Digging to America (12 page)

The women exchanged glances, and Azra stepped closer to them and lowered her voice.

It would make her look very bad if after she bores us with all this trivia, we learn that her husband shot himself, Mr. Hakimi told the other men.

He was speaking in Farsi. All of them spoke in Farsi, unless they were addressing Sami or Susan. Each time Sami walked in upon these gatherings (he, at least, had to go out to work every day), everyone greeted him in English, and his father-in-law would ask him in English, How many houses you have sold today? Eh? But before Sami could answer, Mr. Hakimi would revert to Farsi to tell his sons, Mamal says the real-estate market has been excellent these past months. Just like that, the English was abandoned. Which was fine with Sami. It let him off the hook. It relieved him of the burden of keeping up his end of things. He would lift Susan into his lap and settle down comfortably to listen.

Like these men following the women's gossip depending on their gossip, relying on it for connection Sami floated on the gentle current of the relatives' Farsi, comprehending some ninety percent and letting the other ten percent wash past him. The men discussed a cousin's investment proposal; the women debated adding an extra pinch of saffron; the nieces quarreled over a Walkman. If Sami stayed silent long enough, people might forget him so completely that they said things he shouldn't hear mentioned Uncle Ahmad's new tax-evasion scheme, or let slip some sharp-tongued reference to Maryam. (Well, Khanom would claim it was cheating to put potatoes in the bottom of the rice pan the Khanom emphasized in an acid and satirical tone.) Their attitude toward his mother didn't offend him as much as it might have, because he figured she deserved it. After all this time, for instance, she still called Ziba's mother Mrs. Hakimi and not Gita -june. He knew that was no mere oversight.

Where is the cinnamon? Who's taken it? Ziba asked. Her Farsi was twangier than his mother's, just unfamiliar enough to give her a sheen of added appeal. I asked him when he was leaving, one sister-in-law told the other, and he said he wasn't sure; either before the wedding or after. 'Well, what date is the wedding?' I asked, and he said he didn't know because he hadn't found someone to marry yet. Ziba's mother, swathed in a traffic-sign-yellow apron reading CAUTION! GUY AT THE GRILL, hoisted a casserole onto the counter with a little puff of a breath. Iranian women were very hardworking, Sami always noticed. They produced such labor-intensive dishes hundreds of hand-rolled stuffed grape leaves, dozens of butter-brushed filo sheets and so many of them for each meal. Aunt Azra was shaping several pounds of ground lamb into a single enormous ball, patting it all over with efficient little slaps. The men were heaving themselves from their chairs and moving out to the backyard for a smoke. Mr. Hakimi favored thick black cigars that smelled like burning tires, and both of Ziba's brothers (middle-aged, and as bald as their father) had nicotine-stained fingers from their two-pack-a-day cigarette habit. They felt it was unreasonable that they couldn't smoke indoors. Secondhand smoke! one of them scoffed, spitting the phrase out in English before slipping back into Farsi. I have smoked around my daughters all their lives, and look at them! They're much healthier than Susan.

They all thought Susan was too small for her age, and too pale. They also thought she looked too Chinese, but a few confrontations with Ziba had taught them not to mention that.

How would your family feel about a child who was Asian? Sami had asked Ziba when she first brought up adopting. Ziba's instant answer had been I don't care what my family feels; I care about having a baby. And because it was Sami's fault that she couldn't have one of her own, he had felt compelled to go along with he
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plan. He had hidden his doubts from everyone but his mother; to her he had poured them out, stopping by her house several times a week as furtively as if she were the Other Woman and sitting in her kitchen, letting his cup of tea grow cold, clamping his hands between his knees and talking on and on while Maryam listened noncommittally. I know Ziba believes that we'll be rescuing someone, he said. Some child who never had a chance, some disadvantaged orphan. But it's not as simple as she thinks, changing a life for the better! It's so easy to do harm in this world but so hard to do good, it seems to me. Easy to bomb a building to smithereens but hard to build one; easy to damage a child but hard to fix one who has problems. I don't think Ziba knows this. I think she just imagines we'll swoop up some lucky baby and give it a perfect life.

