‘Do they want to?’ Ben asked.
‘I don’t know. Let’s find out. I was hoping we’d learn a little bit more about them.’
‘Like what?’ Ben asked.
Suddenly, alarmingly, I found myself fighting the urge to strike him. My frustration over the gap between Ben and acceptable social behavior had reached breaking point. And there was so much at stake. Love. My life. My future. Happiness. If only he could make a good initial impression.
Then I shook it off, and kicked myself for setting my expectations of him unrealistically high.
I’m pretty sure none of this showed on the outside.
‘I was hoping they’d tell us where they’re from—’
‘Egypt,’ Ben said.
‘I meant more specifically. Like we’re from the US. But we’re also from Norville, Kansas. And maybe how long they’ve lived here. What made them move so far from home. That sort of thing.’
I already knew. All that. I had asked Anat endless questions about herself. When we were all alone in the mornings. But I had to pretend none of that had ever happened. I had to act like she was almost a stranger.
‘Fine,’ Ben said. ‘OK.’
We both looked up at our guests. It was immediately clear that Nazir did not plan to speak. His head was bent slightly downward, toward his plate, as if the sawing of a slice of roast chicken were some type of life-or-death surgical procedure.
With a physical jolt to my gut, I knew he was upset. I didn’t know why, exactly. But I had a couple of ideas.
Then it was Anat’s turn to talk too much, with a brand of nervousness similar to Ben’s. But I heard only that they were from Kafr Dawar and that, when her mother died, her father had wanted to leave everything behind. Beyond that, I was totally distracted wondering what exactly was bothering Nazir, how soon I’d find out, and how much of a bad omen it would prove to be for my future.
‘I’ll gather up the dishes,’ Anat said.
‘No. Absolutely not. You’re our guest.’
‘I don’t mind at all. Ben will help me. Won’t you, Ben?’
‘OK,’ Ben said.
‘No, Ben and I can—’
Anat turned and shot me a look that I knew was significant. In fact, it stunned me a little. I froze, and awaited further instructions.
‘My father will want to smoke a cigar after dinner. He always does. So I thought it would be a good chance for you men to get to know each other better.’
I nodded carefully. Message received.
Then I wondered if Ben had caught his lack of inclusion in the category of men. Apparently not, no.
Nazir rose and patted the pocket of his sports jacket, as if to assure himself that the protruding cigar hadn’t been stolen.
‘Where do we do such things?’ he asked. ‘Inside your house, or out of it?’
I had a choice to make. Nazir was obviously perched at the border of The Land of the Offended anyway. Should I tell him he could not smoke in my house?
Yes. That’s what I decided. I’d promised Anat I’d tell the truth.
‘The front porch would be nice,’ I said. ‘I’ll see if I can find an ashtray. And I’ll join you out there.’
I rummaged through kitchen drawers, already pretty sure this hunt would turn up nothing.
‘Ben,’ I said. He was halfway into the kitchen with a precarious stack of dishes. ‘Did Mom have ashtrays?’
He stopped in his tracks. ‘Ashtrays?’
‘Never mind.’
I grabbed a saucer instead.
I ran into Anat on my way out of the kitchen. I looked full-on into her face for an extended moment. For the first time since she’d arrived. It made my heart melt again, but there was nothing hot or even warm about it. It felt cool, in a good way, like ice on a burn. She seemed OK. She didn’t look ready to call the whole thing off.
‘Am I in trouble with him?’ I whispered.
‘It’s a hard adjustment for him. Go and talk to him. Please.’
I found Nazir sitting up rigidly straight in one of our porch chairs. He had that odd little cigar smoker’s tool. I’ve never understood those. Somehow they nip off the ends and drill little holes or something. Something I always thought the cigar manufacturer should probably do for its customers. Instead of forcing them to buy accessories.
