Anne Tyler - Digging to America

All the more reason to have it at our house, Ziba said, risking a joke. But Bitsy failed to smile.

So Ziba switched the subject, and asked if Bitsy thought the girls might be old enough for day camp this summer. Oh, I don't know, Bitsy said in a listless voice. Who can say about such things?

There was a time when she would have had plenty to say. Ziba missed those days.

One June afternoon Ziba opened her door to find Maryam standing on her porch in a tailored blouse and linen skirt, beige linen pumps, and a bicycle helmet. What on earth! Ziba said.

I'm sorry to arrive unannounced, Maryam said. May I come in? And then she walked on in without waiting for an answer. The helmet was black and orange the orange a flame shape over each ear and the chin strap emphasized a pad of flesh beneath her jaw that Ziba had never noticed before. I was out shopping, as you see, she said, gesturing toward her skirt as if to prove it, and when I came home I thought I'd try on this helmet I had bought. I wanted to make sure that I knew how to work it.

You bought a bicycle helmet?

But clearly I did not know how to work it, because once I had it on I couldn't get it off again.

Ziba had an urge to laugh. She kept a straight face, but still Maryam said, Yes, I know: don't I make a spectacle! But I thought I would rather ask you than go to one of my neighbors.

Well, of course, Ziba said soothingly. Here, let's see, now… She stepped forward to take hold of a plastic buckle at one side. She squeezed it, but nothing happened. She felt for some sort of latch but she didn't find one.

Susan, who had been playing out back, came in just then with a watering can and said, Ooh, Mari — june! What have you got on?

Just a bicycling helmet, dearest, Maryam told her. Any luck? she asked Ziba.

No, but give me a minute. I'm sure there must be. . Ziba ran her fingers along the edge of the strap. She could smell the faintly bitter cologne Maryam was wearing, and she could feel the heat of her skin. What was it that you fastened when you put it on? she asked.

I believe it was that buckle, but now I don't remember. In the shop the boy who sold it to me undid it in a flash, but now I don't ouch.

Sorry, Ziba said. She had attempted to pull the strap up over Maryam's chin, but obviously it was meant to stay put. What did she know about such things? The only sport she'd played as a girl was volleyball and in a maghnae at that, a heavy black fitted headscarf that muffled her ears and covered her chest. I must be missing something, she said. Here's the buckle, here's the strap…

Where's your bike? Susan asked Maryam.

I don't have a bike, june-am.

Then what do you need a helmet for?

I had intended to ride a bicycle belonging to a friend.

Susan wrinkled her forehead. Ziba stepped back and said, Sami will know.

Sami? Is he home?

No, but I expect him any minute. Come in and sit down and we'll wait for him.

Oh, dear, Maryam said. She went over to the gilt-edged mirror that hung opposite the front door. Wouldn't you think this plastic piece she said, peering at her reflection.

I tried the plastic piece, Ziba told her. Come and sit down, Maryam. Let me make you a cup of tea. Or… can you drink tea with a helmet on?

I don't know, Maryam said. Oh, I don't want tea! Maybe we should just cut the strap with scissors.

There's no point in ruining a brand-new helmet. Come in and wait for Sami.

Maryam followed Ziba into the living room, but she didn't look happy about it.

Does the bike belong to Danielle? Susan asked, trailing after Maryam.

This made Ziba laugh out loud, finally the image of Danielle LeFaivre, the most hoity-toity of Maryam's women friends, doggedly pedaling a bicycle in her Carolina Herrera suit and fourhundred-dollar shoes. Maryam sighed and sat down on the sofa. No, she said, it was another friend. Then she changed the subject. What were you watering? she asked Susan. Do you already have something growing?

No, I was just messing around.

Yesterday I went to the nursery and bought some catnip plants for Moosh, Maryam told her. I thought you and I could put them into that patch beneath the kitchen window the next time you come over.

Is the bicycle Dave's? Ziba asked abruptly.

Then she was sorry, because Maryam took a long moment before she said, It was Connie's.

Oh.

Dave was planning to take me for a ride in the country this weekend. He still has Connie's bike in his garage, but he thought it would be safer not to rely on her old helmet.

Oh, he's right! Ziba said. It's like children's car seats, I think. You're not supposed to resell them. They have a limited life expectancy.

When Sami opened the front door you would think they had both been rescued; they turned so quickly toward the sound.

Sami wasn't as taken aback as he should have been, in Ziba's opinion. All he said when he walked in was, Hi, Mom. What's with the helmet?

I was wondering if you could help me get it off, she told him.

Why, sure, he said, and he came over to her, did something to the strap that made a snapping noise, and lifted the helmet from her head.

Thanks, Maryam said. And thank you for trying, Ziba. She rose and tucked the helmet under her arm and retrieved her purse from the sofa.

Have a nice bike ride, Ziba told her.

Thanks, Maryam said again, already in the front hall.

Sami said, But, Mom? Will you know how to undo it again? She said, Oh, I'll figure it out. Goodbye.

It seemed she couldn't get away from them fast enough.

In July, Maryam went to Vermont for her annual visit. She boarded Moosh with Sami and Ziba, and Ziba agreed to water her houseplants halfway through the week.

Ziba drove to Maryam's on a Wednesday morning after dropping the girls off at day camp. When she let herself in she felt like a thief; there was something so private and close about the dim little living room. She left the front door open behind her, as if to prove she had nothing to hide, and went directly to the kitchen. A single rinsed cup and saucer sat in the sink, she noticed. She filled the watering can that Maryam had placed on the counter, and then she walked through the house, stopping at each plant and testing the soil with her fingertips. Most of the plants were fine; the week had been mild and humid.

Upstairs she went first to the guest room, where she had often put Susan down for a nap when they were visiting. The double bed with its crocheted white spread, the bureau with its paisley scarf, and the pottery bowl of ferns (these in need of water) held no surprises. And Sami's old room now a sort of catchall, a combination sewing room and bill-paying room and whatever had obviously been tidied just before Maryam's departure. The desk was bare, and the twin bed with its boyish plaid blanket had been cleared of the ironing and mending that Maryam often laid out there.

Maryam's room was less familiar, and Ziba couldn't help glancing at the objects on the bureau as she entered. They were the same as last year, though: a painted wooden pen case shaped like a fat cigar, an easel-backed Persian miniature, and a mosaic box. No photos, either recent or old; those would be filed away in the album in the living-room bookcase. It seemed that Maryam had decided long ago exactly how her world should be arranged, and saw no reason to vary it ever after.

As Ziba was watering the ivy plant hanging in the window, she chanced to look out and see Dave Dickinson coming up the front walk. Now, what was he doing here? She emptied the watering can of its last few drops and then hurried downstairs. By the time she reached the door, he was peering through the screen with one hand shading his eyes. Hello? he said. Oh, Ziba!

I'm watering the plants, she told him.

Well, of course; I should have realized. He drew back a bit, and she stepped out onto the porch. (She didn't feel she could ask him in without Maryam's knowledge.) He was wearing a chambray shirt and khakis that he might have slept in, and his curly gray head was mussed and damp-looking. I noticed the door was open as I was driving by, he said, and I worried something was wrong.