He waited for his mother to contradict him (he wanted her to contradict him), but she didn't. She took a sip of her tea and set down her cup. He said, And it's not as if children come with return guarantees. You can't simply hand them back if they don't work out.

You can't hand a birth child back either, his mother said.

But it's less likely you would want to. A birth child is blood-related; you recognize certain traits and so you tolerate them better.

Or worse, his mother said. Traits in yourself that you've always disliked. That happens too, on occasion.

It did? He decided not to pursue this. He stood up and circled the kitchen, fists thrust deep in his pockets, and when his back was toward her he said, Also, um, I worry that this child will feel out of place. He or she will always look so unmistakably foreign to other people, so Korean or Chinese. You know?

He turned back to find his mother regarding him with what seemed to be amusement, but she said nothing.

I realize that sounds very superficial, he told her.

She waved a hand dismissively and took another sip of tea.

And then, he said. Speaking of which. It would be so obvious that we were not the true parents. There wouldn't be even a possibility of any physical resemblance.

His mother said, Ah, well. When your children resemble you, you tend to forget they're not you. Much better to be reminded they're not, every time you set eyes on them.

I don't think I'd need reminding, he said.

I remember once when you were in high school, I heard you phoning a girl and you said, 'This is Sami Yaz-dun.' It came as such a shock: my oh-so-American son. Partly I felt pleased and partly I felt sad.

Well, I wanted to fit in! he said. I wasn't so American! Not to them, at least. Not to the kids in my school.

She waved a hand again. She said, At any rate. You're thinking you might not love this child. You will, though. I promise.

He wasn't sure which claim was more presumptuous: that she knew what he was thinking or that she could predict how he would feel.

But she was right, of course, on both counts. In the last few weeks before Susan arrived he dreamed almost nightly that their baby was some sort of monster, once a lizardy creature and once a normal human but with evil vertical pupils like a goat's; and that Ziba was unsuspecting and angrily turned away when he tried to warn her. Then as soon as he saw Susan's fragile hair and pinched, anxious face, not beautiful at all despite what Ziba believed, he had felt a kind of caving-in sensation and a wave of fierce protectiveness, and if that wasn't love it soon became love. Susan was the greatest joy of his life. She was endlessly charming and funny and fascinating and, yes, eventually beautiful, which in some ways he regretted because her plainness had tugged at his heart so. Her cheeks rounded out but her mouth kept its pursed shape, as if sh
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were forever carrying on some interior deliberation, and her hair grew long enough to be caught up in two paintbrush ponytails, one above each ear. When he sat among the relatives with her, she nestled against him trustfully and from time to time patted his wrist or twisted around to look up at him, her breath smelling sweetly of the trashy grape soft drink she liked.

The women had started discussing Aunt Azra's immigration prospects had she any hope of a green card? and Sami had to guess at some of the officialese. Ali told me I would need a... something, something, something. Then the men returned from the yard, wrapped in an almost visible veil of tobacco and ash, and the women interrupted themselves to announce a shortage of tomato paste. This made the men very happy. I'll go! I'll go! the three of them said. They loved American supermarkets. Sami, are you coming? this last in English. He felt that he ought to say yes, although he was sorry to leave the women's talk, which was turning, by the time the car keys had been found, to Ziba's conviction that Bitsy preferred Maryam's house to this one. Atusa, her oldest sister-in-law, told her she must be imagining things. Prefer Khanom's little unstylish house to this big, fancy, nice, modern one? You're just nervous, Ziba -june. You're just nervous about your party.

Reluctantly, Sami set Susan down next to her cousins and went off to join the men.

Happy Arrival Day, all! Bitsy caroled. Don't we have the perfect weather for it? We've brought the videotape. We've brought a propane lighter for the candles; much safer for the girls than matches. We've brought photographs from last year, so we can set up an exhibit.

