Veil of Roses

by Laura Fitzgerald

  “That sounds fair,” I tell him.

  “Kids. Tami wants kids,” Eva states.

  “So do I,” he replies.

  “You do?” This surprises me.

  “Absolutely.”

  “But how…?”

  He shrugs. “There are ways. I’ve been with women before; it’s not like I can’t be with my wife in that way. And there are scientific methods to help in that regard.”

  “Artificial insemination,” Eva says.

  “Exactly,” Masoud agrees. “That is probably the best way. But I definitely want kids, and sooner rather than later. My parents are elderly. It is something they would like to enjoy before their passing.”

  “This all sounds just perfect,” I say. “Baad avardera baad mebarad—but what is brought by the wind will be carried away by the wind. What am I missing? It cannot be so easy as this.”

  “Maybe it is as easy as this,” he says simply. “I’m sure you deserve for things to be easy once in a while, don’t you?”

  I think of all the trouble I’ve caused, with Ike and Haroun, and tears come to my eyes. The truth is, I don’t deserve for things to be easy. I deserve to have a hard road ahead of me for all the pain I have caused.

  So I look at him and swallow hard. “What do we do now?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “I suggest we go talk with your family.”

  “Tonight?”

  “I have to go back to Chicago tomorrow evening. There’s some business Friday I have to be there for.”

  I clear my throat. “We’d have to do this within the next week.”

  “That’s fine. We’ll have the ceremony and a little celebration Sunday and then file the license at the courthouse Monday. Does that work?”

  I nod.

  Eva grabs my arm. “This is so exciting!”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say yes, Tami,” Masoud urges me. “Make it easy on yourself and just say yes.”

  I shrug my shoulders. Make it easy on yourself. Haroun or Masoud, which one’s easier? There’s no contest. There’s no point in thinking about it for even one moment longer.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  He raises his beer bottle for a toast. I raise my margarita glass, and Eva raises hers.

  “To happy endings,” he says.

  “To happy endings,” I agree.

  We all drink happily.

  “Well,” I sigh. “I hate to ruin such a pleasant moment, but we’d better go tell my sister.”

  “What do you think she’ll say?” he asks.

  “All I know for sure is this: We’re not asking her. We’re telling her. How she takes it is entirely up to her.”

  I borrow Masoud’s cell phone and leave a message for Maryam on hers: I am bringing a friend home, and we will prepare the dinner. You take it easy. Eva decides not to join us for what might be a volatile evening, and she leaves to go home.

  Masoud and I finish our drinks and stop at the Wild Oats Market just up the block to buy ingredients for chicken burritos. Masoud thinks cooking dinner will impress Maryam. I think he has no idea what he’s getting into. We buy two cream-colored taper candles and several orchids. Masoud’s concern about the presentation of the table makes me laugh because that is how we joke back home that a man might have homosexual leanings, if we notice him doing the pretty part of women’s work, such as gardening, home decoration, and the like.

  “You better be careful, or my sister will have her suspicions,” I tell him in a joking manner.

  “Have no fear,” he says. “My parents have no clue, and they know me better than anyone.”

  I somewhat doubt this. Most parents, I think, have a pretty good idea of the sexual orientation of their children, even if they pretend they don’t. Especially in Iran, where dissembling is an art form, I am fairly certain Masoud’s parents could know and he’d have no idea of that. I saw a bumper sticker on a pickup truck here that said, Denial Is Not a River in Egypt. And I found that very appropriate to my culture, where denial and keeping secrets are done for the sport of it as much as out of necessity; it’s one more way we veil ourselves from one another. But then again, Masoud does carry himself in a very masculine, knock-them-down sort of way. Aggressive, which I always view as manly. Haroun with his engineer’s hands and constant infirmity seems more of a sissy than Masoud.

  We are both cheerful from our alcoholic drinks and giddy about our situation, so we find several things very funny as we play married couple at the grocery store. Masoud is like Ike in this way, in how he makes even everyday things very fun. Look, honey, the tortillas look so fresh today, he says. Yes, dear, I reply, and I notice the chicken’s on sale.