I placed the saucer on the porch rail in front of him, suddenly embarrassed by the condition of the paint on my mom’s house. The paint was peeling. And I’d never noticed. Somehow I’d have to find a way to paint the house.
I watched out of the corner of my eye as Nazir lit the end of his cigar with the equivalent of a blowtorch. He puffed and puffed until it drew, then clicked the flame off.
Then, with nothing to trim or light, the silence felt more awkward.
We sat in the dusk and watched a car go by, and a neighbor walking her basset hound. She waved to us. As if we both lived here, like a couple, and she completely expected to see us sitting out on the porch together. I waved back. Nazir didn’t.
A minute or two passed.
Then I said, ‘You’re awfully quiet.’
For a terrible thirty seconds or so, I thought he didn’t intend to answer.
Then he did.
‘It’s a little different than I thought, with you and my daughter. It’s a little different than what you told me.’
‘What I told you?’ I asked, stupidly. What would I have dared tell him about my feelings for his daughter?
‘You said you didn’t feel that way about her.’
‘No. I didn’t. I said I had no dishonorable intentions toward her. And look at me. Look at us. I’m bringing the families together. To get to know each other. I stand by what I said.’
‘Hmm.’
He puffed a few more times. The air around his head filled with a cloud of smoke that didn’t seem to want to move or dissipate. The smell made me a little bit sick. Well. Something did. Maybe I was scapegoating a smell.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I will grant you that.’
It took a little courage to say the next thing. But I said it. ‘I sense a “but” coming.’
Nazir sighed. ‘She is my little girl. My only family. Yes, of course I knew she would grow up and meet someone. That she would want to settle down and start a family of her own. Yes, I know this. I accept this. But I cannot say I am pleased that the moment seems to have arrived. I feel like I’m losing my little girl.’
‘You’re not,’ I said. ‘Just …’ Then I couldn’t think how to put it.
‘Right, I know. I’m not losing a daughter. I’m gaining you.’ He turned to me and leveled me with that frighteningly intense gaze. ‘And him,’ he added, with a flip of his head toward the inside of the house. ‘He comes with the deal, you know. And that’s a bit of a disadvantage.’
Nazir was nothing if not direct.
‘I know.’
‘Maybe Anat won’t want that responsibility for all of her life.’
‘Maybe she won’t.’ I felt numb as I said it. Beyond feeling. Willing to accept anything that came along, including the guillotine. As if it was too late to affect my own fate. I was just a limp dishrag, moving forward through one of the most important junctures of my own life.
‘Don’t get me wrong. I like Ben, as far as that goes. He is a good boy. And it’s not his fault what happened to him. But you said it yourself. He can be trying. He is a lot to take on.’
‘A lot of families have something like that, though. You know. Something – someone – who comes along for the ride. A horrible in-law. Or children. Lots of people have to deal with ready-made children when they meet someone. So this is not so different from that.’
‘It is and it isn’t,’ he said. ‘In-laws die while you are still fairly young. While you still have some life left. Children grow up to be self-sufficient. Ben is for ever.’
We sat quietly for a while longer. It was getting dark. I was wishing I’d turned on the porch lights. But then I thought, No. I’m glad I didn
’t. Maybe it was better to air these thoughts without a strong light, like the one the cops turn on you when they want the truth.
‘Ben can be more self-sufficient,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a lot of thoughts about that.’ This was not entirely true. I mostly had the thoughts right then, as I spoke them, in response to Nazir’s candor. ‘I was thinking maybe he could be enrolled in some kind of school or program that would help him be more independent. And I’m going to start teaching him to ride the bus to work and back. I think our mother might have given up on that too soon.’
‘And how independent do you think he can learn to be?’ It wasn’t so much a request for information. More a request for realistic thinking on my part.
My heart fell. I sat still, feeling its descent, for a long moment.
‘I think he can do better than he’s doing now,’ I said.
He smoked. I sat.
Mark came out of his house and walked down his driveway and back for no reason I could see. I marveled at his choice not to bother pretending he had some purpose in doing so.
