Digging to America (13 page)

She prevailed, finally. The children settled themselves at the breakfast nook in the kitchen, while in the dining room the grownups crowded around the single immense, paisley-draped expanse that stretched almost from one wall to the other. You'd have to look closely to see the break where the card tables started. The main dishes were lined up on the sideboard huge crocks and platters and bowls and lesser dishes filled a quartet of TV trays in one corner. Bitsy's relatives couldn't get over it. I've never seen so much food in all my life! Jeannine said. This is a banquet! But Ziba said, Oh, it's nothing.

More kebabs are coming, Sami announced. Finish up what's here, everybody. He headed for the kitchen, edging around Bitsy, who was trying to lead a song rehearsal. He couldn't tell which song, though, because a mutiny seemed to be under way. Several of the children were drowning her out with She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain. They'll be wearing red pajamas when they come, Bridget sang, and the others, even Ziba's two nieces, shouted, Scratch! Scratch! and pounded their silverware on the table. Bitsy said, Children! Please! Sami grinned and lifted
a
platter of skewered meats from the counter. When he stepped out the back door, the quiet came as a jolt. His ears were ringing slightly, and he took his time laying the meat on the grill just to give himself a respite.

It was while they were passing seconds around that Ziba mentioned preschool. Did I tell you? Sami heard her ask Bitsy. Susan's starting Julia Jessup in the fall.

Bitsy was helping herself to another grilled tomato. She paused and looked at Ziba. What's Julia Jessup? she asked.

It's the preschool Sami went to. The one where Maryam works now.

She's starting there this fall? Bitsy asked.

Ziba nodded, beaming.

But she's only two years old! Bitsy said.

Two and a half, Ziba reminded her. Julia Jessup accepts them at two.

That may very well be, Bitsy said. She was sitting indignantly straight, almost swaybacked, the grilled tomato suspended in its serving spoon. But just because they accept her at that age doesn't mean she should go.

It doesn't? Ziba asked.

Two is way too young! She's still a baby!

Ziba's lips parted and she looked toward the kitchen, although she couldn't have seen Susan from where she was sitting.

Look, Bitsy said briskly. She dropped the tomato on her plate with a plunk. I've tried to understand about your working outside the hom
e
Just a couple of days a week! Ziba broke in. (This was a sor
e
point between them, Sami knew from past discussions.) And more like half days, really.

Sometimes, though, you work on Saturdays, Bitsy pointed out. But Sami's with her on Saturdays! And Maryam is with her on weekdays, or my family if they're visiting.

Yes, and so that I can understand, Bitsy went on in her forbearing tone. But to send a teeny tiny toddler off to preschool, a child still in diapers . . . She faltered. Am I right? She is still in diapers? She isn't trained yet, is she?

Ziba shook her head. Bitsy seemed to take heart. And furthermore a child who had a very rocky beginning, she said. When you consider the adjustments she has had to make so fa
r
Now, isn't that interesting! Ziba's brother Ali said suddenly. He leaned toward Maryam, who was seated across the table from him.
I didn't realize you worked in a preschool, Khanom. Nobody ever informed me of that. You teach small children?

Sami had to admire the man. Evidently life in a large family had honed his peacemaking skills. And Maryam proved equally adept. She sent him the brilliant, purposeful smile of someone being interviewed. Oh, no, I just help part-time in the office, she told him. When Sami was a pupil there I used to volunteer, you see. I filed, I typed, I made phone calls . . . She gazed brightly around at the others. And then my husband died and I experienced, you might say, a little spell of financial panic. I believe that often happens with widows. They might have a perfectly adequate pension or life insurance or whatnot, but for the first time they're on their own and so they panic.

Really, Bitsy's father said. And do widowers suffer a similar panic?

Sami couldn't tell if Dave honestly wanted to know or was just contributing to the rescue effort. Maryam might have bee
n
doubtful herself, from the assessing gaze she sent him. Ah, she said finally. Well, widowers, now: I believe their panic relates more to household issues. They worry because now they will have no woman to take care of them. Sometimes they grow quite desperate. They make very sad mistakes.

