An Illusion of Trust (Sequel to The Brevity of Roses) (19 page)

Aza and I look at each other and then at Shadi.

"He doesn't have that dreaminess in his eyes," she says. "He has that tight, calculating look he had when he worked in New York."

"When he was a financial advisor?" Aza says.

"That's the only
job
he had there, Aza. What he did after that certainly didn't pay."

In the three years I've known Jalal, this is the first time I've heard any of his family openly speak the truth about his final year in New York. The year he partied away. The year depicted in those photos I found.

"Why isn't Jalal writing?" Shadi asks me.

"I don't know. I mean, I think he is."

Shadi sighs. "Talk to your husband."

As Shadi ordered, I plan to get Jalal alone tonight after we put the kids to bed, but some of the family starts a Hokm tournament after dinner. They take a break while Jalal comes upstairs to read a bedtime story to Adam and Mia Grace, and then he goes back to the game. When I'm sure the kids are asleep, I go downstairs too. I watch the game for a few minutes, not to learn it, as Paul seems to be doing, but because it's fascinating to watch loving family members turn cutthroat competitors.

Since only Aza and Nasrin are free to keep the card players supplied with food and drink, I expect I'm needed in the kitchen and move on. Nasrin is stirring a pot on the stove and Azadeh is cranking the salad spinner. "What can I do to help?" I ask them.

"You can keep us company," Nasrin says.

I slide a stool up to the counter next to Azadeh. She pulls parsley from the spinner and starts chopping. Nasrin has never given me any reason to believe she doesn't care for me, and she's delighted I've given her two more grandchildren, but I know how close she and Meredith were, and because of that I sense her reserve. Maybe it's only that she fears I'll cause something to devastate Jalal, the way Meredith's death did.

"Did you talk to him yet?" Aza asks me quietly.

I shake my head. "I didn't want to believe it at first, but I can't remember when he last showed me or even talked about writing something new."

Nasrin, her face already creased with worry, turns from the stove. "Who are you talking about? And what is the problem?"

Aza passes the question to me with a flick of her eyes.

"Shadi thinks Jalal's not writing enough." Nasrin's frown deepens, so I add, "Our friend Judith says he's too happy to write."

"Nonsense," Nasrin says. "He wrote wonderful poetry when he was happy … before."

When he was happy with Meredith is what she was going to say. The sharp look Aza gives her confirms that. So, the votes are in. If Jalal has writer's block, I'm to blame.

"Maman," Aza says, "His life is fuller now with Renee and the children. Maybe he prefers spending time with them over locking himself away to write."

"Well, of course," Nasrin says. "That is probably the reason. Those things fill his heart now." She smiles at me.

I return her smile, and she turns back to the stove. Aza catches my eye and mouths an apology for bringing up the subject in front of her mother. Meaning she doesn't really believe Jalal is too happy, too otherwise fulfilled, to write. With all those poetry talks she and Diane have with him, shouldn't
she
have been aware Jalal wasn't writing? I stand and head for the dining room. "I'll see if anyone needs anything."

The room is smokier than when I left, and the voices louder. Since four, at most, can play the game, the table is divided with one game at each end. The space between the two games, plus standing room around the table is taken up with family either watching or waiting for their chance to play. Jalal is teamed with Shadi. When I reach past him to empty an ashtray, he grabs my braid and pulls me close for a kiss. I'd say his team is winning. I gather empty bottles, one Scotch and three wine, which helps explain the noise increase.

Aza and I meet in the kitchen doorway and sidle past each other. She's carrying a bowl of chips and a plate of sandwiches for the players. Nasrin is still alone in the kitchen when I return from taking the bottles out to the recycle bin. "Did Aza finish the parsley?" she asks me.

I check and scrape the last of it into the bowl. "Here it is." She takes it from me and adds the parsley to the soup pot. "That smells good," I tell her.

"Korush's favorite." She stirs it one more time and turns off the burner. "His stomach demands a little less spice these days, though."

"Is he sick?"

