Digging to America (25 page)

Thanks, Maryam said. And thank you for trying, Ziba. She rose and tucked the helmet under her arm and retrieved her purse from the sofa.

Have a nice bike ride, Ziba told her.

Thanks, Maryam said again, already in the front hall.

Sami said, But, Mom? Will you know how to undo it again? She said, Oh, I'll figure it out. Goodbye.

It seemed she couldn't get away from them fast enough.

In July, Maryam went to Vermont for her annual visit. She boarded Moosh with Sami and Ziba, and Ziba agreed to water her houseplants halfway through the week.

Ziba drove to Maryam's on a Wednesday morning after dropping the girls off at day camp. When she let herself in she felt like a thief; there was something so private and close about the dim little living room. She left the front door open behind her, as if to prove she had nothing to hide, and went directly to the kitchen. A single rinsed cup and saucer sat in the sink, she noticed. She filled the watering can that Maryam had placed on the counter, and then she walked through the house, stopping at each plant and testing the soil with her fingertips. Most of the plants were fine; the week had been mild and humid.

Upstairs she went first to the guest room, where she had often put Susan down for a nap when they were visiting. The double bed with its crocheted white spread, the bureau with its paisley scarf, and the pottery bowl of ferns (these in need of water) held no surprises. And Sami's old room now a sort of catchall, a combination sewing room and bill-paying room and whatever had obviously been tidied just before Maryam's departure. The desk was bare, and the twin bed with its boyish plaid blanket had been cleared of the ironing and mending that Maryam often laid out there.

Maryam's room was less familiar, and Ziba couldn't help glancing at the objects on the bureau as she entered. They were the same as last year, though: a painted wooden pen case shaped like a fat cigar, an easel-backed Persian miniature, and a mosaic box. No photos
,
either recent or old; those would be filed away in the album in the living-room bookcase. It seemed that Maryam had decided long ago exactly how her world should be arranged, and saw no reason to vary it ever after.

As Ziba was watering the ivy plant hanging in the window, she chanced to look out and see Dave Dickinson coming up the front walk. Now, what was he doing here? She emptied the watering can of its last few drops and then hurried downstairs. By the time she reached the door, he was peering through the screen with one hand shading his eyes. Hello? he said. Oh, Ziba!

I'm watering the plants, she told him.

Well, of course; I should have realized. He drew back a bit, and she stepped out onto the porch. (She didn't feel she could ask him in without Maryam's knowledge.) He was wearing a chambray shirt and khakis that he might have slept in, and his curly gray head was mussed and damp-looking. I noticed the door was open as I was driving by, he said, and I worried something was wrong.

Why he should be driving by on a residential street that led nowhere, he didn't explain. And next he asked, Have you heard from her? without bothering to say whom he meant.

No, but we wouldn't usually, Ziba told him. She's only gone for a week, after all.

I did talk to her right after she got there, Dave said.

You did?

Just to make sure she'd arrived safely.

He turned and gazed away, out toward the street. He said, in an offhand tone, I don't suppose you knew her husband.

Ziba said, Me? The question was so unexpected that she wondered if she had mistranslated it. Goodness, no, she said. I wasn't even living in this country yet when he died.

Yes, I didn't suppose . . . He followed the progress of a lawn-care truck that was rumbling past. Then he turned back to Ziba. Hi
s
mussed hair gave him a rattled look, as if he were the one who was surprised by this conversation. She's still very attached to his memory, I guess, he said. I'm sure he was a wonderful man.

Ziba debated telling him that Kiyan had been moody and difficult. On second thought, no; better not.

But anyhow: you may have noticed that I like her, he said. Um, yes.

Or love her, even.

For some reason, Ziba felt herself blushing. So, does Maryam love you too? she asked.

I don't know.

It interested her that he thought it might at least be a possibility. She said, But you must have an inkling.

No, I don't, he said. I don't know what to think!

