When Joy’s twenty-seventh birthday came and went, and she still didn’t have a boyfriend, I realized she was standing at a fork in the road. It was funny that I hadn’t thought of it before—twenty-seven was old to be unmarried in that day—but I had never stopped to look at Joy and consider her as an independent person. She was my daughter, and unlike my sons, she had never brought me any grief, except during the first two years of her life when she didn’t let me sleep.
Ever since Joy was a small girl, she had been shy about talking in front of people outside the family. When we stood on the church steps after Sunday service, chatting with people, Joy stood behind me, observing silently. It was only later, when we were alone, that she had plenty of comments to make about what was said. Joy was even more uncomfortable around boys her age and curled up tight like a potato bug if a boy spoke to her. I started to notice, though, that when they weren’t looking at her, she was studying the single men out of the sides of her eyes.
I brought up the subject with Arsinee, trying to figure out what to do, if anything.
“Maybe she doesn’t want to get married. She likes her job at Underwood. You never know. Maybe she’s happy the way she is,” I suggested.
“Maybe, maybe not. It would be nicer for you if she never left. Someone to help with the housework and keep you company while your husband reads the newspaper.”
“What do you think I can do to help her?”
Well, it turned out that the Melkonians, from our church, had just taken in their cousin, who was recently arrived from Beirut. The Melkonians lived on Nichols Avenue, a block down from Arsinee. As soon as she spotted Vartan Melkonian, Arsinee hatched a plot.
“Listen,” she said, “it’s not as though she has to marry him. Maybe she’ll like him, maybe she won’t. But wouldn’t it be nice for her to at least get the chance to say no?”
People made a distinction between the aunties who had a choice and those whom fate had made too ugly or too peculiar to find a husband. I called Varsenic Melkonian the next day and invited them over for Sunday dinner.
The Melkonians were a dull couple—their hair was white, their skin and clothes were gray, and they both spoke in a sort of drone that could lull you to sleep if the room was warm and you had eaten a big meal. Sometimes Hagop Melkonian talked himself to sleep, breaking out with a whistling snore in midsentence. It had been a few years since we’d had them to our house, but they obligingly accepted my invitation and brought Vartan with them.
On first inspection he seemed to be in his right mind and of sound limb. He was short—his eyes were on the same level as Joy’s nose—and his mustache drooped slightly at each corner of his mouth. His long nose flared at the sides, which made him look a little like a bull. He shook hands with Toros vigorously and beamed at me with a full smile, showing a small gap between his front teeth. He didn’t appear to be more than five years older than my girl.
Joy stared at her plate, glancing at him through her lashes. This meant she was curious. I thought maybe she was impressed by his polite manner and the elegant Armenian he spoke. Joy spoke “kitchen Armenian,” but during the meal she didn’t say a word.
“What will you do for work?” Toros asked, pointing at Vartan with his fork.
The young man patted his mouth with a napkin. “I have arranged to work at my trade, as a tailor, in the shop of Baron Bilizekian. I start next week, Lord willing.”
“Vartan has established a savings account so he can buy his own store,” said Mrs. Melkonian.
“An ambitious young man,” added Mr. Melkonian.
Vartan smiled. “First I must learn English. Also, I must find a place to live so I don’t impose on my generous cousins.”
“I’m sure some family will be happy to take you as a boarder. Maybe we can offer you a room,” said Toros.
Joy’s eyes darted toward me. I wasn’t interested in Vartan as a boarder. I said, “The Kavjians might have a room. They’re on School Street.”
“We’re in no rush to lose the company of our good cousin,” Mr. Melkonian protested.
Joy and I went into the kitchen to make the coffee. I asked her, “Well, what do you think of him?”
“Who?” asked Joy.
She wasn’t going to make it easy, that was sure. “Who do you think? Vartan!”
“What about him?” She tried to sound casual, but I could see she was blushing.
“He’s not bad looking,” I said.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Arsinee told me Varsenic said he’s in a hurry to find a wife.”
