The Brevity of Roses

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  “Cultural traditions?” he asked. “How Persian are they, you mean?”

  “Well, yes. I’ve already gathered they’re non-religious.”

  “Ah, of course,” he said solemnly. “I should instruct you on the family protocol.” He took a deep breath. “Whenever we are with my family, you must remember never to look any adult male in the eye and never speak to them unless spoken to first. Never step in front of a man, nor turn your back on one. At meals, the women will serve the men, and then return to the kitchen to eat their own meal. In fact, when we arrive, I will formally introduce you to my father and then you will go directly to the kitchen and stay there unless summoned.”

  Oh, my. A battle between outrage and acquiescence raged within, paralyzing her tongue. Then she saw the gleam in his eyes. “Jalal!”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “You actually considered going along with it.” He took her hand and pulled her close. “Sorry to disappoint you, but my family is thoroughly Westernized. Most of the time, my parents even speak English to each other.”

  “What should I expect when I meet your father?”

  “He will be exceedingly polite.”

  “Cold, you mean?” Jalal confused her with a look that indicated she must be crazy to suggest such a thing.

  “Not at all,” he said. “Baba will greet you warmly and if you speak to him in Farsi, I expect he will find you particularly charming.”

  How could Jalal speak so kindly of the man who had disowned him? She must have looked as bewildered as she felt because Jalal smiled.

  “He will love you,” he said, his smile fading. “It is only his youngest son he has a problem with.”

  That was her biggest worry. How could she be civil to a man who dealt so unjustly with his son? Or was it unjust? Possibly, there was more to it than she understood. Despite what Jalal said, she suspected his father had not shed all his cultural upbringing. Perhaps Jalal had breached some patriarchal taboo.

  As though Jalal’s parents had chosen to immerse themselves in Americana, they lived in a white clapboard Foursquare on a quiet street where massive oaks and maples stood along the curbs like soldiers at arch sabers command. When Jalal and Meredith’s taxi pulled into the driveway, two boys, pitching ball on the front lawn, took off running. The younger one headed toward the door while the older one ran to the car.

  “Hey, Jason.” said Jalal as he stepped from the car and turned to offer Meredith a hand. “Looks like you’re ready for Little League next spring.”

  “I’m going to pitch.”

  “Good for you.”

  As the driver unloaded their luggage, members of Jalal’s family spilled out onto the front porch. Exotic scents from the kitchen wafted through the open front door—a bit of Shirazi transplanted to Seattle.

  “Meredith,” said Jalal, when two of the men stepped forward to help carry their things, “these are my brothers Farhad and Navid.”

  She had never expected his brothers to smother her in bear hugs, but their concerned glances and murmured hellos perplexed her. Is it my age? Surely, they knew. She opened her mouth to return their greeting, but swallowed her words because neither man now paid her any attention. They were signaling Jalal: Farhad with his eyes and Navid with a nearly imperceptible tic of his head toward the porch.

  Jalal breathed a curse and pivoted toward the house, smiling. “Baba,” he said with a bit too much enthusiasm, “forgive me. I thought you would be waiting inside.” Taking her arm, he led her up the steps.

  Since the moment she turned toward the porch with Jalal, Meredith had stood transfixed. The moderate resemblance between the three brothers did not surprise her, but standing in front of Jalal’s father, she felt she was gazing thirty years or so into the future. Except for the older man’s trim beard and mustache, a father and son had never looked more alike. Finally, she came to her senses and respectfully lowered her eyes.

  “Baba,” said Jalal, “this is Meredith. Meredith, this is my father, Korush Vaziri.”

  She said, “Salam, Agha Vaziri. Az molaghat e sham khosh vaghtam.”

  Jalal’s father cried, “Ha!” and clapped his hands in delight. Smiling broadly, he grasped her hand with both his. “Salam, Meredith. Khosh ’umadi. Welcome to our home. Please, you may call me Korush. Come.” He laid a hand on her shoulder and guided her to the door. Inside, he led her toward the fireplace, and motioned for her to take the chair beside his massive leather recliner.

