Most of the boys requested cars or businesses, most of the girls beach properties and high fashion.\n\n<i>What do you want, Amina?</i> \n\nI requested education. Experiences. Plus the freedom to quietly pursue the life I desired. \n\n“I can only give you the money, Amina,” Grandfather told me. “And the connections to make the paperwork easier. The rest you will need to [[figure out yourself]].”

"Finally, the doctor came out to see me. You have [[a son]].”

“We stopped planting a while back. Just not enough time with the kids going to high school and having their activities and everything.”\n\nI shivered. A space heater would have been nice. Of course he was wearing a thick flannel work jacket and boots.\n\n“How did you [[make money]] during this time?”

“Take me to the hospital right now, I shrieked, and off we drove. \n\n"I [[banned him]] from the delivery room. Hell no was I going to let him see me like that, with placenta and whatnot oozing from me.”

I returned the records of my new property to the farm three days later, full photocopies safely stashed in my bedroom and my lawyer’s office. Perhaps three words were exchanged between myself and Brandon— “here” and “thank you” — and then the phone rang, rescuing us both.\n\nI found a seat in the kitchen. <i>Black people are invisible in this country</i>, I remembered one of my Macalester classmates telling me. \n\nHere I could follow [[his conversation]] perfectly.

“Hey, stay away from there, [[little guy]]!”

Needless to say, I limited my time in this Little Mogadishu and spent more of my hours on campus. \n\nYet I didn’t feel fully at home there either.\n\nAn [[African]], moving to Minnesota?

“And then Niko’s father passed away. It was a heart attack. Very sudden. I was eight months along, so we had to lie to get me on [[the plane]]. \n\n“She started having [[contractions]] on the flight back," her husband said.\n\nI watched the driveway. Still no [[Brandon or Shelly]].

“With good reason,” Niko remarked.\n\n“Sometimes guns can be useful,” Melissa countered. “With responsible ownership, of course. And you can’t tell me that no one ever uses firearms in Finland. I [[tell you]] I distinctly remember your uncle telling us about some incident with a reindeer. Bragging even. But we digress."

Very spacious and well laid out, I remarked. I had noticed during my previous visit.\n\nShelly winced in the dramatic apology of Midwestern Americans. “I hope that [[Melissa and Niko]] kept you entertained at least.”\n\nThey certainly had, I replied. A square pan of apple crumb cake rested before me, [[taunting me]] as my waistband cinched me in. \n\nBrandon [[never appeared]] that day.

“That’s a ridiculous price you gave her,” I heard Melissa remark in another overheard conversation. This time [[I blinked]] at the cigarette smoke emanating from the office.\n\n“It needs to be,” her brother replied.

“So many goddamn Hummels,” Niko commented beneath his breath.\n\nI actually liked the small porcelain statues. They were relics from another time. I picked up one farmer boy to examine him, and Melissa continued their story as if we’d never left off.\n\n“So we didn’t see Brandon and Shelly again until after Lucas was born and Dad was in the hospital. I mean, are you surprised? You don’t go around fucking insulting me and insulting my husband and the father of my child and then expect me to show up on the doorstep with a smile and a hot dish. [[Pardon]] my language.”

It was six weeks after their reunion at her studio, Melissa explained. The family’s annual Christmas dinner.\n\nBy 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.\n\n[[They were nervous]]. \n\n

“She’s Brandon’s sister and he’s her husband, although you probably guessed that already. They live in the city but are here helping us out with the packing and prep for the sale. \n\n"She can work from anywhere, running her own business and all. And he’s taking vacation time from the oil company, I think, which is really nice of him considering how badly Brandon treats him.”\n\nShelly hoisted the kitchen windows open to let in the fresh air. “I think they also want Lucas to be exposed to the outdoors and nature. It did [[our two kids]] a world of good when they were growing up.”

“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.”\n\n“So she can [[learn our ways]].”\n\n“You cannot be fucking serious. Brandon.”

"They give me information, but not the details I need to put together a price.”\n\nThen why don’t you help the owners along? one of my aunties suggested. Why don’t you [[ask the man]] for a figure, since he’s actually speaking to you now?

It’s all right, I assured her. \n\nYou can [[tell me]].

Although he was dressed in a flannel shirt and work boots, he didn’t seem to be working very diligently - in my humble opinion, at least. \n\nOver his shoulder, I glimpsed a sports game on a large-screen TV, a swiftly assembling and reassembling mass of figures. Ice hockey, unofficial religion of the Northern Plains.\n\nHe [[looked surprised]]. People outside of the city usually are when they see me.

Melissa was as I remembered her- the same black-framed glasses, same stovepipe pants. As she rose from the work table, she revealed an [[undeniable swelling]] on her otherwise slim frame.\n\nShe offered me a bottle of carbonated water and peppered me with questions. Was the [[farm]] treating me well? Had the animals and equipment been causing me much hassle? \n\nBehind her was a framed cover from Minnesota Woman magazine, she and Lucas cross-legged before a gray background, the young boy gnawing on a goalie mask painted to resemble the face of a bear.

<i>“You always said Melissa should settle down and start a family.”\n\n“Not this way. Not with him. I should get his ass deported.”\n\n“Go on, find yourself an immigration lawyer then. And open us all up to legal scrutiny.”\n\n“We should tell her to [[get rid of it]].”\n\n“Too late for that, Brandon. She just announced the news to everyone.”</i>

With that, he handed me a small piece of metal. A thumb drive for my computer. And his next motion was to climb back up the stairs. \n\n“Have a [[good night]].”

\nThis surprised me. I imagined that today's Americans coddled their children for years beyond adulthood. Maybe on shows like the program with the young girl Honey Boo Boo were youth left unsupervised. But not in respectable families, in respectable places like this farm.\n\nShelly merely shrugged. “Teenagers have been taking care of themselves since the beginning of time. I believe that [[our two kids]] will be just fine.”

My classmates, of course, educated me on perils “Minnesota nice” — the nosiness, the gossip. \n\nBut as [[I acclimated]], I found the nods and waves and cheery greetings to be heartening, surface-oriented or no. \n\nBecause who can control what’s being said behind one’s back?

Shelly waited for me to stand and say goodbye. But I made her wait a long time. I [[don’t give up]] that easily.

Melissa cringed as the word “black” left her mouth. I smiled my understanding. I was familiar with the November shopping custom. Better too sensitive than not sensitive enough, like when my white classmates started referring to me as "[[sister]]" after a few glasses of wine.

“I was afraid,” Melissa mumbled, staring at the floor. “I still am.”\n\n“Then why are we here right now?”\n\n“Because this is my farm, too. This is my family, the only [[family]] I have.”

“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.”\n\nMelissa interjected. “Fuck the deep-fried turkey. 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?”\n\n“So [[why didn’t you]] just cut your ties? Never speak to him again? I would have supported it.”

The next day, an unfamiliar number flashed on my phone, followed by an unexpected voice. Brandon. His message was curt.\n\n“I have [[the reports]] you’re asking for.”

“Not to eat, but perhaps for a pet. I might like a pot-bellied pig to keep me company. Like George Clooney does at Lake Como.”\n\nIt was meant as a joke. Of course it was, I’m a Muslim. And it fell flat.\n\n“Well.” He swung the door shut and locked it, concluding our 90-second tour. “This isn’t [[Lake Como]].”

We walked through the back yard past an unused clothesline, a well-loved fire pit and a wooden bench placed curiously in the middle of it all. Patchy grass tickled my ankles as I followed.\n\n“Back here is a [[shed]]. You’ll find a few of these across the property. This one’s a smaller one. Melissa used it for painting and building these modern art, well, things, projects, I’m not sure what exactly they were. We use it for storage now. A good place for gardening supplies, hunting gear, whatever you [[might need]].”

“Can I [[help you]]?”\n\n“Are you Brandon?” I asked.\n\nHe nodded and leaned against the doorway. He was in his forties, I guessed. Tall, lean, clean-shaven. He had been handsome as a younger man.

“And I’ve obeyed, putting myself in danger. Like a good sister. Like a good daughter. Like I was the one who fucked things up. \n\n"But Mom and Dad are dead and we’re selling this place anyway. So nothing left [[to lose]] anymore.”

[[How]] I answer this question of [[identity]] depends on [[my mood]] at the time and [[who’s]] asking — and. \n\nIn any case, in my early adulthood, I arrived at my decision to [[break free]].

Father had passed and I had landed in Dubai by default, spending far too much time in manufactured settings, arranging plans, exchanging news that wasn’t really new, purchasing things. Spending too little time exploring, learning, wondering.\n\n<i>What am I doing here?</i>\n\nI was waiting in a [[hotel lobby]] when I received my grandfather’s call. \n\n

The third book in the series — the one about her future husband as a boy — I skipped over because you can read stories about boys anywhere. \n\nThe girls growing up — this is what fascinated me. They started school, helped with chores, began dressing as adults. I imagined petticoats swishing across grassy fields, a bonnet shielding my face, as I walked to the general store. Back at home, this family of sisters learned from their mother, took on more responsibilities. They learned to deal with [[hardships]].\n\n

Melissa simply shook her head.\n\n“No. Brandon doesn’t apologize. And Shelly always stands by her man. We’re all just [[too worn out]] to fight any longer.”

Immediately I was cheered. Melissa had put in a good word for me. \n\nBack I drove. The weather was growing colder, bracing, the skies a deeper, duller gray.\n\n“These are from [[several years]] ago.”

\n\n“Typically these are brought in to verify financial reports provided by the seller. Examine any anomalies, like shell companies and unusual flows of money. It's an extra step and it can be expensive. But [[might not need one]] if Brandon offers you the price that you want. The price that seems fair.”

"That’s what I usually did before going to bed, for protection, being on the run and everything.\n\n"And he stopped me. It [[was okay]], he told me.

<i>“It was a wonderful day. We slept, we woke up, we slept, we woke up. The sun rose in the window, then set. Then Melissa noticed her phone and shot out of bed in a panic. ‘I forgot to call!’ Because we had been invited to the farm for Thanksgiving dinner. Melissa had, in any case. No one knew about me at that point.\n\n“She had planned on calling 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.”</i>

Right before my departure, Melissa had peered through the blinds of the kitchen window. “And there’s Shelly.”\n\nI remained calm and seated. Shelly was carrying groceries. She was not entirely surprised to see me. “Can I help you with something?”\n\nI smiled my good morning. “Is [[now a good time]] for the rest of the tour? And the five-year crop reports?”\n\n

“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.”\n\nNiko gave his wife an incredulous look\n\n“Why don’t we start with [[Christmas]].”\n\n

“I’ve kept my mouth shut about this ridiculous situation for nearly two years,” the woman declared, a petite, pretty woman, stylishly dressed and suddenly bursting with long-simmering fury and determination.\n\n“I’ve been told — no, ordered — [[never to speak]] about this situation,” she informed me. \n\n\n

Really? \n\n“She lost her attachment to this place long ago. Besides, she and Lucas and whatever other kids come along — because you know there will be others — are set without it, believe me. Do you have any idea what a guy in Niko’s job pulls in? So,” Shelly plucked a brown blade of grass and twirled it between her fingers.\n\n“I like Melissa,” I protested.\n\n“I do, too,” she replied. “That has [[nothing to do]] with it.”

