by Anne Tyler
Well, Susan does, Ziba said, but so far she's been fine.
You might want to give her soy milk. Soy is more culturally appropriate.
Oh, maybe I will, Ziba said obligingly.
Though Maryam, in her place, would have asked why. Hadn't Ziba just now said that Susan was fine?
The Donaldsons' living room was attractive without trying too hard. Sunlight poured through the uncurtained windows, and the furniture was old but well made, perhaps handed down from previous generations. Brad was slouched in a leather armchair that creaked each time he moved. Sami sat in an antique rocker a good six inches lower. He was nodding at Brad's description of the joys of fatherhood. Sunday mornings, Jin-Ho and I go out for croissants and the New York Times, Brad said. It's my favorite thing of the week. I love it! Just me and my kid together. You ever do that with Susan? Go off on your own for a jaunt?
So far Sami lacked the confidence to do that, Maryam knew. But he didn't admit it. Gazing up at Brad from his lowered position, which made him seem touchingly humble, he said, Well, I've been thinking of buying a jogging stroller.
Jogging stroller! Great invention. Fellow up the street has one. I'll find out the brand. Be good for your wife, too; good for Ziba. Get her out of the house.
Zee-buh, he said, almost zebra, and he slid her a look. American men always found Ziba mesmerizing. Maryam was amused to see that Brad despite choosing such a homespun wife himself was no exception.
The two sets of grandparents arrived at nearly the same time, Bitsy's parents first and Brad's close on their heels. Bitsy's parents were big and gray and friendly, Dave in coveralls like some ordinary yardman and Connie in sweatpants and the same bandanna-print cap she'd had on at the airport. Brad's parents, with their glittery blond hair and matching velour warm-up suits, seemed a little more formal. Pat and Lou, their names were. The man was Pat and the woman was Lou, or was it the other way around? Maryam knew she was going to have trouble with that.
For a few minutes the four of them performed their grandparent dance around the babies. They exclaimed at Jin-Ho's quilted top, which Connie called by a foreign name, and made a nice to-do over Susan. Isn't she just like a miniature! Brad's mother caroled, and Dave scooped her right up. Luckily, Susan took this in stride. She reached for one of his curly gray sideburns and gave it a tug, dead serious, knitting her brow when he chuckled.
See how Jin-Ho looks so tan-skinned next to Susan, Ziba pointed out. We think Susan's father maybe was white.
Yes, you're just a little white tooth of a thing, Dave told Susan, but Bitsy jumped in with, Oh! Well! But actually that's not something we would notice, really!
There was a silence. Ziba rounded her eyes at Maryam Why not? and Maryam gave the tiniest shrug. Then Brad said, So any-ways. You guys ready to tackle those leaves?
Judging by the number of rakes propped out on the porch, Maryam guessed the Donaldsons had held these gatherings before. She would never have done that herself (she kept after her own leaves singlehandedly from the day they began to fall), but that was Americans for you. And it did turn out to be a real social event. For one thing, they were all put to work on the same section of yard, so that conversation could flow. And then there was no sense of pressure. Brad's mother didn't even make a pretense of raking, but appointed herself the baby-watcher and stood over Jin-Ho and Susan where they sat among the leaves. Bitsy's mother sank immediately into a canvas chair that her husband brought down from the porch, and she tipped her face up to the sunlight and closed her eyes. That cap made sense, all at once. She was ill, Maryam realized; she must have lost her hair. Even though Dave raked with the others, he stopped frequently to go over to her and ask if she was all right. Yes, fine, Connie said each time, and she would smile and pat his hand. Clearly it was from her that Bitsy got her no-nonsense looks, although Connie seemed softer than Bitsy and more retiring.
Maryam herself worked diligently. She took a position between Bitsy and Lou (it was Lou who was the man of the couple; she believed she had that straight now) and raked in long, steady sweeps toward the pile that had started rising next to the driveway. She and Bitsy got a sort of rhythm going, like a chorus line. Lou was too busy talking to keep up with them. First he talked to Sami, on his other side boring man-talk about jobs, followed by the high price of housing once he learned that Sami sold real estate. Then it was Maryam's turn: how long had she been in this country? and did she like it?