‘I realize Ben’s a big strike against me …’
‘It’s some of each, actually,’ Nazir said. ‘On the one hand, I hate to think of my daughter using up so much of her life on his needs. On the other hand, it says a good thing about you. That you can be relied upon. That you don’t give up on your family. Young people in America today are not always so good about this. Mother gets old, they stick her in a facility. Dad gets sick, none of the children will even come home. “We have our own lives,” they say. They show no responsibility. At least you show responsibility.’
‘Thank you.’ Then, before I realized I was even going to say it, I said, ‘What if there were no Ben? What would you feel about me and Anat then?’
Long pause. As if he were truly trying this new thought on for size.
‘It will sound terrible.’
My stomach cramped in rhythm with his words.
‘Go ahead.’
‘It’s foolish on my part. But always when I thought about my daughter meeting a man, in my head, in the picture in my head, I see now that always the man was Egyptian. So what was I thinking with that, right? How far would you have to drive from here to find a marriageable Egyptian man? I’m not talking about interfaith marriage, mind you, because we are not that religious anyway. I’m not saying I insist she marry within Islam. I just pictured someone who looks more like us. The mind is a funny thing, isn’t it?’
I refused to answer the question.
‘Well,’ he said, when he’d given up waiting for a comment, ‘I guess we all have our little prejudices.’
‘Guess so,’ I said.
‘I apologize for mine. You have done a lot for us. You have been kind. I don’t know why I have said all these things to you.’
‘Because they’re the truth?’
Nazir puffed furiously, then said, ‘Yes. I suppose. Because they’re the truth.’
When we arrived back inside, the dishes were done. Drying in a rack beside the sink. Ben was seated on a kitchen chair, getting his hair cut. Properly, this time.
‘Look!’ Ben said. ‘Look what Anat did! It’s so much better than what you did! She put wet paper towels all around my neck. And the hair’s wet, and it sticks to the paper towels, and it doesn’t go down my shirt. And it doesn’t choke me.’
‘You’re supposed to wet the hair first?’ I asked Anat.
‘It helps. Why don’t you make some coffee or tea, and then go ahead and cut the cake? And by the time dessert is ready, we should be all done here.’
So I wandered in and out of the kitchen, fetching dessert forks and cups and plates and clean napkins, and setting the table for a second round. Nazir sat quietly in the living room by himself. I listened to Anat small-talking with Ben, and thought maybe he really would stay with them while I flew back to New York. Given time.
‘Got a hair dryer?’ Anat asked.
I fetched her one from my mom’s bathroom.
Then I sat at the dining room table, feeling the cracks and fissures between individuals, until the dryer turned off and Ben proudly emerged.
‘No itches!’ he shouted, as if that were the only criteria for a good haircut.
But it was a good haircut. For the first time since arriving back here, I looked at Ben and thought he looked just like anybody else’s brother.
‘Ben,’ I said. ‘You look so respectable.’
Then I looked past Ben and into the kitchen at Anat. Our eyes met, and caught. And stayed. And played. And communicated. And promised. And healed.
And I thought, She’s not gone. She hasn’t run screaming into the night.
I thought, It’s a goddamn miracle.
10 November 2001
ANAT CALLED ME at two in the morning. The phone blasted me out of sleep. It froze my blood. I could only think that something was wrong down at the bakery. Then I looked at the clock again, and realized she wouldn’t even be down at the bakery this early. Something wrong at home?
I grabbed up the phone.
‘What? Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said. Her voice was soft. Familiar. Affectionate. ‘I know I woke you up, and I know I scared you. I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk to you. And your number was right there on the refrigerator …’
’You’re at the shop already?’
‘I never went home. We took two cars. Because we figured it was silly for me to drive all the way back out to our house at about eight or nine at night, and then all the way back here at four in the morning. So I stayed in the room over the shop. But now I can’t sleep. I miss you.’
