Digging to America (32 page)

She pushed the screen door as silently as possible. Sometimes the spring made a twanging sound but not today, luckily. Her father stuck his camera through the opening and pressed the button. Thanks, he whispered. Got it. I can tell it'll be a good one. Doesn't your mom look great?

She did, really. Her face was turned toward Jin-Ho's grandpa and the sky beyond lit her smooth skin and the sweet, full curve of her mouth.

Jin-Ho closed the screen door and followed her father back to the living room.

Once again he was aiming his camera at Xiu-Mei and Lucy. They were still in front of the fireplace, but the stroller was off to one side now and they both faced Susan, who was leading them in some kind of game. She stood with her hands on her hips, as bossy as a schoolteacher, and said, Okay, repeat after me: Wah, wah, wah, we always cry at bedtime.

Dutifully, they echoed, Wah, wa
h
No! Wrong! Did I say, 'Susan says'? Repeat: Wah, wah, wah, we always cry at lunchtime.

Wah, wa
h
What is the matter with you guys? Now. Susan says: Wah, wah, wah, we always cry at swimming-lesson time.

Wah, wah, wah ...

Lucy spoke very clearly for her age, but Xiu-Mei was harder to understand because she had a polka-dot binky in her mouth.

Maryam was picking up Susan at the Tiny Toes School of Ballet and Modern Dance. Unfortunately she was early, because she'd never been there before and she'd allowed too much time for the drive. She was filling in for Ziba, who had a dental appointment.

It was a sunny day in late June, and she could feel the heat rising from the sidewalk as she stood in front of the school, which was an ordinary brown shingle-board house set back a bit from the street. Another woman was waiting also, but she was busy chasing her toddler and so they merely exchanged smiles, which suited Maryam just fine.

Then a man said, Maryam? and she turned and found Dave Dickinson standing next to her.

Hi, he said.

Oh, she said. Hello.

This wasn't the first time they had run into each other. Once shortly after their breakup she had met him when he was dropping Jin-Ho off at Sami and Ziba's, and once again a few weeks late
r
when she was standing in line at the post office. But that had been over a year ago, and on both occasions he had been so curt almost not speaking, really that she was uncertain how to behave now. She lifted her chin and braced herself for whatever might come next.

He had that strong, tanned, leathery skin that was so attractive in aging men and so unattractive in women. He was in need of a haircut, and if she had reached up to touch his curls they would have encircled her fingers completely.

Is Susan taking lessons here? he asked.

Yes. Beginning ballet.

So's Jin-Ho.

Well, of course: that would be how Ziba had come up with the idea. Maryam should have known. She said, I guess it's that summer panic. What to do with them once school is out.

Yes, for sure it's not because of any God-given talent, Dave said. Or not in Jin-Ho's case, at least. How about Susan? Is she at all graceful?

Maryam shrugged. In fact she considered Susan to be very graceful, but she didn't want to say this to the grandparent of a child as clunky as Jin-Ho. I believe they just want to introduce her to all the possibilities, she said. Last year it was art camp.

Oh, yes, Jin-Ho went to that.

They both smiled.

Then Dave said, Bitsy's sick.

It was the suddenness of his remark that told her he meant something more than the usual. She waited, fixing her eyes on his. He said, That's where they are at this moment, she and Brad: consulting with the oncologist. Last week they removed a lump from her breast and now they're discussing options.

Oh, Dave. I'm so sorry, Maryam said. I know this must bring it all back to you.

Well, naturally I'm worried.

But every year they find new treatments, she said. And they caught it early, I assume.

Yes, the doctors have been very encouraging. It's just that it's kind of a shock to all of us.

Of course it is, she said. She shaded her eyes with one hand; the sun had moved directly above him. I hope she'll let me know if there's anything I can do, she said. I'd be happy to pick up the children, bring food...

I'll tell her that. Thanks, he said. I know she means to talk to Ziba as soon as they're sure what the plan is.

Another woman approached, pushing a baby in a stroller. Now that they had an audience, Dave changed the subject. Anyhow! he said. Will you be going to the Arrival Party this year? Oh. Of course you will. It's your turn.