  It takes only about twenty minutes to get the dinner in the oven and the table set, so Masoud and I sit on the living room couch and start in on one of the bottles of wine we bought for the occasion.

  “Oh!” Maryam says in surprise when she arrives home and finds me on the couch with a man. A Persian man, no less. “I thought you were bringing Eva for dinner.” She smiles graciously and looks at me curiously.

  “This is Masoud,” I announce, and he quickly stands to shake her hand. “He lives in Chicago.”

  “Oh, how nice.” She shakes his hand and smiles at him in her endearingly Maryam way. “And what brings you to Tucson?”

  Her kindness to Masoud offends me after her rudeness to Ike yesterday. I suddenly want to offend her in return.

  “Masoud and I are getting married,” I announce.

  “I thought we were going to tell them after dinner,” Masoud says pleasantly, turning to me with a fixed smile on his face.

  I shrug. “Perhaps I should not have had this glass of wine.”

  Maryam’s eyes are huge as she looks from me to Masoud and back to me again. “Tami, what are you talking about, getting married? You are already engaged. Are you feeling all right?”

  Her tone implies she thinks I perhaps have been coerced by Masoud and am having this discussion against my will. She thinks I need her to save me yet again.

  “Haroun’s crazy,” I remind her. “I don’t want to be married to him.”

  “And who’s going to tell this to Haroun?”

  “Ardishir,” I say firmly. “If it weren’t for him, I would already be married and then we wouldn’t be in this mess. None of this would have happened.”

  “You can make it unhappen, Tami.”

  “I don’t want to. Masoud’s great. He’s normal and decent and wants to be married. He understands the position I’m in and wants to help me out. He’s going to help me get my photography business established.”

  She looks at me incredulously. “How long have you known him?”

  I look at my Mickey Mouse watch for effect. “About ninety minutes.”

  Maryam snorts at me in disgust. “Ninety minutes.”

  “What?” I demand. “We knew after ninety minutes that Haroun was crazy. And yet you thought it was fine for me to marry him. Just because I found Masoud instead of you, you think it’s a bad idea. If you’d met Masoud on the street earlier today, you would have dragged him back here yourself. You know you would have. Look at him. He’s perfect.”

  He stretches his arms outward with his palms facing up. Like, Here I am, not so shabby.

  “How did you meet him?” Maryam asks after giving him a once-over. “At a coffee shop?”

  My mouth drops open from her meanness.

  “Eva ran an ad on a Persian singles website,” I say defiantly.

  Maryam covers her mouth in horror, as I knew she would.

  “It’s a nice website,” Masoud offers. “Very tasteful. Persian-singles.com.”

  “Do you meet many women this way?” Maryam is so snide.

  “Tami’s the first woman I’ve met this way.”

  The first woman he’s met this way. I laugh at his choice of words.

  “Maryam, he cooks!” I offer up.

  She looks at me
like I am crazy. “So what?”

  “So he cooks! And he lives in Chicago. That’s good, don’t you think?” I can see Maryam process that one. It will keep me from running into Ike.

  “As long as someone exercises a little self-control, there is no need to move halfway across the country,” she admonishes me.

  “Oh, don’t worry, we’ll still visit,” I say sweetly, misinterpreting her on purpose. “Masoud’s parents live in Phoenix and he visits them several times a year. Isn’t that right, honey?”

  I lay it on thick. People with no self-control tend to do that.

  “I’m calling Ardishir,” Maryam threatens in a huff.

  “Fine.” I shrug. “He hates Haroun. That’s why we aren’t engaged already, because he hoped someone better would come along. And someone did.”

  Maryam glares at me for a moment. Then she throws her purse and sweater on the couch and stomps off to call Ardishir.

  Masoud grips my arm as soon as she leaves the room. “What was that for? Now she’s going to think I’m a total jerk.”

  “She and I have been arguing lately.” I am shaken by his anger and try to take my arm back but he keeps his hold firm.

