Patterns of Right

By R.F. Whaley

Six short stories crafted for individual entertainment or stir a discussion group. Explore a love story set in Saudi Arabia, bear witness to small town prejudice, politics and power, join a sniper team in Korea and enter the decision making as to who is to live, who is to die.

Unforgettable characters emerge to greet the readers imagination in circumstances that challenge value sets.

Whaley, author of Someone’s Son, Someone’s Brother, boils up in controversial questions leaving the reader to their own perhaps more controversial conclusions. A very readable collection with engaging themes that are difficult to forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 3, 2004
• ISBN: 9781418457242

R.F. Whaley

R.F. Whaley was a college professor for thirty years with advanced degrees in public health and education. Dr. Whaleys career included consulting in India, Saudi Arabia and Siberia. He and his wife Gwen now life in Bandon Oregon.

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2004 by R.F. Whaley. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/10/2020

ISBN: 978-1-4184-3017-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4184-5724-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Table of Contents

THE COLOR OF BLOOD

STONE CATTIES

ALTAR BOYS

A SEAT IN THE PARK

MAN HUNT

THE OMEGA PROGRAM

Acknowledgements

My wife, Gwen for her emotional and technical support in the assembling of these stories.

David Hartill for his knowledge and expertise in developing the story Altar Boys.

Sada Al Orf for her scholarly advice on Islam and commentary on the early development of the story The Color of Blood.

Jim and Margaret Wallace for their support and encouragement in the development of these stories.

And to the many others who contributed their commentary, typing skills and encouragement.

THE COLOR OF BLOOD

Danny approached the heavy glass door and paused as it opened outward. Two women veiled and covered in black, hurried past, their long hair flowing over the shapeless abayas. Each carried an infant and was talking animatedly as they joined the stream of people stretching in all directions toward the parking areas and the university buildings in the distance.

Inside the hospital, the men’s waiting area was crowded with men and children. The blue and white mosaic of King Khalid looked down on the bustle with a kind of disapproval and a trace of madness in his eyes. Danny gave the image a quick look and hurried on. Behind the divider of counters, groups of the faithful were finishing their noon prayers. It had been a hot and dusty week; and many were coughing. Danny snapped on his new identification badge as he drew up before a tall and crisp looking Sudani security man.

Where can I find the blood donor center? He asked, mentally bracing to translate some foreign phrase.

The guard stretched a long arm toward the right. Over there, the first hall. It’s about halfway down, just past the security office; there’s a sign.

Thanks, somewhat relieved at the unexpected and excellent English, he walked slowly through the blur of Arabic that was punctuated by coughs and shrill cries of children. The door of the center opened directly before a large counter; behind it was a set of double doors with frosted glass windows. Chairs were pushed to opposite sides of the waiting area, a sign designating one side for men, the other women. No one was behind the counter. He turned toward the chairs and saw a lone woman sitting there. She had been watching him, but as soon as their eyes met, she looked down.

Eh, excuse me. Do you speak English?

She looked up at him. Yes.

There doesn’t seem to be anyone around here. Annoyed, he made a helpless shrug of his shoulders.

Ring the bell, she replied and looked away. Danny turned and searched the counter. There did not appear to be a bell. He turned to the woman sitting. She looked rather tall. The hijab she wore was adjusted over her eyebrows and the veil that covered her lower face flowed into the abaya that was slightly open over her legs revealing a long, bright flowered skirt. She felt him looking and, without looking up herself, folded her abaya to cover the skirt. Her shoes were black with a wavy pattern of white and green over the tongue.

What bell? he said, his exasperation showing.

The one by the book there, she advised, looking past him.

The bell was located on the step of the counter, beside a sign-in book.

What the hell is this? he said, impatiently and half aloud. I only want to sign up as a blood donor. Is that considered some kind of a subversive activity or something? He did not expect her to answer, but pushed the bell long and firmly.

After a few moments, the frosted doors opened. A short man dressed in a lab coat with a checkered ghutra and agal queried him.

Why are you here? He said curtly.

I’m new here at the hospital and I won’t be here too long, but I want to sign up to be on the donor list. I don’t want to give any today, just get on the list. You know, in case someone needs some.

The man’s features softened, and he smiled slightly.

Of course, he reached beneath the counter and slipped the paper across. Here’s the form. You can return it at any time to me—Dr. Hamoud. I’m in charge here, and I am very busy right now.

Danny automatically reached for his pen. It’s in Arabic, he observed, holding the form in one hand and pointing with the pen in the other.

Yes. I would help you, but I am very busy now. Just send it in, in the office mail. Someone will help you translate it. He turned and disappeared behind the frosted doors.

The woman was watching the exchange. She remained silent, and impassive.

To hell with it, he said half aloud. Why bother? He put the form on the counter and turned to leave.

I’ll help you fill it out, she said in a kind of finality. She walked to him, took the form and his pen, filled in a few lines, then returned to her chair and looked at him. Name?

Daniel Loran. He sat down on a chair across the room from her.

Where do you work here at the hospital? She asked in near perfect English.

