Anne Tyler - Digging to America

She went caroling with the next-door neighbors. They walked up and down her street singing every single carol there is, baby Jesus and all.

Well, then, he said. I'm not quite sure But in the car that day she told me, 'It's not the same. It doesn't feel the same. It's not like a real Christmas.'

He started laughing.

Oh, for goodness' sake, he said. You're talking about every child in this country!

She braked for a light and looked over at him.

He said, You don't think that's what all of them say? They say, 'Other families celebrate better; on TV it seems much better; in my mind it was going to be better.' That's just Christmas! That's how it works! They have these idealized expectations.

She did seem to get his point, he saw. Something seemed to clear in her forehead.

The kid's one hundred percent American, he said.

She smiled and started driving again.

For the rest of the way they rode in a silence that Dave didn't try to break, because she seemed deep in thought. At red lights she tapped a fingernail against the steering wheel as if keeping time with some private dialogue, and as she slowed in front of Brad and Bitsy's house she said, You're right, of course.

I am?

I am far too sensitive about my foreignness.

What? Wait. That's not what I said.

But she nodded slowly. I make too much of it, she said. She had brought the car to a stop now but she left the engine running; so he gathered she would not be coming in. She stayed facing forward, gazing out the windshield. One could even call it self-pity, she said. A trait that I despise.

I would never say that! You don't have an ounce of self-pity.

No, you see, she said, you can get in a, what would you call it, a mind-set about these things. You can start to believe that your life is defined by your foreignness. You think everything would be different if only you belonged. 'If only I were back home,' you say, and you forget that you wouldn't belong there either, after all these years. It wouldn't be home at all anymore.

Her words struck Dave as profoundly sad, but her voice was cool and her profile remained impassive. A yellow glow kept flickering across her face as guests passed between the car and the front-walkway lamp.

Dave said, Maryam.

She turned and observed him from a distance, it seemed, her expression friendly but contemplative.

You belong, he told her. You belong just as much as I do, or, who, or Bitsy or… It's just like Christmas. We all think the others belong more.

At least she seemed to be listening to him. She cocked her head and kept her eyes on his. He felt self-conscious, all at once. He hadn't meant to sound so solemn. Anyhow, he said in a lighter tone. Aren't you coming inside?

She said, Oh..

Please, he said, and he reached for the ignition key and turned off the engine. She didn't object. Come in, he told her, and he gave her the key. And then it seemed that the words began to mean something more, and he said, Come in, Maryam. Come inside, and her fingers closed not just around the key but around his fingers too, and they sat there clasping hands and looking at each other soberly.

Well. Ziba didn't know what to think. People kept asking her questions the women, mostly. Her mother and her sisters-in-law and Siroos's wife, Nahid. Is Maryam… is she…? Could there be some special reason she is always with that Bitsy person's father?

She showed up with him at the Hakimis' New Year's party in March the real one, the completely Iranian one that Ziba's parents gave every year at a big hotel in Washington. Ordinarily she would not have attended. Khanom thinks she's too high-class for our simple family gathering, the relatives liked to tell each other, although in fact there was nothing simple about it, which was probably why Maryam had always before sent her regrets. It was very, very dressy, very musical and loud, and it lasted far into the night. But this year, there she was, in a long black silk caftan trimmed with gold embroidery, her chignon of pure black hair pulled back tight and sleek, her face a perfect, stunning oval perfectly made up, and Dave Dickinson stood next to her in a baggy gray suit and blue shirt and striped tie, perhaps the first tie Ziba had seen him in outside of his wife's funeral. He was almost the only American present. Oh, a few of the young male cousins had married blondes there was no getting past that Iranian thing about blondes but still the man was noticeable for his pale-skinned, faded appearance. Not that it seemed to bother him. He was looking all around with an expression of open joy, taking in the elaborate decorations and the musicians with their santours and tambours and the dressed-up children running wild among the grownups. When he saw the array of foods, he pressed his huge hands together as if he could barely contain his happiness. This made some of the other guests laugh, and Ziba felt almost sorry for him although he himself seemed unaware.

She had known he would be coming, but only because her parents had told her at the last minute. Maryam herself had said nothing. Did she say anything to you? Ziba asked Sami, and Sami shook his head. This was before the party began, even, but still it came as a shock to find Dave in the midst of the swirling crowd an hour or so later. He stood beneath a high marble arch, next to a fluted column. There were not two inches of space between him and Maryam. Ziba paid close attention to that. (Everybody did.) All evening he stuck to Maryam like a shadow, although he never actually touched her. Maryam, for her part, seemed merely his acquaintance. She didn't set a hand on his when she spoke to him; she didn't take his arm as they moved toward Sami and Ziba to say hello. It was early in the relationship, then: a first or second date. Or maybe not a date at all; maybe a cultural expedition born of Dave's curiosity. Or a convenience for Maryam, who felt uncomfortable driving at night. (But in that case, why not just ride over with Sami and Ziba?)

Ziba telephoned Bitsy the very first thing the next day. Bitsy said he hadn't breathed a word to her.

In April, at Maryam's own New Year's party that she had put on every spring since the girls' arrival, Dave was already settled in when Sami and Ziba got there. And they got there early. As usual, they came to help out ahead of time, not that Maryam ever left the slightest detail unseen-to. It was Dave who offered them drinks, Dave who went to answer when Ziba's parents rang the doorbell. Although again, he and Maryam stayed physically quite separate, and he complimented her food as any casual guest might wanting to know the name of a spice and appearing to have no previous, inside knowledge of her menu.

Bitsy, when she and Brad showed up, said, Oh, there you are, Dad! We've been phoning you all morning to see if you'd like a ride.

All morning? Ziba thought. Exactly how long had he been here?

Ziba's mother told her later that she should come right out and ask Maryam what was going on. She's your mother-in-law! she said on the phone. You see her almost daily! Ask, 'Should we be buying our wedding clothes?'

Ask Khanom? Ziba said.

As a rule, Ziba objected when her family called Maryam Khanom behind her back. Madame was all it meant, but in their particular tone it might as well have been Her Highness. Ziba pretended to disapprove. She never let on how intimidating she had always found Maryam. Really you just have to get to know her, she often told them, and she hoped with all her heart that someday that would be true. Now, though, she admitted it: I wouldn't have the nerve to ask her!

Her mother said, Well, Sami, then. Surely she would tell Sami.

Sami said he didn't mind asking in the least. But he waited till the next time he saw Maryam in person, Ziba noticed. He didn't just pick up the phone and address the subject head on. (Which Ziba refrained from pointing out. There was a certain delicacy between them, a certain gloved and tentative quality, when it came to discussing his mother.) The next Sunday afternoon, when they stopped by Maryam's house to drop off Susan on their way to a movie, Sami said, What: no Dave? Seems to me Dave is everywhere I look these days.