Javad was my neighbor for nearly eleven years before his tragic death in an auto accident. We hung out a lot, though he didn't drink alcohol. Which was ironic, I guess, because it was a drunk driver who so abruptly ended his life.
He and his wife, Jiya, raised their daughter next door to us, our condos right next to each other's. My daughter, Alison, grew up with Ariana. They went to middle-school together, then high-school--and then both decided to attend the same state college together, which was located about 50 miles away from home. For nearly eleven years, we had been friends and our girls had been besties. Even though Javad and Jiya practiced a conservative Islamic faith and we were go-to-Church-on-Christmas-and-Easter non-denominational Christians, we never let religious or cultural differences come between our two families or interfere with our friendship.
It wasn't all smooth sailing, especially as the girls finished high school and prepared to move away for college. My wife left us literally the day after Ali graduated high school. At the time, Ali was eighteen and her mother--my now-former-wife--was two months away from turning forty years old. She left us to "find herself" because--apparently--being a wife and mother was unfulfilling. She realized this unfortunate fact after twenty years of what I thought was a pretty happy marriage.
We got a card a few months later; she had "found" herself in Vegas. She had "found" herself with a casino pit boss named Larry who wanted to marry her. Needless to say, the divorce was quick. No alimony was required. All she wanted was a divorce. She got what she wanted and I was free. And alone.
Despite how I felt about losing my so-called "wife," I knew that Ali felt a loss from her mother's sudden departure from our lives. Her mother sent Ali a card on her 19
th
birthday; it was the only connection that remained--and that Hallmark birthday card only reminded my daughter that her mother had walked out of her life, leaving her in my bumbling care. Ali tried to put a brave face on things, to pretend it didn't matter to her--but we both knew it did matter quite a bit.
After my wife's exit, Javad and Jiya tried to keep our spirits up as best they could. They were strict Muslims, so we didn't get drunk together. In fact, Jiya wore her hijab hair-covering whenever we got together. Still, they tried. They had us over for dinner about once every other week. Sometimes I barbequed and invited them to join us. (I learned beef and chicken was fine; lamb was good; but no pork. Never any pork.) We were friends for nearly eleven years and we became even better friends after my ex walked out the door.
When Ali moved away to live in the dorms, I was alone. It was just me in the three-bedroom condo. I lived alone for nearly four years while my daughter attended college and studied to be a veterinarian. She lived with Ariana, of course. The two remained inseparable friends. Ali had Ariana; Javad had Jiya. I had nobody.
When I realized that Ali was never going to move back home, I turned one bedroom into a nice remote office where I did freelance gigs, but the rest of the house remained as it was. I kept it clean but that was all; I couldn't be bothered to do anything else. Was I lonely? Sure. But Ali came home about once a month; Javad and his wife invited me over for dinner every other week. I had Netflix and a decent Scotch collection, not to mention a fridge full of imported beer. I worked out four times a week. I was doing okay for a 44-year-old divorcee. Or so I told myself.
This situation--my second bachelorhood--went on for about four years before Javad's accident and his tragic death. Ariana and Ali were just ready to turn 22 when it happened.
By this time I knew a bit about my neighbors. They left Iran and legally immigrated to America when Ariana was only six years old. They started out in Texas but then moved to our city a few years later. I know they paid cash for their condo, which was pretty much like ours: three bedrooms and two full bathrooms, plus another "half-bath" for guests to use. Nothing fancy, but nothing you would expect someone to pay cash for. I didn't know where the money had come from.
Ariana and Alison did most everything together. They doubled-dated in high school; they studied together. It was no surprise that they lived together while going to college. The only difference was that Ariana had been raised in a Muslim environment and Ali had not been. Still, it wasn't as big a difference as you might think. Ariana dressed like a young American woman: jeans and blouses, mostly. No hijab for her! And even though her parents were strict about who she could date and when she needed to be home, I knew (because Ali had confided in me) that Ariana was not a virgin by the time they started their third years.
Nope.
Ariana was as American as apple-pie, even though she had been born in Iran.
My Alison wasn't a virgin, either. I guess I was okay with that. I didn't want to be a hypocrite. I mean, neither my wife nor I had been virgins when we got married to each other. (I don't know how many lovers my wife had before me; but I knew I wasn't her first.) So, I wasn't upset when Ali told me she was going to have sex. I was the summer before she started college; she was eighteen and legally an adult. The way I saw it, she was in charge of her own body; in fact, I was proud that she trusted me enough to confide in me. Plus, her boyfriend at the time was a good guy: hardworking, studious, with a decent sense of humor. I thought she made a good choice. Too bad David went to an out-of-state college and they drifted apart. He would have made a decent son-in-law, I thought.
