Digging To America Part 12

Well, I did, Maryam said. But this is nice, too. And besides ... it was a gift.

Ah, Ziba said again.

Maryam had her back turned, so Ziba couldn't see her expression.

It was a favorite subject now any time Ziba and Bitsy got together. What was happening? they asked each other. And why bother keeping it secret? Didn't Maryam and Dave realize that everyone in both families would be thrilled to see them dating? They cataloged the few clues they'd gathered: Maryam was less often available for babysitting duty; Dave had been caught playing an LP record of Iranian music sung by a woman named Shusha. Shusha! Ziba said. Maryam's favorite singer! And Maryam is the only person I know who still doesn't own a CD player.

Although she did own an answering machine now. After all the times that Sami and Ziba had urged her to get one! But she didn't seem to know how to work it. Her outgoing announcement kept reverting, for some reason, to the generic greeting provided by the factory Please ... leave ... a ... message in a robot-like male voice without intonation. And then, mysteriously, a new announcement of her own would take its place, even though she had claimed to need Sami's help to record it. He would show up as requested and she would say, vaguely, Oh, it's back to normal again, I believe. But thanks. As if the new announcement had installed itself by magic, while she was looking elsewhere.

Dave must have done that. Dave must have bought the answering machine in the first place another gift. She used to say that an answering machine would just complicate her life. What are you implying: you can't be bothered calling me twice if you don't find me at home? she would ask. One of those Maryam-isms, those Her Highnessuisms, that always made Ziba close her eyes for an instant.

Oh, Bitsy said, they're dating, all right.

But if so, why not admit it? Ziba asked.

Maybe Maryam is embarra.s.sed. She told me once she was past all that; maybe she feels sheepish now that she's changed her mind.

It's hard to imagine Maryam feeling sheepish, Ziba said. They smiled at each other.

Once upon a time, Ziba had been painfully shy in Bitsy's presence. Bitsy had seemed so much older and more accomplished; she was so creative; she was pa.s.sionately involved in politics and recycling programs and such and she had very knowledgeable opinions.

But that was before she fell all over herself apologizing for her Americanness and her First Worldness and her white-breadness, as she called it. She was forever complimenting Ziba's exotic appearance and asking for her viewpoint on various international issues. Not that Ziba had much of a viewpoint, or any that was different from what she read in the Baltimore Sun if ever she could find the time. But somehow she was granted a kind of authority, even so.

And then lately, she had become Bitsy's moral support almost her elder as various difficulties arose with little Xiu-Mei. It seemed Xiu-Mei was having trouble taking root. She was a very sweet child, very warm and loving, but every germ that came along managed to lay her low, and twice since her arrival she had had to be hospitalized. Bitsy had the sagging, sleep-deprived appearance of the mother of a newborn. Sometimes she was still in her bathrobe at ten o'clock in the morning. She snapped at Jin-Ho over trifles and she seemed defeated by her own house. So Ziba ran her errands, and collected Jin-Ho for playdates, and offered what rea.s.surance she could. Xiu-Mei's so much bigger now than when you brought her home, she said. And look at how she hangs on to you!

In the beginning, Xiu-Mei hadn't known how to hang on. It could be that she had never been held. She would arch her back in a stiff, rejecting posture when people tried to pick her up. But now she nestled in Bitsy's lap and clung to a twist of her sleeve, observing the scene narrowly over her pink plastic pacifier. They couldn't get that pacifier out of her mouth. Bitsy said she regretted ever introducing it, although what choice had they really had, with the flight home such a problem? Now we have a pacifier in every single room, she said, in case of an emergency, and three or four in her crib and half a dozen in her stroller. When I'm feeding her I have to unplug her mouth, pop in a spoonful of food, and then plug the pacifier back in again; and she objects the whole time. I think that's why she's so thin.

She was thin thin and wispy and small for her age, and at fourteen months she had not yet begun to crawl. But no one could doubt her intelligence. She watched one face and then another so closely she might have been lip-reading, and when Jin-Ho and Susan were playing nearby she grew especially attentive, following every movement with her tip-turned, bright-black eyes.

If only she would nap, Bitsy said, I believe I could get on top of things here. But she refuses. I lay her down in her crib and she starts shrieking. Not just crying shrieking, in this high sharp wailing voice. Sometimes late in the evening I think, There was something I meant to do today. What? What was it I meant to do? And then I remember: comb my hair.

Which reminds me, Ziba said. You know the Arrival Party: I think we should have it at our house this year.

Why? You had it last year.

Yes, but with Xiu-Mei and all That party is three months away, Bitsy said. If life isn't any better by then, I'll be on the psych ward.

All the more reason to have it at our house, Ziba said, risking a joke. But Bitsy failed to smile.

So Ziba switched the subject, and asked if Bitsy thought the girls might be old enough for day camp this summer. Oh, I don't know, Bitsy said in a listless voice. Who can say about such things?

There was a time when she would have had plenty to say. Ziba missed those days.

