Maybe the visit to Dandy would settle him down somehow. Jabr hoped that seeing his friend’s success might help him find a way out, even though any believable mechanism for that eluded him. Dandy was like a lighthouse, a beacon of hope and accomplishment, steady in the face of all the challenges life threw at him. Maybe, just maybe, some of that light would spill over, illuminating Jabr’s own dark, tangled path.
The time for the visit arrived too soon. Jabr had barely managed to gather his thoughts before they were on their way south to Ahmadi. The sun was ebbing down to their right, casting long shadows over the barren landscape, stretching toward the Gulf like fingers grasping for something just out of reach. The time was nearly seven, and they hoped to avoid interrupting Dandy and Bassema’s dinner. When they arrived, two children were playing in the yard, their laughter like wind chimes in the stillness, their voices lilting with unexpected Texas accents. Dandy and Bassema were having tea in the small garden, a cozy space that seemed almost surreal against the sprawling backdrop of oil fields.
Bassema rose first to greet them. “Welcome. It’s a lovely evening. We can sit here outside.”
Dandy smiled, but it was a thin, tight smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He stood, but did not offer greetings. There was an unfamiliar heaviness in the air, like a storm cloud hovering just overhead, waiting to burst.
Jabr felt it first — the stiffness, the tension. Janiah and Jomana soon sensed it too, their own smiles fading. Janiah, never one to let things slide, spoke up, “Dandy, how are you? You look tired. The work in the oil fields must be terrible.”
“No, it’s not the work, and I’m not tired.” Dandy’s voice was clipped, almost curt.
Janiah blinked, momentarily thrown. “OK.”
Dandy exhaled sharply, as if bracing himself against something painful. “I’ve just gotten some bad news about a friend. Jabr, you remember when that Japanese sub sank my ship on that extended voyage to India? Remember how three of us were stranded on that island for months? One of us died out there. My shipmate, Harlan Fitts, and I made it back, but we were in terrible shape.”
Jabr noticed how Dandy used the word ‘remember’ over and over, as if trying to drill the memory back into his mind. Jabr vaguely recalled the story, how it had once caused him distress, but over the time intervening, he had tucked it away, dismissed it as just another unfortunate accident of war and business.
Dandy continued, “I just got word from the US that Harlan is in terrible shape. He never sailed again after our rescue. He’s still a physical and mental wreck. His wife told me he keeps asking why we were sent on such a risky voyage. Don’t worry, though. They’re not going to sue.”
“I’m really sorry to hear about your friend,” Jabr murmured, though his words felt hollow, like an empty vessel.
“And about the one who died on the island… and the others who died when the ship went down,” Dandy added, his tone sharper now, like a knife-edge cutting through the air.
Jabr was taken aback. He had no idea Dandy felt so bitter, so wounded by the incident. Sure, the trip had been long and dangerous, but wasn’t that just the nature of the work he hired them to do? Routine, just business? The voyage was necessary, and he was just one, like many others, who arranged the voyage for profit.
The evening, meant to be a pleasant interlude, had turned sour. Jomana fidgeted in her chair, looking for a way to bridge the growing chasm. “Is there anything we can do?” she asked, her voice soft and tentative.
Dandy’s reply was blunt. “You could send money to the family.”
Jabr’s stomach tightened. Money. Of course, it always came back to money. But he had none to give. His own finances were in disarray, the weight of his debts pressing down like a vice. “I’m really sorry for all this,” he said, trying to shift the blame elsewhere. “But the Japanese were the ones who blew up the ship.”
Dandy’s hand trembled as he set his teacup down on the metal table with a loud clang. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but stopped himself, his jaw tightening. An unspoken anger simmered between them.
Sensing the tension, Bassema got up with a bright, forced smile. “I’ll get some cookies,” she said, retreating to the kitchen. She returned moments later, the tray in her hands an attempt to smooth over the awkwardness. The children came running over for the treats, their innocent laughter soothing the silence like a salve.
Jabr glanced at his watch, feeling a desperate need to escape. “I guess it’s about time for the children to go to bed. We’ll be off,” he said, his voice wavering slightly.
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Jabr turned to Dandy, trying one last time. “Once again, I’m sorry about your friend Harlan. You know it was the Japanese.”
Dandy’s eyes were hard, his words cold. “Thanks, Jabr.” He paused, then added, “Maybe you just wanted the profit too much.”
The words struck Jabr like a slap. The drive back to the city was long and quiet. Jabr stared out at the dark road ahead, his mind racing. What was the connection between Dandy’s anger and his own current troubles? Was it all about the same thing — the relentless drive to succeed, to prove himself, to get more? And why did he feel this need so deeply, so desperately, that it seemed to poison everything around him?
In the silence of the car, he could feel the weight of his own doubts pressing down, heavier than ever.
Jomana kept quiet on the drive back to the city, staring out the window. How bad, how cutting were her thoughts? Jabr’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, his jaw set in a hard line, the silence between them thick and heavy. The weight of their unspoken fears filled the car like a dense fog. When they finally reached home, the three of them—Jabr, Jomana, and Janiah—retired to their rooms without a word. Sleep was elusive; the darkness was filled with restlessness and the quiet sounds of shifting bodies, of thoughts too loud to ignore.
But the next morning, it wasn’t the debt that woke Jabr. It was Jomana, standing in the doorway, her face pale and drawn. “Jabr,” she began, her voice strained, “there’s more I must tell you. My mother… she’ll be here within the week.”
Jabr shot up, his brow furrowing deeply. “Why? What’s the point?” he snapped, sharper than he intended. “We’ve already been through her financial issues, Jomana. They’re worse than mine… and they’re illegal. Why on earth would she come back to Kuwait?”
“She thinks she can help,” Jomana said, her voice breaking slightly. “It’s my fault. When you told me about the debt, I panicked. I went straight to the telegram office and contacted her. You were desperate… I was desperate. She wants to do something, and of course, she knows I’m pregnant, so she’s even more worried.” Her hands trembled as she ran them through her hair, her eyes wide with guilt.
Jabr felt the heat rise in his chest, anger mixing with helplessness. “What am I supposed to say to her?” he muttered, pacing the floor like a caged animal. The distance between them seemed to grow with each step he took, a void stretching wider, darker. He stopped and stared out the window, as if searching for an answer in the morning light, but there was nothing—only the dull ache of uncertainty.
The days that followed were a slow, torturous drip of time, each second marked by a tense silence or a half-finished sentence. Janiah moved quietly among them, an old referee, her eyes watching but not interfering, waiting for the storm to either break or pass.