These last words seemed torn from him. He stopped short, as if he had shocked himself. Then he said, more quietly, I don't know what she expects of me. I don't know how to act. I invite her out and we go someplace, dinner or a movie; she seems to enjoy my company, but ... it's like we have a pane of glass between us. I don't know what she's feeling. I wonder if she still feels, let's say, loyal to her husband's memory. Or maybe bound to him, by some Iranian social custom.

No, Ziba said. There's no such custom.

Well, then, something else? Something like, I should ask Sami's permission before I court her?

A little spurt of a giggle escaped her. Now it was Dave's turn to blush. Sorry, but what do I know? he said.

Well, or me either, she told him. Maryam belongs to a completely different generation. But I can promise she doesn't think you have to ask Sami's permission.

Then I'm flummoxed, he said.

She had never heard that word before, but she admired how well it got his point across.

Look, she told him. How hard could this be? You like her; she likes you. She must like you, because believe me, Maryam would not be putting up with you if she didn't. So what's the problem? I'm sure that sooner or later everything will work out.

Right, he said.

She could tell she had somehow failed him, though, because the look he gave her was so kind. He said, Thanks for letting me yammer on. And he patted her shoulder and turned and descended the porch steps.

Bitsy said, Oh, poor, poor Dad.

Because of course Ziba told her everything, not even waiting till she brought the girls back from camp. She drove straight from Maryam's to the Donaldsons', jabbed the doorbell, and barreled in saying, Guess what!

I just hope he doesn't get hurt, Bitsy said. She was changing Xiu-Mei's diaper on the living-room rug, but she had paused when she heard Ziba's news and she didn't even notice Xiu-Mei reaching for the wipes box.

Why would he get hurt? Ziba asked.

Well, he's so naive, the poor dear. He's so lacking in experience. It's not as if Maryam is all that worldly-wise herself, Ziba said. No, bu
t
As far as we know, the only man she ever went out with was her husband.

No, but well, you're right, of course, Bitsy said. Something still appeared to be troubling her, though.

I thought you would be glad, Ziba told her.

Oh, I am! Honestly I am. She recovered the wipes box, finally, and pried a wad of wipes out of Xiu-Mei's fist. But I would be a lot happier if you told me she was madly pursuing him, calling him at all hours and hanging around his neck.

Maryam is a dignified woman, Ziba said stiffly. She's a lady. In our country, ladies don't act that way.

It was probably the first time she had ever used that phrase, in our country. Always before she had been so eager to say that this was her country, and she wasn't sure why now should be any different. Bitsy must have noticed, because instantly she said, Oh, yes, she's a lovely woman, and I am so, so pleased that things seem to be moving ahead with them.

Then they both changed the subject. Wasn't Xiu-Mei the teeniest bit plumper? Ziba wanted to know, and Bitsy said she did seem plumper, now that Ziba mentioned it, and maybe they should weigh her. So they went upstairs to the bathroom, and Bitsy stepped on the scale with Xiu-Mei in her arms and then stepped off and handed Xiu-Mei to Ziba and stepped on the scale again, and they did the math. They were very perky and chattery.

On the wall above the toilet hung a framed black-and-white photo of a much younger Dave and Connie with Bitsy and her brother Abe, all of them in ragged wigs and hideous, hayseed clothes. Dave wore a Groucho Marx mustache-and-glasses set; Connie and Bitsy had enormous artificial buckteeth, and four of Abe's teeth were blacked out. That photo had been taken the summer Mac got engaged, Ziba knew. Connie had mailed a copy to Laura's parents with a note saying that the future in-laws would like to introduce themselves. A joke, of course, but Ziba hadn't laughed quite soon enough when it was explained to her. How could people view themselves so lightly? she had wondered.

And who on earth would hang a family photo above a toilet? Some things about Americans would forever ... flummox her.

Maybe being away for a week made Maryam appreciate what Dave meant to her. At any rate, after she got back from Vermont they were seen together more often, and they did appear to be together. They chimed in on each other's stories, and reminded each other cozily of shared experiences, and sat side by side and quite close on the couch. When Maryam was speaking, Dave smiled around the room as if inviting the others to join in his admiration. When it was Dave who was speaking, Maryam smiled too but directed her gaze discreetly toward her lap. They acted like teenagers, Sami told Ziba. He said he was glad to see his mother so happy, but it did make him feel sort of funny.