One June afternoon Ziba opened her door to find Maryam standing on her porch in a tailored blouse and linen skirt, beige linen pumps, and a bicycle helmet. What on earth! Ziba said.

I'm sorry to arrive unannounced, Maryam said. May I come in? And then she walked on in without waiting for an answer. The helmet was black and orange the orange a flame shape over each ear and the chin strap emphasized a pad of flesh beneath her jaw that Ziba had never noticed before. I was out shopping, as you see, she said, gesturing toward her skirt as if to prove it, and when I came home I thought I'd try on this helmet I had bought. I wanted to make sure that I knew how to work it.

You bought a bicycle helmet?

But clearly I did not know how to work it, because once I had it on I couldn't get it off again.

Ziba had an urge to laugh. She kept a straight face, but still Maryam said, Yes, I know: don't I make a spectacle! But I thought I would rather ask you than go to one of my neighbors.

Well, of course, Ziba said soothingly. Here, let's see, now... She stepped forward to take hold of a plastic buckle at one side. She squeezed it, but nothing happened. She felt for some sort of latch but she didn't find one.

Susan, who had been playing out back, came in just then with a watering can and said, Ooh, Mari -june! What have you got on?

Just a bicycling helmet, dearest, Maryam told her. Any luck? she asked Ziba.

No, but give me a minute. I'm sure there must be . . . Ziba ran her fingers along the edge of the strap. She could smell the faintly bitter cologne Maryam was wearing, and she could feel the heat of her skin. What was it that you fastened when you put it on? she asked.

I believe it was that buckle, but now I don't remember. In the shop the boy who sold it to me undid it in a flash, but now I don't ouch.

Sorry, Ziba said. She had attempted to pull the strap up over Maryam's chin, but obviously it was meant to stay put. What did she know about such things? The only sport she'd played as a girl was volleyball and in a maghnae at that, a heavy black fitted headscarf that m.u.f.fled her ears and covered her chest. I must be missing something, she said. Here's the buckle, here's the strap ...

Where's your bike? Susan asked Maryam.

I don't have a bike, june-am.

Then what do you need a helmet for?

I had intended to ride a bicycle belonging to a friend.

Susan wrinkled her forehead. Ziba stepped back and said, Sami will know.

Sami? Is he home?

No, but I expect him any minute. Come in and sit down and we'll wait for him.

Oh, dear, Maryam said. She went over to the gilt-edged mirror that hung opposite the front door. Wouldn't you think this plastic piece she said, peering at her reflection.

I tried the plastic piece, Ziba told her. Come and sit down, Maryam. Let me make you a cup of tea. Or ... can you drink tea with a helmet on?

I don't know, Maryam said. Oh, I don't want tea! Maybe we should just cut the strap with scissors.

There's no point in ruining a brand-new helmet. Come in and wait for Sami.

Maryam followed Ziba into the living room, but she didn't look happy about it.

Does the bike belong to Danielle? Susan asked, trailing after Maryam.

This made Ziba laugh out loud, finally the image of Danielle LeFaivre, the most hoity-toity of Maryam's women friends, doggedly pedaling a bicycle in her Carolina Herrera suit and fourhundred-dollar shoes. Maryam sighed and sat down on the sofa. No, she said, it was another friend. Then she changed the subject. What were you watering? she asked Susan. Do you already have something growing?

No, I was just messing around.

Yesterday I went to the nursery and bought some catnip plants for Moosh, Maryam told her. I thought you and I could put them into that patch beneath the kitchen window the next time you come over.

Is the bicycle Dave's? Ziba asked abruptly.

Then she was sorry, because Maryam took a long moment before she said, It was Connie's.

Oh.

Dave was planning to take me for a ride in the country this weekend. He still has Connie's bike in his garage, but he thought it would be safer not to rely on her old helmet.

Oh, he's right! Ziba said. It's like children's car seats, I think. You're not supposed to resell them. They have a limited life expectancy.

When Sami opened the front door you would think they had both been rescued; they turned so quickly toward the sound.

Sami wasn't as taken aback as he should have been, in Ziba's opinion. All he said when he walked in was, Hi, Mom. What's with the helmet?

I was wondering if you could help me get it off, she told him.

Why, sure, he said, and he came over to her, did something to the strap that made a snapping noise, and lifted the helmet from her head.

Thanks, Maryam said. And thank you for trying, Ziba. She rose and tucked the helmet under her arm and retrieved her purse from the sofa.

Have a nice bike ride, Ziba told her.

Thanks, Maryam said again, already in the front hall.

Sami said, But, Mom? Will you know how to undo it again? She said, Oh, I'll figure it out. Goodbye.

It seemed she couldn't get away from them fast enough.

In July, Maryam went to Vermont for her annual visit. She boarded Moosh with Sami and Ziba, and Ziba agreed to water her houseplants halfway through the week.