That night, at the farm, in Melissa's old bedroom with the chair propped under the doorknob for good measure, I studied the files. \n\nThe next day, after I returned to the city, I called my lawyer. \n\nIt was a [[swift development]].\n\n

Guilty?\n\nShe caught my eyebrows arch and said nothing more, as I remembered that afternoon at the farm, her brother hiding his surprise at ledger after ledger of his true business dealings. Scanned, delivered and presented courtesy of her husband. \n\n[[Her phone]], off to the side on the counter, lit up. \n\nNow reticent and genuinely pained — or at least that’s how I chose to interpret her sudden flinch — she [[shook her head]].

Later that evening, my lawyer gave a quick call to check in. Any progress?\n\nI didn’t tell him about the camel jockeys, the terrorist watch list or the tale of the catastrophic Christmas dinner.\n\n“Did you [[see the owner]]?” my lawyer inquired.\n\n“Not a glimpse,” I replied. This, at least, was [[true]].\n

She apologized for the absence of her teenage son and daughter. They were [[in the city]] for school, coming home only on the weekends if they didn’t have activities to keep them busy.\n\n"Do they attend boarding school?" I asked.\n\nThis elicited a hearty laugh that filled [[the kitchen]]. “Oh my goodness no!”\n\n

People + Places

For animals, I purchased a small herd of goats. The first one I named Laura, because she was stubborn and the rest followed in order of seniority in the Ingalls family — Mary, Carrie, Grace and Rose — followed by a token he-goat I named Almanzo. \n\nThey kept me so occupied I forgot to move on to the chickens. Who needed chickens anyway? Eggs from the store were fine when I needed them.\n\nAnd chickens didn't live long anyway. Not like goats. Less trauma when it would be time to [[bid them goodbye]].

I saw on the screen that it was Niko. Her better half, as one refers to a spouse in the Midwest. As she made a move to pick it up, I decided to press on with my questioning. She could speak with her husband any time. But I would only get one opportunity to follow this story through to its conclusion.\n\n“You feel [[guilty]] for what, Melissa?”

Niko took her hand and continued the story. \n\n“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. \n\n"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]].”

"Never, I told her. And I told her the story of my past six months— selling my house, finding a job in the Twin Cities, searching for my missing girlfriend."\n\n"Who he eventually tracked down through my company [[website]]," the woman interjected. "Pretty cool, huh?"

Instead of offering a price of my own, a price which depended on complete, accurate data, I would give Brandon an opportunity to offer his. \n\nWhatever he believed to be fair, were the words I left in my voice mail.\n\nI [[waited for]] his response.

Morning came quickly. As I explored the room, now in sunlight, I found an old clock radio beneath the nightstand. When Melissa walked in, it was tuned to the harmonicas and klezmers of “Prairie Home Companion.”\n\n“Really?” She arched an eyebrow, disappointed in my taste in entertainment. “I expected better from you, Amina. Garrison Keillor is Minnesota’s creepy uncle.”\n\nShe [[sat across from me]] on the chenille bedspread. I had made the bed soon after rising, and she seemed [[impressed]] by this.

"I finally got to see his homeland. It was daylight all day, because we were up by the Arctic Circle, that was all I could remember. Plus all his cousins and their [[children]]. Blinding sunshine. Fucking sad and unfair."

Amazingly, I still lacked the information for an exact price. On the website, and in all conversations to date, the closest I had gotten to a figure was the word “negotiable.”\n\nI confess, I was growing worried. Nevertheless, with my classmates at school, I talked about the farm as if it was [[already mine]]. \n\nWith my family, however - the few older aunties who'd actually shown a jealous interest in my unusual quest - I finally spoke [[the truth]].\n

"Because when we returned to the table, gun control was the big topic. Specifically that shooting in Quebec.”\n\nNiko rolled his eyes. “Out of all the shootings in America, they had to pick that one for dinner conversation.”\n\n“Quebec’s in Canada, by the way,” Melissa pointed out. “Anyway, since I had lived in North Dakota, they were all up in our grills with questions. <i>‘Did you carry a gun?’ They, of course, are [[against weapons]] of any kind. Did you know that [[Raymond Fournier]] guy?</i> Fortunately I had been so ashamed of that delivery job that I never went into specifics. "

body[data-tags~=Amina] { background-color: darkslategray; }\nbody[data-tags~=Amina] a { color: gray; }\n\n

\nThe next day, my next visit to the farm, I was not alone.\n\nWhen I next arrived at the gravel driveway, I arrived with a passenger. And because the day was clear - no wind, birds already migrated for the winter - I could hear clearly Brandon's reaction to his wife as we pulled in.\n\n"Who is that [[little guy]]?"\n\n\n

After a long silence, the wife continued: "When Raymond my boss noticed me missing, he went nuts. He called up Brandon every day. <i>Where the hell is she?</i> And do you know what it’s like to live in an abandoned campground for weeks?\n\n"I waited for things to ease up while freezing my ass off, eating Hormel beans from the can, drying my laundry over a battery-powered space heater. I was in contact with no other human being except my brother — and you can imagine how delightful that was. It was only [[after]] the cops [[arrested]] Raymond –"

“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.”\n\n“That’s not true,” her husband interjected. “Your parents — ”\n\nMelissa 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?”

“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.”\n\n“I want to run a background check.”\n\n“Through the local police records? I highly doubt you’ll find anything. She doesn’t even drink.”\n\n“No, the [[terrorist watch list]].”

I wanted to ask him more, but he looked at his watch and found an excuse to leave. Errands. Chores. Doing what? Investigating his cropless fields?\n\n“The rest of the reports — are these included here?”\n\n“I’ll have them for you later.”\n\nI didn't believe him, but I [[waited]] in the living room nonetheless.

Brandon had placed an offer on the Minnetonka house before the deal on the farm had even closed, she rattled off, her sentences now tumbling eagerly one after the other. \n\nHe had been confident of a good price for the farm, so confident th.\n\nMelissa anticipated [[my next question]].

I took the books, then opened my mouth to ask about the tour of the fields, see for myself what was growing and what was still theirs, but thought against it.\n\n“By the way,” Brandon continued, glancing at “Little Town on the Prairie” peeping from my Minnesota Public Radio tote bag and the “I’m With Her” button affixed to its strap. \n\n“You do know that [[Rose Wilder]] – a woman, by the way – was a founder of the American libertarian movement. And that the little house they lived in was an illegal squat on Indian land.”

Copyright 2018 People + Places\n\nThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. \n\nAny 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.\n\nI'm good. I'm not going to sue or plagiarize. [[Start]] the journey.\n

So I asked, “When you were growing up, did you and your brother attend school in the city or did you go to the country school?”\n\nThis broke through Melissa’s daze. She snapped back to normal, the unflappable Midwestern host. “Oh, Shelly told you about all that. I was a country kid. [[Graduating class]] of 32.”\n\nMy classes had been small as well, I told her. But [[lively]].

“Shelly’s a woman, she knew what I was getting at right away. ‘Have you started seeing someone?’ she asked, and I started [[blushing]].\n\n“<i>‘I’m so happy for you! I’m so happy you finally found someone to take your mind off of that guy from North Dakota. Niko this, Niko that. Jesus Christ, you were so in love with that guy.’</i> \n\n"I was [[mortified]]. But there was my [[opening]] for telling her everything."

\nI would prefer them to associate the nation of my birth with Iman, supermodel and wife of David Bowie. But world events have conspired against me.\n\nSo [[what]] can you do?

“How are things,” Melissa repeated, [[sighing]]. “How are things.”

And you aren’t George Clooney. Wisely I kept that retort to myself. \n\nInstead, I added up figures in my head, imagining my conversations with my lawyer.\n\nThat night I [[accepted]] Shelly’s offer to stay over.

Nothing about the farm. I learned instead about [[a business]] in North Dakota, investigated by the police and federal authorities just a few years before. \n\nSuch a scandal — [[the story]] had occupied the North Dakota news for weeks.\n\nI began to receive more details, if not necessarily answers, from [[my hosts]]. \n\n

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.\n\nI 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.\n\nI made my next visit [[a surprise]].

Her face turned inscrutable. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”\n\n“But don’t you [[own half of it]]? I would think so, with you and him as the only two children in the family.”\n\n

To break the tension, I tried a compliment. “Your dining room is quite beautiful.”\n\n“It’s not mine,” Melissa replied.\n\n“I can imagine many lovely [[home-cooked dinners]] there,” I continued, undaunted.\n\n

“I can’t find anything online, at least nothing that mentions the family directly, but [[the truth]] is I’ve heard conversations. This family has done something illegal.”\n\nA shrug to that nervous revelation. Whose relatives haven’t?

“We thought, well, fuck it.” \n\nShe smiled [[endearingly]], shrugged.

"I should have demanded a DNA test like a guest on the Jerry Springer show, as a joke," Niko replied.\n\n“That’s actually not funny,” Melissa said and I agreed. Such an announcement was too important for joking.\n\nNiko picked Lucas up from the floor and settled him on his knee. “I wasn’t surprised by her news, not really. It was inevitable.”\n\n“Really?” I asked. “How was it [[inevitable]]?”

“Christmas,” he repeated, the “are you serious?” afterward unspoken. \n\nThe baby now fed and entertaining himself with a plastic bowl, Niko pulled a bottle of beer from the refrigerator. \n\n“That’s Brandon’s,” his wife pointed out. “Not anymore,” he pointed out. \n\nThen he simply [[settled in]] to listen, as did I.

"Tristan is the designer for her [[website]]. We should introduce you, Amina. I think you’d like him."\n\n"Tristan’s gay, remember?"\n\n"Introduce as a friend, I meant. But we digress."

My family had that money lying around. \n\nShelly knew this, I knew this, and we left this fact [[unspoken]] between us.

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 as they took to the skies in majestic chevrons.\n\nI listened to the [[household wake]].

Wax candles hung from the eaves to ward off the mosquitoes that by now had either perished in a cold frost or migrated south. \n\nThe furniture was of a sturdy plastic I recognized from the houses of my professors and mentors in the city. Wooden crates cradled firewood and potatoes. A wooden broom propped against a wall held a summer of cobwebs, seed pods, leaves and pollen.\n\nIn a past life, I had swept that porch, looked out onto [[that sunset]].