“Ma, you and Arsinee mind your own business.”
Letting the pantry door swing shut behind her, Joy went to the living room with the dessert tray. Two steps behind her, I decided I wouldn’t give up so easily.
After eating three pieces of pakhlava, Vartan smiled at me with flared nostrils. “Digin Chahasbanian, this pastry is delicious, and your coffee is brewed to perfection.”
Who wouldn’t want a son-in-law who gave compliments like that? And he was Armenian.
Sometimes a word is like a seed. Drop it in fertile ground, and under the right conditions, a green shoot will appear, like a little miracle. Arsinee was sowing seeds over on Nichols Avenue, and I scattered a few of my own.
On Monday when Joy left her job at the Underwood Factory office, Vartan was waiting on the sidewalk. I don’t know what he said to her, but I saw him bow to kiss her hand when they reached our front steps. I jumped back from the curtains before they saw me and ran to the back porch, where I sat on the couch like I had been roosting there for hours.
When Joy rounded the house, Jack was spraying the garden with the hose. Helen, who was due to have a baby in a few months, hung laundry on the line. Toros pestered a squirrel, whacking at the hedges with his cane. Without a word, Joy floated up the stairs and went to her room.
I know some mothers and daughters who tell each other every secret, but Joy and I weren’t like that. I knew what she was feeling, not because she ever said it. I guess you might say that on occasion I could read her mind. But you didn’t have to be a mind reader to know she was thinking about Vartan Melkonian.
Arsinee heard from Varsenic Melkonian that Vartan was seriously considering Joy as well. Varsenic said Vartan thought our daughter had beautiful eyes. He admired the care she took with her dress and the fact that she didn’t wear jewelry or makeup. He wondered if she was as good a cook as her mother.
I told Arsinee to pass along to Varsenic the news that Joy could roast a chicken and that she had also sewn all the curtains in our living room. She was an excellent typist, and Mr. Parsons at the Underwood Factory office called her irreplaceable.
Arsinee laughed at me. “Are you going to send them a copy of her medical records?”
“Maybe just the dental records,” I said. “She has perfect teeth. Not a cavity in her head.”
“Who was that on the phone, Ma?” Joy asked.
“Arsinee.”
“You’ve talked to her four times today.”
“Only three.” From her vantage point next door, Arsinee kept tabs on Vartan’s movements. She also received frequent reports from Varsenic and called to keep me informed. Vartan had just left the house, heading our way, as expected.
“Ma, you and Arsinee aren’t meddling, are you?”
“He knows a fine woman when he sees one.”
“You’re not answering my question.”
“What should I have to do with it?” I said.
“You invited the Melkonians for dinner.”
“They called me only that morning to ask if they could bring their cousin. For all I knew, he could have been a sixty-year-old one-legged knife grinder from Aleppo. It was your luck he turned out to be a bachelor with a gleam in his eye.”
Joy groaned.
“Go put this on the coffee table.” I handed her a bowl of candied fruit slices.
Toros, Joy, and I were lined up on the couch in front of Perry Mason w
hen the front doorbell rang. Joy went to the door. Vartan presented her with a bunch of long-stemmed roses wrapped in florist’s paper.
“I was passing through the neighborhood,” he said, “and thought I would come to pay my regards to this lovely lady and her gracious parents.” He beamed at me. There was something disarming about the gap between his teeth.
Toros gestured to an armchair. “Take a seat, sir.”
We turned off the TV and sat there. Joy kept rearranging her skirt on the couch.
“So, Vartan, what do you think of America?” Toros asked.
“It’s a fine country, sir. A very fine country. A proud land.”
“You’ve hit on it,” said Toros. “Pride. Pride will be this nation’s downfall. But what’s going on here is enough to bring down another Flood. You turn on the television, see half-naked women, drunk men, and insolent children.”
