House of Sand and Fog

by Andre Dubus III

  “You have a family. I’d be thinking more about them if I were you. I have more than one contact at Immigration. People get deported every single day. There are a lot of things I can do, Colonel. I suggest you call the movers so I won’t have to. Thank you for your time. I know we won’t have to see each other again.”

  I watch the policeman walk across my lighted front grass and into the darkness of the street. There is no police automobile. No car of any kind. Soon, I can no longer see him, but I hear his footsteps as he moves down the hill.

  I release the door and turn to see my wife and son, looking at me as if we had all just heard a very loud noise nearby.

  “CHEEH SHODEH, MASSOUD?” Nadereh says. “What is wrong?”

  My son regards me a brief moment, then opens the refrigerator and begins pouring for himself a glass of Coca-Cola.

  “Give to me answer, Behrani. What did that man say of deporting?”

  “He said nothing, Nadi.” I am suddenly so tired I cannot speak my words clearly. I close the door and lock it.

  “Do not lie to me, Behrani. I heard him. Who was this man?”

  “Do not call me Behrani. I do not like it.” I sit down upon the sofa, but I can only look at the silver tea table before me. I do not understand the correctness of what has just occurred. How is it possible for the county tax office to send a policeman to threaten me? How is this possible in America? I have done nothing beneath the law.

  “Beh man beh goo, Behrani! Tell to me, what have you done?” My wife stands in front of me, her eyes small with fear. I rise immediately.

  “It is none of your business what I have done or not done, Nadereh! Have you no faith in me? No respect? I told to you the man said nothing, only that I must remove my sign from city property, that is all.”

  My wife tells me I am lying. She begins to tremble, raising her voice, demanding to know what is before us, her fears once again beginning to devour her. I must leave the bungalow, remove the sign, and contemplate what I am forced to do next, but Nadereh is screaming in front of my son that I am a kaseef liar, and a coward, and I seem to watch from far away as my hand slaps her across the face and I hold her thin shoulders and shake her, her head jerking backwards and forwards, and I am making some sort of noise from between my teeth. Then Esmail’s arms are around my chest and he pulls me backward onto the tea table. There is a moment of stillness before its legs break and I am sitting on my son on the floor against the sofa, my wife screaming and crying on the carpet before us. I attempt to help Esmail to his feet, but he stands quickly with no help from me. He looks at his father only a brief moment before disappearing down the corridor to his room. Nadereh remains on the floor upon her knees, screaming, moaning of her dead mother’s broken table, how I have ruined everthing in her life, everything. The black cosmetics have loosened under her eyes, and as I leave the bungalow she pushes me in the legs, but I ignore her, feeling curiously as if I am watching this moment instead of being a part of it, that it belongs not to my family, but another. Outside in the darkness, I smell the ocean. There are many stars above, but three and four homes down the street I am still able to hear my wife’s crying. She curses me in our mother language, and I am grateful it is a tongue no one in this village understands.

  AT THE HILL’S bottom, in the dim yellow light of the streetlamps above, I see that my sign has already been torn from the utility post, a quarter of it still hanging from the tape. On the long climb back up the hill I am breathing with some difficulty, but I am not fatigued in the limbs, my mind is once again clear, and I no longer feel like a helpless witness to the unfortunate events of the evening. Why did this officer not have a police car in his possession? Why would he tear the sign himself? In such an emotional fashion? Why did he not have the name tag on his blouse that I have seen pinned to all other American law officers in uniform? And why did he hesitate in giving me his name, Gonzalez?

  When I reach the bungalow I feel in my breast a very strong doubt that this is a genuine policeman at all. I know that America has its officials who operate over the law, but even corrupt county tax men fearful of a lawsuit would not send a uniformed officer such as that; they would send men who could not be traced back to them or their office. Dark men in suits. Savakis.

  I cross the short grasses of my lawn and enter my home with a new resolve; tomorrow I will visit the same lawyer who advised me before. I will also visit the county tax office, as well as the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Department to report to them of their “Officer Gonzalez” making threats. Or perhaps he was not making threats for any bureaucrats, but for this kaseef woman, Kathy Nicolo; perhaps he is her brother, or friend, or more.