Shelly called and [[begged me]] to come back.

Melissa’s curiosity was boundless about the farm — how the porch was holding up, how I had decorated each room, my plans for the gardens. \n\nAnd when she did talk about herself, she restrained herself in her answers. Life was good at home, life was good at work. Life was good, she declared, repeatedly.\n\nHow were Brandon and Shelly? How [[were things]] with them?

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. \n\nFor Niko, it would be an introduction to in-laws who knew nothing of his existence until now, who more than certainly were up to something illegal.\n\nBut it was the holidays. [[How bad]] could it be?

"Soon after you left North Dakota. I don’t think that was a coincidence," the husband observed.\n\n"But I didn’t [[tell]] anyone anything!"

Niko had wandered downstairs to retrieve some boxes. More goddamn Hummels, I suspected.\n\n“They tried at first to sell to Monsanto. That’s what most farmers do out here.”\n\nI set my laundry aside to listen more fully. Niko continued to [[rummage]] through boxes. He didn’t look up once during our conversation.

“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.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“I don’t <i>[[need]]</i> to do anything.”

After Brandon met with my lawyer, the results were just as I [[had expected]].\n\nFor my [[final visit]], Melissa immediately ushered me into [[the basement]].

“No, we’re settled in here, thanks. Just curious. The indoor ski resort — have you been there?”\n\nI nodded. Everyone had. It was the first place you showed to guests when they visited.\n\n“Did [[Rod Stewart]] really buy a man-made island shaped like Australia?”

And so I [[settled]] [[in]].\n\n

I think I’ll use the master bedroom as my sleeping area and the sister’s old room for guests. Like my auntie. The cousins from the city. And for any of you if you come and visit me. \n\nI 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. \n\nI 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]].

Well, I told them, it was roughly an hour’s drive from the Minneapolis St. Paul city limits. \n\nYou 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 - it's [[true]].\n\nThe 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.

A cryptic answer followed, multiple articles launched on a laptop computer in multiple browsers.\n\nI had [[asked]], after all.

I wasn’t sure, I told her. Many of the construction projects had been placed on hold after the recession.\n\nOn a hunch, I posed a question.\n\n“Do you [[want]] your brother to sell the farm, Melissa?”

When I saw the picture of this family’s property on the Internet, I had a premonition about my future there. \n\nAnd when I drove up in real life, I knew it was the kind of place I had imagined.\n\nThen, because it was only fair during my second visit, a visit I hoped would be more successful, I [[asked]] my hosts the same thing:\n\n

They had originated in London, in fact, “On the Banks of Plum Creek,” beckoning from the shelves of [[a bookseller]]. \n\nBuild a house out of mud? Carved out of the side of a gentle prairie hill? \n\nAs a child and to this day, the thought of it [[fascinated me]]. I yearned for a back yard in which to try such constructions out. The cobblestone garden at school presented a sad substitute.\n\n

Ask for reports of the crop yields, my lawyer told me. At least five years’ worth. \n\nIn the meantime, he would research ownership and tax history in the [[public records]].

[[I blinked]] when he told me.

I did not know this.\n\n“Another fun fact: Pa traded the family dog for a pair of horses.”\n\nAnd [[with that]], Brandon continued on to the back yard.

“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?”\n\n“Painting masks and packing them up requires an actual physical presence in the studio.”\n\n“Well, that’s just too bad. You have an obligation to help and you need to see it through. [[For once]].”

I drew Brandon’s attention to the first section of figures for crop revenues. \n\nAround us, Brandon’s office smelled faintly of cigarettes, but not in an unpleasant way. Nothing I hadn’t grown accustomed to in Dubai. \n\nThe walls were covered with maps, calendars and framed photographs. The ledgers on the shelves were unexpectedly well organized.\n\n“You haven’t [[grown any crops]] in years,” I reiterated.

<i>"Anyway, Niko somehow apologized to the owner and got us over to a bench near our car. For about half an hour, we sat there, not talking, me hunched over and him rubbing my back. When he made some comment like maybe that second basket of tater tots was not such a great idea, I turned to him and said, 'it’s not the tater tots.'\n\n"Not exactly how I had been planning to share the news, but oh well. And he just stopped and stared at me. But in a happy way, not an 'oh shit' way. Which I was excited about, because I was pretty excited myself. But I was also really nervous. How would [[he react]]?"</i>

The next day, Brandon finally appeared to show me the final sections of the fields. And present me with a price. \n\nI grabbed my coat and gloves and followed him through the back door. “An impressive hockey game last night,” I commented because conversation seemed appropriate.\n\n“Do you [[know anything]] about farming?” was his response.

Settling\n\n

“What about your final price for the sale?”\n\nThen he turned on his heel and left the room.\n\nSoon after, the weather grew colder, the nights darker and the roads icier. I drove back to the farm. [[I waited]].

My resolve renewed, out to the farm I [[drove again]], this time in drizzly rain that turned to sleet as I left the city.

A vision came to mind just then of the Ingalls family during a prairie winter, a cozy scene grinding flour and twisting sheaves of hay to burn as kindling. \n\nThey [[waited]]. They persevered. Survival during the storm.

Enough questions for one day. I stood, smoothed the crumbs from the front of my pants. \n\nMelissa 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.\n\n“What [[happened next]]?” I asked her.

Thanks to my wealth, the distant cousins and soon their neighbors questioned me incessantly about religious practice, marriage and children. When they found me lacking in all three, they strove to rectify the situation. \n\nEvery one of my visits brought with it a proposal by suitors rich in jewelry and cellular phone equipment and poor in documentation that would keep them within the United States. Because this was [[not home]] for them, either. \n\nSurely someone of my means could procure them citizenship.

Yet again, I waited on the porch by the door, and yet again, I overheard [[an exchange]] not meant for my ears.

Now it was the man's turn: "As she was sharing all of this with me there in the studio, she was really getting upset. And so was I, picturing her in that terrible situation. Jesus, what an asshole I had been! \n\n"So I put my arm around her and changed the subject. I asked her about [[her work]]." \n\nThe woman, impatient, cut ahead. "So here he and I were sitting next to each other, stunned, exhausted, emotional. We hadn’t [[seen each other]] in six months."

If I feel like I’m talking to someone reasonably educated, I tell them the truth. I’m a student at Macalester College, where I'm studying to learn more about this world around me. \n\nI also answer that I’m a resident of South St Paul, where I currently live in a snug but comfortable temporary apartment. Like [[what]] you see all around campus.\n\nOr I simply tell them that I’m a Minnesotan because, after careful consideration, my plan is to stay here.\n\n

Pirates. I sighed.\n\nAnd the [[terrorist watch list]].

I couldn’t shake that vision from my mind, even with my rude and racist dismissal by Brandon and especially after Melissa and Niko’s story. A home with a story of its own.\n\nI returned to [[plead my case]].

As life settled into its quiet rhythm, always busy but somehow peaceful, I found myself in South Minneapolis. I was there to pick up supplies and food from the international market, specifically the delicious empanadas. \n\nAnd I found myself in front of a storefront whose logo was all too familiar. I had witnessed it a dozen times, a hockey mask swirling on a laptop screen, as I waited and waited in the area that ultimately became my living room.\n\n“Amina! What a [[surprise]]!”

The bookseller directed me first to the volume with an illustration of a log cabin on its cover, then the book with a covered wagon. “Little House in the Big Woods.” \n\nThen “Little House on the Prairie.” I imagined all of my possessions crammed into such a contraption, traveling across the country without even a road to guide the way. \n\nWhat an adventure, these [[pioneering dreams]]!

“Some members are. But it’s a large family. Large enough for me to ignore the ones who don’t approve.”\n\nMelissa chuckled knowingly. “That’s a lot of freedom,” she observed.\n\n“For a Muslim? An African?”\n\n“For [[anyone]].”

With that, Niko left the room. \n\nA few minutes later I heard an engine start in the driveway and wheels churn against the gravel. Melissa stared at the baby monitor, cradling a cup of coffee in her hands. It was a lot to think about, [[children]].\n\n

Why do you want to buy a farm?\n\nThe question is usually asked inquisitively, not unkindly, and I have my answer ready. As a child, I had read about the Midwestern United States — the pioneers, the settlers, the simpler way of life — and I had fallen in love. People worked hard in this place, grew wise, lived honorably. Families watched out for each other here. They stuck together.\n\nSo when I was looking for a place to settle, I came to [[Minnesota]].

“Are they living in Minnetonka now?” I prodded.\n\n“They <i>are</i>.” Her tongue tapped against her teeth after a [[careful pause]].

I pondered these assertions on my drive back and when I returned to my apartment to research, I took to Google to verify them. Solid arguments for both angles, as it turned out. \n\n<i>You apply more scrutiny to this than to the land you’re purchasing,</i> I could imagine my lawyer chastising me. But the London bookseller had never [[warned me]] of this revisionist history, the secrets behind the covered wagon, the sun-bonneted girl running through a field of wildflowers.

As a childless woman, I refrained from judgment. This is one lesson you learn very quickly in America.\n\n“This one friend of mine — the one who lives in St. Louis Park — she [[just wouldn’t shut up]] about the matter,” Melissa explained.

<i>The kids were friendly, like they always are. So were the neighbors. \n\nMy 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. \n\nIt was pretty much “what the fuck is he doing” and then “Brandon, don’t be rude” and then “goddamn Melissa and her [[fucking surprises]].”</i>

“Well,” Melissa jumped in. “We had been a little lax in the whole birth control department that month. I mean, really — two college-educated professionals, fucking away— ”\n\n“I meant inevitable in a more general way,” Niko corrected. “Starting a family, getting married. I knew it would have happened eventually. Actually, I knew the very first moment I met Melissa.”\n\nMelissa laughed, a full-throated sound that made one understand how such love at first sight was possible. “That moment? I was such a bitch to you. But you hung in there. And [[here we are]] today.”

"They were really banking on that sale. And we know how [[all that turned out]]."\n\n“I signed over my portion of the inheritance to help cover the shortfall,” she continued, “more for Shelly and the kids than for my asshat brother. And I’m okay with that, really I am. \n\n

<i>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.\n\nThen it was time for the holiday toasts. Shelly raises her glass: “Here’s to Melissa and the launch of her new business.’”\n\n“Actually,” I piped up — because that was [[my moment]].</i>\n\n

[[Brandon’s wife]] had been raised to be polite. I could tell in the way she dismissed me.\n\n“We appreciate the interest. We really do. And I’m glad to see that Melissa and Niko have been keeping you entertained. But you’re wasting your time. Brandon’s not going to sell you the farm.”

