The Brevity of Roses (24 page)

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I can’t decide if you are a poet because you don’t think in full sentences, or the other way around.”

His brow arched. “It takes skill to condense many thoughts into few words.”

“Indeed,” she said and laid a hand on his book.

“That reminds me, how did you know to buy my second book? I never told you I was a writer.”

“Are you serious?”

He frowned.

“Are you telling me you never noticed your book is prominently displayed in the gift shops here—local celebrity, and all that?”

“Oh, that.” He did his best to forget. “Yes. Well.” He wiped a drop of tea off the table. “The other day I promised you tea
and
my turn to interrogate. So, my first question is why did you move here?”

She took a drink of tea. “I didn’t intend to. I was on my way to L.A., but my car started acting up and this was the nearest place to get it fixed. Since Keith had to order the part, it took a couple of days, so I looked around and thought, Bay of Dreams, why not?”

“But … what about the reason you were going to Los Angeles?”

Renee shrugged. “There wasn’t any. Really. It was just somewhere to go. To get away.”

He studied her while she broke delicate pieces from a cookie and placed them on her tongue. Finally, he gave her a prompt. “To get away from …”

She waved a hand vaguely. “Oh … nothing.”

He shook his head. “You told me once that you wanted a new start. That sounds like you were moving on from something. Or someone.”

She held out her cup and he refilled it. He waited for her response, but after a minute of silence, he asked, “Was this ‘nothing’ the person who phoned you last night?”

She gave him a blank look.

“Here in my kitchen? Your cell phone? Before you ran out?”

She pressed her lips together, but he saw the smile in her eyes.

“No,” she said. “That was no one—seriously. Hey, were you born rich or did you earn it?”

“I—” His mouth snapped shut and he shot her a look. “Hold on. You assume I am rich.”

She laughed. “Are you denying it? Come
on
. Wikipedia—”

“We were talking about you, Renee.”

“Not anymore.” She downed the rest of her tea and jumped up. “I need to get going. Thanks for the book.”

Dumbfounded, Jalal stood up, but it took him a few seconds to respond. “Yes … let me know how you like it.”

“Will do.” She headed for the door, then stopped and looked back. “And don’t
ever
call me a child again.”

Though she smiled, he knew she was serious. “I would not think of it,” he told her.

When Renee began her visits over a month ago, Jalal feared they would intrude too much on his solitude. Truth was he enjoyed having her there to share his afternoon tea, to chat or even argue with, to laugh with—to just
be
with someone. Today was sunny and warm. They sat drowsily on his porch, he with his feet propped up, chair tipped back, she sideways on the railing, resting against a column, knees to chest. They spoke in spurts, a comfortable silence falling between.

“So,” she said, “what’s the deal with you and your dad?”

He frowned, certain he must have misheard.

“Your dad, your father, your male parent … why do you hate him?”

He shook his head. “I have no clue what you are on about.”

Renee sighed. “I’m talking about some of the poems in your first collection. The ones you wrote about your father.”

He turned his head away and said nothing.

“Oookay,” she said, “I guess we don’t talk about that.”

“You need to learn the difference between being direct and being rude.” Jalal glared at the ocean. She had no right to ask him such a personal question. His relationship with his— In one motion, his feet and chair legs hit the porch floor and his head whipped around to face her. “I never said those poems were about my father!”

She gazed calmly at him. “You did now.”

His jaw clenched. It still hurt to admit his error. Pride. How many times had he pushed Meredith away because of it? One such memory came back to him now.

They were driving back from another trip to Seattle when Meredith asked, “Jalal, is it possible you’ve misinterpreted your father’s feelings … about your writing, I mean?”

He sighed. “What did he say to you this time?”

“Nothing in particular. He always asks me how your work is going.”

“You mean, he questions whether I still write. He asks you if I have come to my senses yet?”

Meredith shook her head. “Jalal—”

“Listen, I know he charms you. I know you want us all to be one happy family.” He sighed again. “You do not know him like I do.”