Well, I’m from Witcorp—materials, management, audit.

Oh. She briefly glanced at him then wrote out the line.

Blood type?

B negative. He wiped the perspiration from his upper lip.

She did not write but looked at him again, looked down and trailed, That’s a rare type.

Not the rarest, but rare enough, I guess.

They completed one side of the form, exchanging information across the room.

You have to sign it, she noted. Here! she pointed with the pen. She then joined him and handed him the form.

Danny looked at her neat Arabic script and turned over the form in his hand.

What’s this side say? Danny wondered aloud, without looking up.

It’s the organ donor side, she replied and stepped back from him.

No, I don’t think I’d better sign up for that. I want to keep what I have for awhile, he smiled and looked to her.

She did not acknowledge the remark and returned the pen. Pointing to the form, Sign, there on that line; first you print your name and then you sign it.

That’s it, huh? He looked at her.

Yes. For a glance, their eyes met. She then looked quickly away.

Well, thank you, Habibi.

She straightened slightly. He saw her eyebrow arch over the corner of the hijab. It became very quiet, the hall sounds leaking through the heavy doors.

You must be careful with your Arabic, and don’t say Habibi to everyone, she said quietly, without reprimand.

Oh? He felt a flush of color to his face. He stumbled over a word and then asked, Did I insult you? I thought it meant something like honey.

Honey is assal, she rejoined flatly. Habibi is loved one.

I’m sorry if I insulted you. I didn’t mean to.

You didn’t know. Just be careful in the future. If some of these men heard it, they might misunderstand.

I got it. He squinted down at the paper. Are we finished with the form? Danny felt reprimanded, like a kid caught in a lie. He smiled against the feeling and thought, Habibi sure sounded better than assal.

Yes. She looked to the paper but seemed to be reading his thoughts.

Okay, okay, he smiled, still chagrined. Thanks for the help and advice. I shouldn’t be calling young ladies honey anyway, definitely not okay!

She looked at him; a broad smile was crinkling the corner of her eyes.

Aiwa—that’s Arabic for okay.

He smiled back at the withdrawn reprieve. Where’s the materials management office? Do you know? He said, laying the paper in the appointment book.

Fourth floor—take the lift there. She nodded toward the elevator doors in the lobby. When the door opens, the office is straight ahead.

* * *

Once in the office, Danny was presumed to be a salesman by the clerk, and was not welcomed. An officious-looking Saudi was sitting at the center desk, drinking tea and supervising four accountants busily recording numbers in large green ledger books.

There was a nameplate on this desk that appeared to be carved from a water buffalo horn. Abdullah Al Mawdry, Director, Materials Management. Danny offered him the letter from Witcorp informing of the audit and asking for full cooperation. He looked at Danny and pursed his lips. Danny met his glance. I assume you were expecting me—you were copied with this letter.

Yes, Mr. Wilder called me yesterday. Of course, we will cooperate. What will you need to complete your work?

Free access to ledgers, a place to work and a translator, –a good one, Abdullah. Danny was not sure, but something seemed amiss. Be firm and polite, the Houston office had advised; he intended to.

The Saudi lifted the telephone receiver and punched some numbers, then leaned back in the chair. As the phone buzzed, Abdullah cast a suspicious glance with a trace of hostility that showed in his clipped comment, and turned to his Filipino secretary.

Belyn, send Soufa in, and tell Albert to bring tea.

Danny turned and looked out the tall graceful window that commanded a view of the hospital grounds and the baking desert beyond. It was a clear day, an azure cloudless sky that hurt the eyes and domed the slow bake beneath. A long, spiky string of date palms lined the access roads to the freeway beyond. He could see an ambulance, its red lights flashing, darting toward the large parking area.

At the sound of approaching steps, he faced around toward the door again.

It was her—the woman from the donor center. Abdullah rocked his chair forward and gestured toward Danny. Mr. Loran is going to need some help with translations and records and the ledgers. You are to help him as much as you can. He stopped for a moment. Whatever he needs. He looked back to Danny, keeping a finger pointed toward the woman in black.

This is Soufa Al Khail. She reads and speaks excellent English and…

Danny smiled. We have met. Am I following you? He asked, not expecting an answer.

I don’t think so. I work here, she replied matter-of-factly.

Oh, Abdullah smiled. You know one another?

She helped me fill out my blood donor form just a little while ago. She was very helpful.

Excellent. She will show you the ledgers. They are in there. He gestured to a door that opened into a long narrow corridor-like room. I think you will be able to work at those tables. It’s quiet, but there is some traffic in there. I hope it will not disturb you. There are two permanent record managers, Soufa, plus another. Satisfactory?

Aiwa, Danny replied, looking toward Soufa.

Abdullah laughed, Do you speak some Arabic?

Well, no—but I intend to learn some.

Humdallah. We will have some tea, and then I will show you the records.