“Please take another look.” \n\nWhen I returned, she led me to a part of the house I had toured before, a back room filled with old sports gear for the kids. “Your children didn’t take this with them to the city?” I asked to be polite.\n\n“There’s not a lot of room,” she explained. “But hopefully we’ll all be in a house near their school soon. Brandon thinks he’s found something that will work. That’s why he’s not been around much, you know.”\n\n[[Of course,]] I nodded.

I blinked, unaccustomed to her turning the spotlight on me.\n\n“Are you going to grow crops? Do you have a boyfriend? Are you going to settle down and [[start a family]]?”

Melissa poured me a cup of coffee. On the couch, Niko napped, the sleeping baby curled up like a [[caterpillar]] on his chest. \n\n“Technically he’s working right now,” she explained, “so I check on his emails every half hour or so and wake him up if I see something that looks urgent.”\n\nThen [[silence]]. Awkward silence.

“Please, fuck off about all of that. I got you that job in North Dakota in the first place, the job that made all of this possible for you — your business, your husband, your child.”\n\n“Yeah, at what cost?”\n\n“Everything has [[its cost]] in this world. As an adult, you should know that by now.”

The ground crunched beneath my shoes, frosted up already. I followed her out to a barn. Underneath the tarp: a four-wheeler.\n\nI grinned. This would [[be fun]].

“The [[siblings]], they don’t agree on what they should do with the place.”\n\nDisagreement happen, they assured me. It’s more uncommon when family members actually get along.\n\n“I haven’t told Grandfather or my lawyer.”\n\nMaybe you shouldn’t, they advised. Not if you really want this farm.

Settling: Amina's Story\n\n[[Begin the journey]].\n\n<i>Or pick up midway: I [[don’t give up]]/ Making [[this wish]] reality / Getting closer to [[the opportunity]] /The home I've [[waited for]].</i>\n\n[[Legal language and disclaimers]]\n\n\n\n

<i>“That whole mess is over with now, Brandon. Raymond’s dead. The case is closed.”\n\n“And this guy is in my fucking house.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“You know damn well why I’m complaining, Shelly. He knows everything. And he fucking [[knocked her up]].”</i>

“Okay, enough Prairie fucking Home Companion for today.”\n\nBrandon stood in the doorway. For the first time in my interactions with him, he appeared [[completely exhausted]].

“Odd for them to be so forthcoming,” he observed, stroking his chin. “And oddly, our background checks revealed nothing.”\n\n“For Brandon and Shelly as well?”\n\n“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.”

Fortunately, the whimpering baby [[saved me]] from answering.

“We always had hired hands while I was growing up. Young guys from around the area in the beginning, then mostly Mexicans now. I always dreamed of running off with one of them. \n\n"I’d watch them come in and head out while I was out planting things in the garden. Tomatoes, squash, rhubarb. Have you tried rhubarb pie yet?”\n\nI had not. One of the [[other things]] to add to my experience list.

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.\n\n“So, what [[do you think]], Brandon? I think she’s nice.”

When I saw Brandon and Shelly’s farmhouse, first on the Internet and then in person, beautifully photographed and marked “price negotiable,” I knew it would be home.\n\nThe porch was expansive, covered in white paint that was now a comfortable ecru and sagging in the middle. Its owners used it as a place for furniture, activity and human gatherings instead of mere decoration. \n\n[[I liked that]]. \n\n

The kitchen table overflowed with cereal boxes, plates and plastic cups. 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.”\n\nNo fool, the boy grimaced and clamped his lips shut. “Or maybe you don’t. [[I lied]] to you, my son. Melissa, this is disgusting.”\n\n“It’s good for him,” she declared. “Full of nutrients. Give it one more try.”

"Before long, we ended up kissing, of course. My apartment’s right upstairs, I said. I think we should go up. He agreed.\n\n"I had boxes and supplies stacked everywhere, so the only place to sit was the bed. Conveniently enough. <i>[[When]] do you have to drive back to North Dakota?</i> I asked him."

It was a new glass atrium constructed by hundreds of Bangladeshi laborers to resemble a sail catching the breeze. Because such a thing is certainly needed in a desert. \n\nOur family had 14 grandchildren total, and he had a [[vast fortune]] to disperse among us while he was still alive. \n

"It was something left over from a Christmas party a few years ago that had survived my move. It was disgusting, but we finished off the whole thing so that [[was okay]].\n\n"I would take a swig, he would take a swig. We’d pass it back and forth, like we did with a flask out on his patio in North Dakota, bundled up in coats and blankets, watching the deer."

Since moving to Minnesota, I had gained a full 20 pounds. Only my roomiest pants and skirts still fit, and I was too proud and optimistic to purchase replacements.\n\n“Please, help yourself to as much as you like,” Shelly insisted. And I complied, [[the kitchen]] being no place to be rude.

“In a place that’s way bigger than what they need but you know how my brother likes to show off.”\n\nAnd then, as on the first day on the farm, the afternoon with the laptops and the cryptic links and the tale of drugs, flight and romantic reunion, now two children later, Melissa [[gushed forth]].

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.\n\nBesides, I had to report something from my many fruitless visits to the farm.\n\nBut my lawyer was [[not so entertained]].

To my good fortune, I found only Shelly’s car in the large gravel driveway when I arrived. I could tell the vehicle was hers because of the bumper sticker: <i>Need something done? Ask a woman.</i>\n\n“May I see the house?” I asked.\n\n“Can’t hurt,” she shrugged and motioned for me to [[follow her]].

“But she’s very busy, so I talk most often with the sister and brother-in-law, even though they normally live in the city and, [[the truth]] be told, know nothing about farming. The brother and brother-in-law do not get along, which is not a surprise when you have two males in a household.”\n\nThey nodded their agreement to this as well, quite vigorously.

“Local weather man, convicted meth dealer and a whole bunch of rednecks for me.”\n\nDid she keep in touch with any of them?\n\n“Not really. It was so long ago.” With that, Melissa plucked a vial of fingernail polish from a wicker basket and shook it. “Have to take advantage of the naptime calm. Would you like some?”\n\nI shook my head. How would I [[do chores]] with fancy nails?

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.\n\n“Amina!”\n\nMelissa, wet-haired and makeup-free, had not been expecting me.\n\n“How long have you been waiting?”\n\n“Not long,” [[I lied]].

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.\n\n“You drove all the way back out here?” Melissa asked, now rinsing baby bottles in the sink. I did, I replied.\n\n“You’re still interested in the farm?”\n\n“I [[still am]],” I assured her. No reply.

<i>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.\n\n“You don’t deserve this poinsettia. [[Fuck you]].”</i>

“I’m working on it,” I assured him.\n\nAnd so I drove home, past Little Mogadishu, past campus, back to my apartment.\n\nWhat was I expecting of [[this place]]?

You cannot predict traffic in Minnesota. Road construction and congestion hinder when least expected, and clear passage always comes as [[a surprise]].

The immense stack of documents shrank with every signature. Every swoop of Brandon’s pen sliced a gash through the parchment.\n\n“Jesus fucking Christ,” Brandon exhaled as he stopped with Shelly in the entryway to usher me out.\n\n“It’s done,” she replied.\n\n“It sure is. At half the original offer.”\n\n“We have to be thankful," Shelly reassured him, their city home and new life now [[made possible]]. "It’s better than nothing.”

"You scared the shit out of me! I was on the run. I was living in fear. You could have been somebody [[sent to kill me]]. I had been running for my life for the past six months."\n\n"<i>She doesn’t want to see you,</i> I thought," her husband explained. "<i>She’s probably [[fucking]] another guy,</i> I thought."\n\nThe woman continued. "He looked like he was going to [[turn right around]] and leave, so I panicked. <i>I wanted to call you!</i> I blurted out. <i>Every day, I wanted to call you. But [[Brandon]] ordered me not to.</i>”\n\n

<i>Brandon pointed out that our house was just a 10-minute drive from the hospital and that, from what he was able to tell from Zillow and the public records, we seemed to have more than enough room to put Mom up.\n\nWell, I have never seen a more incredulous look on Niko’s face. He just blinked a few times like you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. \n\nHe explained that we were caring for an infant, that I was still recovering from a very difficult labor and that he was working 10 hours a day and sleeping maybe four hours at the most. \n\nThere was [[no way]] we could responsibly care for someone who needs serious medical attention.</i>

Theirs was a two-person story, as these things usually are, with rapid volleys, minor disagreements and the frequent completion of sentences. It led off with a sardonic preface by the female speaker — “so, a little bit about what makes this farm special, this farm which our family is selling for no good reason” — followed by a glare to her partner — are you with me? — an animated exchange of glances, then, ultimately, a conspiratorial nod.\n\n[[So they began.]]

“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.”\n\n“You’re still needed here.”\n\n“For what? For me to run interference with a woman you’re too racist to talk to? A very [[pleasant woman]], by the way.”\n\nAnd her brother was having [[none of it]].

"Can you believe it, Amina?" the husband said. "The entire time, days between when she found this out and when she disappeared, I never suspected. She never [[said a thing]] to me. She just left for work one morning and never came back."

“That’s one good thing about the farm leaving the family. What is the Sinaloa cartel going to do to us now, no farm, no shed? \n\n"That was always just an urban legend, by the way — they operate more on the West Coast, I’ve read. \n\n"But I digress. In any case, it’s done now, not entirely as expected and God knows I feel [[guilty]] about that-.”

She glanced again at the flashing screen, then at me. I sensed our conversation was [[near its end]].\n\n

And hardships there were. A hoard of locusts devoured the family’s crops. An endless snowstorm forced them to twist hay into knots for kindling, then scrape the bottom of their flour tin for their last meals. One girl even went blind. “The scarlet fever,” they described it. \n\nOf course she bore her affliction [[stoically]]. As pioneers do.

The case never went to trial. After the owner had been murdered in a seemingly unrelated event, all the charges had been dropped, and the investigation soon afterwards.\n\nI [[read]] on to [[learn]] more.

“When do you close?”\n\nThis I could not tell them. I hadn’t even obtained the details I needed to make my offer.\n\nSo I drove out for another [[surprise visit]].

“Nice language to be using around your child.”\n\nAll three of our heads turned. It was Brandon, striding through the doorway, a stack of binders beneath his arm.\n\n“[[Here you go.]]”

Even though Midwesterners sometimes stared and asked obvious questions and wondered “not from around here, are you?” in a not so subtle way, they also gave you space, I realized as [[I acclimated]]. \n\nThey left you to your business to just exist.\n\nAs someone referred to as “interesting,” and not as a compliment, all my life, I appreciated this.