“But … it doesn’t seem to me that anyone …” She stopped, took a breath, and started over. “None of your sisters, not even your brothers, seem to know the same father you do.”

He looked at her in disbelief. “Do you think I
want
my father to hate me? That would be insane. Is that what—” The car was riding Braille. He steered back into his lane and kept his eyes on the road.

“Jalal, all I’m saying—”

He shot a hand in the air, fingers spread, signifying he was through discussing the subject. Then, in his mind’s eye, he saw the gesture as one his father often used and he slapped his hand back on the steering wheel. His mother and sisters had instigated this, but Meredith would let it go—for now. Why could none of them understand?

As it turned out, they had. Now, he forced himself to meet Renee’s gaze. “I wrote those poems a long time ago. It was wrong. I was a fool.”

She nodded. “So things are all right between the two of you now?”

“Yes, they are.”

“Great.” She swung her legs around and hopped off the railing. “I need a Coke. Do you want one?”

“Why not.” Again, he tipped back in his chair. Renee. How could someone so young be so tough? Her willingness to confront him put Azadeh’s to shame.
Life is too short
, Renee had once reminded him, as though it were a lesson learned. What or who had been her teacher?

He heard the car before he saw any movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned toward the sound and, for the second time, his feet and chair legs hit the floor hard. Only this time he rocketed out of the chair. Azadeh was pulling into his driveway. Oh lord, how would he explain Renee? He crossed the porch to the steps, as Aza and the kids entered the yard.

“Sorry. I know we should have called first,” she said.

“Oh, come on, you know I never mind.” He pulled her into a hug when she stepped up on the porch. “I am always happy to see you.” The screen door opened behind him and, over her shoulder, he saw Ryan’s eyes widen. Jalal turned. “Renee,” he said a little too loudly, “this is my sister Azadeh, and her children Ryan and Kristen.”

Renee stood there with a soda can in each hand, her eyes making the rounds. “Hello,” she said.

Azadeh murmured a surprised greeting in return.

“Renee is a neighbor,” Jalal said and glanced away from the accusation that flashed in Renee’s eyes. He turned back to Azadeh. She still eyed Renee.

Renee handed a can to Ryan as nonchalantly as if he had ordered it. “It was nice to meet you all,” she said. “I was just leaving.” Then she faced Jalal and forced him to meet her eyes. When he did, she thrust the other Coke at him. “See you around the neighborhood.” She stepped past Ryan, and Azadeh and Kristen moved aside to let her through.

“Please, stay,” said Azadeh.

“Thanks, but I really have to go now. Some other time, maybe.”

They all watched Renee walk to her car. Jalal was aware how long her legs looked beneath her skimpy shorts. As soon as Renee started her car, Ryan slapped him on the back.

“Way to
go
, uncle Jalal!” he said, grinning.

“She is just a neighbor,” snapped Jalal.

“Yeah?” Ryan popped open the can. “Can I come live with you?”

“Ryan!” Azadeh slapped his arm, causing soda to splash out. As he backed away, brushing the drops off his shirt, she sent Jalal a questioning look.

“Can we boogie board now?” asked Kristen.

Minutes later, while Ryan and Kristen braved the surf, Azadeh and Jalal walked along the beach. “Have you talked to Sam lately?” he asked.

“Yes, quite a bit. So far, he’s agreeing to everything. It’s freaking me out.” She laughed. “What exactly did you say to him?”

He picked up a shell and examined it before tossing it down. “I reasoned with him.”

“Sam was never a reasonable man.”

Jalal shielded his eyes and scanned the water for the kids. Kristen spotted him, and he returned her wave. “I guess Sam is not the same man you married.”

“No, he’s not,” said Azadeh. They walked on for a while before she broke the silence. “So, who is Renee, really?”

He glanced over at her. “Just some local girl.”

She smiled. “A girl who seems very comfortable in your house.”

“Do not make it a big deal, Aza. We just talk.”

“How long have you known her?”