"No, just old." There's a gleam in her eye as though she's joking. "He will be seventy-nine next month."

"Have you made this soup for him your whole marriage?"

She nods. "Fifty-four years."

"It's great that you've been together so long. I hope—" The words catch in my throat. Jalal might not live to see even our fiftieth wedding anniversary. Nasrin pats my hand.

"Make every year count, Renee." She reaches into a cupboard for soup bowls and freezes. "Oh, no." She turns to me. "Is he reconsidering his finance career?"

"Jalal?"

"All those private discussions with his brothers, he must be talking business with them. And with the boys, their studies, accounting and investments, all those things."

"Well … you know he has a lot of money invested—"

"But if he has quit writing …"

"I'm sure he doesn't want to go back to his old job, Nasrin. He hated that work. And we don't
know
that he isn't writing. That's just something Shadi said."

She considers this. "Shadi is very good at reading people, that is true, but she seldom sees Jalal …"

"Right. She's probably making something out of nothing."

"You will talk to him?"

"As soon as I get the chance."

She nods and reaches for the bowls again. "Go tell them to take a break and eat. These games will go on past midnight."

The kids don't understand why I won't let them wake Jalal. "Baba Daddy eat brefust," insists Adam.

"Later," I say, trying to hold Mia Grace still long enough to pull on her leggings. "Just get dressed and we'll go see what Old Mama has made for
your
breakfast. I'll bet it's delicious."

"Old Baba eat too?"

"I don't know if he's awake yet.

Only Aza and Paul, who went to bed when I did, are in the kitchen with Nasrin. "Here are my babies," she says. "Sit, sit; I will fix your plates."

"Pancakes," Adam cries when he sees Paul's plate.

"Cake," Mia Grace says. Adam corrects her, of course, and she frowns and kicks a foot in his direction. I predict she'll soon teach him to ignore her mistakes.

"What time did the games end?" Paul asks.

Nasrin shrugs. "I slept through Korush coming to bed."

"Jalal came upstairs about 1:30."

"When I was a girl," Nasrin says, "once a year my father hosted a family tournament that lasted for two or three days. Only the men played then, but the occasion became a family reunion because their wives and children accompanied them. Most of our family lived in other towns, so we did not see many of these relatives often. Uncles and aunts and cousins would crowd our table and beds and floors. Our mothers worked and laughed and competed in the kitchen from morning to night, keeping the banquet table filled. My mouth waters even now. Best of all, to keep us children quiet and out from under foot, they doled out unlimited sweets. We were in heaven. In the evening, with our bellies full and our bodies exhausted, we would lie on pallets at their feet, listening to the family stories, the secrets and gossip, their voices fading to whispers and murmurs lulling us to sleep."

Even Mia Grace and Adam quieted at the sound of Nasrin's voice, and when she sighs at the end of her reminiscence it's the only sound in the room. I'm not surprised this woman birthed a poet. My husband. The man I vowed to love and support. The man I've been too selfish to notice has stopped writing.

"Well," Nasrin says, "I should clean the dining room while I wait for the others to come down for breakfast."

"No. Please sit with the kids," I tell her, "I'll clean up."

"Paul and I will help in a minute," Aza says.

I've only gathered the empty glasses from wherever they were left around the room and set them on the dining table before Jalal bounds down the stairs, showered and smiling. He lifts me off my feet and kisses me. "What are you so happy about?" I ask.

"Shadi and I killed them last night." He sets me back on my feet. "I forgot what a good player she is." Like the bartender he briefly was once, he pinchers four glasses between the fingers of each hand and disappears into the kitchen. I'm anxious to get him home tonight. It's time to get our life back on track.

J
alal and I are both half-asleep over breakfast. With airport delays and an accident backing up traffic on the freeway, we didn't get home until two this morning. Adam and Mia Grace are able to sleep anywhere, through anything, so they got their full ten hours and are full of energy this morning. I'll be counting the minutes until naptime

It seems The Fates, as Jalal calls them, are against me. Three times, I've planned and failed to talk to him about his work. Now, in the midst of spilled milk and oatmeal, I plunge in. "You never talk about what you're writing anymore. Not to me, at least."

