’ school,” Melissa explained. “But she should be back soon. Join us for breakfast.”
The kitchen table overflowed with cereal boxes, plates and plastic cups. Melissa grabbed two mugs from the cupboard and filled them with coffee, one for her, one for me. A very tired Niko mumbled good morning from beside the high chair, navigating a tiny spoon into the baby’s mouth. “Mmmm, puree of kale. You know it’s delicious.”
No fool, the boy grimaced and clamped his lips shut. “Or maybe you don’t. Melissa, this is disgusting.”
“It’s good for him,” she declared. “Full of nutrients. Give it one more try.”
From the window behind them, I caught the shadow of Brandon disappearing into the back yard, then the grumble of a four-wheeler fading into the distance.
“You drove all the way back out here?” Melissa asked, now rinsing baby bottles in the sink.
I did, I replied.
“You’re still interested in the farm?”
“I still am,” I assured her.
No reply.
To break the tension, I tried a compliment. “Your dining room is quite beautiful.”
“It’s not mine,” Melissa replied.
“I can imagine many lovely home-cooked dinners there,” I continued, undaunted.
“Oh there were,” she said, drying her hands on a dishtowel with a sudden resolve. “Lovely ones. And we could tell you all about them.”
Niko gave his wife an incredulous look
“Why don’t we start with Christmas.”
“Christmas,” he repeated, the “are you serious?” afterward unspoken. The baby now fed and entertaining himself with a plastic bowl, Niko pulled a bottle of beer from the refrigerator. “That’s Brandon’s,” his wife pointed out. “Not anymore.” Then he simply settled in to listen, as did I.
It was six weeks after their reunion at her studio, Melissa explained. The family’s annual Christmas dinner. By this time, she and Niko knew that she was pregnant. And they had visited the justice of the peace earlier in the month to make their relationship official. So lots to reveal.
They were nervous. For Melissa, the meal would be several hours with the family members who had tricked her, thrust her into a life of hiding and now expected her to grovel in gratitude for her good fortune. For Niko, it would be an introduction to in-laws who knew nothing of his existence until now, his existence in Minnesota at least, who more than certainly were up to something illegal.
But it was the holidays. How bad could it be?
The kids and some neighbor families would be there. And it was Christmas, for fuck’s sake. So Brandon and Shelly had to be polite. We walked up to the porch with a huge poinsettia in hand. A peace offering — like I was the one who needed to apologize or something but that’s how things go in my family.
Shelly of course answered the door. I knew Brandon would be in back as usual having a smoke and playing around with the keg. Well, she knew what Niko looked like from pictures I had taken in North Dakota. But cool as a cucumber, she didn’t say a thing.
We walk in and make the rounds. The kids were friendly, like they always are. So were the neighbors. My brother looked up the keg, saw me and Niko and did not disappoint. “Shelly! Come back here for a second, please!” And you didn’t need to be an interpreter for the goddamn deaf to read the lips of that conversation. It was pretty much “what the fuck is he doing” and then “Brandon, don’t be rude” and then “goddamn Melissa and her fucking surprises.”
Shelly, God bless her, kept calm, even though she gave me a look when I requested water instead of wine. Oh, she knew something was up. She’s not a stupid woman.
Then it was time for the holiday toasts. Shelly raises her glass: “Here’s to Melissa and the launch of her new business.’”
“Actually,” I piped up — because that was my moment. Like tearing off a Band Aid, you’ve got to do these things quickly. “I’d like to introduce you to the launch of my new family as well. You can meet my husband here today, and you’ll be meeting our first child next year.”
From there, the rest of the meal was just a blur. When had we gotten married? Where? Any names picked out yet? How was I feeling? You can count on Minnesota neighbors to keep up protocol. Meanwhile, Brandon stormed off to the back porch with a “I need a fucking smoke.” Shelly soon followed. So did I.
“ ‘That whole mess is over with now, Brandon. Raymond’s dead. The case is closed. We paid them off with the Thanksgiving land sale.”
Paid off? Land sale? These two developments meant either very good things or very bad things for my own prospects.
“ And this guy is in my fucking house.”
“So now we can keep a closer eye on him. He’s white and from a hockey-playing nation. I don’t see why you’re complaining.”
“You know damn well why I’m complaining, Shelly. He knows everything. And he fucking knocked her up.”
“You always said Melissa should settle down and start a family.”
“Not this way. Not with him. I should get his ass deported.”