Maryam hated being asked such questions, partly because she had answered them so many times before but also because she preferred to imagine (unreasonable though it was) that maybe she didn't always, instantly, come across as a foreigner. Where are you from? someone might ask just when she was priding herself on having navigated some particularly intricate and illogical piece of English. She longed to say, From Baltimore. Why? but lacked the nerve. Now she spoke so courteously that Lou could have had no inkling how she felt. I've been here thirty-nine years, she said, and, Yes, of course. I love it.
Lou gave a satisfied nod and turned back to his raking. Then Bitsy poked Maryam in the ribs with her elbow. Lou thinks the universe ends just east of Ocean City, she said with a roll of her eyes. Maryam laughed. Bitsy was all right, she decided. And the colorful swath of workers stretching across the yard, creating a busy roaring of leaves and stirring up the dusty smell of autumn, made her feel happy and accepted. Even if she didn't have the slightest illusion that she could live this kind of life herself, she enjoyed getting a peek at it now and then.
Jin-Ho plunged forward to hug a whole armful of leaves and bury her face in them. One leaf fluttered over to land on the front of Susan's jacket, and Susan plucked it off fastidiously and held it up to inspect it.
The front yard was finished in a little more than an hour, a beautiful clean sweep of green, and the men moved on to the back. By then, though, both babies were beginning to fuss; so the women took them inside. In the Donaldsons' big old-fashioned kitchen, Bitsy settled Jin-Ho in her high chair and sliced a banana for her while Ziba fed Susan a bottle. Maryam loved the little sounds that Susan made when she swallowed. Um, um, she said, with her eyes fixed on Ziba's face and one hand rhythmically clutching and releasing Ziba's sweater sleeve. Brad's mother and Maryam sat at the kitchen table with glasses of white wine, but Bitsy's mother went upstairs to lie down awhile. As soon as she'd left the room, Brad's mother said, How is she really, Bitsy?
Bitsy waited so long to answer that Brad's mother said again, Bitsy? But then they all saw that Bitsy's eyes were swimming with tears. She leaned closer to Jin-Ho's high chair and painstakingly aligned several banana slices before she said, in a tight voice, Not so good, I think.
Oh, my. Oh, my, my, Pat said. Well, thank the Lord she's lived to see you get your baby. That means a lot to her, I know.
Bitsy nodded speechlessly, and Maryam, hoping to rescue her, turned to Pat and asked, Did it take a very long time, getting their baby?
Did it ever! It took ages! And then there was that business last year, you remember; the Korean officials were talking about letting fewer children out of the country.
Yes, that was terrible! Ziba said. Sami and I were so worried! Almost we thought we'd have to start over again and adopt from China.
Bitsy said, We thought the same thing, in a voice that was perfectly normal, and nothing more was said about her mother.
A large covered pot was simmering on the stove, and once Jin-Ho had been fed, Bitsy set about stirring and tasting, adjusting seasonings, raising the flame beneath another pot on a back burner. She gave Maryam two avocados to peel and she sent her mother-in-law to the dining room with stacks of plates. I hope no one minds a meatless meal, she said. We're not complete vegetarians, but we try to avoid red meat.
Meatless will be fine. Very healthy, Ziba told her. She had put Susan down on the floor, where Jin-Ho already sat banging pot lids together, and she was watching over both of them.
Bitsy said, We certainly love your cuisine, and she started telling Ziba a
bout something she'd had in a restaurant, a dish whose name she couldn't recall except it had been delicious, while Maryam sliced a peeled avocado into a bowl. Then Pat wanted to know if the Yazdans had run into any unpleasantness during the Iranian hostage crisis, and Ziba said, Well, I had just barely arrived here then; I wasn't very aware. But Maryam, I believe, she had some trouble . . . and everyone looked expectantly toward Maryam. She said, Oh, perhaps a little, and cut into the second avocado. Pat and Bitsy tut-tutted and waited to hear more, but she remained silent. She was tired to death of the subject, frankly.
Brad poked his head in the back door and asked, How are things going here? Do we have time to bag the leaves before we eat?
You do not, Bitsy said. I'm just about to start serving.
Okay, I'll go call the others. And he shut the door again.