Vartan nodded in agreement, furrowing his brow. “America’s morals are not—”
Toros interrupted. “These are the signs of the last days, son. I read in Revelations”—here he thumped the Bible on the end table—“about the sinful deeds men will commit before the Second Coming, and then I read the same things in the newspaper. Christ’s return is at hand.” Toros stared into the air over Vartan’s head, as if imagining Christ’s arrival.
“You are right, Baron Chahasbanian. So right. It was only yesterday that I was telling my good cousins the very same thing,” Vartan said.
There was a long silence. Toros’s eyes were half-closed. I yawned and said, “I’m tired. We should go to bed, Toros, and leave the young people alone.”
“I’m not tired,” snapped Toros. He had no intention of leaving his daughter and the Beirut tailor alone.
“I’ve been reading the newspaper, and my English gets better each day,” Vartan stated.
“That will help with your business,” I said.
“How is business?” Joy asked.
“Not bad at all. Today alone, we received orders for three suits.”
Toros’s chin dropped to his chest. I elbowed him awake. Joy smoothed her skirt. Vartan had the good grace to make his farewell before Toros fell asleep again. Then Joy went to her room. As I lay in my bed, I imagined Joy in her bed, staring at the ceiling.
Everyone at church knew about Joy and Vartan. I heard the nasty gossip from the back of my head. Of course, one woman said, an old girl like her could only get a man fresh off the boat who didn’t know any better. His attentions have something to do with citizenship, said another. But everyone smiled at the couple. The important thing was that Joy finally had a suitor.
When the annual Armenian picnic rolled around in August, the Melkonians, who didn’t own a car, drove to Ararat Campgrounds with us. Joy sat between me and Toros in the front, with Vartan and his cousins in the back. We were practically family.
Jack and Helen arrived with Arsinee, whose children never attended Armenian functions. While Jack skewered cubes of beef for shish kebab, Helen, who was in the hazy final weeks of pregnancy, sat fanning herself in a lawn chair in the shade. Joy helped me spread a cloth over the picnic table and unpack the baskets of food. Arsinee chatted with the Melkonians. The sounds of the oud and dumbeg drifted to our table from the band’s white tent.
We all crowded onto the benches for our lunch. Joy was pressed between Vartan and Toros, who gestured in agreement with each other about some theological point I hadn’t cared to follow. Vartan would interrupt their discussion every now and again to pay tribute to various food items that crossed his plate.
After the meal, Vartan steered Joy toward the tent to watch the dancers. The rest of our group trailed after them, leaving me and Arsinee at the table.
“Vartan surely likes your cooking,” she said.
“Any day now I’m expecting him to praise the taste of my tap water,” I said.
“Almost too good to be true,” she commented. “He seems to worship Joy. He and Toros are of one mind. If I hadn’t seen him kick a dog on the street, I’d think he was perfect.”
“A good husband?” I asked, assuming she was joking about the dog.
“Has he asked her?”
“Any day now,” I said.
A week later, Arsinee and I sat on the back porch together as Joy and Vartan drove off in a borrowed car for an evening out.
Arsinee said, “If I were a wagering woman, I’d bet he’s going to ask her tonight.”
“Did you hear something?” I asked.
“Let’s just say Varsenic Melkonian bought herself a new dress.”
It hit me on the top of the head like an acorn out of a tree. Joy getting married? She knew nothing about managing a household. She knew even less about men. And what exactly did I know about Vartan Melkonian? He worked hard. He learned English quickly. He belonged to our church. But that was all we knew about him, and his cousins were so blind, they’d mistake a jackal for a lamb.
Vartan was at our table every evening, cleaning his smile with a wooden toothpick. How quickly he had insinuated himself into the heart of our family. And he hovered overjoy like a cat about to pounce on a sparrow. Vay babum, I thought, I might as well throw my daughter to the wolves.
After Arsinee had gone home and Toros went to bed, I sat in the living room, trying to read. I picked lint off my sweater. I stood at the window, watching for cars. Finally the white car stopped at our walk. Joy climbed out and marched up the front steps.