“Go on, find yourself an immigration lawyer then. And open us all up to legal scrutiny.”
“We should tell her to get rid of it.”
“ Too late for that, Brandon. She just announced the news to everyone.”
Just then, a noisy flock of Canadian geese interrupted us, a welcome break. Melissa took a deep drink of her coffee and continued.
At that point, they saw me standing there. “I thought you’d be happy for us, I thought you’d be welcoming to a new member of our family, but obviously not,” I told them. On our way out, I took our hospitality gift.
“You don’t deserve that poinsettia. Fuck you.”
We drove over to Niko’s place for the night, this temporary apartment he was staying in, because it was closer. On the way, we stopped by Walgreens for medicine because I was ready to vomit. He bought a string of Christmas lights as well and strung them up around the poinsettia when we got home. We fell asleep right there on the carpet just watching those lights blink.
“It was terrible,” Niko said. “Melissa was crying. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” she kept on saying.”
“ My fucking family. That and the hormones. So he put his arms around me and held me for a long time. ‘Well, I for one am excited about the baby. And being married to you,’ he finally said, making me smile for the first time that day. ‘So am I,’ I replied.”
“And that was Christmas,” Niko concluded. “Romantic, isn’t it?”
Actually, it was, I told them. The Christmas lights, the poinsettia, the kind words, I clarified — not the rest of it, of course.
Just then, Melissa peered through the blinds of the kitchen window. “And there’s Shelly.”
I remained calm and seated. Shelly was carrying groceries. She was not entirely surprised to see me. “Can I help you with something?”
I smiled my good morning. “Is now a good time for the rest of the tour? And the five-year crop reports?”
“I’m afraid Brandon’s out right now.”
“Could you help me?”
“No, I’m afraid you’ll need to talk to him.”
Later that evening, my lawyer gave a quick call to check in. Any progress?
I didn’t tell him about the camel jockeys, the terrorist watch list, or the awkward Christmas dinner.
“Did you see the owner?” my lawyer inquired.
“Not a glimpse,” I replied. This, at least, was true.
Tell us about the farm you’re buying.
When my classmates asked me, it was always “are buying” and not “attempting to buy.” Even though such a transaction depends on the willing consent of two parties, there was no doubt in their minds that the sale would go through.
Well, I told them, it was roughly an hour’s drive from the Minneapolis St. Paul city limits. You pass a horse farm, water treatment plant, a gun range and four bars to get there. In the winter, I’m told that the bars’ customers travel there by snowmobile and that you can see their tracks in the snow. Sometimes a few topple over.
The drive up to it is nothing special, just a straight road flanked by an occasional tree. Unless, of course, you’re taking the road in the early morning or at twilight. Then the light makes it very atmospheric indeed.
The house is the kind you see in movies — movies with Jessica Lange or Sally Field, that is, not the movies of today where the settings are unrealistically elaborate or full of CGI. This is a farm in real life, not an oligarch’s farm. There’s a front porch that you can tell has been the place of many afternoon conversations over lemonade, or beer, more likely with this family. Scuffs from boots and hockey equipment. Children playing there, too. Right now it’s a little red-haired baby, just struggling to walk. Think back of all the dozens of children, of all ages, through the generations.
As for the interior, my cousins in Dubai would certainly turn up their noses at the old wallpaper in the kitchen, the pastel sinks and tubs and tile work. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. You have a little toilet near the kitchen and a shower that’s just a stall and a hose in the basement. For washing your boots and overalls after a day in the fields or garden.
Upstairs, I think I’ll use the master bedroom as my sleeping area and the sister’s old room for crafts and the brother’s old room as a library. Or maybe this will be the guest room, for my auntie, for the cousins from the city. And for any of you if you come and visit me. In any case, I do want to change the drapes at some point. The heavy beige fabric is not my style. I will bring in a fabric that’s lighter and more natural. I also want to paint the kitchen. A seashell shade of off-white, I’m thinking, with sky-blue trim that will look nice for morning tea or for cooking with the fresh eggs from my chickens.
If the chickens work out well, I will add some sheep or goats but not many, perhaps three or four. Some families out here raise llamas or ostriches but me, I am a traditionalist. Ultimately, I hope to grow and harvest my own food and rely on the grocery store only for condiments and things like cereal. I want to become very good at this, and maybe someday you’ll see my produce at the state fair.
Imagine that, a blue ribbon on a pumpkin grown by a Somali woman.
“When do you close?”
