Digging to America (34 page)

Then she remembered how whenever she and Kiyan ate out, Kiyan would study the menu too long before he finally made his selection, and after their food arrived he would look at his meal, look at hers, look at his again and say, Poor me! She always seethed when he did that.

Or that time she'd dumped the crock of yogurt on his plate: she'd spent all afternoon making his favorite meal, baghali polo, with the lima beans whose skins she'd had to pop off one by one till her fingertips grew puckered and waterlogged; and when she'd set the platter before him he had said, No yogurt to put on top, I see.

A forgivable remark, but the wrong one for the moment, and that was why the crock of yogurt had ended up where it did.

She saw her past self as grudging, miserly. She should have told him, Here, take my shrimp salad if you like it better. She should have said, Yogurt? Of course. I'll fetch it. But at the time she had resented his never-ending neediness. It hadn't yet occurred to her that a life where no one needed her would be a weak, dim, pathetic life.

Wasn't that what had drawn her to Dave? It had been so clear that she could make him happy. All it took was a yes; how long since she'd had that power? Seduced by Need, she thought, picturing it as the flame-edged title on a lurid romance comic book. In the end, that had been her downfall: the wish to feel needed.

Fool.

For the sake of feeling needed she had linked herself to a man so inappropriate that she might as well have fished his name out of a hat. An American man, naive and complacent and oblivious, convinced that his way was the only way and that he had every right to rearrange her life. She had melted the instant he said, Come in, even though she knew full well that inclusion was only a myth. And why? Because she had believed that she could make a difference in his life.

How could you do that, Maryam? he had asked. And, How will you explain throwing everything away?

Sometimes lately she felt as if she had emigrated all over again. Once more she had left her past self behind, moved to an alien land, and lost any hope of returning.

The reason Farah was visiting Maryam this year, instead o
f
Maryam's visiting her, was that William had a plan to refinish al
l
their floors and he said it would be easier if Farah was out of the way. But her visit didn't really coincide with the Arrival Party; that had just been an alibi. She arrived on a Friday afternoon at the end of July, bringing so many clothes that you would think she was staying a month rather than a weekend. Her hostess gift was a painted tin box filled with saffron. (Living in rural Vermont, she had no inkling that saffron could be found nowadays in most supermarkets.) I ordered it off the Internet, she said. I have become an Internet wizard! You should see me with my mouse, click-click! She had also brought an assortment of little cardboard squares streaked to resemble wood in different shades of brown or yellow. What do you think, Mari -june? Which finish should we choose for our floors? I say this one; William says that one.

To Maryam there was little difference, but she said, Yours is nice.

I knew you would agree! I'll call William tonight and tell him. Then she said, Oh, Maryam, American men can do anything. Unstop a toilet, replace a light switch ... Well. But you know that. She looked flustered, suddenly, and Maryam couldn't think why until Farah asked, Do you ever hear from him?

From ... ? Oh. From Dave, Maryam said. No.

Well, you must have had your reasons, Farah told her forbearingly. Remember back home: Aunt Nava? How everybody urged her to marry the man her father chose for her? And she said no, no, no, and her parents were at their wits' end, but of course they couldn't force her. So one night she's lying in bed; her father knocks on her door; 'Nava -june. Are you awake? Nava, june-am,' he says.. .

Oh, those old, old stories, repeated with all the proper inflections, lowered tones, dramatic pauses! Maryam found herself relaxing and drifting as if to music.

But the visit was not relaxing in general. It never was, in Maryam's experience, because Farah was so intent on catching u
p
with all her acquaintances. First they had to fix a dinner for Sami and Ziba and Susan, and Farah had to make a big fuss over Susan and display the many gifts she had brought her. This was fine with Maryam; her own family wasn't work, after all. But next they had to drive to Washington to visit Ziba's parents, who adored Farah (so much more fun than Maryam, they no doubt felt) and never failed to throw a party for her when she came. A huge party, overflowing with caviar and iced vodka, at which Farah held forth like a queen. She sparkled and she trilled her jeweled fingers and she laughed with her head flung back. Graciously, she tried to make Maryam feel a part of things. You all know Maryam, yes? My favorite cousin! We were girls together. Maryam would move forward, smiling stiffly, offering her hand; but she was not a member here. As soon as possible she retreated to a quiet corner, where she found Sami reading Susan a coffee-table book about Persepolis. (He was not a member either, although Ziba was happily circulating among the younger guests down in the rec room.)