  Within seconds, she had a glass in one hand and a small plate balanced on her knees. Muted conversation swirled around the room, and she sensed Jalal standing behind her, but she kept her eyes on Korush, who spoke in a steady stream of Farsi that required all her concentration to translate. He leaned toward her with interest as she responded to his questions and made appropriate comments, stumbling only once or twice. After awhile, they spoke as much in English as Farsi, and she relaxed.

  Korush asked her a few more questions about her work and the travel involved and then, he sat back and grasped the arms of his chair. He smiled and declared, “Our meal should be ready soon, Meredith.”

  Jalal laid a hand on her shoulder, and she realized his father had just dismissed her. She rose. “Thank you, Korush. I’ll see if I can do something to help Nasrin now.” Jalal stepped forward to take her seat, and pointed her toward the kitchen. Now that she was free to look around the room, she realized she was the only woman there. It seemed the women in this family gravitated to the kitchen by preference rather than decree. Before she passed from the living room, she glanced back. Korush, jabbering away again, leaned in toward his youngest son, but Jalal sat as grim and rigid as any monolith on Rapa Nui.

  Jalal’s mother and sisters along with what she assumed were his sisters-in-law and three of his nieces were busy preparing the meal. She slipped in and stood quietly just inside the kitchen door, hoping no one would ask her to do anything complicated.

  Azadeh was the first to spot her. “Meredith, come in, come in,” she said, motioning her forward.

  Meredith glanced at the sink full of pans and cooking utensils. “Would you like me to start washing up?”

  Two of the teens said “Yes!” so quickly she laughed. She had evidently volunteered to do their job.

  “Oh, no. You are our guest.” Nasrin patted a stool beside her. “Come sit and talk.” She gestured through introductions. “This is Jamileh, Navid’s wife, and over there is Farhad’s wife Tala with their two oldest girls Souri and Rasa, who now call themselves Brianna and Megan. This one here is Shadi’s daughter Jessica. And underfoot inside and out are all the rest of my grandchildren.” Nasrin’s smile spoke to the pride she took in her large family.

  As though on cue, two more little girls ran through the kitchen and out the door to join the group of children playing in the yard. A playpen sat in the corner to keep the toddlers in sight, yet out of harm. It was hard to tell whose children they were since at one time or another each of the women picked up a tossed toy or cup, or offered morsels of food. When the distant sound of a crying baby grew closer, Goli dropped her spoon on the stove top and pressed her forearms against her ample breasts. A pre-teen girl entered the kitchen carrying the newborn and handed him to Goli who pulled up a stool to the stove and sat. In seconds, she had lifted her shirt, offered a nipple, and picked up her spoon to continue stirring. The chatter among the women never missed a beat.

  The women worked as a team, their movements automatic. The real action in the room came in conversation. The topics ranged from cooking to shopping to children to men. She marveled at their candor, noting they made no concession to the young girls in the room, indicating an intimacy, an honesty she had not shared with her own mother. And when the talk eventually worked around to sex, she was surprised to hear Nasrin hold her own. Once again, Meredith found the contrast with her mother striking. More than once, she had wondered if the night her parents conceived her had been the only time they had ever indulged in intercourse—and that was the word her mot
her used when she attempted to give her the ‘facts of life speech.’ By then, of course, she had already discovered most of those facts in the backseats of her boyfriends’ cars.

  In the Vaziri’s kitchen, the familiar dialogue of the mother and daughters often extended a hand to the sisters-in-law, and after only a few minutes, Meredith discovered herself counted as one of them. Yet, when Goli surprised her by laying her sleeping baby in Meredith’s arms, her first thought was to protest like a spinster aunt. Then, the sweet milk smell of the baby’s skin wafted up and she cradled him close while gazing at his face through suddenly moist eyes. In the comfort of these women, she was free to imagine herself a mother, an aunt, or, at her age, even a grandmother.