A young Filipino entered with two small cups of sweet tea. Danny resignedly took one of the cups. He thought for a moment and smiled inwardly. He had been in the kingdom less than a week and everywhere he visited, the tea or bitter coffee, called gawah was offered. Saudi hospitality was beginning to tell on him—quarts of tea, heavy lunches and even heavier dinners. People who had known need were particularly generous with food, and nearly every administrator he met needed to lose 20 pounds. Unconsciously he pressed his hand over his stomach and looked up to locate Soufa. She had quietly left. No bars, no movies, no beaches, no cocktail hour, and no parties. Anyway, he sighed soundlessly, the pay is good.

* * *

The room where they worked was lined with steel shelving that reached to the ceiling. Twelve years of ledgers and correspondence cased in cardboard file cartons or between heavy vinyl covers were stacked and columned —most of the ledgers held handwritten entries in Arabic and/or English. It was a narrow room with pale walls. Two metal tables were set side by side, and two others crossed on the ends, nearly filling the work area. Abdullah had provided a comfortable, adjustable desk chair and two other straight backs. One served as a coat rack, the other for Soufa, who rarely used it. The high fluorescent lights cast a soft white light into the long narrow room, lending a kind of desolate intimacy to it. Danny sat in the middle of the tables with ledgers and file boxes extending both ways.

Most often, when Soufa was with him, they were in near constant presence of another woman named Alia. Alia appeared not to speak or understand one word of English, was reserved and watchful, but had a knowledge of the ledgers and file boxes that was uncanny. Other clerks passed in and out of the room, and the pace of Danny’s work was leisurely but thorough. Each mid-morning the three of them took their coffee break. Sometimes Soufa would talk to him, sometimes he spoke to both, most of the time they went separate ways. Danny checked his watch, rose from his chair, stretched his arms, and yawned. He turned to Soufa as she delivered a large vinyl volume.

You know what we need in here, Soufa? He did not wait for a reply. A fountain. She laughed, the sound barely passing through the veil.

No, don’t laugh. A fountain and some color. This damn place is depressing. It’s interfering with my work. The aisles are dark, you two always in black; it’s quiet as a tomb and it’s slowing me down. He ended his litany abruptly.

I haven’t noticed. We seem to be running all the time, she quietly countered.

Danny ignored the overworked inference. We need a tablecloth or something. Something to brighten things up. It’s time for a break anyway. Would you bring me a cup of coffee, please—and please join me. Soufa left and in a few moments returned with a cup of coffee and a Pepsi cola.

Really, Soufa— don’t you think it’s dreary in here? He tried to catch her eye.

She did not look or reply but maneuvered the Pepsi straw beneath her burqua.

He watched her adjustments for a moment and looked away.

You married, Soufa? he asked absently.

Yes, of course, she placed the Pepsi on the table.

Oh? What does your husband do?

He is an assistant professor at the university.

He is! What does he teach?

She did not reply at once and again adjusted the straw, drew briefly on it and said, He doesn’t teach anything, now.

A professor who doesn’t teach; that’s the kind of job I need.

No, I don’t think you would want his job. She set the Pepsi can down gingerly.

What’s your husband’s name? he continued.

Khalid, she said flatly.

Khalid, what? I know his name is not the same as yours because you ladies don’t change your names when you marry, right?

Yes, that’s usually right, but you’re wrong. Khalid is my cousin—he has the same name. He is the son of my father’s aunt.

Oh. He sipped at his coffee. Alia had re-entered the room bearing another large green ledger. He assumed the conversation was concluded.

Are you married, Danny? she asked quietly.

No, not even close, but I was. She left a couple of years ago. He was a little surprised at the inquiry; she had never asked a question about his life before.

Do you have any children?

No, do you?

No. She looked down, and then glanced toward Alia who was busying herself flipping the long ledger pages.

Well, don’t give up trying. He laughed, I thought every family here had at least six kids. How long have you been married?

Fourteen years.

What? He said incredulously. Fourteen years? Hell, I thought you were 25 or so. I’m surprised. Of course I can’t tell very well, with all the covers.

Not 25, she went on. I’m 29, almost 30.

Isn’t that kind of young to get married? Fifteen?

Well, yes. But Khalid wasn’t fifteen. He was in his last year of college in America.

Is that right? Have you been there—America?

Yes. We lived for two years in Columbus, Ohio.

Ohio State, that’s not very far from my home; I grew up near New Castle, Pennsylvania, not far from Youngstown and the Ohio line. I’ve been to Columbus a couple of times. No wonder you speak such excellent English. He paused, thinking back to his boyhood home. What did Khalid study there?

Archaeology.

Is that right? He said in surprise.

You are surprised? She adjusted some purchase orders that had fallen from a file box.

I thought he might have studied business or engineering or something. He sipped his coffee and studied her. She replaced the file box and moved a ledger to her, remarked to Alia and slowly began to leaf through the book.

Soufa, you’re different from most of the women, he observed.

I hope not too different, she said defensively and looked into his stare, then quickly away.

You’re more worldly or something. Something different, anyway.

"Well, Khalid was an outstanding student. I have traveled quite a bit. He also studied in Cairo. He has his Masters degree from there. Then he studied in Athens Greece for a year. Then