If we lived in Iran, Maryam told Sami, every night would be like this.

Sami glanced up at her and said, Even now?

Maryam said, Well . . . She wasn't sure, as a matter of fact. She said, When I was a girl, how I hated it all! At any of the family parties, I'd be sitting where you are this minute.

She wondered if there was a gene for that for holding oneself back, resisting the communal merriment. It had never before occurred to her that she had passed this trait on to Sami.

On Farah's last day, a Sunday, they went shopping at a giant mall and Farah fell in love with a discount store that catered to teenage girls. She bought a multitude of billowy rayon pants that looked extravagant and sophisticated when she tried them on not discount at all, not teenage. Then they had lunch in the food court. And what did you buy? Nothing, Farah said in a fond, scoldin
g
tone. I tell you, Maryam jon: There are two kinds of people in this world. One kind goes out shopping and comes back with way too much and says, 'Oh-oh, I overbought.' And the other comes back with empty hands and says, 'Oh, dear, I wish I'd bought such-andsuch.'

Maryam had to laugh at that. It was true that she often saw something she wanted but the transaction seemed too complex; it required too much energy, and so she passed it up and then later she was sorry.

In the afternoon they cooked together, preparing several of the Iranian dishes that had proved most successful with foreigners, and that evening Maryam's three women friends came to dinner. They knew Farah from past visits; so it was a comfortable occasion. Maryam traveled between kitchen and dining room while Farah kept the others amused with a description of the Hakimis' party. Really it was two parties, the old people's and the young people's, she said. Maryam instantly understood what she meant, although she hadn't considered it at the time. The old ones dressed up and the young ones wore jeans. The old ones listened to Googoosh on the sound system upstairs while the young ones danced to something bang-bang-bang playing downstairs in the rec room.

Then she said, They're losing their culture, the young ones. I see this everywhere. They pay their traditional New Year's visits but they're not sure what they're supposed to be doing once they get there. They go through all the motions but they keep looking at everyone else to see if they've got it right. They try to join in but they don't know how. Isn't that true, Maryam? Don't you agree?

Maryam's guests turned to her, waiting for her to answer. And although she could have simply said, Yes, and let the moment pass, she had a sudden guilty feeling, as if she were an impostor. What right did she have to speak? She was outside the cultur
e
herself. She had always been outside it. Somehow, for no reason she could name, she had never felt at home in her own country or anywhere else, which was probably why her three best friends were foreigners. Kari, Danielle, and Calista: outsiders every one, born that way themselves.

Don't you agree, Mari -june? Farah was asking again, and Maryam stood in the kitchen doorway with a salad bowl in her hands and wondered if every decision she had ever made had been geared toward preserving her outsiderness.

Ziba told Maryam that for this year's Arrival Party, she wanted to serve something different. All those Iranian dishes are getting a little old, she said. I was thinking maybe sushi.

Sushi? Maryam repeated. For a moment, she thought she had heard wrong.

I could order it from that place in Towson that delivers. Maryam said, Ah. Well, bu
t
For my parents and my brothers I'd get California rolls. You can be sure they won't eat raw fish.

But California rolls have crabmeat, Maryam said.

Oh, nobody observes those old restrictions anymore. Last Christmas, Hassan's wife served lobster.

And the Donaldsons? Maryam wanted to ask. The Donaldson
s
would be devastated! No authentic Middle Eastern cuisine! But all she said to Ziba was, Let me know what I can bring. A bottle of sake would be nice, Ziba said.

