Anne Tyler - Digging to America

I'm always exhausted, Bitsy told Ziba. Are you? I used to be such a night owl! Now I can hardly wait to hit the pillow.

Oh, me too, Ziba said. And Susan gets up so early. Seven. Seven! Count your blessings. Jin-Ho is up at five-thirty or six.

But here's what you do, Ziba: nap. Take a nap when your baby does. Nap?

I put on some classical music; I lie down on the couch; I'm out like a light until she wakes up.

Oh! I wish! Ziba said. She ladled rice onto her plate. But two days a week I'm at work, and the other days I'm trying to catch up with the laundry and the cleaning and such.

You work? Bitsy asked her.

I'm an interior decorator.

I couldn't bear to work! How could you leave your baby?

Ziba stopped dishing out rice and sent Maryam an uncertain glance.

It was Lou who broke the silence. Well, Pat here left her baby from the time he was six weeks old, and see how well he turned out?

Brad took a deep bow before he resumed pouring wine.

But it's the most formative time of their lives, Bitsy said. You'll never get those days back again.

Maryam said, It's very lucky for me that she works. I have Susan all to myself, Tuesdays and Thursdays. It gives us a chance to… She tried to think of the word, the most up-to-date and scientific word that would make her point. Bond, she said finally. It lets us bond.

Bitsy said, I see. But she didn't seem convinced. She hugged Jin-Ho tighter against her and rested her chin on the child's gleaming head. And Ziba still wore her uncertain look. Now that her lipstick had worn away the blackish outline seemed accidental, as if she'd been eating dirt.

From the doorway, Bitsy's mother said, Isn't this lovely! She made her way into the room, reaching out for the back of her chair. Her husband followed a step or two behind. I could smell those wonderful spice smells all the way upstairs, she said as she settled herself. She unfolded her napkin and smiled around the table. Is there a name for this dish?

Habichuelas negras, Bitsy said. It's Cuban.

Cuban! How exciting!

Bitsy sat up straighter, as if she'd just had a thought. You notice I'm wearing black and white, she told Ziba.

Ziba nodded, wide-eyed.

That's because babies don't see colors. Only black and white. I've worn nothing but black and white from the day that Jin-Ho arrived.

Really! Ziba said, and she looked down at her rose turtleneck. You might want to do that, Bitsy told her.

Oh, yes, maybe I should.

Bitsy relaxed and set her chin on Jin-Ho's head again.

But then how is it that Susan is able to pick up her blocks? Maryam asked Bitsy.

Her blocks?

Her pink and blue blocks on a yellow playpen pad. I say, 'Pick up your blocks, Susan,' and she reaches right over for them.

She does? Bitsy asked. She looked at Susan. She picks up her blocks when you tell her to?

From a yellow background, Maryam said. She dished herself some rice and turned to Connie. May I serve you? she asked.

Oh, no, thank you, not just yet, Connie said, although her plate was empty except for a slice of bread.

Bitsy was still studying Susan. For a moment it seemed she couldn't think of anything more to say, but then she turned to Ziba. You put your daughter in a playpen? she asked.

Ziba's uncertain expression returned. Before she could answer, though, Maryam said, And the beans and rice? How about those? Excuse me? Bitsy said.

The black beans and the white rice. Are they for the sake of the babies' eyesight also?

Bitsy looked startled, but when her father-in-law laughed she did manage to smile, a little.

After that the two families got together fairly often, although Maryam politely declined whenever she was invited along. Why would she want to share a young couple's social life? She had friends of her own, mostly women, mostly her own age and nearly always foreigners, although no Iranians, as it happened. They would eat together at restaurants or at one another's houses. They would go to movies or concerts. And then there was her job, of course. Three days a week she worked in the office of Sami's old preschool. No one could say that time hung heavy on her hands.

She did hear about the Donaldsons almost daily, through Ziba. She heard how Bitsy believed in cloth diapers, how Brad worried vaccinations were dangerous, how both of them read Korean folk-tales to Jin-Ho. Ziba switched to cloth diapers too (though in a week or so she switched back). She telephoned her pediatrician about the vaccinations. She plowed dutifully through The Wormwood Rice Cake while Susan, who had not yet got the hang of books, tried her best to crumple the pages. And after the Donald-sons' Christmas party, Ziba bought a forty-cup percolator so that she too could brew hot cider. You put cinnamon sticks and cloves in the basket where the coffee grounds go. Isn't that clever? she asked Maryam.

Ziba had a little crush on the Donaldsons, it seemed to Maryam.

Maryam herself didn't see them again till January, when they came to Susan's first birthday party. They brought Jin-Ho in full Korean costume a brilliant kimono-like affair and a pointed hat with a chin strap and little embroidered cloth shoes and they stood around looking interested but slightly lost in the sea of Iranian relatives. Maryam stepped forward to take them under her wing. She complimented Jin-Ho's hat and she showed them where to put their coats and she explained just who was who. Those are Ziba's parents; they live in Washington. And there is her brother Hassan from Los Angeles; her brother Ali, also from Los Angeles… Ziba has seven brothers, can you imagine? Four of them are here today.

And which are from your side, Maryam? Bitsy asked.

Oh, well, none. Most of my family is still in Tehran. They don't visit very often.

She poured them each a cup of hot cider and then led them through the crowd, pausing here and there to introduce them. Whenever possible she singled out non-Iranians a next-door neighbor and a woman from Sami's office because Brad was carrying Jin-Ho on one arm and you never knew what Ziba's relations might take it into their heads to say. (In L. A. we have plastic surgeons who make Chinese people's eyes look just as good as Western, she'd heard Ali's wife tell Ziba that morning. I can get you some names, if you like.)

To be honest, the Hakimis were only one generation removed from the bazaar. Maryam's family would never even have met them, if they were back home.

It was the food that put the Donaldsons at ease, finally. They gasped when they saw the buffet table, with its multiple main dishes and its array of side dishes and salads. They wanted to know the names of everything, and when Bitsy learned that Maryam had cooked it all she inquired almost shyly if she might have some of the recipes. Well, of course, Maryam said. They're in any Iranian cookbook. By now she was aware that Americans thought recipes were a matter of creative invention. They could serve a different meal every day for a year without repeating themselves ItalianAmerican one day and Tex-Mex the next and Asian fusion the next and it always surprised them that other countries ate such a predictable menu.

Maryam, Bitsy said, was Ziba's family very upset when they heard that she and Sami were adopting?

Not at all; why do you ask? Maryam said crisply. (Astonishing, what people asked!) Now, this is a dish customarily served at weddings, she said. Chicken with almonds and orange peel. You must be sure to try some.

Bitsy was filling a single plate with double portions, since Brad was carrying Jin-Ho. She took a spoonful of the wedding dish and said, Brad's parents had a little trouble with it. Not mine; mine were all for it. But Brad was an only child and his folks were more, I don't know; maybe they were worried about passing on the bloodline or something. She tucked a piece of flatbread matter-of-factly into her pocket. (She was wearing a handwoven sort of peasant smock in shades of blue. No more black and white, Maryam noticed.) Of course, now they just adore Jin-Ho, she said. They're just as sweet as they could be with her. She paused to look at Maryam. And you're very close to Susan, I know from Ziba.