When she entered the living room I was in my chair, gazing at a missionary magazine.
“Hi, honey!” I said. “Did you have a nice time?”
She barely looked at me. “Yeah. See you in the morning, Ma.” She hurried to the attic.
The next morning Joy and I were changing the sheets on the beds, as we did every Saturday. Of course, I was dying of curiosity, but I knew if I asked her anything, she’d snap shut like a clasp purse. So I looked at her from the sides of my eyes and held my tongue. She was like me—thoughts traveled across her face like banners in a parade. There went a happy thought, there went confusion, and then again fear. Finally she said something.
“Do you love Pa?” she blurted.
I smoothed the sheet and tucked it under the mattress on our bed. “I’ve lived with him for more than thirty years. He’s my husband.”
“That’s not the same thing. Do you love him?”
I paused. Toros and I were part of each other. It was like asking the elbow if it loved the wrist.
Joy ran out of patience and said, “Vartan wants to ask Pa if we can get married.”
I asked, “And what did you tell him?”
“I didn’t give him an answer yet. He thinks I’m beautiful, Ma. He wants to take care of me and protect me. He said my life is a bolt of cloth ready to be made into a handsome dress by the right tailor.”
“Very poetic,” I said.
“What should I do, Ma?”
I had only a few seconds to plan my response. Was my sudden mistrust of him well founded? Maybe if she married him, the old country tyrant would emerge to make a misery of her life. Maybe she’d be happier staying with us. But on the other hand, this might be Joy’s only chance for a husband and a family of her own. “You should do what makes you happy,” I told her.
“I don’t know what will make me happy.”
Something about the bolt of cloth made me nervous. I couldn’t ignore my misgivings. “I hear he has a bad temper,” I said.
“Who have you been talking to?”
“Not just the kind that yells, but also throws things,” I added darkly. “Arsinee saw him kick a dog.” This didn’t seem like enough evidence to convince Joy. My imagination took hold. “He might be the kind who keeps you locked in the house all week. Imagine that. Not even a walk to the store, just like those poor Moslem women.”
Joy said, “Ma, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I also heard that they suspect he murdered a man for staring at his younger sister. They don’t know for sure, b
ecause the man disappeared, and no one found his body.”
“Who are ‘they’? And why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I only just heard about it from Arsinee a few days ago. She got it out of Varsenic Melkonian, who had been sworn to secrecy by Vartan’s mother.”
Joy was stunned. “You should have told me right away. Were you so desperate to get rid of me that you’d let me marry a murderer? I don’t even know if I can believe you.” Her face knitted itself into a fury. “Tomorrow I’m going to tell him yes!” she shouted as she stormed out of the room with the basket of dirty sheets.
She wouldn’t talk to me the rest of the day. I was a wreck. Even though I had made up that story about Vartan, I was convinced that it was true in spirit. Now my daughter was going to be married to that brute because Arsinee and I had been meddling.
Arsinee was furious at me. “Stop whispering,” she yelled into the phone. “I can’t understand anything you’re saying.”
“I don’t want Joy to hear.”
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” she said.
“I don’t know,” I moaned. “I don’t know what I want.” My poor baby, I thought. What had I done?
During the church service Joy sat next to me as still as a stone. I could hear the blood rushing in her veins, though, and the sound of her heart thumping like it was in my own body. Vartan sat five rows ahead, and at the front of the church sat the aunties, their heads wobbling on their skinny necks. We all stood to sing the final hymn, and the hymnal trembled in Joy’s hand.
After the doxology Joy fled down the stairs to the bathroom. I saw Vartan go after her, and I went to the top of the stairs myself, followed by Arsinee. I waited, but Arsinee went down to use the bathroom, or so she said.
Vartan bolted up the stairs like a stampeding bull, and I knew Joy had been saved. I overheard Joy and Arsinee on my way down.
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