Ziba drove to Maryam's on a Wednesday morning after dropping the girls off at day camp. When she let herself in she felt like a thief; there was something so private and close about the dim little living room. She left the front door open behind her, as if to prove she had nothing to hide, and went directly to the kitchen. A single rinsed cup and saucer sat in the sink, she noticed. She filled the watering can that Maryam had placed on the counter, and then she walked through the house, stopping at each plant and testing the soil with her fingertips. Most of the plants were fine; the week had been mild and humid.

Upstairs she went first to the guest room, where she had often put Susan down for a nap when they were visiting. The double bed with its crocheted white spread, the bureau with its paisley scarf, and the pottery bowl of ferns (these in need of water) held no surprises. And Sami's old room now a sort of catchall, a combination sewing room and bill-paying room and whatever had obviously been tidied just before Maryam's departure. The desk was bare, and the twin bed with its boyish plaid blanket had been cleared of the ironing and mending that Maryam often laid out there.

Maryam's room was less familiar, and Ziba couldn't help glancing at the objects on the bureau as she entered. They were the same as last year, though: a painted wooden pen case shaped like a fat cigar, an easel-backed Persian miniature, and a mosaic box. No photos, either recent or old; those would be filed away in the alb.u.m in the living-room bookcase. It seemed that Maryam had decided long ago exactly how her world should be arranged, and saw no reason to vary it ever after.

As Ziba was watering the ivy plant hanging in the window, she chanced to look out and see Dave d.i.c.kinson coming up the front walk. Now, what was he doing here? She emptied the watering can of its last few drops and then hurried downstairs. By the time she reached the door, he was peering through the screen with one hand shading his eyes. h.e.l.lo? he said. Oh, Ziba!

I'm watering the plants, she told him.

Well, of course; I should have realized. He drew back a bit, and she stepped out onto the porch. (She didn't feel she could ask him in without Maryam's knowledge.) He was wearing a chambray s.h.i.+rt and khakis that he might have slept in, and his curly gray head was mussed and damp-looking. I noticed the door was open as I was driving by, he said, and I worried something was wrong.

Why he should be driving by on a residential street that led nowhere, he didn't explain. And next he asked, Have you heard from her? without bothering to say whom he meant.

No, but we wouldn't usually, Ziba told him. She's only gone for a week, after all.

I did talk to her right after she got there, Dave said.

You did?

Just to make sure she'd arrived safely.

He turned and gazed away, out toward the street. He said, in an offhand tone, I don't suppose you knew her husband.

Ziba said, Me? The question was so unexpected that she wondered if she had mistranslated it. Goodness, no, she said. I wasn't even living in this country yet when he died.

Yes, I didn't suppose . . . He followed the progress of a lawn-care truck that was rumbling past. Then he turned back to Ziba. His mussed hair gave him a rattled look, as if he were the one who was surprised by this conversation. She's still very attached to his memory, I guess, he said. I'm sure he was a wonderful man.

Ziba debated telling him that Kiyan had been moody and difficult. On second thought, no; better not.

But anyhow: you may have noticed that I like her, he said. Um, yes.

Or love her, even.

For some reason, Ziba felt herself blus.h.i.+ng. So, does Maryam love you too? she asked.

I don't know.

It interested her that he thought it might at least be a possibility. She said, But you must have an inkling.

No, I don't, he said. I don't know what to think!

These last words seemed torn from him. He stopped short, as if he had shocked himself. Then he said, more quietly, I don't know what she expects of me. I don't know how to act. I invite her out and we go someplace, dinner or a movie; she seems to enjoy my company, but ... it's like we have a pane of gla.s.s between us. I don't know what she's feeling. I wonder if she still feels, let's say, loyal to her husband's memory. Or maybe bound to him, by some Iranian social custom.

No, Ziba said. There's no such custom.

Well, then, something else? Something like, I should ask Sami's permission before I court her?

A little spurt of a giggle escaped her. Now it was Dave's turn to blush. Sorry, but what do I know? he said.

Well, or me either, she told him. Maryam belongs to a completely different generation. But I can promise she doesn't think you have to ask Sami's permission.

Then I'm flummoxed, he said.

She had never heard that word before, but she admired how well it got his point across.

Look, she told him. How hard could this be? You like her; she likes you. She must like you, because believe me, Maryam would not be putting up with you if she didn't. So what's the problem? I'm sure that sooner or later everything will work out.

Right, he said.

She could tell she had somehow failed him, though, because the look he gave her was so kind. He said, Thanks for letting me yammer on. And he patted her shoulder and turned and descended the porch steps.

Bitsy said, Oh, poor, poor Dad.

Because of course Ziba told her everything, not even waiting till she brought the girls back from camp. She drove straight from Maryam's to the Donaldsons', jabbed the doorbell, and barreled in saying, Guess what!

I just hope he doesn't get hurt, Bitsy said. She was changing Xiu-Mei's diaper on the living-room rug, but she had paused when she heard Ziba's news and she didn't even notice Xiu-Mei reaching for the wipes box.

Why would he get hurt? Ziba asked.

Well, he's so naive, the poor dear. He's so lacking in experience. It's not as if Maryam is all that worldly-wise herself, Ziba said. No, but As far as we know, the only man she ever went out with was her husband.