The main dish was a black-bean concoction served over rice. Maryam actually liked American rice if she thought of it as a completely different substance. She helped Bitsy set out the food while Pat filled the water glasses. All around the table were bowls of chopped green onions and tomatoes, shredded cheese, the sliced avocados, a number of other items that Bitsy said should be scattered on top. She showed Ziba and Maryam where to sit and then called up the stairs, Mom? You feel like coming down?
I'll get her, her father said. He gave off the smell of dry leaves as he passed through the dining room; his large, rough-skinned face was ruddy from the fresh air. And Sami had worked up a sweat. He blotted his forehead with his sleeve and sank into a chair next to Ziba. Everything's raked except for one little patch beside the garage, he told her, and he reached for Susan, who was sitting on Ziba's lap. Did you miss me, Susie -june?
Ah. Hippie food, Brad's father said, peering down at the beans. His wife reached over to slap his wrist. Sit, she told him. Granola au gratin.
There's not one speck of granola anywhere in sight; so sit.
He sat. Bitsy sent Brad a resigned look and then plucked Jin-Ho from the floor and settled in the chair at the head of the table. Now, everybody dig in, she said. Don't wait for Mom and Dad.
Brad was offering beer or red wine, whichever people preferred. These days, we don't even get a cocktail hour, he said as he uncorked the wine. By the time the sun's over the yardarm we're already eating dinner. Nursery hours, that's what we keep. Bitsy goes to bed not much later than Jin-Ho.
I'm always exhausted, Bitsy told Ziba. Are you? I used to be such a night owl! Now I can hardly wait to hit the pillow.
Oh, me too, Ziba said. And Susan gets up so early. Seven. Seven! Count your blessings. Jin-Ho is up at five-thirty or six.
But here's what you do, Ziba: nap. Take a nap when your baby does. Nap?
I put on some classical music; I lie down on the couch; I'm out like a light until she wakes up.
Oh! I wish! Ziba said. She ladled rice onto her plate. But two days a week I'm at work, and the other days I'm trying to catch up with the laundry and the cleaning and such.
You work? Bitsy asked her.
I'm an interior decorator.
I couldn't bear to work! How could you leave your baby?
Ziba stopped dishing out rice and sent Maryam an uncertain glance.
It was Lou who broke the silence. Well, Pat here left her baby from the time he was six weeks old, and see how well he turned out?
Brad took a deep bow before he resumed pouring wine.
But it's the most formative time of their lives, Bitsy said. You'll never get those days back again.
Maryam said, It's very lucky for me that she works. I have Susan all to myself, Tuesdays and Thursdays. It gives us a chance to... She tried to think of the word, the most up-to-date and scientific word that would make her point. Bond, she said finally. It lets us bond.
Bitsy said, I see. But she didn't seem convinced. She hugged Jin-Ho tighter against her and rested her chin on the child's gleaming head. And Ziba still wore her uncertain look. Now that her lipstick had worn away the blackish outline seemed accidental, as if she'd been eating dirt.
From the doorway, Bitsy's mother said, Isn't this lovely! She made her way into the room, reaching out for the back of her chair. Her husband followed a step or two behind. I could smell those wonderful spice smells all the way upstairs, she said as she settled herself. She unfolded her napkin and smiled around the table. Is there a name for this dish?
Habichuelas negras, Bitsy said. It's Cuban.
Cuban! How exciting!
Bitsy sat up straighter, as if she'd just had a thought. You notice I'm wearing black and white, she told Ziba.
Ziba nodded, wide-eyed.
That's because babies don't see colors. Only black and white. I've worn nothing but black and white from the day that Jin-Ho arrived.
Really! Ziba said, and she looked down at her rose turtleneck. You might want to do that, Bitsy told her.
Oh, yes, maybe I should.
Bitsy relaxed and set her chin on Jin-Ho's head again.
But then how is it that Susan is able to pick up her blocks? Maryam asked Bitsy.
Her blocks?
Her pink and blue blocks on a yellow playpen pad. I say, 'Pick up your blocks, Susan,' and she reaches right over for them.
She does? Bitsy asked. She looked at Susan. She picks up her blocks when you tell her to?
From a yellow background, Maryam said. She dished herself some rice and turned to Connie. May I serve you? she asked.
Oh, no, thank you, not just yet, Connie said, although her plate was empty except for a slice of bread.
Bitsy was still studying Susan. For a moment it seemed she couldn't think of anything more to say, but then she turned to Ziba. You put your daughter in a playpen? she asked.