  I am surprised to see Nadereh has left the silver tea table broken upon the floor, a bowl of pistachios and wrapped chocolates scattered about. From her closed room comes the melancholy music of Daryoosh, that kunee singer with the pretty voice I have come to despise. But frekresh neestam, it makes no difference; I can no longer protect my wife from troubling news the way one would a child. If she is afraid and miserable and unable to adjust to our new lives as I have, if she cannot respect me or stand by me another day, then so be it. Een zendeh-geeheh, this is life. Our life.

  I clean up the nuts and sweets, then inspect the broken legs of the table. They are made of cypress wood from Turkey, and two are split and broken. Tomorrow I will glue them. I lean the tabletop neatly against the sofa, the last remaining legs jutting out like a final salute. The door to my son’s room is open and he is lying upon his bed, still dressed in shorts and tank T-shirt, his legs crossed together, his hands resting upon his stomach. He regards me as I enter, then fixes his eyes once again on the wall. I take the chair from his desk and sit. In Farsi I say that I am sorry for the fighting between his mother and me. “I was wrong to strike her, Esmail-joon. When you are one day married, please do not do as I did this evening.”

  My son says nothing. Nor does he turn his head to me. I reach out and squeeze his upper arm. He stiffens slightly, but I ignore it and tell to him how strong he is becoming. Soon he will be stronger than me in every way. My son blows air from his mouth, crossing his arms over his chest. He turns his head completely away from me now.

  “Do not be disrespectful, son. Look at me when I speak.”

  Esmail sits up quickly. “Why did you lie to me, Bawbaw? You told me that woman didn’t pay her taxes so they took her house.”

  “Yes, that is why they took from her this house.”

  “But I heard through the window everything that cop said. Why did he say she was the real owner?”

  “Because they are all fools, that is why. The county tax officials made a mistake and took from the wrong person her house. Now she wants them to buy it from us so she may return here.”

  “Then we should return it, shouldn’t we? Why don’t you give it back to her? We can live someplace else.”

  I do not wish to discuss further these details with my son, but he regards me so intently, his dark eyes upon mine, I feel the time has come to give him something more of the burden I carry. “Pesaram, my son, I am sorry I withheld from you the truth, but that woman’s house was taken because they thought she did not pay her taxes.”

  “But you knew they made a mistake?”

  “Not when I purchased the house. But now I am quite willing to sell this home back to them so they may return it to her.”

  “Then why did that cop say he would send us back to Iran? Can he really do that, Bawbaw?”

  “No. We are American citizens, they can do nothing to us.”

  “But—I don’t understand.”

  “The tax bureaucrats will only pay to me what I paid to them. You see, they will not allow us to earn the profit we deserve, Esmail. I am therefore forced to sell it to someone else. We have no choice.”

  Esmail is quiet a moment. He looks beyond me at the wall. “But what about that lady?”

  “I have told her myself she should sue the county officials for enough money to buy ten homes
. With a good lawyer, Esmail, she could be very pooldar over this.”

  “But that day in the yard she told me her father gave it to her before he died.”

  I stand. “Her fight is with the men who took from her this place, Esmail-jahn, not us. We have done nothing wrong here. Remember what I’ve told you of so many Americans: they are not disciplined and have not the courage to take responsibility for their actions. If these people paid to us the fair price we are asking, we could leave and she could return. It is that simple. But they are like little children, son. They want things only their way. Do you understand?”

  Esmail looks upon the floor, nodding his head. “I feel bad for that lady, Bawbaw.”

  “You have a good heart, Esmail, but do not forget this woman is refusing this new opportunity before her.” I replace the chair beneath the desk. “I am pleased you have taken this newspaper job.” I lean forward and take my son’s face in both hands, kissing his forehead and nose. I smell traces of dried Coca-Cola upon his lips. “Soon all of this will be behind us. Wash your face before sleeping. Shahbakreh.”