Alison and Ariana were at their off-campus apartment when Jiya got the news about Javad's accident. She immediately called Ariana, then Alison texted me. We all met at the hospital but there was nothing to be done except to make funeral arrangements. I found out that Jiya and Ariana were responsible for most of the funeral prep stuff--and I learned that Javad needed to be buried within three days. No cremation and no casket; just a body in a shroud, buried so that the head faced Mecca.
All that work was a lot of stress on the two women. Ali and I did what we could do to help them but they carried the load. Both Ali and I were invited to attend the funeral service and to participate in the prayers, but we had to sit in separate sections of the mosque; men and women were separated.
Okay.
I tried to respect the situation. But the segregation of the sexes got worse: only I was invited to attend the burial and throw dirt into Javad's grave. The actual burial was a men-only thing. Ali got a ride home with Jiya and Ariana.
There was a huge turnout at the funeral service, though. I learned that the service and prayers was considered to be a community event, even though the burial was not. Things were definitely different from traditional Christianity--not that I was an expert in Christian doctrine. I just tried to go with the flow; it seemed to work out okay.
Afterward the burial service, I met the three of them back at Javad's (now Jiya's) condo. There was a small gathering of family and friends. I think about twenty in total. There was an Iman there from the local mosque--the same guy who had led the incomprehensible prayers during the funeral service. I guessed he was the Iman, but the truth was that I wasn't too sure about the Islamic religious hierarchy. There was a lot of flowers and some nibbles, but of course no alcohol. The gathering lasted about two hours. Then it was done. Javad was now resting, awaiting his Judgment Day in accordance with his religious beliefs.
Meanwhile, Jiya entered mourning. I didn't fully realize how complicated the situation was for her under the laws of her religion. She and Ariana would spend three days in prayers, mourning Javad. For forty days, they would wear black and cover their faces. For four lunar months and ten days after his death, Jiya would continue to wear black and mourn her lost husband. Only then--after 122 days--could Jiya think about starting her new life as a widow.
During that long mourning period, Jiya would need to restrict her interactions with men. That didn't mean she was required to be alone: there were milestones during that mourning period where she was expected to be social--although in the company of many others and not with a single, individual man. For example, on the seventh day after the funeral, family and friends would gather for prayers. They would gather again on the fortieth day. They would gather again on the one-year anniversary of Javad's death.
Why the forty-day thing? I found out that those who follow the Islamic faith believe the soul is separated from the body during death. But the soul lives on and may visit loved ones on the seventh and 40th days after death, as well as one year later.
Okay.
I never knew all that before, but I tried to respect those beliefs because Javad and Jiya had been my friends.
We had been friends for more than a decade. I didn't know if Jiya could still be my friend after her mourning period was complete; but I certainly hoped so. She and her now-deceased husband had been a source of comfort during my post-divorce loneliness.
I cooked burgers and fries, and brought them over during the first day of the three-day mourning period. We ate together--though Jiya and Ariana kept their heads and faces covered. Truth be told, I had never seen Jiya's hair before, because she had always worn a hijab in my presence. On the second day, I made my famous tuna casserole with a big salad on the side. I left it for them to eat by themselves, then went back to my place for a pizza and beer. On the final day, I made vegetarian lasagna with buttery garlic bread and we ate together again.
No pork products, of course. After years of living next to Javad and Jiya, even
I
knew that much. No ham; no bacon; no pork whatsoever. I could handle that--though I wondered how anybody could live without bacon.
On the fourth day, Ariana returned to the apartment she shared with Ali. She was done with her deep mourning, though we would see her again for the seventh-day prayer service, and then again on the fortieth day, when she would stop wearing black. Ariana was done with her official mourning, though I knew she would never be done mourning the loss of her father.
Life continued for the living. From time to time, I wondered how Jiya was doing. But I didn't want to intrude on her grief. I knew she shouldn't be alone with a man. Frankly, I wasn't sure how I would be accepted afterwards. It had been one thing when her husband was there; it was an entirely different thing when she and I were alone together with nobody else there. I was pretty sure it would be awkward; it might even be a problem for her.
On the tenth day of mourning, I got a text from Ali.
A:
A says J isn't doing well can u check on her?
I took me a moment to translate the text. It seemed to be saying that Jiya wasn't doing well, and that Ariana wanted me to check on my neighbor. Like a wellness check. Okay. I could do that. But how? I didn't even have Jiya's phone number and I didn't want to just knock on the door like a total jerk--especially when I knew that Jiya wasn't supposed to be alone with a man until the mourning period was over.
How do I do that?
I texted back.
A few seconds later a phone number appeared in the message app. Jiya's number.
Hi Jiya,
I typed.
I got your number from the girls. I wanted to see how you are doing?