Bitsy said it made her feel old. She couldn't be more delighted, she said, but, Oh, Lord, how long has it been since you lit up like that when a certain person walked into the room? Be honest, Ziba.

This was at the Arrival Party, which did, after all, take place at the Yazdans' this year instead of at the Donaldsons'. Xiu-Mei had been hospitalized for three days the previous week some kind of intestinal blockage, now resolved, thank goodness and so at the very last minute Bitsy had given in. She brought over what she'd already made, a casserole and some home-baked bread, and Ziba and Maryam swung into action and prepared the rest in thirty-six hours.

As fate would have it, the guest list was longer this year than it had been in some time. There was even a rare representative from Maryam's branch of the family: her brother's wife, Roya, who was in the U
. S
. with her friend Zuzu to visit Zuzu's son in Delaware. Zuz
u
had been scared to travel alone, was the story. Apparently she could not be left alone at her son's place, either, or else Roya was also scared to travel alone, because Roya brought Zuzu with her when she came to Baltimore, and the two of them stayed at Maryam's. In one way this was helpful: they had been happy to pitch in with the emergency food preparations, and Zuzu, who hailed originally from a town on the Caspian Sea, made an impressive stuffed fish that was the centerpiece of the table. On the other hand, they were your traditional sharp-eyed, sharp-nosed Iranian women, and not ten minutes into the party they began to focus very closely on Dave Dickinson. They watched every move he made and were not above whispering to each other after his most inconsequential remark. Of course they might just have been working out a translation (neither of them spoke much English), but Ziba suspected they were gossiping. She was interested to see that they appeared to have no prior knowledge of him; they had been at Maryam's for three days but required an introduction when he arrived at the party, and from their first, dismissive reaction it was clear they didn't know that he had any special importance. Then he said, Aha! Salade olivieh! and rubbed his hands together. He started walking around the table surveying the dishes, which had already been laid out in two long rows. Fesenjun! he said, putting a u in the last syllable less formal and more intimate-sounding than fesenjan.
Is it yours? he asked Maryam, and she nodded, smiling at him with her lips sweetly closed, and that was when the two women grew extremely, extremely alert.

Doogh! he said. I adore doogh, he told the two women, and he said it with some pride, evidently knowing that most Americans were disgusted by the very notion of a carbonated yogurt drink. He pronounced the gh sound with a conscious, laughable effort, practically gargling in his attempt to speak far enough back in his throat; and in fact the women did laugh or tittered, at least, each raising
a
hand to her mouth and exchanging a glance with the other. He laughed too. He must have thought he was connecting with them beautifully. And Maryam may have thought the same, for she went on smiling from the other side of the table. It was Ziba who moved forward, at last, and took him by the elbow. Wait till you see the baklava, she told him. My mother brought it over this morning.

But this only caused the women to exchange another glance. (See how Maryam's daughter-in-law treats him so familiarly!) Dave said, Your mother brought her baklava? I crave her baklava. He told the women, She makes her filo dough from scratch. You wouldn't believe how good it is.

They pursed their lips, as if assessing something. They looked thoughtfully toward Maryam.

The baklava was serving as the Arrival Cake, in fact. Ziba had spiked it all over with tiny American flags and set it on the sideboard at the end of the meal. She omitted the candles, and she didn't bother sending the girls out of the room. Instead she plunged straight into She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain, and the others joined her even the girls themselves. If Bitsy was disappointed, she didn't show it. She might have been too tired to care. Xiu-Mei was asleep on her shoulder, head lolling and pacifier halfway out of her parted lips, and Bitsy swayed with her in time to the song. Toot, toot! the girls were shouting. Hi, babe! They sang louder than anyone else, as if they'd been waiting all these years just for the opportunity.