“And he [[apologized]] to you?” I asked.\n\n

After she brushed the seed pods off the seats and siphoned the gas into the tank, she gave my attire a once-over. “Good that you’re wearing pants and sturdy shoes. But watch out for that scarf. Make sure it doesn’t get caught in anything.”\n\nIt didn’t. It whipped against my face as [[we flew across the property]]. \n\n

The wife: "It was early November. Friday night. I remember that because I was still at the studio, party animal that I had become. Starting your own business is a shit-ton of work, pardon my language. No one ever tells you that."\n\nThe husband: "Her door was unlocked, so I [[assumed]] it would be fine. I just walked in."

<i>[[Tell us]] about [[the farm]] you’re buying.</i>\n\nWhen my classmates asked me, it was always “are buying” and not “attempting to buy.” \n\nEven 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.

The twinkle left her eyes, and her entire manner turned more guarded.\n\n“Are you looking for something?”\n\nA 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.\n\nI wanted to introduce myself, be polite, ask him how he liked his school in the city. But Brandon’s son [[was gone]] before I had the opportunity.

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. \n\nYou can tell the porch has hosted many afternoon conversations over lemonade. 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.\n\nAs for [[the interior]]

So it was no surprise that when my grandfather asked me what I wanted from my life I drew one of these books from my leather satchel and pointed at its cover: “On the Shores of Silver Lake.” \n\nI presented this book just as other girls might have presented a copy of Vogue and asked for the entire fall season from Balenciaga.\n\n“[[A farm?]]” he repeated, just to make sure that he had heard correctly.

“Your eyes do not deceive you,” she smiled, patting the bulge. “Surprise, [[surprise]] - a little one is on her way.”

“Like I could have turned up with the guy from North Dakota who knows everything. Did you have a better idea?”\n\n“Better than I’ll distract my stupid boyfriend in the most obvious way possible so he won’t ask questions about our plans for this [[festive]] holiday?”\n\n“Oh like I had to tie you up to that bed.”\n\n“Which actually wouldn’t have worked. The pullout couch at your studio doesn’t have posts like we have now — ”\n\n“Jesus Christ— ” Melissa muttered beneath her breath.

“Yeah, shit’s been a little crazy around here as you can imagine with the farm and Melissa and all.” A pause, a few grunts of agreement. “Yeah, it is a shame. But we’re figuring it out. They finally agreed to it, that’s the good news.”\n\nShelly arrived then, red-cheeked from the cold, to lead me out back — or [[away]] from that conversation.

I considered the situation: Brandon desperate, his children living in an hovel needing money for college, his wife impatient, his sister an impediment. His brother-in-law draining his refrigerator of beer. He needed to move quickly.\n\nYou need to move quickly, they echoed my lawyer’s words.\n\nSo there was [[my decision]].

It was [[much higher]] than I had expected.\n\nWhy was the price so high? I wondered. Did they not want to sell the property now?\n\nMy lawyer suspected discrimination. Fraud as well. Because something about the price [[did not seem right]].

“Ready to go home,” I concluded. “Home to the city,” I elaborated to her sharp look. “You must miss your work and regular routine.”\n\n“Yes,” she replied after a careful pause. “Yes we do.”\n\n“[[Heart-warming]],” my lawyer murmured when I told him the story.

<i>"We did. It was the first Saturday in December. We were Christmas shopping in downtown Saint Paul and stopped for lunch at this pub by the square. A gorgeous snowy day. Lights in the trees, even in the daytime. And tater tots. Who serves tater tots anymore? \n\n"Well, I had been to the doctor earlier in the week, so I already knew the news. And I had [[a silver baby rattle]] ready in my bag, ready to place on the table the moment he got up to get us ketchup and mustard and napkins. <i>“I have a surprise to tell you.”</i>

I dreamed of becoming stoic [[like this]] someday.

I smiled. When you wear a hijab, people seem to think you're easily shocked for whatever reason.\n\n“So we spent the rest of winter and spring on our own — hanging out with friends and exploring the city before my belly got too big and uncomfortable. We eventually found a house that we both liked.”\n\n“It was a very lucky find,” Niko said. "Maple timber and glass. Very simple and modern, but rustic, too, and on a good acre of land for Lucas and other [[children]] to run on when they get older."\n\n

“Oh please you cannot be serious.”\n\n“I am dead fucking serious. She’s from a country swarming with [[pirates]]. She’s a Muslim. And she’s all [[veiled up]].”

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. \n\nYou 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.\n\n[[Upstairs]] is quite charming as well.

"Oh, the kids had such a great time, Shelly reasured me. 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.’ \n\n"I realized: Here’s my opening. ‘It’s been more than [[work]] that’s been distracting me lately,’ I told her.”\n\n

Her tired young husband interjected, speaking with an accent I couldn’t place. “Are you serious?”\n\nBut ultimately he relented. She was the dominant party in this relationship after all — even I could see this. He handed me a laptop with the articles.\n\nI swiveled the computer toward me and read. What did I [[learn]]?

<i>When had we gotten married? Where? Any names picked out yet? How was I feeling? \n\nYou can count on Minnesota neighbors to keep up protocol. \n\nMeanwhile, Brandon stormed off to [[the back porch]] with a “I need a fucking smoke.” Shelly soon followed. So did I.</i>

<i>“You’re not African and you’re not American, so [[what]] are you?”</i>\n\n

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.\n\n“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.”\n\nI stared at him, confused. He gave me a look. Oh, I see, I realized. Making things [[festive]].

As I left that night, I passed the porch where she and Niko would often sit, after Lucas was fast asleep. Usually they were laughing quietly about some private joke or snuggling up and kissing, so I kept my distance.\n\nBut this time Melissa was crying. “It’s done. [[It’s done]].”

<i>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. \n\nWe 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.</i>\n\n

Before she could reply, she leaned over and jabbed Niko in the arm. \n\nTime to check email. And nothing good on the screen, that was apparent from the expression on his face. \n\n“[[Fuck, not again]],” he muttered as he hoisted the baby over his shoulder and started typing.

“I can [[show you]] the fields as well as anyone.”

A new life. A life that fit me. \n\nA place where I finally felt at home in this world. \n\nWas that so unusual? Didn’t everyone expect this? And wouldn’t anyone grasp for this, given [[the opportunity]]?

“Every dinner became a night of lectures. How could Niko work in the oil industry and rape the earth for a living? How can I promote a violent sport like hockey — especially to girls? And I hope you’re not feeding your child formula.\n\n“Anyway, I’d just creep off to the bedroom periodically with Lucas’ bottles hidden in my diaper bag, excusing myself with some complaint about my heaving breasts. When the conversation got too annoying, Niko would stop in to check on me. And we should have stayed in the bedroom that night, let me [[tell you]]."

When the skies cleared, Shelly treated us to a bonfire outside, [[too worn out]] to join us. \n\nLucas gurgled with delight at the dancing flames, gesticulating wildly. “He’s asking us something,” I noted, this boy struggling to communicate everything in his head to those stupid adults around him. \n\n“He’s asking for a little sister,” I heard Niko whisper into his wife’s ear.

[[They]] spoke and I listened as we waited and waited for the brother to return from the city, from wherever he had fled to in order to hide from me.

The photo showed a warehouse, nondescript, rusted and hardy on the scrubby plain. A food delivery service for oil company employees on the surface, its true product illegal substances. \n\nWhere oil exists, so soon do drugs. Workers to be energized, money to be made. That's truth of the world you can [[learn]] anywhere.\n\n

"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.”\n\nAnd then Melissa’s eyes [[darted]] over my shoulder again.

<i>Shelly of course answered the door. I knew Brandon would be in back as usual having a smoke and playing around with the keg. \n\nWell, 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.\n\nWe walk in and [[make the rounds]].</i>

<i>Like tearing off a Band Aid, you’ve got to do these things quickly. \n\n“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.”\n\nFrom there, the rest of the meal was [[just a blur]].</i>

<i>"Afterward, when we were walking back to the car, I leaned over to pet a dog and that’s when the morning sickness decided to kick in. All over the place. We’re talking projectile level vomiting."\n\n"You threw up on the dog, Melissa."\n\n"I did. So embarrassing."\n\n"The dog was wearing a sweater and antlers. [[Vomit]] was an improvement."</i>

\nWhen I’m tired or in a hurry, or if I sense I’m speaking with a bigot and want to make him or her feel badly, I tell them I’m a refugee, which conjures up images of war and displacement and camps and [[what]] have you.

"I had to keep it together," the woman protested. "Seriously, what else was I supposed to do? I had no choice. Don't [[tell]] me you wouldn't have done the same thing, in my position."

<i>Aren’t you cold?</i> \n\nPeople always asked me this. \n\nLike most newcomers from warm climates, I had feared the weather. Do I really want to do this? And the winters certainly shocked my system. I did not realize it was possible for air to be so cold.\n\nBut slowly [[I acclimated]].

Was the land amenable to hunting? \n\nThis was an option for additional revenue, my lawyer, [[a lawyer]] who knew these things, 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. \n\nFor early risers, there was dairy farming. Did Brandon’s farm come with facilities for these activities, or would I need to build my own?

\n\nThe negotiations had turned in my favor on the night it had been too late to drive back. The night I had stayed over in Melissa's old bedroom. \n\nThe night they had, in retrospect, been ill advised to extend their hospitality.\n\nShelly had kindly allowed me to [[launder my things]] in the washing machine and dryer.

To change this awkward subject, I leafed through a stack of Polaroids on the coffee table. “A handsome couple,” I remarked at one.\n\nMelissa leaned in with a squint. “ My parents. They both [[passed on]] soon after Lucas was born, Dad in the hospital after a fall and Mom from Parkinson’s later. That's [[Mom and Dad]].”

"[[What]] are [[you]] doing [[here]]?"

“So mortified,” Niko laughed and hurled a small, awkward throw pillow in his direction. The brittle stitching burst, sending stuffing in all directions.\n\nThis would be [[work]] to fix, I knew from my "Little House on the Prairie" readings and the roll of Melissa's eyes.

This [[little guy]] contained in his briefcase a stack of papers printed out earlier in his office in the city. Papers that contained the truth about this enterprise.

"Posting pictures of myself - on that [[website]] or anywhere - was a big risk. After North Dakota, I was told to keep a low profile."\n\n"Told by Brandon, of course," her husband rolled his eyes.

“Oh hell no.”\n\nAnd then the door, slammed in my face.\n\n<i>I still plan to [[buy your farm]]</i> I thought, undeterred, as I drove back to my city apartment to plot my next move.

Not long after we returned to the house, I was yet again left alone and awkwardly wandering. I turned my attention to the contents of a writing desk in the hall. A hockey schedule for the upcoming season, a list for the grocery store, a coupon from Costco.\n\n“I finally give in to you and Shelly and speak to this woman— our only serious inquiry about the place— and now you tell her you don’t want to sell the farm? Are you fucking serious?”\n\nBrandon’s voice from the office. [[Of course]].

