Dreaming in English (4 page)

“Sorry ’bout that!” she calls to me, glowing with happiness and good health. “Hi, and welcome!”

There’s that word again, my favorite in all the English language. It’s how I’ve felt, every single day since my arrival in America. Welcomed. It’s how I never felt in Iran, not even for one day.

 

 

 

Ike does not have posters of bikini-naked women on his walls, thank goodness.

Another good thing: He is not very messy. I was curious about this. Because he’d left in a hurry to catch his flight to Las Vegas, he wouldn’t have had time to straighten up, and yet, besides a towel on the floor and a few shirts hanging on the back of a kitchen chair, his apartment is very neat. It’s masculine, with beige and maroon the main colors, and the furniture is modern. His stereo is a Bose, which I know is expensive because my brother-in-law, Ardishir, buys only the best of everything, and he has a Bose stereo.

Ike watches me as I look around. “So, do I pass the test?” He closes the door behind us, but the noise from the backyard still comes in. I don’t mind. In fact, I like it. I always wished to grow up in a loud house.

“Of course you pass the test, Ike!”
The real question: Will I?
“You don’t have a TV?”

“I watch movies with my family; that’s about it,” he says. “I never watch it alone.”

“What
do
you do when you’re alone?” As I say this, I wonder if it came out like I was flirting. I can’t always tell, and I didn’t mean for it to—it’s just that there are so many things about him I still don’t know.

“When I’m alone, I think about you,” he says, tilting his head at me the cutest little bit.

I smile, and smile, and can’t stop smiling. I’ve been this way ever since yesterday. It’s because of the
fact
of his love, the affirmation, the confirmation of it. But did it come too easy? He bestowed his love on me; I didn’t earn it.
But I will. I’ll be the best wife ever.

“This is so nice here, Ike,” I say, looking around. The ceiling has exposed beams, while the floors are stained concrete. This is modern style, I know, but the walls are thick adobe, which is traditional here in the desert. It’s a nice combination, to mix the old and the modern. “You built this all by yourself?”

“Me and my dad, yep.”

“What kind of furniture is this?” I gesture to a wood-framed, leather-seated rocking chair. It matches his bed and small dining table, and I know it’s a particular style, because I’ve seen it several times since being in the U.S.

“It’s Mission style,” he says. “Made by the Quakers or the Amish or some such group. The Amish, I think. I got it as a gift from my parents, so I didn’t think too much about it.”

Quakers
, I say in my head.
Amish. Ah. Mish. Amish.

“You’ll have to tell me about these groups sometime.”

He laughs. “There’s so much you don’t know, isn’t there? Every day must be an adventure for you. The Quakers, the Amish . . . they’re both very . . . well, I’m not sure they’re entirely American, but they’re certainly not Middle Eastern, I’d suppose.”

“I’ll look them up on the Internet and let you know,” I tell him.

“You do that often?” he says. “Look up American-ish stuff you don’t know?”

“Of course,” I say. “Did you know, for instance, that the first hot dogs in America were sold in the 1860s from street carts in New York City? And that Americans eat on average over sixty hot dogs per year? And that your president Franklin Roosevelt served hot dogs to the king of England when he visited in 1939?”

“Why, no,” Ike says. “I had no idea. Did the king like the hot dogs?”

“He loved them.” I laugh. “I can tell you many very interesting things about cotton candy, too. Or should I save that for another day?”

“Have you ever played Trivial Pursuit?” Ike says. “You really should.”

“No, I haven’t, but Ardishir tells me the same thing.”

“That would be fun,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

“Okay. Do you play chess? I like chess.”

“Chess, sure. And I’ll teach you to play strip poker. You’ll like that, too,” he says. “Or, at least,
I’ll
like that.”

When I agree to this, Ike laughs. “You don’t know what strip poker is, do you?”

I shake my head. “I’ve heard of poker. It’s a card game. But strip? No.”

“For every round you lose, you take off an article of clothing. So if you lose too much . . .” He watches me, waiting for me to get his meaning, and as I feel my face redden, he grins. “Sound fun?”

