Digging to America

  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 the 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.

  On several occasions Jin-Ho came along, and twice Xiu-Mei too. Ziba looked after them quite a bit during the month of July, because Bitsy's chemotherapy made her want to nap all the time. But she was doing very well, Ziba reported. She said, Are you sure you don't mind, Mari june? I promise I won't be gone long. Maryam said, Of course I don't mind, and meant it. For one thing, this was a way of helping Bitsy. And then two or three children could entertain each other. All Maryam did was serve them refreshments at some point during the visit homemade cookies or brownies and apple juice tea in tiny enamelware cups.

  Jin-Ho was now a head and a half taller than Susan, and she had asked to be called Jo, although none of them could remember to do it. Xiu-Mei was still small and frail but feisty, with a mind of her own. She wore hand-me-downs from both Jin-Ho and Susan; it was strange to see Susan's faded playsuits resurrected, coupled with JinHo's old sandals and a pacifier strung on a length of elastic around her neck.

  In the late afternoon, on her own again, Maryam might finally venture forth for whatever shopping she needed to do. Then she would fix a complete and serious dinner, even if she was the only one eating it. Often, though, her friends would come over. Or else she would go to one of their houses. The four of them were all excellent cooks. Each had a different cuisine: Turkish, Greek, French, and Maryam's own Iranian. It was no wonder they ate less and less frequently at restaurants.

  Dressing for an evening with her friends, Maryam felt none of the anxiety she used to feel dressing for social events in the old days. Back then she might change outfits several times before deciding what to wear, and she used to prepare a mental list of conversational gambits. It wasn't just age that made the difference (although that helped, no doubt); it was more that she had winnowed out the people she wasn't at ease with. No longer did she accept invitations to those meaningless, superficial parties she and Kiyan had endured. Her friends occasionally questioned this. Or Danielle did, at least. Danielle was forever seeking new acquaintances and new experiences. But Maryam said, Why should I bother? This is one good thing about getting old: I know what I like and what I don't like.

  Whenever Danielle heard the word old, she would wrinkle her nose in distaste. But the other two women nodded. They knew what Maryam meant.

  They talked often about aging. They talked about where the world was headed; they talked about books and movies and plays and (in Danielle's case) men. Surprisingly little was said about children or grandchildren, unless they happened to be dealing with some specific crisis. But almost always the subject of Americans came up, in an amused and marveling tone. They never tired of discussing Americans.

  Whether Maryam spent her evening in or out, she was in bed by ten as a rule. She read until her eyelids grew heavy two or three hours, sometimes and then she turned off her lamp and slid further under the covers and curled one arm around Moosh. Outside her window the neighborhood mockingbird sang alone in the sycamore, and she would fall asleep feeling thankful for the tallness of her trees, which let birdsong fall from such a great height and
were wonderful too during summer rains, when they gave off a steady murmur that sounded to her like Aah. Aah.

  One morning she answered her phone and a woman said, Maryam?

  It was only from her pronunciation that Maryam knew it was Bitsy. (Bitsy always broadened both the a's in Maryam's name to a comical degree, evidently believing that foreign a's couldn't be flat.) Her voice was faint and slightly hoarse, as if she were getting over a cough. In fact she did cough, just then.

  Maryam said, Bitsy? How are you?

  I'm fine, Bitsy told her. The treatments have been no fun, but I'm finished with them now and the doctors are very pleased. Then she coughed again and said, Sorry, a little side effect. Nothing that worries them. Anyhow: thanks for your note. I should have written back long ago.

  No, you should not have written back. Or only if you had thought of something for me to do.

  But just to thank you for getting in touch, I mean. I was so happy to hear from you! I've really missed you; all of us have. We're looking forward to seeing you at Sami and Ziba's party.

  Maryam said, Oh, the ... Arrival Party.

  Dad mentioned you might be coming.

  Well, I did say I'd think about it, Maryam said. But this summer is so complicated; I'm not quite sure if It would be like old times! Bitsy said, so forcefully that she coughed again. It didn't feel the same last year. Even Xiu-Mei noticed. She said, 'Where's Mari -june?' I hate to think that you might not be in our lives anymore.

  Maryam said, Why, thank you, Bitsy.

  The excuses she'd been about to offer New York, Farah's visit suddenly seemed transparent. Instead, she told the truth. I'm afraid it might be awkward, though.

  Awkward! Nonsense. We're all grownups.

  This argument came as a disappointment; Maryam wasn't sure why. What had she wanted Bitsy to say? A pinch of injury tightened her chest. She said, I know your father feels I didn't handle things very well.

  Now, is that in any way relevant to this discussion? We're talking about a simple little, normal little family get-together, Bitsy said. Shoot, we should just shanghai you.

  Shanghai. As a verb, it was unfamiliar. Maybe it meant something like lynch. Maryam said, Yes, perhaps you should, in a tone that must have sounded more bitter than she had intended, because Bitsy said, Well, forgive me, Maryam. I'm a meddlesome person; I realize that.

  Which she was, in fact. But Maryam said, Oh, no, Bitsy, you're very kind. You were very sweet to call. And then, trying to match Bitsy's energy, But you haven't told me what I can do for you! Please, give me a task.

  Not a thing, thanks, Bitsy said. I'm getting stronger every day. You'd be amazed. Wait till you see me at the Arrival Party.

  That was Bitsy for you. She always had to have the last word, Maryam thought as she hung up.

  How will you tell your family? he'd asked her. They were so happy for us. How will you explain throwing everything away?

  She said, I've already told them. I've just come from there.

  The look on his face made her wish she'd kept this to herself. You told them before you told me? he said.

  Well, yes.

  How could you do that, Maryam?

  I don't know, she said flatly. She no longer had the strength to defend herself. I just did, that's all, she said. It's done.