"Oh." For a moment, he looks as though he's trying to form a more complete answer, but then he blinks and it's gone.

"Have you been writing?"

"Of course."

He picks up the teapot to refill his cup, though he's taken only two sips. I take that as a sign he doesn't want to discuss this, so I drop it—for now. I finish my coffee and stand. "You clean up the kitchen. I'll clean up the kids."

When I lift Mia Grace from her high chair, she kicks to be let down so she can crawl up the steps. I follow behind as catcher. Adam squeezes by us and beats us to their bathroom. He's pulled up his step stool to the sink and managed to wet the washcloth, his pajamas, his hair, and the floor by the time we get there. I sit Mia Grace in the dry tub while I sop up the water and ready his toothbrush. When Adam's done brushing, Mia Grace takes his place at the sink and I clean her up while he tries to get dressed.

Though he can't be bothered with color coordination, Adam is big on picking out his own clothes, but he rarely manages to put them on without help, and even what he does get on usually needs some adjustment. While I straighten the bathroom, Mia Grace crawls into his room and sits on the floor beside him. The battle begins when she tries to pull his shirt over her head. In one deft move, I prevent her from biting him, stop him from smacking her, and wrestle the shirt over his head. Before I can do my victory dance, she takes off through the door into our room. The girl moves at warp speed.

Giggling, she heads for the windows to hide behind the curtains. "We can't play yet, Mia Grace. You have to get dressed." I pick her up and as I settle her on my hip, movement in the back yard catches my eye. It's Jalal. He's pulling up the contractor's stakes that marked off the location for his studio.

I hurry back to Adam's room and turn his shorts around the right way. "Bring your shoes into Mia Grace's room," I tell him. I whip off her pajamas and pull on leggings, a tunic, and sandals. Pinning her to the floor with my leg over her butt, I get Adam's shoes on him. "Come on. Let's go outside to play."

When we get there, Jalal is rounding the house from the trash bins. "Hey, some wild colors you have on there, little man." Adam ignores the fashion critique and heads for the slide.

"Me," Mia Grace says, holding out her arms to Jalal. He secures her in the swing, which is what she wants.

"I saw you from our bedroom window," I say. He acknowledges that by a brief lift of his eyebrows. I swear I'm going to strangle him if he doesn't talk to me. "Jalal?"

"I have changed my mind."

"Why?"

"I have fourteen other rooms," he says and smiles.

"Don't be—"

"No. You were right about that." He goes back to concentrating on swinging Mia Grace, so I turn to watch Adam. A minute later he says, "I lied."

I question him with a look.

"So far this year," he says, "I have written only two poems and the rough draft of a short story."

"How do you feel about that?"

"I feel I should be dissatisfied, upset with myself."

"But you're not?"

"Not really." He glances at Adam. "For now, at least."

Jalal grows quiet again, tracking the hypnotic action of the swing. I wish I could read his mind like he does mine. Is Nasrin's fear valid? Is he satisfied with not writing because he wants to work in finance again? Does that explain all the business calls from Hank?

Jalal laughs softly. "Maybe I am finally growing up." Mia Grace raises her arms and utters her all-purpose pronoun, which he now interprets as her request to get out of the swing. They move to the sandbox.

Though Jalal seems at peace with his decline in writing, I'm afraid. He quit writing once before, and it wasn't because he was happy with his life.

Jalal took the kids to the zoo by himself so I could have a couple of hours alone. The October air is clear and warm and it feels good lying here in the sun by the pool, sipping peach iced tea. Technically, I'm eavesdropping. But it's not my fault that under certain weather conditions sound carries clearly across our whole back yard. While Aza works in the rose garden, Diane drones on. Why isn't she at work? Even if she has no classes this afternoon, shouldn't she be planning lessons or grading papers? She's bored me to the edge of sleep when she says Jalal's name and jerks me back.