Anne Tyler - Digging to America

Such a noisy bunch, Iranians could be! More than once Dave had pointed out that they were a whole lot noisier than the Donald-sons. Maryam would have to concede his point, but still it seemed to her that the Donaldsons were… oh, more self-vaunting, self-advertising. They seemed to feel that their occasions their anniversaries, birthdays, even their leaf-rakings had such cataclysmic importance that naturally the entire world was longing to celebrate with them. Yes, that was what she objected to: their assumption that they had the right to an unfair share of the universe.

Remember the night the girls arrived? she had once asked Dave. Your family filled the whole airport! Ours was squeezed into a corner. She had taken care to speak lightly. This was an amicable discussion, after all a theoretical discussion; not a quarrel. And yet underneath she had been aware of a little flare of resentment. And when Xiu-Mei came: the same thing again. That time, our two families met the plane together, but I felt as if we were… borrowing your festivity. Clinging to the edges of it.

He hadn't understood. She could see that. He really hadn't understood what she was talking about.

She went to the closet for the dress she had chosen a sleeveless black linen, very plain. Instead of putting it on, though, she draped it over the back of a chair. Then she slipped off her shoes and stretched out on her bed, laying one arm across her eyes, which felt hot and tired and achy.

The Donaldsons would be dressing their daughters in something ethnic. Or they would be dressing Xiu-Mei, at least. Jin-Ho (Jo) might resist. Bitsy would be complaining about She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain, although probably she had given up trying to find an alternative. Aw, hon, Brad would be saying, don't get in such a swivet. Let the kids have their song.

Last week in Tuxedo Pharmacy, Maryam had noticed a couple cruising the greeting-card aisle and she had wondered why they seemed so familiar. Then she thought, Oh! It was the tall young man who'd stepped off the jetway the night of the girls' arrival, and the young woman who had been waiting for him. Only now they had two children a handsome little brown-eyed boy was shepherding his ponytailed sister down the aisle ahead of them and the young woman carried one of those motherly knapsacks bulging with diapers and sippy cups. They would never guess they had been captured on a videotape that was shown to a crowd of strangers every August in perpetuity.

Something was ringing. Maryam thought first it was her doorbell and next she thought it was her oven timer; that was how deeply asleep she was. She actually reached for the knob on her stove before she caught her mistake. She opened her eyes and rose up on one elbow to look at the clock: 1:35.

The Arrival Party.

It was her telephone that was ringing. She lifted the receiver. Hello? she said, trying to sound wide awake.

Mom?

Oh, Sami, I'm so has the party already begun? I'm so sorry! I must have fallen asleep!

Yes, well, he said drily, the coast is clear now, you might care to know.

What?

The Donaldsons have left. You're free to come over now if you like.

They've left? she said. She looked again at the clock. They've already left the party? What happened?

Beats me, Sami said. Now she could detect a note of injury in his voice, or perhaps she was imagining it. They were out in the living room with the others, he said. Zee was in the dining room doing something last-minute; I was getting ice in the kitchen. Then Zee comes into the kitchen and says, 'Where have the Donaldsons got to? They're gone,' she says, 'every last one of them! I went to call people to the table and it was only my family; not theirs. I asked where they were and everyone said, Oh! Aren't they out there with you? But they're not anywhere,' she tells me. 'They're gone!'

Well, did… Could someone have said something that offended them, do you think?

Not that anyone knows of. And what would that have been, anyhow? Sami asked.

Maryam felt her lips start to twitch. Maybe they got upset when they heard you were serving sushi, she said.

This is not funny, Mom, Sami said. Do you suppose they felt it was too big a crowd? There's an awful lot of Hakimis here this year, I have to admit.

It was only then Maryam noticed the babble of Farsi in the background. She said, Well, I can't believe a little thing like that would faze the Donaldsons. Oh, I hope it wasn't some issue with Bitsy that she started feeling ill.

Ziba's in a state, as you might imagine, he said. She telephoned them right away, but there was no answer. They may be refusing to answer; that's what worries her. Although if it was Bitsy; if she had to go to the emergency room… But anyhow, Mom, you can come over now. It's just us and the Hakimis. Ziba felt really bad when she saw you weren't going to show up.

Oh, Sami, I never meant not to show up! I'm on my way right now. I'll see you in a few minutes.

She replaced the receiver, but the party sounds seemed to hang on in her ears the clink of glasses and the Hakimi men's booming voices, the beautiful roundness of vowels in Farsi.

She rose and took off her blouse and her slacks, lifted the black linen dress from the chair and drew it over her head. Still zipping the side zipper, she stepped into her shoes. She went to the bureau for her hairbrush, passing the open window, where she happened to notice Brad Donaldson down on her front walk.

He was holding Xiu-Mei in his arms, and he wore his usual summer outfit of stretched-out T-shirt and enormous, wrinkled Bermudas, his knees sweetly round like a toddler's. He was facing the house but just standing there. From the direction of his gaze, Maryam gathered that he must be looking toward someone on her porch. Don't ring yet, he said clearly. Wait for the rest of them. He sounded so close that Maryam took a reflexive step backward, although she was fairly certain she couldn't be seen.

Then a car pulled up, Dave's car, and parked behind the Donald-sons' car directly in front of her house. Two more cars slid into place behind his. The first belonged to Abe his red Volvo. The second, a gray sedan, was so generic that not until Laura emerged from the passenger side could Maryam be sure it was Mac's. Is she there? Laura called.

I'm waiting till everyone gets here, Bitsy answered in a low voice, and that was how Maryam knew it was Bitsy on her front porch.

The two cars parked behind Dave's spilled forth grownups and teenagers. Maryam had a blurred impression of sun-bleached hair and gauzy summer dresses and the glint of bangle bracelets. Jeannine was telling one of her girls it was hard to say which to spit out that gum this instant. Xiu-Mei was asking Brad to put her down but he wasn't listening. He had turned now to look at Dave's car, and gradually all of them turned, one by one, as they arrived next to Brad.

Brad called, Dave?

And Mac called, Coming, Dad?

Dave's car door opened slowly and he climbed out by degrees. He shut the door with a loose and inconclusive click. He bent to brush something from one trouser leg. He straightened and looked at the others.

Okay, I'm ringing, Bitsy said, and Maryam heard her doorbell ring.

But she just stood there.

The doorbell rang again. A second later, the brass knocker clattered.

Bitsy called, Maryam?

Dave was trudging up the walk now, and the group in front of the house parted to let him pass through. From this angle, he seemed older. A patch of thinning hair could be seen on the top of his head.

Call her name, Dad, Bitsy said.

He stopped and squared his shoulders. He said, Maryam. Maryam didn't answer.

Downstairs, the doorknob rattled loudly. For a moment it seemed that Bitsy had somehow managed to break in.

It's us! Bitsy called. It's all of us! Maryam, are you there? Please open up. We've come to collect you for the party. We can't have the party without you. We need you! Let us in, Maryam.