I finally noticed the small TV across the room. \n\nIt was an older model, not the massive screen that Brandon had been watching on my first visit, and it was tuned with the sound off to “Pioneer Woman.” \n\nI didn’t much care for the show — I found its narrator too subservient — but I appreciated the recipes. Hearty and resourceful. Like the meals I would serve on my farm.\n\nThe [[room]] was too quiet.

<i>Brandon was just pissed. “That’s just rich, after your own father just died,” he said. “But I guess everything’s easy when you just abandon your family and live in another country for years on end.”\n\nThat was cheap and unnecessary. But we tried to take the high road. If it’s money you need, we told him, we’ll pay for someone to come in, then help out when we’re able.\n\nBrandon, of course, would have none of that. “It’s not a matter of money,” he said — which I knew not to be the case but didn’t say anything. “It’s a matter of responsibility. You can’t [[buy your way]] out of this.”</i>

“The proceeds from a entire farm, just for school?” I marveled. “Are they studying medicine or law?”\n\nShelly laughed. “Oh no. They’re sweet kids, hard workers, too, but neither is in danger of winning a Nobel Prize. Tuition's expensive. I was shocked when I found out how much it would cost us. [[Who]] has that kind of money lying around today?”\n\n

"Thirty three. I just had a birthday."\n\n"And so I wished her a happy birthday."\n\n"And so I retorted fuck you. I thought he was being sarcastic. That snarky mention of [[Brandon]] ordering me around and all."\n\n"I wasn’t. I really hoped she had had a happy birthday."

The morning drive was roughly an hour away. The scenery, even during this drab transition from fall to winter, took my breath away.\n\nWhen I knocked on the weather-beaten screen door at the side of the house, the [[owner himself]] answered.

These schools and malls and hotel lobbies and discos, because yes, I went through that phase like any girl, were interchangeable — in Dakar, in Singapore, in Jakarta and London. \n\nSo, [[what]] was life was like in these places? \n\nI do not know. For me, each one was an air conditioned car with a driver, an air conditioned house or apartment, an interchangeable array of boutiques followed by tea and gossip with an interchangeable array of acquaintances.

Shelly walked past the doorway with a big basket of laundry, her phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear. “Yes, let’s make the offer,” she insisted into the phone.\n\nMelissa cast her a look that I could not decipher. Always new surprises when I [[drove again]] to state my case and make my dream a reality.

"I tried to send a message to her through the automatic contact form but it never went through."\n\n"Yeah, [[Tristan]] had been slacking on the code updates. He had some personal stuff going on."\n\n"Every day I had checked her company’s website. So many times - nothing. Then one day articles and photos [[appeared]] on her blog. Thank God she posted them. When I saw those pictures, I had never been more relieved. I knew she [[was okay]]."\n\n

“We will never be free from this bullshit,” Niko concluded.\n\nFrom the shadows, I saw Brandon emerge from the fields.\n\nHe was carrying something. A large bag? A saddle? Was he [[moving it]] to storage?

"I brought out a bottle of [[peppermint schnapps]] from the kitchen cabinet. Because hard conversations call for hard liquor," the wife explained. "There we were in Minnesota, huddled on my bed, sitting in that tiny dark room half drunk and reeking of peppermint. \n\n"I went to reach into the nightstand for [[my gun]]. Then he pulled me close and whispered. <i>You’re safe now. I’m never going to let anything happen to you again.</i>\n\n"And the next summer, [[our son]] was born."

“This is the [[second time]] they’ve tried to sell the farm, you know.”

"So now the kids are on their own for college. They're losing the Minnetonka house. And Brandon and Shelly are back to work – like my brother would ever lower himself to apply for an actual job. You'd think he'd be happy to have a nine-to-five and weekends and a dependable paycheck and be free at last from all the hassles of [[this farm]]."

“That’s rich. You move to the city right after graduation, never lifting a finger to help, and now you think oh, let’s keep it. You insist that I talk to this buyer.\n\n"Oh, she’s nice. She loves the place. Don’t be a redneck just because she’s a Muslim, Brandon. So I talk to her. So I get everything ready to make a deal. And now you protest. You, who’ll just drive back to the city once it’s all done.”\n\n“Mom and Dad would have wanted it to stay in the family,” Melissa protested.\n\n“You [[hardly spoke]] to them before they died.”

“They say he’s out working but [[the truth]] is, I never hear or see equipment in the fields. His wife is the one who shows me around. I like her much better. She’s no-nonsense, very capable.”\n\nThey nodded at this. Of course she is.

"Because, well, you know, no birth control, no desire to crawl out of bed to buy any at Walgreens, happy to see each other, that’s what happens."\n\nA car engine ripped me out of this story, tires against the gravel driveway followed by the [[creak]] of a screen door. Just as the wife’s swift hand slammed the laptop with its many articles closed, a second woman, a [[dark-haired woman]] in jeans, boots and a man’s flannel jacket strode up the walk, a phone pressed to her ear.\n\n

“I think it’s best I anger your brother after the sale goes through, not before,” I laughed.\n\nAnd with that, to my disappointment, the dynamic of our conversation abruptly shifted, back to host and guest, resident and immigrant, [[reluctant seller]] and determined buyer.

“Oh for fuck sake, Brandon. What is your problem?”\n\n“My problem right now is drinking my beer at 10 in the morning, married to you.”\n\n“Because you make him feel unwelcome. He’s not going to turn you in to the FBI, by the way. Because if he did so, that would mean he’d have to turn me in as well. The mother of his child.”\n\n“Do you two even know how to be responsible parents?”\n\n“Like you’ve been to your [[own kids]]?”

“Thank you for listening to us back there, Amina. You were so kind. We were such a mess, just vomiting our stuff all over you like we were in some goddamn oversharing sitcom. \n\n"You must have so been who the hell are these people? Don’t tell. Don’t tell. For the longest time, we didn’t, not to anyone — with our friends, with Niko’s family, with everyone. \n\n"We obeyed Brandon. We followed his orders. Then, I guess, once he [[decided to sell]] — ”

She caught me stiffen and shifted back into the woman in the magazine photo, bright-eyed and confident as she surveyed her domain. \n\nThe polite demeanor of a [[well-bred Minnesota girl]].

There were missteps, misadventures, myriad things I wished an urban nomad like me had known in advance — plant-carried chemicals, animal-borne poop! \n\nBut I wouldn’t have had it [[any other way]].

She needed to tell somebody. \n\nAs before, she couldn’t stop herself.\n\nAfter the sale of the farm, the sale that yielded far, far less than initially expected, the debts piled up for Brandon and Shelly. \n\nDebts from the legitimate issues with the estate and obligations to their partners in the [[family business]], "if you know what I mean," she chuckled without levity. "They had him by the balls, apparently."

Back downstairs, Brandon suddenly swooped a scampering Lucas away from the sharp corner of a mahogany hutch. “Can’t even keep an eye on your own kid,” he remarked as he passed Niko.\n\nBrandon had just returned from a [[call]] from my lawyer. And I knew all too well what [[they had discussed]].\n\n"Alright. You want us to [[revisit the price]]? We'll think about it."\n\n

This was puzzling. What else was occupying him lately besides the hockey game on the TV and conversations with that neighbor Clayton?\n\n“Why can’t Shelly show me the back fields?”\n\n“She doesn’t know her way around.”\n\n“What about Melissa?”\n\nBrandon snorted. Slowly and deliberately, his sister extended a [[black-polished middle finger]] in his direction.

I blushed. That was kindness I did not expect in such [[an exchange]].

“Don’t give me shit. I had to sell and you know why. Debts to pay.”\n\n“<i>Your debts</i>, you mean.”\n\n“[[Fuck you.]]”

“A fully finished TV room, which you can use as a tornado shelter in the summer, plus a half bath and shower. And an industrial-size washer and dryer. We replaced the water heater just five years ago. One of the best in the market, got a good deal from the family next door.”\n\n“Will I have the opportunity to [[meet your neighbors]]?”

[[How does]] a person go about purchasing [[a farm]]?

<i>Mom died of a broken heart. She and Dad had been married 50 years – can you believe that? \n\nI still remember the afternoon we found out, one of the first days in a long time that I was free of pain. Lucas was sleeping, and Niko and I were resting on the bed, watching a freak winter thunderstorm through the skylight. A completely black sky, epic lightning, and then my phone buzzed on the nightstand. \n\nWhen I saw the call was from Brandon, [[I knew]] what had happened.</i>

If I’m feeling particularly open and friendly, if I sense that I'm with a receptive or at least tolerant audience—like Melissa and Niko—I tell them the longer story. \n\nMy father held a variety of positions with World Bank and we lived throughout the world. Twelve nations before my 12th birthday. \n\nI attended schools with children of every creed and color, wealth and [[privilege]] our only common denominator.

“I’m afraid Brandon’s out right now.”\n\n“Could you help me?”\n\n[[No reply]]. I asked again. After careful consideration I could read in her face, Shelly refused me again.\n\n“No, I’m afraid you’ll need to talk to him.”

"But of course fuck my luck on that day the condiments were all set out for us."\n\n"She just ordered a Coke that day, not a beer as usual," Niko said. "I didn’t think anything was odd about that. Sometimes women abstain. Sometimes Americans abstain if it’s lunchtime. One of us needed to [[stay sober]] while spending all that money, in any case."

I sensed sarcasm in his remark as well as impatience. Perhaps I should not have told him about the dog and the vomit. Or the shotgun wedding; he was a man of an earlier, more traditional time after all.\n\nBut our conversation soon shifted to other things — namely [[discrepancies]] in our Xeroxed documents. “Roughly 1,000 acres” had in fact turned out to be only 800.

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.”\n\n“Oh God let’s not go there,” his wife moaned.\n\n“Things could have turned out [[very differently]], I think.”\n\n“The fuck they could have,” she retorted.

"That actually doesn’t work, by the way," the husband interjected.\n\nIgnoring him, she continued: "I told him everything: how I had discovered meth and pot and oxy and even heroin in my delivery van. How everyone at work had acted completely, freakishly [[normal]] when I returned to the warehouse. How Brandon had ordered me to get the hell out of North Dakota when I told him. So I did."

“It was terrible,” Niko said. “Melissa was crying. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” she kept on saying.”\n\n“ 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.”\n\n“And that was our Christmas,” Niko concluded. “[[Romantic]], isn’t it?”

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. \n\nUltimately, I hope to grow and harvest my own food and rely on the grocery store only for condiments and things like cereal. Yes, it's [[true]] - I want to become very good at this.\n\nMaybe someday you’ll see my produce at the state fair. Imagine that, a blue ribbon on a pumpkin grown by a Somali woman.

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. \n\nHis 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.\n\nWe [[discussed]] the [[many details]] I would need to [[examine]] [[before]] offering my price.