This I could not tell them. I hadn’t even obtained the details I needed to make my offer. So I drove out for another surprise visit.
Yet again, I waited on the porch by the door, and yet again, I overheard an exchange not meant for my ears.
“We have to get back.”
Melissa was telling this to her brother. “I’m backed up on orders, and Niko’s running out of vacation days. We have to get back to the city.”
“You’re still needed here.”
“For what? For me to run interference with a woman you’re too racist to talk to? A very pleasant woman, by the way.”
I blushed. That was kind and unexpected.
And her brother was having none of it. “We still have boxes and boxes of Mom and Dad’s things to pack up. Besides, you can both do your work remotely. Isn’t that what the Internet’s for?”
“Not really. I can’t paint masks and fulfill orders over the Internet. That requires an actual physical presence in the studio.”
“Well, that’s just too bad. You have an obligation to help and you need to see it through. For once.”
By the time I knocked, Brandon was nowhere to be found. Of course. I sighed and joined Melissa and Niko in the living room. They were sorting through yellowed magazines and books. They were unusually pensive.
I flipped through a cooking journal. A massive, glistening turkey tempted from its pages, surrounded by gourds and colored fall leaves.
“I have not yet experienced a Thanksgiving in Minnesota,” I told my hosts to start conversation. “I’ve heard that it’s quite a celebration.”
Or maybe not.
This time it was Niko who spoke up, with pointed words not entirely addressed to me. “It can be. Quite a celebration indeed. Like our first Thanksgiving with your family — or not with your family, in our case.”
“Oh God let’s not go there,” his wife moaned.
“Things could have turned out very differently, I think.”
“The fuck they could have,” she retorted.
Thanksgiving. My ears perked up. The land sale. The land sale which paid the mysterious “them” all off.
Niko began the story. “We were sleeping in late that morning — or at least I was. When I woke up, the first thing I saw were twinkling lights above me, dozens of them. I thought, wow, did I drink a lot last night.
“And then I felt a knee on my arm. Melissa was above me, in her robe, hanging Christmas lights. Making things festive, she explained. I asked her what the plan was for the day, and she said nothing, merely smiled. Then she leaned in closer and, well.”
I stared at him, confused. He gave me a look. Oh, I see, I realized. Making things festive.
“It was a wonderful day. We slept, we woke up, we slept, we woke up. The sun rose in the window and then set. Sometime after dark, Melissa noticed her phone, blinking like crazy. And when she saw it, she shot out of bed in a panic. ‘I forgot to call!’ Because we had been invited to the farm earlier that day for Thanksgiving dinner. Melissa had, in any case. No one knew about me at that point.
“She had planned on calling them earlier to tell them that she was sick. Food poisoning or something intestinal. Because this was her brilliant plan. Ignore the holiday and pretend to have the flu, like a child.”
“Like I could have turned up there with you,” his wife interjected. “You’re the guy from North Dakota who knew everything. And my brother’s a paranoid nut job. Did you have a better idea?”
“Better than I’ll distract my stupid boyfriend in the most obvious way possible so he won’t ask questions?”
“Oh like I had to tie you up to that bed.”
“Which actually wouldn’t have worked. The pullout couch at your studio doesn’t have posts like we have now — ”
“Jesus Christ— ” Melissa muttered beneath her breath.
But her husband kept on. “Can’t you just see her, Amina, thinking: He’s just a foreigner. What does he know about Thanksgiving? Which is not true. My first year in North Dakota, I actually helped my co-workers kill and deep-fry the turkey, in fact.”
“You had never met my brother. You didn’t know what he’s capable of. All summer long Brandon yelled at me. What did you tell that guy in North Dakota? What does he know?”
“So why didn’t you just cut your ties? Never speak to him again? I would have supported it.”
“I was afraid,” Melissa mumbled, staring at the floor. “I still am.”
“Then why are we here right now?”
“Because this is my farm, too. This is my family, the only family I have.”
Niko took her hand. “So, as you might have guessed, things did not turn out well on Thanksgiving. When she called the farm to explain and apologize, her brother answered the phone, not Shelly like she had hoped. And Brandon completely overreacted like a crazy man. Where were you, you stupid bitch? Why didn’t you fucking call? Things a man should never say to a woman, especially his sister.”
Melissa glanced away from him then, as if something from outside of the room had caught her eye. I followed her gaze. Nothing.