  “You and I had a deal and the deal was we’d tell them after dinner, after they’d gotten to know me.” He shakes his head in disgust. “I went through all this trouble to fix them a nice dinner and set the stage for a serious discussion about marriage. I want them to like me. It is very selfish of you to behave this way.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He finally lets go of my arm and turns on his smile. “Okay, then,” he says pleasantly. “No harm done. Let’s go make this happen.”

  I walk ahead of him to the kitchen and I am glad he cannot see my face, for I allow myself to snarl at his behavior. Who is he to grab my arm and tell me what to do? He is not my real husband, not yet. He needs to remember that I am doing him a favor just as much as he is doing a favor for me. I resolve that I shall remind him of this every time he forgets it.

  Starting right after the wedding.

  When Ardishir arrives for dinner, he is polite to Masoud and open-minded and they find out through the course of conversation that Ardishir knows one of Masoud’s cousins, who is an orthopedic surgeon in San Francisco, having met him at several medical conferences over the years. And this is enough for Ardishir to be swayed that my marrying Masoud is the best thing to do.

  I stop drinking at the dinner table, and Maryam starts. I observe her as she grows to like Masoud over dinner, despite her initial opposition. Her eyes twinkle at his funny stories. She eats seconds and then thirds of his Mexican cooking. She asks him many questions about his family and his real estate business. She watches how he is respectful to me, making sure I am involved in the conversation and praising my good nature.

  After dinner, Masoud and Ardishir go into the living room while Maryam and I stay behind in the kitchen to prepare tea and fruit. She grasps my arm in the same spot Masoud did and squeezes it happily.

  “You found yourself a good one, Tami. He’s great.”

  “I’m sorry I was so rude before.”

  “You weren’t rude.” She lets go of my arm and reaches into the cupboard for the teacups. “I know I can be bossy.”

  The four of us enjoy tea and sweets, and then Masoud announces he must leave. He and Ardishir have made arrangements for Ardishir to drive to Phoenix the next day and have lunch with Masoud and his parents before Masoud flies back to Chicago for his Friday meeting. Masoud’s uncle will perform the ceremony on Sunday evening.

  I walk Masoud to the door and his warm hug tells me he has forgiven me for my rudeness to my sister.

  And so has Maryam. She kisses me good night on both cheeks and hugs me close.

  “I’m so happy for you, little sister,” she whispers.

  “Thank you.” I squeeze her back. “He’s very nice, isn’t he?” Isn’t he?

  “He’s much better than Haroun,” she assures me. “You’re right, Haroun is crazy.”

  “But also very nice.”

  “Don’t worry, Ardishir will meet with him tomorrow after he gets back from Phoenix and tell him the engagement isn’t going to happen.”

  I can’t help but feel sorry for Haroun. Not sorry enough to change my mind and not sorry enough to tell him in person instead of making Ardishir do it for me. But I do feel bad, for among him, Masoud, and me, he is the one who most wants to be married.

  And for all the right reasons, too.

  Maryam drives me to Eva’s slumber party that Friday, and we stop by Nadia’s trailer home to give her a ride as well. She waits in the car while I go to the door to fetch Nadia, and my stomach churns the whole time because I so dislike her husband.

  Nadia rushes to answer my knock.

  “I’ll be ready in just a second. I have to get my stuff.”

  “Let me help.” Nadia looks worried, but she steps back to let me enter. “You have a lovely home,” I offer.

  She smiles. “Thank you.”

  It is not a lovely home. It is shabby and old, but it smells of bleach and home-cooked meals.

  “I’ll get my bag.” She disappears into the bedroom.

  I am left alone with her husband, Lenny, who does not introduce himself or acknowledge my presence. He slouches on the couch with his alcohol-swollen stomach and watches a basketball game on television. I do not interrupt his game. I only stand at the door with a friendly smile on my face, so that if he should look over, he will have a favorable impression of me. I want this, for Nadia. To make things easy for her.