Ziba's uncertain expression returned. Before she could answer, though, Maryam said, And the beans and rice? How about those? Excuse me? Bitsy said.
The black beans and the white rice. Are they for the sake of the babies' eyesight also?
Bitsy looked startled, but when her father-in-law laughed she did manage to smile, a little.
After that the two families got together fairly often, although Maryam politely declined whenever she was invited along. Why would she want to share a young couple's social life? She had friends of her own, mostly women, mostly her own age and nearly always foreigners, although no Iranians, as it happened. They would eat together at restaurants or at one another's houses. They would go to movies or concerts. And then there was her job, of course. Three days a week she worked in the office of Sami's old preschool. No one could say that time hung heavy on her hands.
She did hear about the Donaldsons almost daily, through Ziba. She heard how Bitsy believed in cloth diapers, how Brad worried vaccinations were dangerous, how both of them read Korean folk-tales to Jin-Ho. Ziba switched to cloth diapers too (though in a week or so she switched back). She telephoned her pediatrician about the vaccinations. She plowed dutifully through The Wormwood Rice Cake while Susan, who had not yet got the hang of books, tried her best to crumple the pages. And after the Donald-sons' Christmas party, Ziba bought a forty-cup percolator so that she too could brew hot cider. You put cinnamon sticks and cloves in the basket where the coffee grounds go. Isn't that clever? she asked Maryam.
Ziba had a little crush on the Donaldsons, it seemed to Maryam.
Maryam herself didn't see them again till January, when they came to Susan's first birthday party. They brought Jin-Ho in full Korean costume a brilliant kimono-like affair and a pointed hat with a chin strap and little embroidered cloth shoes and they stood around looking interested but slightly lost in the sea of Iranian relatives. Maryam stepped forward to take them under her wing. She complimented Jin-Ho's hat and she showed them where to put their coats and she explained just who was who. Those are Ziba's parents; they live in Washington. And there is her brother Hassan from Los Angeles; her brother Ali, also from Los Angeles ... Ziba has seven brothers, can you imagine? Four of them are here today.
And which are from your side, Ma
ryam? Bitsy asked.
Oh, well, none. Most of my family is still in Tehran. They don't visit very often.
She poured them each a cup of hot cider and then led them through the crowd, pausing here and there to introduce them. Whenever possible she singled out non-Iranians a next-door neighbor and a woman from Sami's office because Brad was carrying Jin-Ho on one arm and you never knew what Ziba's relations might take it into their heads to say. (In L. A. we have plastic surgeons who make Chinese people's eyes look just as good as Western, she'd heard Ali's wife tell Ziba that morning. I can get you some names, if you like.)
To be honest, the Hakimis were only one generation removed from the bazaar. Maryam's family would never even have met them, if they were back home.
It was the food that put the Donaldsons at ease, finally. They gasped when they saw the buffet table, with its multiple main dishes and its array of side dishes and salads. They wanted to know the names of everything, and when Bitsy learned that Maryam had cooked it all she inquired almost shyly if she might have some of the recipes. Well, of course, Maryam said. They're in any Iranian cookbook. By now she was aware that Americans thought recipes were a matter of creative invention. They could serve a different meal every day for a year without repeating themselves ItalianAmerican one day and Tex-Mex the next and Asian fusion the next and it always surprised them that other countries ate such a predictable menu.
Maryam, Bitsy said, was Ziba's family very upset when they heard that she and Sami were adopting?
Not at all; why do you ask? Maryam said crisply. (Astonishing, what people asked!) Now, this is a dish customarily served at weddings, she said. Chicken with almonds and orange peel. You must be sure to try some.
Bitsy was filling a single plate with double portions, since Brad was carrying Jin-Ho. She took a spoonful of the wedding dish and said, Brad's parents had a little trouble with it. Not mine; mine were all for it. But Brad was an only child and his folks were more, I don't know; maybe they were worried about passing on the bloodline or something. She tucked a piece of flatbread matter-of-factly into her pocket. ( She was wearing a handwoven sort of peasant smock in shades of blue. No more black and white, Maryam noticed.) Of course, now they just adore Jin-Ho, she said. They're just as sweet as they could be with her. She paused to look at Maryam. And you're very close to Susan, I know from Ziba.
