GRAFTON — Last winter, far away from my Vermont home, I stumbled into a danger zone. It wasn't comparable to inadvertently crossing the border from Iraq to Iran. All I did was accept a gracious dinner invitation from casual acquaintances. How could I have imagined that when the door opened, I'd need a flak jacket?
The table was set for eight in the cavernous kitchen. The center island - topped with glistening black marble - rivalled my whole kitchen for square footage. French Cabernet was served in glasses that resembled goldfish bowls on spindly stems. I had to use both hands to lift mine to my face.
The woman seated on my left took up the breadth of her chair with great physical authority. Her blond hair, streaked with silver, was neatly arranged on the top of her head, presenting the illusion of a crown. She wrapped a practiced hand around her glass and drank long and deep. Then she turned to me and chirped, “Finally there's a reason to like the French!”
Naturally, I thought she was referring to the wine.
Before I could respond, she crowed, “Did you hear? Sarkozy has banned burdocks!”
Her pronunciation of the French President's name was so mangled - “Sard-uzi” - that it took me a second to translate. As for the burdocks, I was completely baffled.
I've lived most of my life in rural areas, and I'm all too familiar with burdocks, commonly known as burrs. They have purple-flowered heads about the size of a marble, covered with prickly hooks. I've spent countless hours pulling them off dogs' coats and out of horses' tails. They're a nuisance, but I couldn't think why anyone would ban them.
Maybe there had been some unprecedented infestation in the French countryside, I thought. I envisioned them choking crops and hanging like tinsel on goats and sheep. I wondered if heinous chemicals would have to be employed.
“We can be grateful we weren't born Muslim,” the woman continued after pausing for more gulps of wine. “It's such a repressive religion for women. Those people are so backward. They're not like us. They have no regard for human life. It's time somebody did something to stop the rising tide of women-haters and terrorists.”
I was mesmerized by her cheeks. They glowed with various shades of pink, like remarkable sunsets, but not as pretty. My mind reeled away into a sunset and then returned to my head in a blaze of clarity.
“Do you mean burqas?”
“Yes, yes!” she trilled, waving a dismissive hand at me, as if accurate verbiage were inconsequential.
* * *
I thought to point out that Islam is not a monolith any more than Christianity or any other religion. Most Muslims don't hate women or strap suicide bombs to their chests. I considered reminding her that since 1988, four women have been heads of state in Muslim countries, whereas in the USA we have yet to elect a woman president. I thought again. A person has only so many breaths allotted to one life. It is prudent to conserve them.
I turned to my host and said gaily, “Let's talk about horses!”
My host owns a few racehorses, and he happily rattled off their recent accomplishments on the track. He said he had high hopes for the big, well-balanced, chestnut yearling in the front field. Then he excused himself and poured more wine for his guests. I covered the rim of my glass with my hand.
The blonde had turned to the man at her left. They were riding the same war horse. Armed and dangerous, they were on about “those people.” Galloping all over the globe, they ranted about Palestinians, Pakistanis, Afghans, Africans, and “Orientals.”
“Even in Ireland they have no regard for human life,” the woman sputtered. “Last year I was visiting relatives in Dublin and I was almost struck by a car. My aunt had to pull me back to the curb. And you know what she said? She said, 'Dear, you have to watch where you're going.'”
I stifled a giggle. Sometimes I laugh when I really want to cry.
“I know. They're trying to kill us. They're trying to kill us all,” the man replied. His tone was a trifle hysterical. It was dark outside, but he peered through the French doors as if he expected to see a gang of jihadists with rifles aimed at our heads.
Then he said that thing I've heard ad nauseam ever since 9/11: “Where are the voices of Muslims speaking out against violence?”
Our hostess interrupted, speaking softly. “They're everywhere, Carl. Except on Fox TV and Rush Limbaugh.”
Her husband shook his head at her and frowned.
Carl's voice jumped up an octave.
“That's just liberal propaganda! I suppose you believe that crap about climate change, too. And I've noticed you're still drinking Grey Goose.”
I couldn't recall why we were supposed to avoid French vodka. I wouldn't have objected to knocking back a couple shots right then.
We all swiveled our heads from Carl to our hostess, as if we were watching a fierce volley at Wimbledon. Our host made frantic hand signals at his wife, but she had, in her quiet way, already pulled the pin on the hand grenade.
I exchanged a bemused glance with the woman across the table. We rose together, as if we'd choreographed our flight, and began to gather the plates. Our hostess joined us at the island and readied the dessert.
* * *
Eons passed before I stood at the door saying thank you and good night. The driveway was paved with cobblestones and, in a few patches, coated with a skein of ice. I bolted to my car anyway. A broken ankle couldn't hurt as much as one more minute of torment.
Driving away, my brain whirled like helicopter blades.
The fear and ignorance I heard is propagated and celebrated by right-wing legislators and the right-wing media and swallowed like elixir by “ordinary Americans,” whatever that means. If a citizen knows the difference between a burdock and a burqua, Islam and Buddhism, socialism and fascism, does that make her an “elitist?”
Those people, I thought, should move to Alaska. They'd fit right in at Sarah Palin's table.
I was drunk on fear and indignation as that wise Dubliner spoke to me from across the ocean, tugging me away from the danger zone.
“Dear, you have to watch where you're going.”