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.\n\n“She had to go downtown, something at the kids’ school,” Melissa explained. “But she should be back soon. [[Join us]] for [[breakfast]].”

"Why had I been such a complete ass to her in that moment?" the husband mused. "Maybe it was nerves when I saw her and she [[saw me]] again. Maybe it was the mention of her brother. Who you met, so you can understand why."

<i>Mom lived on several months after Dad died. She was around for Christmas. This time for dinner it was just immediate family. The first hour was great. Like old times. Then after the main course, Brandon pushed his plate aside, leaned forward on his elbows and stared right at us.\n\n“It’s time for you two to [[take over]] now.”</i>

“I would like to buy your farm.”\n\nWith that, his indifferent stare hardened into [[defiance]].\n\n

He had cut his price by half — and then some.\n\nThe following day, we [[signed the paperwork]] in the only [[swift development]] in the entire sales process.

I thought of [[simply calling]] to express my intentions at first. \n\nBut then I realized: no.\n

“Melissa’s labor was very difficult,” her husband interjected, the goddamn Hummels and granite countertops long abandoned. \n\n“Thirty six hours. She lost a great deal of blood, so I was very worried. I tried to read a book to distract myself. I wanted to call my father, but of course that [[wasn’t possible]]. \n\n

At some point, one of the family members lit a blaze in the fire pit outside. I sat near it, welcoming the warmth, weighing my options.\n\nMelissa joined me by the fire, a bottle of iced tea in one hand for me and a beer in the other for herself. Niko soon accompanied her, clinking the top of his own beer bottle with hers. “The whirling dervish is finally asleep.”\n\nShe chugged heartily, then swiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “It’s okay,” she whispered to me. “Lucas is on [[formula]].”

I drove [[back to the farm]]. I [[waited.]]

<i>A few days after the funeral, Brandon and the family all stopped by with a casserole. I’m sure Shelly put him up to it. I’m sure they just wanted to case out our new house. Niko sent their kids out back to explore the yard and talked with Shelly in the kitchen. Brandon of course headed straight to the TV to watch the hockey game, and there I was huddled in a blanket with Lucas. \n\nWe sat there in silence for at least half an hour. Then the refs called some crazy penalty against the Wild and we both started yelling at the screen. \n\nAnd then one thing led to another and we actually started [[talking to each other]] again. Nothing too deep. Basically stuff like “Baby’s getting pretty big.” “How are the kids doing in school?”</i>

To break the tension, I tried a compliment. “Your dining room is quite beautiful.”\n\n“It’s not mine,” Melissa replied.\n\n“I can imagine many lovely [[home-cooked dinners]] there,” I continued, undaunted.\n\n

I read interviews with the illegals who had worked the kitchen. I read interrogations with the work camp managers who had signed for the deliveries.\n\nWhat did I [[learn]]?\n\nHow did all of this activity in North Dakota connect to this property in Minnesota?

“You are missed, Clayton. Hunting season is just not the same without you.”\n\nClayton, the infamous neighbor who [[didn’t come around much]] anymore.

My search ended in Minnesota. \n\nWhen I arrived, my aunt encouraged me to visit the apartment towers referred to by some, mainly white people, as “Little Mogadishu.” This wasn’t a compliment,I soon realized. I also realized that you can destroy a nation and its citizens will recreate it elsewhere in the world, even on a sub-Arctic tundra.\n\nBut it was [[not home]].

"She designs custom-painted goalie masks for youth hockey players, that’s her business by the way." Now he turned to his wife. "What mask did you show me that night, the amazing one that looked like the blue creature from 'Avatar'?"\n\n"No, it was the zombie mask for St. Cloud team’s masks.\n\n"In any case, my wife is a very talented individual."\n\n"Thank you for the compliment. I thought I was going to be [[arrested]], what with you bursting into my studio without warning late at night. You scared the shit out of me, but thank you for appreciating my work."

“It must have been difficult for you and Brandon, losing them both so close together.”\n\n“I had lost them years ago. I didn’t see them as often as I should have after they moved to Florida. Niko and I were always talking about flying out, <i>oh we [[will soon]],</i> but by the time they came back to Minnesota, they were both so far gone. And Mom cranky as hell in the end. I guess I would be as well. I sure wouldn’t want one of my last memories on this earth to be Brandon wiping my ass.”

As I was about to climb the stairs to the spare room, voices from Brandon’s office stopped me.\n\nHe and Melissa were hunched over a set of ledgers, illuminated by an old desk lamp.\n\n“So [[all of those acres]] are gone now?” she asked.

Thank you, yes, it does sound heavenly. What I’ve dreamed about since I was a girl. \n\nAnd after I settle in, all of you of course are welcome to visit.\n\nWhen a person is hopeful, when a person has a dream, it's human nature to overlook the [[discrepancies]].

Get to know the people. Get to know their community. My grandfather had reminded me of this many times.\n\n“No, not really,” Shelly replied.\n\n“Why not?” I asked.\n\n“Clayton doesn’t really come around here much anymore." And she directed my attention back to [[the kitchen]].

<i>We drove over to Niko’s place for the night, this temporary apartment he was staying in, because it was closer. \n\nOn 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. \n\nWe fell asleep right there on the carpet just watching those [[lights blink]].</i>

Sheds were good, I agreed as Shelly motioned for me to [[follow her]]. I would certainly have many things to store in my new prairie life.

"Yeah, right — me on the run and like I had the time," the woman rolled her eyes. "You [[saw me]] working. You saw the business I had built up."

"But it’s really just fine," the woman intervened. "White people like us are always weird about things like this. Like danger - always [[assumed]] in an ethnic area of the city. My apologies, Amina. It’s wrong."

"You’re [[32 years old]], I told her. Do you always do what your brother orders you to do?"\n\n"Seriously, what else was I supposed to do? I had no choice. I had to pick up my camper — that’s what Brandon had me living in to avoid wasting money in rent — and drive like a bat out of hell, scared to death, back to Minnesota. And Brandon instructed me to throw away my iPhone — the new model, too, fuck my life — and dunk the SIM card in Mountain Dew to [[erase its memory]]."\n\n\n\n

“Odd jobs here and there. It’s part of [[being a farmer]], as you’ll soon discover for yourself.”

“Out there,” she pointed to a barn in the distance, “is where we kept the cows and beyond that the equipment and the fields. That’s more of Brandon’s territory.”\n\nI gazed upon the fields. What would I be planting? What kind of animals would I be keeping?\n\n“So” — we turned around — “[[back to the house]]. Niko’s gone into town to get his car looked at. Melissa and Lucas are sleeping. They’re not morning people, although Lucas is sometimes when he’s hungry or fussy, of course — so we’ll have to be quiet.”

What about a mortgage? Wasn’t that common practice in the United States? \n\n“If you work for a family business all of your adult life, you don’t qualify so easily. \n

“And we can hire people to help.”\n\n“That’s a typical answer from you, make others do the work. You slacked off with Mom and Dad and you slack off with your own son. You leave it all to your Scandinavian manservant.”\n\n“Niko enjoys being an involved parent. Besides, Finland is considered [[a Nordic country]]. Denmark and Sweden— ”

At this point, Melissa and Niko didn’t even bother with the motions of helping. They both simply hovered over their laptop computers, interrupting their pecking only to care for the baby.\n\n“This is bullshit, Melissa,” Niko muttered from behind a computer screen of complicated diagrams.\n\n“I know, I know. I have a dozen orders to fill myself. I asked Tristan to go over to the studio and step in.”\n\n“Does Tristan know how to use the airbrush?”\n\n“He [[will soon]].”

It was a world and a [[way of life]] I [[did not recognize]].\n\n

No, I didn’t. People enter into business transactions for many reasons, I’ve discovered in my peripatetic life, from eavesdropped conversations in boarding school through the days since [[we arrived]] in Dubai. And I’ve learned not to ask why.\n\nIf they choose to tell me, however, I will not close my ears.

Melissa glanced away from him then, as if something from outside of the room had caught her eye. I followed her gaze. Nothing.\n\nThen 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.”\n\n“I called her afterward. Was I the [[good aunt]] again? I put the phone on speaker so I could catch up on work."

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. \n\nAnd trees. What types? How many? Were all of them healthy? Did any protected species of birds or mammals make these trees their home? \n\nA checkmark yes would certainly bring with it a host of time-consuming inspections, something to avoid, from the standpoint of both a buyer and [[a lawyer]].

I scrolled through the damp pages of an old “Ladies Home Journal” — so many recipes with crunchy onion toppings, so many Jello molds. \n\nI glanced at Melissa’s computer screen. Instead of a blog post or hockey mask design in progress, my eyes were greeted by the home page for Dubai tourism.\n\n“Contemplating [[a move]]?” I inquired.

\n\n\nI [[could do]] that.

"I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to cause a scene. I didn’t want [[him to worry]]. We were at the airport, walking past the statue of Snoopy, I will always remember that, when I couldn’t take it any longer."

Assisted by my friends at school, I equipped my apartment with space heaters. I purchased long underwear and fleece from REI. \n\nAnd I lived for the summers— walking along the stone arch bridges, the sky still blue at 9 o’clock. Street fairs teeming with pale skin and terrible folk music. Heaping casseroles on picnic tables. Jello and marshmallows oozing from salad molds. Deviled eggs.\n\nI marveled at the [[friendliness]]. I welcomed the [[reserve]] as well. And I got down to business, my [[purpose]] in this state.

Sirens blared in the sky for a rare late-year tornado. We waited for them to stop amid musty marigold carpets, well-worn couches and puffy-topped card tables.\n\nIn one corner, Brandon pounded his fingers into the keyboard of a laptop without pause. \n\nMelissa was engrossed in her own computer, manipulating shapes, colors and patterns into gorgeous masks for spoiled young athletes. \n\nNiko bounced a restless Lucas on his hip, pacing the length of the room. I took an old paperback from a box. “Clan of the Cave Bear.” It was [[too worn out]] to read; every damp page held the smell of this basement. I soon set it aside.

In his pickup truck, he drove me first to the back grounds — an expansive field ready for snow and hibernation, the remnants of a structure recently demolished — and the barn.\n\n“Where are all of the animals?” I asked as he swung open the doors to reveal stale hay and empty rows of stalls.\n\n“We sold them. We figured that whoever bought the place might want to bring in their own. For example, pigs. Although probably not a [[top choice]] for you.”

Other World Bank and international kids, sons and daughters from academic and banking families, usually a few ambassadors’ children in the [[room]] as well.