  HOURS LATER SLEEP has still not come to me. I lie upon a blanket on the floor of my office in the darkness, but I am unable to rest. Earlier I knocked upon Nadereh’s door but she did not answer, though I am certain she heard me over her music. But this is not what keeps me restless. It is that man’s final words to me, his threats of contacting Immigration. Of course he can do nothing to the Behranis—we are all citizens now—but there is Soraya’s new family; her husband has applied for his green card, while his mother and sister are still waiting to be granted asylum. But I did not tell him of the existence of my daughter, so perhaps he will miss this altogether.

  These thoughts increase the speed of my heartbeat. The muscles in my back and neck become tight. I think of this Gonzalez telling me there are many things he can do. Late in the night an automobile passes by and I rise and walk to the dark living-room area in my underclothes. My bare leg knocks against the extended leg of the table, and I curse it on my way to the door. Its lock is secure. I turn on the exterior lamp, seeing nothing but a few flying insects, the small lawn beyond. I leave on the light and make my bed upon the sofa.

  I WAS SMOKING BEHIND THE WHEEL OF MY BONNEVILLE WHEN LESTER marched back down Bisgrove under the streetlights, ripped the House for Sale sign off the pole, then got in. I drove off, holding my question about what happened until we were on our way. When I did ask, Les glanced over at me, his hands on his legs, looking almost like he knew I would ask and sort of hoped I wouldn’t.

  “This guy’s obviously not right off the boat.”

  “What do you mean?” I flicked my cigarette out the window, my heart beating somewhere in my throat. We were riding out of town for the shortcut to San Bruno on the Junipero Serra Freeway. Earlier we’d decided to go to my storage shed and get some things to make life at the fish camp easier���a box of candles I hadn’t opened since Christmas, glasses, plates, silverware, and the small hibachi barbecue Nick used to grill mushroomburgers on in the backyard. Fog was beginning to roll in from the beach and my headlights lit it up in front of us as I plowed through. “Well, tell me what happened, Les.”

  “He knew to ask my name, Kathy. I had to lie to him.”

  I didn’t know how to read his voice. Whose fucking idea was this? Was he blaming me? I turned onto the lighted freeway where the fog was only a mist and I stepped on the gas. “So what did you say to that Arab prick?”

  “He’s not an Arab, he’s Iranian. I think he’s probably got money coming out of his ears, too. Or at least he used to. There’s a picture of him on the wall with the Shah. The Shah. That guy had his own mint.”

  “What did you say to him, Lester?” My hand felt tight on the wheel. I wanted to scream. Les looked at me, then out the window.

  “I swear to Christ, Lester, if you don’t hurry up and tell me what happened back there I’m going to drive us right off the road.”

  “I gave him an ultimatum.”

  “What?”

  “I told him I’d call Immigration on his family, and I hinted I could get nastier than that if he didn’t clear out.”

  “You said that?” I let out a nervous laugh, accelerating to pass a muddy farm truck. “What did he do?”

  “He asked me to leave, but I know I rattled him.”

  “Did you mention me?”

  “Not by name.”

  “Shit, Les.” I laughed again.

  “You can tell he’s used to giving orders all day long too. I think you were right—he probably buys up seized property just to make a killing. I did the right thing. He’s scum.”

  “You think he’ll call the department?”

  “Not really. It’s his word against mine. Besides, as far as he knows, I’m a Mexican named Gonzalez.”

  We both laughed hard, though what he said wasn’t that funny. I was starting to feel like anything was possible again, and I think he probably did too. And that’s what we seemed to have with each other, wasn’t it? The feeling we could start out new again, clean, all our debts cleared.

  At the storage shed in San Bruno, he held the flashlight while I went through my things for all we needed. We could hear a live band at the truck-stop bar next to the El Rancho Motel, a woman singing at the mike. I put the pillows and folded sheets in the backseat, and everything else in the trunk. My fingers were black from the hibachi and I went back inside the shed and wiped them off on some newspaper. I called out to Lester that I didn’t want to go back to the camp yet. He said he didn’t either but he couldn’t go anywhere in his uniform. I took his flashlight and found one of Nick’s blue button-down shirts. It was wrinkled and probably too big for Lester but he put it on anyway, the waist baggy when he tucked it in, the sleeves too short. He took off his gun belt and put it in the trunk, then stood there in just his police pants and those black shoes and that wrinkled shirt. I laughed. “You look like a laid-off security guard.”