  Now, though, it crossed her mind to wonder the same thing. Why had she told them first? What an odd way to proceed!

  Had some tiny part of her hoped that Sami and Ziba would talk her out of it?

  And, oh, if only, only she hadn't admitted that she'd told them, would he perhaps have agreed that they could go on seeing each other?

  She had fallen in love with him while she was looking the other way, you might say. It had come as a total surprise. First he was just another hapless man desperate for a helpmate a likable man, but what was that to her? Even after they had started spending time together, she didn't feel, oh, related to him, as she'd felt related to Kiyan. Really, Dave, she had told him once, we have nothing in common. We have no common ground. Why, I can't begin to imagine what your childhood might have been like.

  Childhood? he'd said. Where did that come from? What difference does my childhood make? It's what we've boiled down to in the end that really matters when we're left with just the dregs and the essence.

  Yes, he could be persuasive, all right. When he said such things, she could see his point. But only while he was saying them.

  She had left for Vermont that summer with a sense that she was escaping. Somehow, against her better instincts, she had started seeing too much of him, and here was her chance to regain some distance. She had greeted Farah with such a flood of Farsi that Farah had laughed at her. Maryam! Slow down! I can't understand you! Maryam, are you speaking with an accent?

  Was she speaking with an accent? In her own language? What was her own language, anyhow? Did she even have one, at this point?

  She had slowed down. She had settled once again into Farah's molasses-like tempo. Lolling on a recliner in the pine-shaded backyard, she had cast a sideways glance at William and wondered how Farah had ever adjusted to someone so outlandish. That summer he'd been perfecting a pet-stain-removal product that he felt sure would make him millions. This started life as an extra-fast-drying correction fluid for typists, he had confided to Maryam. I thought it up a few years back. D'elite, I was going to call it D apostrophe elite; get it? But then just my luck, typewriters went kaboom; so I've invented this new use for it. And here's the best part: without even a name change! D'elite! Don't you love it? Plus, people who don't know any better could go on and say 'Delight' with no real harm done.

  And meanwhile Farah, reclining next to her, was murmuring away in Farsi as if William hadn't spoken. Why is it that older women in this country cut their hair to resemble monks? Why do the women of the upper classes here never wear enough makeup?

  Like two small children, they had competed for Maryam's attention; and Maryam, to her own surprise, found herself favoring William his enthusiasm, his innocence, his endearing optimism. There was a world-weariness to Farah that could be dampening, at times. Maryam smiled at William and thought suddenly of Dave. Dave in fact was nothing like William, certainly not so extreme or eccentric; but even so ...

  I don't know why truly good people always make me sad, Kiyan had told her once. She understood now what he had meant.

  She had written Dave during that Vermont trip to tell him that she missed him. Well, she had put it more subtly than that. (I am having a very nice time here, but I think of you constantly and wonder what you are doing.) Still, she knew the effect it would have. Slipping the letter through the mailbox slot, she had held on to it for a long, indecisive moment before she let it fall. And then she'd thought, What have I done? and half wished for some way to retrieve it.

  When Dave met her return plane, though, he had behaved no differently. Clearly he was pleased to see her, but he didn't refer to her letter or act as if things had changed. Enjoy your visit? he had asked. Catch up on all the family gossip? She had been mortified. How conceited of her to believe that what she had written would matter to him! She had treated him coolly, and sent him home early. She had tossed and turned all night mourning what she had seen to be her very last chance at love. Forever after she would be one of those resolutely cheerful widows carrying on alone.

  Oh, the agonizing back-and-forth of romance! The advances and retreats, the secret wounds, the strategic withdrawals!

  Wasn't the real culture clash the one between the two sexes? The next day he had arrived on her doorstep in the middle of her lunch. I got your letter, he'd told her.

  My letter?

  They delivered it just ten minutes ago. You beat it home. Oh!

  Maryam, you thought about me constantly? You missed me?

  Then even before she could answer he had gathered her up and covered her with kisses. You missed me! he kept saying. You love me! and she was laughing and returning his kisses and fighting for breath all at once.
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  It was nothing like her marriage. This time around, she proceeded knowing that people died; that everything had an end; that even though she and Dave were spending every day together and every night, the moment would come when she would say, Tomorrow it will be two years since I last set eyes on him. Or else he would say it of her. They were letting themselves in for more than any young couple could possibly envision, and both of them were conscious of that.

  This made them less likely to quarrel or take umbrage. They wasted little time on petty irritations. She was tolerant of his clutter and his insistence on reading the paper aloud. (Listen to this: ' I have a three-million-dollar home, the boxer boasted to one interviewer, and sheets with a ten-thousand thread count. ' Ten thousand threads! Is that possible?) He, for his part, learned that she could be revived by a bowl of plain white rice when she was feeling fluey or tired; and once when Moosh disappeared for two days he had printed up dozens of posters reading LOST and REWARD and CHILD GRIEVING. Child grieving? she had asked. What are you talking about? There's no child here.

  But he had said, You are. You are the child. And he'd taken her face between his hands and kissed the top of her head.

  And he'd been right.

  She used to fantasize about traveling on a time machine to eras long, long ago. To prehistory, for instance, where she could witness how language had developed. Or to Jesus's time; what had that all been about? Now, though, she would choose a much more recent period. She would like to board a BOAC plane again to visit her mother, crossing the tarmac on clicking heels because in those days, women always did wear heels for plane trips, and settling in one of the two-by-two seats and smiling at the stewardesses in their aerodynamic-looking uniforms. She would like to dine with Kiyan in Johnny Unitas's old Golden Arm Restaurant on York Road. (She would order the famous shrimp salad and the crusty fried eggplant slices, and the waitress would be singing Strangers in the Night to herself as she served them.)