Dave gave a short laugh. I'll bear that in mind, he told her.

Sami expected her to protest to assure him that she hadn't meant anything personal but she merely nodded. And then Linwood appeared in the kitchen doorway, several grains of rice sticking to one lens of his glasses, and cleared his throat and announced that Jin-Ho had a stomachache. Oh, dear, Bitsy said. It must be all the excitement. She rose and laid her napkin aside and went into the kitchen.

Ziba wasn't enjoying herself anymore. Sami could tell that, if no one else could. She was gazing down at her plate, not eating, fiddling with her fork. He was too far away to reach over and stroke her hand. He tried to catch her eye but she wouldn't look up. Instead, by accident, he caught Mrs. Hakimi's eye. Mrs. Hakimi seemed to have been lying in wait for him, because the instant he glanced toward her she put on a toothy smile. He didn't know how much of the conversation she'd understood. He smiled back at her and looked away.

Why couldn't Ziba just shrug Bitsy off? Why was she so susceptible to Bitsy's criticisms? Maybe they should find some Iranian friends. Enough of this struggle to fit in, to keep up!

He heard Brad, at the other end of the table, telling Aunt Azra that he envied her. Envy, Aunt Azra said slowly. Sami knew she was repeating the word because she wasn't sure of the meaning, but Brad must have thought she was disputing him. He said, No, I mean it! Absolutely. One day not too far off, immigrants are going to be the new elite in this country. That's because they bear no burd
en of guilt. Their forefathers didn't steal any Native American land and they never owned slaves. They have perfectly clear consciences.

Aunt Azra was staring at him with a look of blank astonishment. Sami was fairly certain it was the word consciences that had stumped her.

If Ziba had not been so downcast, she would have been nagging Sami about the final round of kebabs. He slid back his chair and stood up. Save some room, folks! There's one last batch coming, he said. He went out to the kitchen, where he found his way blocked by Bitsy. She was kneeling beside Jin-Ho at the children's table. Sweetie? she was asking. You want to go lie down? Jin-Ho shook her head. Susan, seated next to her, leaned forward to peer into Jin-Ho's face with a comical expression of concern.

Then Bitsy said, Oh.

She was looking at Jin-Ho's tumbler, which was empty except for the ice cubes. You had a soft drink, she told Jin-Ho.

Jin-Ho stuck out her bottom lip and averted her eyes.

Well, no wonder! Bitsy said. Of course your stomach hurts! My goodness!

Sami said, Oh, give her a break, Bitsy.

Bitsy pivoted to look up at him.

He felt a sort of rush to the head, a surge of joyous rage. He said, Don't you ever quit?

Excuse me?

You and your little digs about soft drinks, refined sugar, working mothers, preschool
s
I don't understand, Bitsy told him. She rose, holding on to the back of Jin-Ho's chair. Did I say something wrong?

You've said everything wrong, and you owe my wife an apology.

I owe ... Ziba? I don't understand!

Figure it out, he said, and then he brushed past her and headed toward the back door.

From behind him, in a very small voice, Susan said, Papa? Is Bitsy bad?

Uh, he said. He paused and glanced back at her. She had her eyebrows raised in two worried slants like the two sides of a roof. He said, No, Susie -june, never mind. I guess I'm just feeling irritable.

It was only when he was searching for the word irritable literally, quick-tempered that he realized that both he and Susan had been speaking Farsi. This was a shock but also a satisfaction, for some reason. He flung a triumphant glance at Bitsy, who was still holding on to Jin-Ho's chair and gaping at him, and then he went on out into the yard.

By now the kebabs were way overdone. The lamb chunks might still be salvaged, but the chicken looked like leather. He used a pot holder to grab the skewers one by one and shift them to the platter, and then he lifted the grate so he could stir the coals apart with the tongs. His heartbeat was gradually slowing. The rage had dimmed and he was left feeling slightly foolish.