Then she continued their story. “So we spent the rest of the night drinking out of a flask and figuring out our new plan. First, get back into good graces with Shelly. I suggested that I take the kids to the Science Museum. She always likes to get them out of the house for Black Friday cleaning.”
Melissa cringed as the word “black” left her mouth. I smiled my understanding. I was familiar with the November shopping custom. I knew she meant nothing racial.
“I called her afterward. Was I the good aunt again? I put the phone on speaker so I could catch up on work. Oh, the kids had such a great time. Then she got all preachy like she always does. ‘I know starting your own business is a lot of work, but forgetting about Thanksgiving — who does that? Your brother was so worried.’ I realized: Here’s my opening. ‘It’s been more than work that’s been distracting me lately,’ I told her.”
“From the other side of the room, I started paying attention,” Niko interjected, smiling. “Melissa was finally going to tell her family about us.”
“Shelly’s a woman, she knew what I was getting at right away. ‘Have you started seeing someone?’ she asked, and I started blushing.”
“Bright red.”
“I told Shelly I had indeed, that it was a little early, so I was keeping it on the down low but I hoped she wasn’t mad. And then she didn’t let me get a word in. ‘Of course not! I’m so happy for you! I’m so happy you found someone to take your mind off of that guy from North Dakota. God, that’s all you could talk about all summer. Niko this, Niko that. Jesus Christ, you were so in love with that guy.’ I was mortified.”
“So mortified,” he laughed and hurled a small, awkward throw pillow in his direction. The brittle stitching burst, sending stuffing in all directions.
“There was my opening. And I blew it, goddamn it! Maybe if things had been different, I would have told Shelly everything, right then and there,just ripped the Band-Aid off with one swipe, before I got pregnant, before we were married. But things are different. Life has changed. My brother’s changed. He’s a fucking paranoid nutjob now. He isn’t the same person.”
And then Melissa’s eyes darted over my shoulder again. The twinkle left her eyes, and her entire manner turned more guarded.
“Are you looking for something?”
A teenage boy loitered in the doorway, all floppy bangs and baggy cargo pants. He was wearing a hockey jersey, of course, and a foot taller than me even when slouching. “My phone,” he mumbled, pointing to the device resting on a stack of old “Good Housekeeping” magazines.
I wanted to introduce myself, be polite, ask him how he liked his school in the city. But Brandon’s son left before I had the opportunity.
Enough questions for one day. I stood, smoothed the crumbs from the front of my pants. Melissa gestured for me to stay. I think they enjoyed having someone else to talk to. I suspected that not many people had heard these stories, stories you could only share with a complete stranger.
“What happened next?” I asked her.
“We went back to life as usual. I introduced Niko to my friends, he settled in to his new job, and I showed him around Minneapolis. As for my family, we tried not to think about them really.”
“That’s not true,” her husband interjected. “Your parents — ”
Melissa ignored him. She crossed the room and lifted Lucas from his crib, a sleeping baby no more. “Until, for obvious reasons, we could keep things secret no more. So, what are you expecting of this place?”
I blinked, unaccustomed to her turning the spotlight on me.
“Are you going to grow crops? Do you have a boyfriend? Are you going to settle down and start a family?”
Fortunately, the whimpering baby saved me from answering.
I thought about that question during my drive back and I related a summary of this story to my lawyer that evening. I thought he might find it amusing — the ruse, the pillow fight. He was a widower and needed levity, in my opinion at least.
Besides, I had to report something from my many fruitless visits to the farm.
But my lawyer was not so entertained.
“Odd for them to be so forthcoming,” he observed, stroking his chin. “And oddly, our background checks revealed nothing.”
“For Brandon and Shelly as well?”
“A speeding ticket from 1999. A few parking tickets. A wholesome family, according to the law. Nothing that would impede a sale. But we need to get things moving. We need titles, deeds, records, documentation. We need you both to negotiate a price. And you’re not going to get things moving with the sister and brother-in-law, as amusing as they are.”
“I’m working on it,” I assured him.
And so I drove home, past St. Paul, past the campus and past Little Mogadishu.
What was I expecting of this place?
A new life. A life that fit me. A place where I finally felt at home in this world. Was that so unusual? Didn’t everyone expect this? And wouldn’t anyone grasp for this, given the opportunity?
Read part 1, part 2, part 4 and part 5 of Amina’s story.
See what happened before and the events Amina’s actions set into motion.
© 2016 People and Places. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Views of the characters do not necessarily reflect the views of the author.