She pecked Sami on the cheek and moved forward to hug Ziba
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followed at some distance by Brad with an overstuffed shopping bag. Last of all came Jin-Ho, strolling slowly up the front walk and admiring her own sandals, which had the too-big, too-stiff look of shoes very recently purchased. (So: no Korean costume this year.) It always worried Sami a little that Jin-Ho was taller than Susan, and heavier. He felt a competitive uneasiness every time he saw her.

Now, I've been thinking some more about the song, Bitsy was telling Ziba. I've never been really happy with 'She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain.'

Meanwhile, the curbside rear door of the Donaldsons' car swung open and Bitsy's father inched out, hauling himself forth like a man weary to the bone. He must have had to be coaxed into coming. Since Connie's death Bitsy had dragged him along to every possible social event, but he didn't have much to say anymore and his large gray head had developed a droop.

Hello there, Dave! Sami called. Dave lifted an arm and let it flop and proceeded doggedly up the walk.

Do you know 'Waiting for a Girl Like You'? Bitsy was asking. That's one possibility. Unless it's too hard to sing; what do you think? Or then there's the Beatles. 'I Saw Her Standing There'; do you remember that? It occurs to me that if we rehearsed the children ahead of time oh, hello, Mrs. Hakimi! Happy Arrival Day!

Mrs. Hakimi wore flowered black silk and her husband was in a suit, but the relatives following them out of the house were dressed more informally especially Aunt Azra, who could have been heading for aerobics class, in her tank top and tight, knitted capri pants that revealed every bulge and ripple. How do you do? How do you do? they all murmured, except it sounded more like Do ... do... They arranged themselves two and three deep across the front steps, so that when it came time to go inside there was some difficulty negotiating the doors. While everyone was stil
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trying, another car pulled up Abe and Jeannine with their three girls. Right behind came Maryam, and as she was unloading a giant cake box from her back seat another car slid in behind hers with a disturbing rasp of sidewall against curb. Jesus Christ! they all heard Mac say. He was in the front passenger seat and Linwood was at the wheel. Apparently Linwood had earned his learner's permit since Sami had last seen him. Laura was sitting in the rear, and she climbed out and started up the walk without a backward glance as Mac went into a long harangue about the cost of new tires these days.

Where's Stefanie? Bitsy called.

Laura grimaced and said, Majorette camp.

Sami waited for Bitsy's reaction. The week before, she'd thrown a fit on the phone because Brad's parents were off on a cruise even though they knew full well they'd be missing Arrival Day. I mean! A cruise! she'd told Ziba. When their only grandchild is celebrating her second year in this country! But all she said now was, Oh, what a shame, in an offhand, trailing-away voice. Maybe she was relieved. The last time they'd all been together, Stefanie had painted the little ones' toenails a ghoulish electric blue.

Abe's three girls made a beeline for Jin-Ho and Susan, and this freed Ziba's nieces to peel off from the grownups and join them. They headed toward the backyard, where Sami had set up a gym set. By then Bitsy's brothers had spotted Sami's new car in the driveway. Say! Abe said. A Honda Civic! All the men trooped over to inspect it, including the Hakimi men although of course they had seen it before. Even Dave showed some interest. Before long he was arguing with Linwood's announcement that air bags did more harm than good. Meanwhile the women went into the house, and by the time the men had rejoined them Maryam was offering pistachios to Bitsy and her two sisters-in-law. They were the only ones in the living room. All the Hakimi women wer
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crowded into the kitchen, where they remained, clanking pot lids and clattering dishes, until it was time to call people to the table.

An exhausting amount of discussion had gone into the serving arrangements. Sami had argued for a buffet. I don't see how there's any choice, he'd told Ziba. There'll be twenty-some people! Our table doesn't seat that many.

A buffet's not as intimate, though, Ziba said. I want this to feel intimate.

Well, how are you going to manage that with twenty-some people, Zee?

I'll seat the children separately, with the older ones in charge of the younger. That's, let's see ... two, four, seven ... And then if I put a couple of card tables at one end of the grownups' table . . .