  He laughed back, put me in a gentle headlock, and kissed my forehead.

  We didn’t drive far, just across the street to the truck-stop bar, which was crowded for a Monday night, mainly with truckers in work jeans, their T-shirts stretched tight at the gut. Some of them sat at small black cocktail tables with the wives or girlfriends they kept on the road, women who were dressed just like the men, some in matching T-shirts from rodeos or traveling carnivals. The floor, walls, and ceiling were painted black and the main light came from the theater lamps hanging over the band and the short plywood stage and small parquet dance floor. That end of the room was all red, orange, and green and the rest of us were in the shadows.

  Les and I sat at one of the tables against the wall not far from the band, which was playing an up-tempo country song. He went up to the bar to get us something, and I lit a cigarette, a little preoccupied with what he’d bring me back to drink, and I watched a couple dancing out on the floor, a heavy man and woman, both in cowboy boots, jeans, and dark T-shirts, moving fast to the music.

  Les came back to the table with a full pitcher of beer and two glasses. He poured me some until the foam started to flow over the top and I had to sit back and drink a third of it down. It was ice-cold and washed the cigarette taste from my mouth and throat. Les finished pouring for himself and he smiled at me, clinking his glass to mine, but the band was too loud for us to talk over so he turned sideways in his chair and we both watched the older couple dance. The band’s lead singer was pretty, only twenty-five or-six years old. She had curly red hair—or at least it looked that color under the stage lights—and she wore tight jeans and her singing voice was really strong. The bass player was bald, closer to forty than thirty; I tried to picture Nick playing in a band like this, in a place like this, but I couldn’t. One of the nights when I told him he should try and get a job with a local group, maybe play in the clubs, he just shook his head at me and asked if I’d already forgotten what the B in BEAST stood for. I told him no, I hadn’t, but I felt ashamed of myself. Clubs w
ere nothing but a Boozing opportunity. But now, as I finished my first mug of beer and Les filled my second, my head loose on my neck, I was sure fear of drinking had nothing to do with why Nick never took his bass guitar out to an audition; like most addicts, he had the worst fear of all, that his dreams would actually come true.

  And I hadn’t been in a barroom—warm and dark, loud and full of smoke—since I was a user working at the Tip Top with Jimmy Doran. But I felt okay because there wasn’t a white snake in sight and that time seemed so long ago anyway, almost like somebody else had lived it, and now I had a mature man in my life, and not some addict trying to hang his own recovery on me. I looked at Lester’s dark profile against the tangerine light in front of us, his deep eyes and small nose, the mustache under it. I drank most of my second beer and refilled my mug. The pitcher was getting light and I wanted Les to get us another one. He was such a serious man, and I knew he would get me back into my house and I wanted to make it worthwhile to him. I knew he was hurting over his kids. I wondered what it must be like to have children you have to live away from now because you no longer wanted their mother or father, and I got a nice picture in my head of his son and daughter visiting us at my house, sleeping in the guest room, or maybe even with us. I finished my beer, then poured myself some more, Lester too. He smiled at me and I held up the empty pitcher, but Les nodded at the dance floor that now held two more couples, and he stood up and took my hand and I was already feeling the alcohol, and I followed Lester Burdon out to the middle of the floor.

  I WOKE UP to a patch of sunlight on my face. It came through the tree branches outside the loft window, and I turned over and kicked the sheet away. I was naked, sweating, and my mouth was so dry that when I tried to swallow, my tongue clicked a second to the roof of my mouth. I smelled coffee, which turned my stomach, and I could hear the crack of the woodfire going in the stove downstairs. I didn’t hear Les moving around anywhere. I had to pee, but I wanted something very cold and sweet to drink, watermelon juice or mango. I remembered Lester driving the Bonneville after we left the bar long after midnight. I was sitting low in the passenger’s seat, watching his face in the light of the speedometer as he drove, as he kept saying he was drunk but he wanted me, he wanted me so badly. Then we were parked off the Cabrillo Highway in the dark behind a beach shop, making love in the front seat. I must’ve been dry, because now I felt chafed, and I didn’t remember getting from there to here. When I sat up, my head felt topheavy and my eyes hurt.