Well, not my turn; Sami and Ziba's. And I may be in New York then.

New York?

Kari and Danielle and I have been talking about seeing some plays.

But you could do that anytime, he said.

One of the plays may close soon, though. And besides. You know. Really that's a young people's party. I'm getting too old for such things.

Old! he said, so sharply that the woman with the stroller sent Maryam a curious glance.

And also there's a chance that my cousin Farah will be here, Maryam said.

It's both the time when you're away and the time you have a guest?

Well, not on the exact same date ...

She gave up. She stopped speaking.

Dave said, Look. Maryam. It's absurd to think we can't both attend the same social event.

This from the man who had told her straight out, No, we can not go on seeing each other.

But she said, Well, you're right, of course.

You didn't come last year either. You missed a good party. Yes, so I heard. Ziba told me.

Jin-Ho accidentally dropped the videotape in the punch bowl, but we fished it out before any damage was done. And 'Coming Round the Mountain' got so raucous that when the cousins shouted, 'Hi, babe!' you'd swear they must be hanging out the windows of a brothel. Other than that, though . . .

Maryam laughed. (She had always loved his particular way of wording things.)

Think about it, he said.

She said, All right.

Then the children started trickling forth from the school their own two in front, blocky-haired Jin-Ho and Susan with her long braids swinging and they went their separate ways.

During the next few days, she found herself haunted by a lingering sorrow. Partly, of course, this was due to the news about Bitsy. Maryam assumed she fervently hoped that the cancer had been caught in time, but still she hated to think of what the Donaldsons must be going through. And then another part of her grieved once again for Dave. Seeing him had reminded her of how he'd stood on his porch that morning watching her drive away, his frayed, patched gardening pants buckling at the knees in an elderly manner. She missed him very much. She tried never to allow herself to know how much.

She wrote Bitsy a note, expressing her concern and offering any help that was needed. I am sending you my best thoughts, she wrote, wishing for the thousandth time that she were religious and could volunteer her prayers. I hope you will not hesitate to call on me. She debated a moment before she signed it. Sincerely? Yours very truly? In the end she settled on Affectionately, because Bitsy might have her faults but at least they were well-meaning faults. She was a good-hearted, generous woman, and Maryam felt the same sympathy for her that she would feel for an old friend.

Her world had become very peaceful since the breakup. Well, it had been peaceful before, too, but somehow her brief venture into a livelier, more engaged way of life made her appreciate the blessed orderliness of her daily routine. She awoke before dawn, when the sky was still a pearly white and the birds were barely stirring. One of the cardinals on her block had a habit of omitting the second note of his call and repeating just the first in a flinty, bright staccato. Vite! Vite! Vite! he seemed to be saying, like an overeager Frenchman. A jet plane crossed the highest windowpanes perfectly level, perfectly silent, and sometimes a wan, translucent moon still hung behind the neighbors' maple tree.

She lay gathering her thoughts, absently stroking the cat, who always slept in the crook of her arm, until the young doctor down the street started his noisy car and set off for morning rounds. That was the signal for her to get up. How creaky she was becoming! Every joint had to learn to bend all over again each morning, it seemed.

By the time she came back from her shower, the sun had risen and more of the neighborhood was awake. The new puppy exploded from the house next door, yapping excitedly. A baby starte
d
crying. Several cars swished past. You could tell what time it was on this street just by counting the cars and hearing how fast they were going.

She dressed with care, eyeliner and all; she was not a bathrobe kind of woman. She made her bed and collected her water tumbler and the book she had fallen asleep with, and only then did she head downstairs, trailed by the cat, who liked to twine between her feet.

Tea. Toasted pita bread. A slice of feta cheese. While the tea was steeping she arranged her silver on a woven-straw place mat. She refilled Moosh's water bowl and checked his supply of kibble. She went out front for the newspaper, barely glancing at the headlines before laying it aside and sitting down to breakfast. (She preferred to concentrate on one thing at a time.) The tea was fresh and hot and bracing. The feta was Bulgarian, creamy and not too salty. Her chair was placed to catch the sunshine, which gilded the skin on her arms and felt like warm varnish on her head.