“Rhubarb pie is a country thing,” Melissa continued. “I even entered a pumpkin into the state fair. Fun in a cheesy way — the roller coasters and the gravity drop. And the Viking ship. Have you been yet?”\n\nI had not. My festival experiences to date had been limited to the Renaissance Faire with Puke, Snot and a Henry the Eighth-sized turkey leg, I told her.\n\nMelissa smirked. “You should tell Brandon that you’re turning the farm into a cosplay site. Sword fights. Game of Thrones reenactments. That would [[piss him off]] to no end.”

I hadn’t wanted to confide in them, not at first. They were so traditional, and I doubted they would understand. \n\nBut now I told them everything, like how I was growing to like Niko and Melissa and the baby, a modern young American family, tolerant, open-minded, and how I was beginning to warm to [[Shelly]] with her candor and helpfulness. \n\nI told them of course about Brandon as well, both [[how he acted]] and what I [[overheard]].\n\n“It’s because you’re Muslim and African,” they commented, and I could [[hardly disagree]]. “Also because you’re a woman.”

People love to tell their stories, Amina, Grandfather had always told me. And to my relief, Melissa beamed when I asked about this tale. \n\nThey both set aside their packing, happy for [[distraction]] and the opportunity to talk about their child.

The wife: "He did. I heard footsteps, but I was really caught up in this tricky design so I didn’t really look up right away. Three-dimension isn’t the easiest when you’ve spent your whole career working on a screen, let me tell you."\n\nThe husband: "I closed the door and locked it behind me. It was dark and South Minneapolis sometimes [[isn’t safe]] for a woman alone. I wondered, should I say something or wait for her to notice me? I was nervous, and as I was trying to decide what to do, she [[saw me]] standing there."\n\n

When I was ready to settle down, I typed this question into Google, a device that still never ceases to amaze me. From my fingers and keyboard to a satellite above Kazakhstan to a server farm in Iowa and back to my screen — amazing! — the electronic particles bounded off and brought back the information I sought for my [[purpose]].

I wanted them to see me from the beginning — the color of my skin, the [[veil]], the fact that I am a woman.

Neither of us expected him to. Yet I left satisfied with the afternoon’s visit to the farm, and energized by Shelly’s friendliness.\n\nMy [[pioneering dreams]] were coming true, dreams that had begun long before my move to Minnesota.

“And we’re also going to buy a real house in Minnetonka. Because the apartment building we put the kids up in now is a true rat hole. Right over the highway. Day laborers, check-cashing places, immigrants living there ten to a room.” Shelly stopped abruptly, embarrassed.\n\nI gave her a reassuring smile. It was okay. Those people and I were different types of immigrants.\n\n“Of course, this only happens if [[Melissa signs]] over her share of the farm.”

“I’m not signing. I think we should keep it in the family,” Melissa replied.\n\nMy stomach tightened. There I was, betrayed by the [[family member]] from whom I least expected it.

“Brandon almost had a deal, Melissa told me. This was after he arranged everything with his business partners, which I'm sure you have a good idea about by now.\n\n"Monsanto came in and everything looked good until they brought an auditing [[specialist]]."

"Had we ever been to Fleur de Lis Pointe? they asked. Never heard of it, we told them, even though Fleur de Lis Pointe was the name of the development where Niko lived for three years. \n\n"They asked about the creepy security guard, too. Did we know him? We said no, even though yes, we did know him and that’s a story for another day. \n\n"Somehow we got through it. The [[dinner party of lies]]. That’s what Niko calls it.”

“Might as well be comfortable.” We gazed across the fields for a long time before speaking. I thought about how easy it was to be quiet in the countryside.\n\nAs a flock of geese passed over in a big, noisy “v,” Shelly resumed the conversation.\n\n“Time to get the kids cracking on college applications. [[You know]] that’s the reason we’re [[selling the farm]], don’t you?”

The spare room was Melissa’s old bedroom, located next to a tiny bathroom decorated with faded linoleum, a 1970’s era rose-beige sink and a plastic glass for my toothbrush. \n\nBut I was not there to admire decor this time.\n\nAfter depositing my bonfire-smoked sweater in the washing machine, I unpacked my laptop to research [[other things]]. Things newly learned.

One thousand acres, give or take, or so the ad on the Internet promised. \n\nShelly, accustomed to the speed, balanced effortlessly in her seat as she steered us, back completely straight as if we were performing dressage and not traversing a rugged field.\n\nWhen [[we arrived]], she spread out a blanket on the grass.

Even as I graduated into more adult, sophisticated reading, these books took hold of my imagination. \n\nThey [[took me]] through fields of tall, wildflower-scented grass with a sunbonnet and flowing skirts, even as my physical self traveled from nation to nation, graduated from one international school to the next, took holidays in London and Hong Kong, summered in Singapore, loitered in Dubai.\n\n

“Nothing,” I decided to answer. Then I thanked them, wished them well and [[bid them goodbye]].

Yes, I confirmed. A farm, on the prairie, underneath the big blue sky.\n\nGrandfather finally relented. “If that’s what you truly desire.”\n\nAnd to his credit, he never referred to [[this wish]] or to me as “interesting.” He merely accepted it and me as we were.

Before I left the next morning, Brandon finally gave me [[his price]].

Shelly appeared at on the porch and shone a flashlight our way. From the shadows, I could hear her sigh. \n\n“It’s getting late. Let’s all [[turn in]]. Amina, if you’d like to use the laundry in the basement, please feel free.”

In the corner of the room, the small TV promoted a movie about a starlet’s fight with terminal illness — all soaring music and slow-motion hugs and suspiciously photogenic deathbed weeping.\n\n“When I see dying as a movie plot, I have to laugh,” I confessed. “Why would I spend 12 dollars on that? There is nothing about it that’s romantic or glamorous at all.”\n\n“[[Not at all]],” she agreed.

"I had no way of knowing that," the husband explained, calmly. "But I should have knocked. I should have called in advance. Because all she said when she [[saw me]] was “hi there.” And I thought to myself, really? After six months of worrying about her, looking out for her, wondering what had happened, trying to track her down. After all of that, “hi there” was the best she could manage?\n\nThe wife rolled her eyes, "Jesus fucking Christ, give me a break!"

“Good luck, Amina.”\n\n[[See what happens next...|https://lifeinanortherntowncom.wordpress.com/]]

But I already [[knew]].

“When I was there, packing it all up, I couldn’t wait to get out. All of the rage, the frustration, knowing what Brandon had done to it. \n\n"Knowing what he had done to our family. To my family now, too — two kids, a husband who didn’t ask for this. I’ve lived in fear since North Dakota, by the way, Amina. Every single day, thanks to my brother. I keep [[a gun]] here at the studio, as a matter of fact. Right beneath the airbrush equipment — ”

“You’re going to sign it over, Melissa. You have no choice.”\n\nAfter the slam of a screen door and a respectable period of silence, I joined Melissa and Niko in the living room. Where else could I go to wait but back home? \n\nThey were sorting through the cupboards of a large hutch, calm as if this conversation had never transpired. Lucas crawled on a quilt at our feet.\n\n“You found out you were expecting around [[the holidays]]?”

The simplest reply is “I’m Somali.” Anyone with functioning eyes who’s read a newspaper can figure this out — my skin, my hair, my features, nothing to hide here! \n\nBut it’s not correct. I haven’t stepped foot in that nation since early childhood, and I have as much of a [[kinship]] with Mogadishu as Chelsea Clinton has with Little Rock, Arkansas.\n\n

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. \n\n“Remember, Amina, these roads will be covered in snow in just a few weeks.” For [[a lawyer]], he was very practical, I must say.\n\nThen 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?

As usual, Brandon [[kept me waiting]], his pickup truck noticeably absent from the driveway when I arrived. \n\nAnd as usual, [[Niko and Melissa]] were in the living room, still packing books and knickknacks.

<i>“There’s a car in the driveway, this could be our way out. For our daughter, [[our son]], us.”</i>\n\nWhen the woman speaking appeared in the doorway, and saw me, the energy in the room changed. She paused, at a loss for words. Her expression fell.

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.\n\nI flipped through a cooking journal. A massive, glistening turkey tempted from its pages, surrounded by gourds and colored fall leaves.\n\n“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]].”

Then I usually curse the fact that this conversation is taking place in the 21st century. The first words that come to mind today when people hear “Somalia” are pirates and terrorists and the phrase “[[failed state]].” \n

“Where does she [[get the money]]? That’s what I think.”

<i>“You need [[a lawyer]].”</i> \n\nGrandfather informed me of this in our next call, him in Singapore and me in my small Minnesota apartment.

Shelly began to mention the spare room as an option when the roads were not safe. \n\n“Bring an overnight bag next time, or you could borrow some clothing from me or Melissa.” \n\nLike Melissa’s slim outfits would fit me. And Shelly's countrified sweaters and exuberant floral dresses and skirts were... well... not my style. \n\nI began packing a bag for when [[I waited]].

I could tell that these relatives lived in the city. This was apparent from their clothing and mannerisms and the clean shine of their vehicle in the driveway.\n\nHelping to settle the estate was the first, obvious answer to the question I [[asked]]. The elderly owners had passed in the span of one year, long, full lives followed by short, brutal illnesses. And the couple running the farm — Brandon the son, whom I had met, and Shelly his wife — couldn’t handle all of this by themselves.

Actually, it was, I told them. [[No reply]], so I explained myself. The Christmas lights, the poinsettia, the kind words, I clarified — not the rest of it, of course.

"It's better than prison, too."\n\nThen I stopped myself. There I was, already victorious, reminding the people in the room of what we already knew. [[What was I thinking]]?\n\n“You were saying, Amina?” Shelly asked, in a tone that cut through my reverie and brought me back to the present time, back to the site of the purchase and her and her husband’s [[hard stares]].\n\n

“So, you’re going to move in and set up your own farm?” Melissa asked.\n\nI was hoping to, I told her.\n\n“Have you ever done anything like this before?”\n\n“Not at all. But I will learn.”\n\n“And your family [[is cool]] with this?”

And then if they rejected my offer, I would [[know why]].\n\n

Shelly was cooking chili. Soon they would be moving to the city. \n\nAnd soon I would be settling into my farm, the dream the wealth of my inexplicably understanding grandfather - with a little help - had [[made possible]].\n\n

"Bright red," Niko interjected, putting aside his computer and whatever [[work]] he had been working on.

As all of this unfolded, Melissa told me the [[rest]] of the story, the rest of what she was willing to share, that was.

She eased the back door open, and we tiptoed in. The entryway was crowded with coats and work shirts, the walls old calendars from feed suppliers. This was a room that meant business. We stumbled over a heap of shoes that were mostly work boots with an odd pair of flimsy red ballet slippers I took to be Melissa’s.\n\n“Down there is the basement.” Shelly flicked on a light as [[we descended]] narrow concrete stairs. \n\n\n\n

“I need to see the rest of the back fields today and I need your price,” I told him.\n\n“I don’t [[have time]] to show you right now.”