When the screen door clicked shut, he turned to see Brad approaching. In his Orioles T-shirt and flapping shorts Brad looked mussed and uncomfortable. He stopped a foot or so away and swatted at some insect buzzing around his head. Then he said, How you doing there?

I'm okay, Sami said. He turned back to the grill. He poked a coal with the tongs.

Guess we've had a little misunderstanding of some sort, Brad said.

Sami poked another coal. Then he said, We didn't have a misunderstanding.

All right, Brad said. Why not tell me what happened.

We were all fine, Sami said. Then your wife comes along and hurts my wife's feelings.

Well, how, exactly?

Sami looked at him. He said, You have to ask?

I'm asking, friend.

You sat there at the table; you heard her slam our entire approach to child-rearing; you saw how she ruined our part
y
She ruined ... ? Aw, gee, Sami, Brad said. I know Bitsy can be outspoken sometimes, bu
t
'Pushy' is a better word for it, Sami said.

Now, hold on, her
e
Pushy, and self-righteous, and overbearing, and ... pushy, Sami said.

To demonstrate, he stepped forward and pushed against the front of Brad's T-shirt with one palm. Brad's chest felt spongy, almost bosomy. It made Sami want to push him again, harder, and so he did. Now, hold the phone! Brad said, and he pushed back, but in a half hearted way. Sami dropped the tongs and grabbed hold of him with both hands and tried to butt him in the stomach with his head, and Brad seized two fistfuls of Sami's hair and lunged against him and knocked him flat on the ground, luckily clear of the grill, and landed panting on top of him. For a moment they both lay there, as if wondering what to do next. Sami had a dizzy feeling and he couldn't get his breath. He heard high, thin sounds from the direction of the back door the distressed cries of the women, no different in Farsi than in English, as everyone streamed out onto the steps.

Brad rolled off Sami and staggered to his feet and wiped his face with his sleeve. Sami sat up and then stood. He bent forward, wheezing, and shook his head to clear it.

He should have been aghast at himself. He should have bee
n
mortified that anyone had witnessed this. Instead, though, he felt exultant. He couldn't seem to keep a straight face as he raised his eyes to his guests, who were frozen in poses of horror. The children were dumbstruck and the men were openmouthed and the women were pressing their hands to their cheeks. He turned to Brad and found him sheepishly grinning, and they fell on each other and hugged. Clapping Brad's broad, damp back, stumbling around the yard in a clumsy dance, Sami imagined that to the relatives, the two of them must resemble two characters in some sitcom, two wild and crazy Americans, two regular American guys.

Brad and Bitsy were talking about adopting a second child. To Dave's mind, this was insane. He didn't say so, of course. He said, Is that a fact. But Bitsy must have caught something in his tone, because she said, All right, Dad, out with it. What do you have against it?

Nothing! he told her. Why do you ask?

You think I'm too old, don't you.

Absolutely not, he told her.

This much was true. He wasn't quite sure of her age, frankly. Thirty-five? Forty? Connie would have known. He did some quick math. Okay, forty-three. But that wasn't his objection. Mainly he just felt that people shouldn't press their luck. He'd been so apprehensive with the first adoption, and so relieved when it worked out. Jin-Ho was his most interesting grandchild. And probably the brightest, or second-brightest next to Linwood. Why not quit while they were ahead? Anyhow, children were a lot of trouble. You would think Brad and Bitsy could content themselves with just one.

He had felt the same about his own children. He had embarked on parenthood reluctantly, sending regretful backward glances at his carefree young-married days, and although the first baby had proved a delight he hadn't hankered for more. If not for Connie's lobbying, Bitsy would have been an only child. Then of course the two boys were delights as well, and he wouldn't have traded them for anything, but still he could remember quite clearly sitting in the melee of tantrums and wet diapers and little sharp-edged building blocks and thinking, Too many children and not enough Connie. He had felt almost childlike himself as he angled for Connie's attention, snatched the smallest stray bits of her, competed for her ear and for her thoughtful, focused gaze.