What a small, small life she lived! She had one grown son, one daughter-in-law, one grandchild, and three close friends. Her work was pleasantly predictable. Her house hadn't changed in decades. Next January she would be sixty-five years old not ancient, but even so, she couldn't hope for her world to grow anything but narrower from now on. She found this thought comforting rather than distressing.

Last week she'd noticed an obituary for a seventy-eight-year-old woman in Lutherville. Mrs. Cotton enjoyed gardening and sewing, she had read. Family members say she hardly ever wore the same outfit twice.

No doubt as a girl Mrs. Cotton had envisioned something more dramatic, but still, it didn't sound like such a bad existence to Maryam.

If it was a Wednesday the one day she worked, in the summer she would set off for Julia Jessup shortly after nine, when th
e
rush-hour traffic had finished. She would greet the janitor, open the mail, see to the small bit of paperwork. The smell of waxed floors made her feel virtuous, as if she were the one who had waxed them, and she drew a sense of accomplishment from discarding the past week's calendar pages. The school without its children their Hi, Mrs. Yaz! Morning, Mrs. Yaz! gave her a gentle twinge of nostalgia. On the bulletin board, an unclaimed mitten from last winter seemed to be shouting with life.

If it was not a Wednesday, she would take the newspaper into the sun porch after clearing away her breakfast things. She read desultorily bad news, more bad news, more to shake her head at and turn the page. Then she placed the paper in the recycling bag underneath the sink and went to weed her flowerbeds, or paid some bills at the desk in Sami's old room, or busied herself with some household task. Very rarely did she go out in public during the morning. Going out was work. It required conversation. It raised the possibility of mistakes.

She had noticed that as she grew older, speaking English took more effort. She might ask for es-stamps instead of stamps, or mix up her he's and she's, realizing it only when she saw a look of confusion cross someone's face. And then she would feel exhausted. Oh, what difference did it make? she would wonder. So unnecessary, for a language to specify the sexes! Why should she have to bother with this?

She was lonelier in public than she was at home, to be honest.

Before lunch she generally took a long walk, traveling the same route every day and smiling at the same neighbors and dogs and babies, noticing a new sapling here, a change of house color there. Summer was the time to call in the painters and the nursery crews. Workmen swarmed over the neighborhood as industriously as ants. She encountered her favorite plumber clanking through the tools in his panel truck.

It was hot now, but she liked being hot. She felt she moved more smoothly in heat. The glaze of sweat on her face took her back to airless nights in Tehran, when she and her family slept on mattresses dragged up to the rooftop and you could look across the city and see all the other families arranging their mattresses on their rooftops, as if every house had split open to show the lives going on inside. And then at dawn the call to prayer would float them all up from their sleep.

It wasn't that she wished to be back there, exactly (so much about that unprivate way of life had gone against her grain, even then), but she wouldn't have minded hearing once more that distant cry from the minaret.

She went home and rinsed her face in cool water and fixed herself a light lunch. Made a few phone calls. Looked at her mail. Sometimes Ziba stopped by with Susan. Or sometimes she just left Susan off while she ran errands; Maryam liked those days best. You could amuse a child more easily if no grownups were around. She would let Susan play with her jewelry box, sifting gold chains and clusters of turquoises through her fingers. She would show her the photo albums. This is my maternal great-uncle, Amir Ahmad. The baby on his knee is his seventh son. It was unusual in those days for a man to be seen holding a baby. He must have been an interesting person. She studied his face stern and square-bearded, topped by a heavy black turban, giving nothing away. She had only the faintest memory of him. And this is my father, Sadredin. He died when I was four. He would be your great-grandpa. But would he? The words sounded untruthful the instant they slipped from her mouth. Close though she felt to Susan as close as any grandmother could possibly feel she had trouble imagining the slightest link between the relatives back home and this little Asian fairy child with her straight black hair, her exotic black eyes, her skin as pale and opaque and textureless as bone.