This is not a question I could answer—ever! I’m very shy about things like this—so instead, I move closer to a window ledge that’s lined with postcards. Ike follows, wrapping his arms around me from behind, which causes my temperature to rise by what feels like several degrees. “Do you mind?” I say, meaning does he mind if I pick up the postcards.

“Of course not. Do
you
mind if I kiss your neck while you look at them?”

Blushing, I say, “No!”

I pick up the Eiffel Tower one first. Paris.
Wish you were here. J.

It’s a woman’s handwriting. I wonder, who is this J. person? But it’s easy enough to disregard the question when Ike’s lips are so soft on my neck. However, when I pick up the Venice postcard and read,
Really wish you were here! J.
, it’s not so easy to ignore anymore.

“Who’s J?” I ask.

“Those are from Jenna,” Ike says. “Remember? I told you about her.”

“This is not a name I’ve ever heard before, Jenna.”

“She’s my old girlfriend,” he says. “My old set-it-free girlfriend. You know, the one who went on that huge trip to Europe after college. I told you about her.”

“Oh, right.” I remember now. This girlfriend gave Ike an ultimatum: Marry me, and I’ll stay. Don’t marry me, and I’ll go. Ike decided to let her go. “But the set-it-free part—what does it mean, please?”

“It’s stupid.” He grins, embarrassed. “But there’s this . . . well, when it ended, as it was ending, my mom reminded me of this saying, which is totally a cliché, but also, you know, it happens to be true—I guess that’s what a cliché is, right? A true but overused expression—”

“Every expression is new to me,” I remind him.

“Well, then you might appreciate it,” he says.
“If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it’s yours. If not, it was never meant to be.”

This is sweet, and sad.

“This saying reminds me of a bird,” I say. “Of letting a bird out of its cage and hoping it will fly back to you, but knowing it might not.”

“That might be where it comes from,” Ike says. “And it definitely fits Jenna because she’s flightier than hell. So anyway, I . . . set her free, and she didn’t come back, so . . .” He gathers up the postcards, tears them up, and throws them over his shoulder so they fall to the ground, the poor things. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

I appreciate his words, but his matter-of-fact tone does not ring true. He loved her, and he hoped she’d come back. Luckily for me, she didn’t.

When we hear Mr. Hanson’s truck pull into the driveway, my heart begins to race. Ike suggests we go back to the main house, and on the way, we pass by his mother on the back patio. She’s setting a stack of dishes on the table.

“Need help?” Ike asks.

“Nope,” she says. “Fill a pitcher of water before dinner, though, if you would.”

He agrees, and as we enter the house through the kitchen, I hear a child’s squealing from the living room. Ike grabs a can of Budweiser beer from the refrigerator, and at the doorway to the living room, he makes a motion as if he’s offering to throw it to his dad.

“Ah, just what a thirsty man needs,” Mr. Hanson says. He looks like Ike, plus twenty-five years—trim, solid, with his shirt tucked into his jeans, although Ike is a little bit taller. “Toss it here!”

“No, no!” Camille screams. Mr. Hanson is holding her by the ankles, upside down. If he lets go to catch the beer, she’ll fall and land on her head, but from how she’s laughing, I can tell she’s not worried. I don’t think this is the first time they’ve played this game.

“Ready?” Ike says. “Get ready to catch it.”

“No-o-o-o-o-o!” Camille giggles.

“Oh, all right,” Ike says. He crosses the room, bends to tickle Camille’s stomach, and in one swift move grabs her by the waist, takes her from his father, and tosses her over his shoulder. After this, he hands the beer to his father, who pops open the can and takes a long, satisfying swallow.

“Where’s Camille?” Ike says, looking around, twisting her sideways and back again.

“I’m right here!” She kicks her feet.

“I hear her, but I don’t see her,” he says.

“I don’t see her, either,” Mr. Hanson says. “In fact, I haven’t seen her since I’ve been home.”

“Yes, you have, Daddy!”
She kicks twice as hard, and Ike flips her over so she’s back on her feet in front of him.

“Oh,
there
you are,” he says. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Was my house ever this lively? Ever, even just once?

“Do it again!” Camille says to her father.

“Do what again?” he says.

“Again! Again! Again!” Camille jumps on him, nearly knocking him off balance, nearly spilling his beer.