I lay still, feeling my blood and organs rapidly thaw.
‘I miss you, too,’ I said.
Then nobody said anything for a long time. And it hit me that we might both be thinking the exact same thing: that we were only two minutes apart.
‘I should stay here,’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t I?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, her voice small. Almost a whisper. ‘Should you?’
‘I’ll be right there.’
She met me at the kitchen door of the bakery, grabbed my hand, and led me upstairs. Her face looked tight and frenzied.
‘I have been doing nothing but worry since we talked on the phone.’ Before I could open my mouth to ask why, she said, ‘I hope you don’t think—’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think that. I didn’t think that.’
‘Oh. Thank goodness.’
I sat on the edge of the bed, because there was nowhere else to sit. I looked around. The room was small, maybe six feet by ten feet. No bathroom that I could see. Probably she had to use the one downstairs. There was just a bed, and a bedside table with a lamp, a drinking glass, and a bottle of water. On the other side of the bed was a small set of shelves, with a few folded clothes. It reminded me of a room in a monastery. Not that I’ve ever been to a monastery.
She came and sat beside me, but not too close. She offered me her hand, and I took it, and held it. My heart didn’t pound, and it didn’t melt. It just felt warm. Full. For the first time in my life, I felt full.
‘I’m glad you understand,’ she said. ‘I have to be a virgin. Until I’m married. At least I have to meet my father that much of the way. I know probably you’re thinking he won’t know. But I will. I’ll know.’
I put one finger to her lips. ‘It’s fine.’
She leaned forward and kissed me. Gently. Tenderly. Almost tentatively, but not quite. More like thoughtfully. She pulled back, and we looked at each other for a moment, then broke into a spontaneous, incurable, embarrassing attack of the smiles.
I looked at her hair. Brushed it back from her shoulder.
‘I thought you’d never want to talk to me again after last night,’ I said.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because of Ben.’
‘Oh, no. It was just the opposite. It was so sweet to watch you with him. If I hadn’t already been so taken with you, I
would have been after last night.’
‘Really? Am I good with him? I don’t feel like I am.’
‘You’re too hard on yourself. You correct him when he needs it. But then other times you make allowances for him. And you’re so patient. Like a good parent. You’ll be a good father.’
‘Think so?’
‘I know so. You want children, don’t you?’
‘Sure I do.’
‘How many?’
‘I’ve always thought two,’ I said. But then I added, ‘But I’m completely flexible.’ In case she had other thoughts. ‘What about you? What’s the right number for you?’
‘Two. That is a perfect number. Two. And Ben will be a good uncle, I think, to two children.’
‘Well, they’ll all have a lot in common.’
She laughed. And everything in the world was right. Everything. Even Ben.
Then she lay back on the bed, and I lay down beside her. We stared at the ceiling together. There were cracks in the plaster of the ceiling. It made me feel better about the paint on my mother’s house. I remember thinking I would always love those cracks. Not because they got me off the hook for my own peeling paint, but because I was so happy on the night I memorized them.
After a while she rolled closer and rested her head on my collarbone.
We lay there together for what seemed like ten or fifteen minutes, and then she raised her left hand and looked at her watch.
‘I’m late,’ she said. ‘I have to start the donuts.’
I sat up. Took hold of her left arm. Looked at the watch myself. It was almost four thirty. Our ten or fifteen minutes had, in reality, lasted well over two hours.
‘OK, Buddy,’ I said. ‘Come on.’
Ben stood at the end of the garage, as though waiting for me to pull the car out. Even though I’d told him we were taking the bus today. Even though I was standing near the end of the driveway.
‘Why again?’
‘To show you that you can do it.’
‘But the car’s right there. You could just drive me.’
‘But if I just drive you, you’ll never know you can do it.’
‘I pretty much don’t think I can.’
I sighed. And walked to where he was standing.
When You Were Older (retail) Page 19