Maryam laughed, but Ziba didn't. Evidently she was serious.

Maryam did plan to attend this year. She had given herself a talking-to. It was cowardly of her, she realized, not to have gone to last year's party. Apparently she still cared too much about othe
r
people's opinions. At this age, she should be able to say, Oh, so what if things would be awkward?

She chose ahead what to wear, perhaps giving too much thought to it, and she consulted the man at the liquor store about which brand of sake to buy. The night before the party, she slept poorly. In fact she would have said that she didn't sleep at all, except that at one point she had a dream and so she must have drifted off at least for a moment. She dreamed she was back in primary school and her class was singing the chicken song. Jig, jig, jujehayam, they sang, in cute little ducklike voices; and Dave was looking on and reproachfully shaking his head, Dave the same age he was now, with his gray curls and his drooping eyelids. Child grieving, Maryam, he said, and she woke annoyed with herself for dreaming a dream so obvious. Her clock radio read 3:46. After she'd lain there watching it change to four, four-thirty, and five, she got up.

Probably her restless night was the reason she passed the morning in such a fog. It was a Sunday, unusually cool and pleasant for August, and she should have worked in her garden but instead she lingered over the newspapers. After that she finished reading a novel she had started the evening before, even though she had trouble remembering the beginning and she wasn't all that interested in the end. Then all at once it seemed to be twelve-thirty. How had that happened? The Arrival Party was scheduled for one o'clock. She rose and collected her newspapers and went upstairs to change.

Ziba would be setting out the sushi trays now and the chopsticks she had bought. Her brothers would be stealing pistachios from the sheet of baklava bristling with American flags, and she would shoo them away and call for her sisters-in-law to come take charge of their husbands. Everyone would be milling about, jabbering half in English and half in Farsi, sometimes confusing the two, so that they would accidentally address Susan in the wrong language.

Such a noisy bunch, Iranians could be! More than once Dav
e
had pointed out that they were a whole lot noisier than the Donald-sons. Maryam would have to concede his point, but still it seemed to her that the Donaldsons were ... oh, more self-vaunting, self-advertising. They seemed to feel that their occasions their anniversaries, birthdays, even their leaf-rakings had such cataclysmic importance that naturally the entire world was longing to celebrate with them. Yes, that was what she objected to: their assumption that they had the right to an unfair share of the universe.

Remember the night the girls arrived? she had once asked Dave. Your family filled the whole airport! Ours was squeezed into a corner. She had taken care to speak lightly. This was an amicable discussion, after all a theoretical discussion; not a quarrel. And yet underneath she had been aware of a little flare of resentment. And when Xiu-Mei came: the same thing again. That time, our two families met the plane together, but I felt as if we were ... borrowing your festivity. Clinging to the edges of it.

He hadn't understood. She could see that. He really hadn't understood what she was talking about.

She went to the closet for the dress she had chosen a sleeveless black linen, very plain. Instead of putting it on, though, she draped it over the back of a chair. Then she slipped off her shoes and stretched out on her bed, laying one arm across her eyes, which felt hot and tired and achy.

The Donaldsons would be dressing their daughters in something ethnic. Or they would be dressing Xiu-Mei, at least. Jin-Ho (Jo) might resist. Bitsy would be complaining about She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain, although probably she had given up trying to find an alternative. Aw, hon, Brad would be saying, don't get in such a swivet. Let the kids have their song.

Last week in Tuxedo Pharmacy, Maryam had noticed a couple cruising the greeting-card aisle and she had wondered why they seemed so familiar. Then she thought, Oh! It was the tall youn
g
man who'd stepped off the jetway the night of the girls' arrival, and the young woman who had been waiting for him. Only now they had two children a handsome little brown-eyed boy was shepherding his ponytailed sister down the aisle ahead of them and the young woman carried one of those motherly knapsacks bulging with diapers and sippy cups. They would never guess they had been captured on a videotape that was shown to a crowd of strangers every August in perpetuity.