“No, honey, I just got home. Let me relax for a minute. Let me meet your brother’s friend.” He acknowledges me with a nod. “Hi, there. I’m Alan.”

“Dad, this is Tami,” Ike says. “Tami, this is my dad.”

My heart pounds from the information he left out—
this is my wife.
For his part, Ike’s father gives no indication that his son having a woman over is in any way out of the ordinary. He extends his hand with a crinkly-eyed smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Thank you,” I say. “It’s very nice to meet you, too.”

“Will you play Uno with me, Daddy?” Camille says.

“After dinner,” Mr. Hanson says. “I’m going to go say hello to my wife now, if you don’t mind.”

Camille tries but fails to roll her eyes as he leaves the room. “Ike, will you?” She looks at me. “She can play, too.”

I smile. Does this mean she likes me?

“Another time,” Ike says. “We wouldn’t be able to finish before dinner, and Tami and I have something to do afterward.”

She pouts. “No one will play with me.”

“You poor thing,” Ike says. “You have such a hard life, don’t you?”

Camille smirks at him; she knows she’s got a good life. She’s acting a lot like Iranian girls her age do, before they’re made to understand the world does not, in fact, revolve around them.

“
Dinner!
” we hear yelled from the back porch.

“Can I sit next to you?” Camille asks Ike. “Even though she’s here?”

Ike laughs. “Guess what? I have a left side and a right side, so you can sit on one side and Tami can sit on the other. How does that sound?”

“I call the right side!” she says.

“Tami, is that okay?” Ike asks. “I know you really wanted to sit on my right side.”

I smile. “Camille can sit on your right side.”

“Isn’t she nice?” Ike says to Camille. “Isn’t she the nicest person you’ve ever met?”

Camille nods. “Next time, I’ll sit next to her.”

 

 

 

At dinner, I’m one of many, part of a festive group. Izzy’s friends stay—they’ve changed out of their swimsuits, but their hair is still wet and they’re glowing from their healthy afternoon in the sun. A girlfriend of Kat’s has also come for dinner, and I have the feeling there’s always someone over, that there’s always something going on. Their home is a place people want to be, and I feel such gratitude to be part of it—tonight, and hopefully forever. Looking at everyone up and down the large, long table stretched across their covered back patio—fully half the people here are guests—I think Ike might be right. His family indeed might welcome me with the open arms he said they would. That’s the sort of people they seem to be.

I sit toward one end of the table with Ike and his parents (along with Camille, to Ike’s right, of course), while Izzy and Kat and their friends sit toward the other end. Paige sits next to her father, across from me. For the first few minutes, we pass dishes around and fill our plates. When his father asks if I’d like a glass of wine, Ike correctly senses my uncertainty as to whether I should accept and announces that he’d like a glass, so I say I’ll have one, too. I haven’t had much wine in my life. In the teetotaling country of Iran, I hardly drank alcohol at all, and here, the few times I have, it’s been margaritas or beer or champagne. I do like the smooth taste of the wine Ike’s father serves, although I take only a few polite sips. I have what my friend Eva calls
low tolerance
, and I certainly don’t want to get drunk in front of my new in-laws!

Mr. Hanson, with the watchful eyes of a poet, listens far more than he speaks. I feel that the least of my gestures has significance to him, as he takes in how I cut my lasagna and lettuce into small bites, at how I smile at what everyone says, at how I pause to form in my head the answers to Mrs. Hanson’s many questions before I say them out loud. It makes me nervous to be studied so closely, and so I keep my eye contact mostly away from Mr. Hanson, but when I do meet his eyes, they reflect back a decency that’s similar to his son’s.

Mrs. Hanson asks mostly the same questions everyone asks me: How am I finding America? Do I miss my parents? What’s the most surprising thing about the U.S.? What’s it like to live in Iran? Isn’t it awful how women there have to wear headscarves? My standard answers come out easily and coherently, as I tell her that I love America; that I miss my parents tremendously; that the most surprising (and refreshing!) thing about America is how everyone mostly just leaves everyone else alone. I tell them living in Iran is in some ways wonderful, but that unemployment is very high and Tehran is crowded and polluted and yes, it’s too bad women have to wear
hejab
, but we don’t walk around obsessing about it as much as Americans seem to.