Sweet Revenge

her life, she had spoken to a man not of her family.
    The three weeks Adrianne spent in New York were some of the happiest and the saddest days of her life. There was so much to learn, so much to see. Part of her, the part that had been raised with the strict, unwavering rules of behavior,disapproved of the brashness of the city. Another part, the part that was opening, was thrilled by it. New York was America to Adrianne. It would remain America always, at its best and at its worst.
    The rules had changed. She had a room of her own, but it was bigger and brighter than the room she had been given in her father’s palace. She wasn’t a princess here, but she was cherished. Still, she often slipped into her mother’s bed at night to comfort if Phoebe wept, to lay awake if Phoebe slept. She understood there were demons inside her mother, and it frightened her. Some days Phoebe seemed full of life and energy, of joy and optimism. There would be talk about past glories, and the glories of the future. Plans and promises were made in a whirl of laughing words. Then a day or two later the animation would be gone. Phoebe would complain of headaches or fatigue and spend hours alone in her room.
    On those days Celeste would take Adrianne out to walk in the park or to go to the theater.
    Even the food was different, and she was allowed to take what she wanted when she wanted. She became addicted quickly to the sharp, sparkling taste of Pepsi straight out of a cold bottle. She ate her first hot dog without any idea it was made of pork, forbidden to Muslims.
    Television became both teacher and entertainment. She was both embarrassed and fascinated when she saw women embrace men—openly, even aggressively. The stories often had fairy-tale endings about falling in love or losing your heart. In the stories women chose what man they wanted to marry, and sometimes chose not to marry at all. She watched, silent and astonished. Bette Davis in
Jezebel
, Katharine Hepburn’s
Philadelphia Story
, and, wonderingly, Phoebe Spring in
Nights of Passion.
From that point grew an admiration for strong women who could win in a man’s world.
    Yet it was the commercials, where the people dressed oddly and solved their problems in seconds, that delighted her more than the comedies and drama. Through them her American-style English was refined, fleshed out.
    In those three weeks she learned more than she might have in three years of school. Her mind was like a willing sponge eager to absorb.
    It was her spirit, so in tune with Phoebe’s, that suffered the highs and lows.
    Then the letter came. Adrianne knew about the divorce. It was still her habit to creep down the stairs at night and listen to her mother and Celeste talk of the things neither would tell her. So she understood that her mother was going to divorce Abdu. And she was glad. If there was divorce, there would be no more beatings, no more rapes.
    When the letter had come, the letter from Jaquir, Phoebe had gone to her room. She had stayed there all day, not coming out to eat, asking to be left alone whenever Celeste knocked on the door.
    Now, as it neared midnight, Adrianne was awakened from a restless sleep by her mother’s laughter. Moving quickly, she climbed out of bed and ran on tiptoe to Phoebe’s door.
    “I’ve been worried sick about you.” Celeste paced the room, her silk lounging pajamas whispering around her.
    “I’m sorry, darling, really. I needed some time.” Adrianne pressed against the crack in the door. She could see Phoebe sprawled in a chair, her hair tumbled, her eyes bright, and her fingers drumming to some rapid inner tune. “Hearing from Abdu hit me hard. I knew it was going to happen, but I still wasn’t ready. Congratulate me, Celeste, I’m a free woman.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    Her movements jerky, Phoebe rose to refill her glass from a decanter. She smiled, toasted, then drank deeply. “Abdu has divorced me.”
    “In three weeks?”
    “He could do it in three seconds, and he has. Of course, I’m still going to go through the formalities on this end, but it’s as good as done.”
    Celeste noted the level of whiskey in the decanter. “Why don’t we go down and have some coffee?”
    “This is a celebration.” She pressed the glass against her brow and began to weep. “The bastard didn’t even give me the chance to end it in my own way. Not once in all these years have I had a choice, not even in this.”
    “Let’s sit