  Too soon, the meal was ready. The dishes were set out buffet style in the dining room. The mothers called their children in to wash their hands and take seats at the kitchen table and counters. The men did indeed line up first to fill their plates. Meredith held back. Jalal caught her eye and gave her a wink, then grinned and motioned for her to come join him. The adults sat around the living room. The women grew quieter, especially Farhad’s and Navid’s wives. Meredith glanced around the room and saw no overt animosity between the men and women. Yet the contrast between those two couples and the others was clear.

  Azadeh’s husband Sam was a bit of a loud mouth in general, but spoke respectfully to her. Shadi seemed to overshadow her husband, not the other way around. Goli and her husband appeared to be equals. Meredith suspected Ziba’s young husband, a non-Persian, neither thought nor hoped to keep her under his thumb. But most of the time, Tala and Jamileh kept their eyes lowered, and when either of them spoke it was always with a little sideways flick of their eyes to gauge their husband’s reaction. She understood the culture; Farhad and Navid had likely married old country women, taught to assume a place of subservience to their husbands. Her understanding did nothing to quell her fury. She set her fork on her plate and pressed her fist against her thigh to still its shaking. Jamileh responded to someone’s question and Meredith looked across the room at this woman, so lively and bold in the kitchen, now timid in her husband’s shadow. With a shock, she recognized herself. After she married Stephen, she had given him complete control of her life.

  Each of the four days they spent in Seattle, pushed Jalal deeper into gloom. Meredith found herself observing him trying to understand why. It was his relationship to the other men in the family that most intrigued her. Though Farhad and Navid teased him about his aversion to air travel, she deemed it good-natured, and they tried often to draw Jalal into their business discussions with questions and comments she thought only indicated they respected Jalal’s opinion. Yet when she and Jalal were alone, he grumbled about their attempts to alternately “use” and “dispute” his financial savvy. On a far different level was Jalal’s give and take with his father.

  She had warmed to Korush immediately, and though Jalal had warned her of his father’s charm, she felt he was genuine. His demeanor was authoritative, but not dictatorial. He seemed a loving patriarch. Nothing she saw in his attention and attitude toward Jalal indicated anything else, but the flow the other way was a study in contradictions. Jalal spoke as little as possible to his father, yet sat next to him at every opportunity. He professed himself to be nothing like the man, yet from a vantage point across the room, she noted how many identical gestures and facial expressions enhanced their physical resemblance. Even Jalal’s speech pattern echoed his father’s, though less accented. Sudden understanding pierced her heart and she excused herself to the solitude of a bathroom. In silence, she wept for Jalal’s longing.

  Paris was Jalal’s city. He spun into a whirlwind of activity focused on food, wine, poetry, music, art, and some of the most fascinating people Meredith had ever met, leaving her breathless and giddy. She had visited the city many times, but never before seen it through the eyes of a man she loved.

  When they had been home only five weeks from their first Paris trip, wanderlust struck again, and they set off to spend the last ten days of February in the Greek islands. Jalal delighted her by turning out to be every bit as adventurous a traveler as she was, trying on the culture like a colorful shirt. Then, late in March, after celebrating Nowruz and Nasrin’s birthday with his family, Jalal and Meredith returned to the Mediterranean, visiting Sicily and the Italian and French Rivieras before returning to Paris. April in Paris, only a poet could have planned it so perfectly.

  No doubt, there would be more travel in their future. Jalal brought home another travel magazine nearly every day: Caribbean Travel & Life, Ireland of the Welcomes, South American Explorer. For the first time in at least twenty years—maybe the first time ever, when she thought about it—she enjoyed her life. Her new life. With all the traveling, she had lost touch with a lot of her old life, especially her gardening. Since she had been nearly six thousand miles away and missed the spring bloom, today she was pruning the spent roses to encourage another round in June. Though it was a good bet she wouldn’t see that bloom either. This morning, over a fresh strawberry tart, they discovered neither of them had ever visited Australia. Could an issue of Australian Traveler be long in coming?