  I rush to take Nadia’s bag when she comes back in the room. Huge with baby and awkward with her broken arm, she looks miserable.

  “When’re you getting back?” her husband asks, not taking his eyes off the game.

  Nadia looks at me. Any time, I mouth.

  “About noon,” she tells him.

  “I don’t want no rag head in my house. You tell her to keep her ass outside next time. You hear?”

  Nadia blushes and looks at me apologetically. I don’t even know what he means by this, rag head, but I know it refers to me and is unkind. I smile to show her I’ve taken no offense.

  “It was nice to meet you,” I tell him cheerily. He looks over at me with a snarl on his face. As Masoud reminded me, courteous people learn courtesy from the discourteous, so I smile sweetly at him. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  I feel Nadia’s mood lift as we drive away from her husband, and by the time we arrive at Eva’s, she seems downright relaxed and cheerful, thanks in large part to Maryam’s pleasant chatter. Maryam has asked me many questions about Nadia since learning of her situation, and so she goes out of her way to make Nadia feel safe and welcomed in her car. As we get out of the car, Maryam holds out an envelope for Nadia.

  “Here,” she says. “I got you a little something.”

  I look back at her, surprised and pleased. How very thoughtful my sister can be sometimes. She has already brought home many items of baby clothing that she got on sale using her employee discount at Macy’s.

  Nadia reaches to take the envelope with her one good hand. “I don’t know what to say, except thank you so much.”

  Maryam gives her a smile to remember. “It was nice meeting you, Nadia. I am glad Tami has such a good friend as you. You take care of yourself, now, you hear?”

  Nadia nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I bend over to kiss my sister good-bye. “Thank you,” I whisper. “You are such a good person.”

  “So are you. See you tomorrow. Have fun!”

  Surprise! Surprise!” Eva and Agata yell as they answer the door.

  “What is the surprise?” I ask, confused.

  “Don’t be a spoilsport,” Eva snaps happily, and pulls us farther inside. She takes both our overnight bags and dumps them in the bedroom. Then she comes back to the living room and claps her hands together. “Is everybody ready to party?”

  “I am,” I say, and look around. “Eva, th
is looks wonderful!” She’s made a hand-painted banner that reads, Congratulations, Girls! There are white and pink balloons and streamers decorating the living room, and while I know this party is mostly for Nadia, I am so touched to have made such good friends in America in such a short period of time that all I can do is put my hand over my heart and soak it all in.

  “Do you live here alone?” Nadia asks wistfully.

  “Sort of. My husband went back overseas after we’d been here for six months. So I’ve been here on my own for the last six.”

  “Ven does he get-a back-a de next time?” Agata asks.

  Eva blows off her question with a wave of her hand. “He keeps getting extended. I won’t believe he’s back until I see him on the tarmac.”

  “You must miss him so much,” Nadia says quietly as she stares at their wedding pictures on the fireplace mantel. “You look so happy together.”

  This is true, I realize as I study their photographs. He is handsome and fit and proud, with an American military look I am familiar with from watching Top Gun so many times in Iran on bootleg video. And in Eva’s eyes, there is a laughter that runs deeper than I have seen in person.

  “Yes,” Agata determines, peering at the photos as well. “Our vriend Eva is…vat is dat eggspression?”

  “Crazy as a loon?” I offer, and delight in Eva’s smirk.

  “All de bark and no de bite,” Agata declares. “She talk like she ees-a de tiger, ven really, she ees-a de pussy cat.”

  “You know, that’s true,” I say.

  “That is not true,” Eva quickly contradicts me.

  “Really? Have you ever cheated on your husband?” I demand.

  She blushes. Eva. Blushes. That can only mean one thing: She has not been unfaithful to him.

  “You!” I slap her playfully on the arm. “Giving me all this woman-of-the-world advice. I assumed you were just partying it up while your husband is gone. But you’re not, are you?”

  “Who’s ready for a drink?” She asks this brightly.

  “You know zat I am.” Agata laughs in her husky voice.