He stopped and bent down to pick up a stone. “I am not sure. Three weeks? Does it matter?”

“How did you meet her?”

Jalal shot her a glare and flung the stone into the surf. “She walked by the house one day.”

“And?”

He threw his hands up. “We frequent the same restaurant. I see her along the beach. Sometimes she stops by the house. We talk. End of story.”

“She’s young.”

He looked skyward, sighing. “Yes.”

“She’s pretty.”

“Okay.”

She laid a hand on his arm. “I’m not judging you. It’s been two and a half years.”

The pity in her voice was more than he could take. He shook off her hand and walked away, down the beach, immediately ashamed of his reaction. Azadeh did not follow. Why did she put up with him? A few yards away, he climbed partway up a crumbled cliff and watched her walk back toward the kids. Like a shadow, Azadeh never left his side in the first weeks after Meredith’s accident. She had literally kept him alive. Some days he blessed her for that, on others he cursed her. If only to please her, he wished he could be happy again.

Jalal insisted Azadeh and the kids spend the night. He took them out for dinner and though Ryan lobbied for pizza, they out voted him in favor of seafood. As a consolation, Jalal let Ryan drive back to the house. Later, after two cutthroat games of Phase 10, Azadeh and Kristen settled in the guestroom while Ryan and Jalal flipped a coin to see who would be stuck sleeping on the sofa. Ryan won the bed, but seemed in no hurry to claim it. Jalal sensed Ryan wanted to talk about the divorce. He grabbed two cold beers and motioned for the boy to join him on the porch.

As soon as they took their seats, Jalal handed him a bottle. “Do not tell your mother I gave you that.”

“Got it,” said Ryan. “But this is not my first beer, you know.”

Jalal laughed. “I had a feeling it might not be. I may be old, but senility has not wiped out all memory of being your age.”

“I don’t think of you as old. I mean, I know you’re older than Mom, but you don’t seem like it. You’re still cool.”

“Thanks.” Jalal tipped the neck of his bottle in Ryan’s direction. “So, how is your life?”

“Oh, you know.”

“Do you like Coelho?”

“It’s okay.” Ryan took a long swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll like it more when my friend Eric comes down to visit.”

“Indeed.”

“We can hang at the mall, check out the girls.”

“Sounds like a plan.” They sat in silence for a minute, drinking. Jalal waited for Ryan to speak his mind, but it was late, their bottles were half-empty, and Ryan evidently needed a push. “Did you want to talk to me about something?”

Ryan took a drink, and then another. “Did you know my dad’s a fag?”

Jalal froze with his bottle halfway to his mouth.
Oh, hell
. He had thought Ryan needed to talk about the divorce. He lowered his hand. “That is a harsh thing to say.”

Ryan stood up. “Just forget it, okay?”

Jalal grabbed his arm. “Sit down. Please.” He waited until Ryan settled and then, hoping he was doing the right thing, he told him, “I suspected … but only recently.”

“Does Mom know?”

“I do not know. What do you think?”

Ryan shrugged. “Maybe she doesn’t
want
to know.”

Jalal nodded. “Maybe not. Or maybe she is not ready to discuss it with you.”

“Got it.”

“What your father does … or is … has nothing to do with you,” said Jalal. “You know that, right?”

“Sure.” Ryan drank the last of his beer and set the bottle down. He stood up again. “I think I’ll get some sleep.”

“Enjoy the bed,” said Jalal.

“Awww,
man
. I don’t mind the sofa, really, it’s no big—”

“It was a joke, doofus.”

Ryan tapped his fist on Jalal’s shoulder as he passed behind him. “Thanks for … you know.”

“No problem.”

Jalal finished his beer. Such power fathers have over their sons. Had Ryan only humored him? Did he know what Jalal had told him was bull? Maybe the boy was stronger than he had been at that age. Maybe Ryan would grow up just fine in the shadow of his father. The sound of the door opening again startled him. He turned his head expecting to see Ryan.