  Finished with the breakfast clean up, Jalal came into the garden and sat down on the bench next to where she was working. “This is a paradise you have created around you,” he said.

  Meredith paused to admire it herself. “I’m glad it pleases you, but it wasn’t hard to do. If you start with good soil and healthy plants, then it’s just a matter of feeding and watering and pruning … and pest control.”

  He laughed. “No, that certainly sounds like no work at all.”

  She turned to him, hands on hips. “You’re mocking me again.”

  He pulled her into his lap. “I never mock you. I only try to make you see how often you underestimate yourself.”

  “You think too much of me, and not enough of yourself.” She brushed aside his hair and kissed his forehead. “Now, let me up so I can finish the pruning.”

  Instead, he wrapped his arms around her waist. He took a breath. “Meredith …”

  His face was blank. She couldn’t even read his eyes. “Jalal?”

  He took a deeper breath this time. “Will you marry me?”

  Oh, god! His question slammed her like a fist to the chest leaving her heart beating so wildly her breath puffed back out before reaching her lungs. She froze. The idea—the what if—of marrying Jalal had flittered through her mind more than once, but she had never allowed it to light. She had never quite believed they would reach that point.

  After Stephen’s death, when she felt she could not bear another day alone, she would wake at the first glow of dawn and lie there willing the sun back down below the horizon. Now, again, she wanted to turn back time, to yesterday, to last week, or better yet, to August, before she knew Jalal existed. Back to when her heart had turned cold and hard and unbreakable. She wished Jalal’s question to be unasked.

  Desperate to say the right thing, she said nothing at all. When she felt his arms loosen their hold, she jumped up and stepped away. For a moment, there was only silence. When Jalal finally spoke, his voice sounded so flat, so controlled, she took another step backward.

  “It seems your answer is no,” he said.

  Her eyes stung. She bit down on her lip, willing herself not to cry.

  “I deserve to know why,” he said.

  Meredith gave way to desperation. There was no way out, no way back to the easy relationship they had developed, no way to pretend he hadn’t asked for more than she could give. She pleaded with him. “Why aren’t you happy just to be with me?”

  “I am happy to be with you,” he said, “but I would be happier to be with you as your husband.”

  “Why? What difference would that make? How would that better our relationship?” Hardly had she asked the questions before anger surged forward, shoving all other feeling aside. His ego has ruined everything. Everything. “Why do you feel some need to own me,
Jalal?”

  “What the—” He leapt to his feet, coming face to face with her, eyes flashing. “Where the hell did that come from?” He shook his head as though he couldn’t believe she had asked the question. “I only want to marry you.”

  She lifted her chin and took a calming breath. “I don’t see the point,” she said, “Just consider me your wife.”

  “And will you consider me your husband?”

  Her mouth opened before she realized she couldn’t trust her answer to that question. She closed her mouth and pressed her lips together to stop their trembling.

  Jalal stood only inches from her. He said nothing more. He didn’t touch her. He only looked so deeply into her eyes she had to turn away, leaving her uncertain the discussion was over until she heard the gate clang shut behind him. The pruners shook as she lifted them toward the shrub. For a minute, or two, or more, she chopped away at the ugliness before the first scalding drops slid past her lashes. Her hand dropped to her side as though the release of tears had somehow dissolved the bone and muscle in her arm. She stood there. Not seeing. Not feeling. Only thinking. Jalal is reasonable. He understands me. This would all blow over.

  No. She had gone too far this time.

  She crumpled to the damp ground and sat there, motionless, while silent tears traced the contours of her face. Now, as though in protective mode, her brain dammed up her thoughts, allowing them to trickle through one word at a time. Paradise. Lost. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. She sat as if she were only a statue in her garden. A butterfly couple waltzed around her. The citrus-scented breeze rippled the birch leaves above her. The sound of a Lexus starting up in her driveway shattered her heart.