When You Were Older (23 page)

Anat was seated to my right. The table was small and square, with one of us on each side, and I couldn’t stop looking right. Well, I suppose I could have. But I was doing a bad job of trying. I was desperate to look at her. Every glimpse was like a glass of water in the desert. The way tendrils of her jet-black hair curled around her cheeks. I’d never seen it any way but back. The smooth narrowness of her fine shoulders and upper arms in that sleeveless dress. How could I look at something else? Anything else? But I knew I was being too conspicuous. But then I let myself get awkward about my efforts to stop. I tried to forcibly focus on not looking right, and found it to be much the same as trying not to think about elephants. My brain locked up in its inability to stop focusing on looking right, and the next thing I knew I had done it again.

When I finally got a word in edgewise, I said, ‘I really think I did a bad job on that haircut. More so than I realized at the time. I might have to take him to a barber to get it fixed up, if I can get him to agree to that.’

‘I could probably fix it up for him,’ Anat said. ‘If that would be OK with Ben. Would that be OK with you, Ben?’

I said, ‘You wouldn’t mind if Anat cut your hair, would you?’

‘It’s not how it looks,’ he said. ‘I don’t even care about that. It’s how it itches.’

And he was off to the races again, basically repeating the same set of complaints.

Meanwhile my heart was inching down a series of cliffs, falling the way a person might tumble from one rock down to the next, until they’ve fallen down the whole mountain. Anat was getting her first good look at what it would be like to have Ben around full-time and long haul. She would never come out of this dinner wanting to be with me. How could she? It was all too new between us, and Ben would be too big a shock. What could I possibly have that was so wonderful that she’d be willing to put up with a lifetime of this? How could I offset such a handicap?

I cut him off again.

‘Sorry to interrupt, Ben, but there was something I wanted to say to our guests. Something like … well, a little bit of an apology. I probably don’t have to, I know. But I’ve just been on this kick of being completely honest lately. Even more honest than usual.’

I glanced right. At her. Then I looked across the table at Nazir. He’d noticed. He was keeping count.

‘Anyway, it’s a simple apology. I didn’t make most of this dinner we’re eating. I probably should have tried to make my own dinner for you, but I really don’t know much about cooking. I figured I had two choices. Serve something that I could proudly say I made myself. Or serve something you’d enjoy eating. So I picked up the two roast chickens from Ben’s store. And the cold bean dish was from their deli. I made the mashed potatoes. I can proudly say that. I used to always make the mashed potatoes …’ I stopped myself from saying ‘for my
mom’.
In case that would upset Ben. ‘… when I lived at home. So that’s one dish I can handle. And I made the salad. And thank goodness you folks brought the dessert, or that would have been store-bought as well.’

‘The mashed potatoes are the best part of the whole meal,’ Anat said, and gently rested her hand on my arm.

It was a mistake. A misstep. Possibly her version of looking right. She’d probably told herself to be sure not to touch me so many times that she eventually touched me.

I watched her stare at her own hand in alarm. The thing to do would have been to remove it casually. As though nothing had happened.

She didn’t. She froze, and left it there, then removed it awkwardly. Guiltily. With a glance at her father.

Then she tried to talk over the moment.

‘So. Ben. Did you go along and help pick up the food?’

And I thought, Oh, good God. Don’t get him started again.

‘No,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘I didn’t want to.’

I decided it would be more awkward to correct him for that lack of etiquette, so I didn’t.

Of course, he didn’t stop.

‘I thought it would be weird to go in after work. You know. When I’m not supposed to be there. Because … well … I don’t know. It just would be. Because I’d get up to the check-out with Rusty. And there’d be all this stuff to bag. All these groceries. Ours and other people’s,
too.
And I’d feel like I had to bag them. I mean, how could I just leave them there? Even though I knew Matt would be there – Matt, he’s the guy who takes over after I go home. But I never watched Matt bag groceries before. So what if I watched him, and he didn’t do it right? There’s more to bagging groceries than you think. It’s not as easy as it looks. There’s a lot to know. You can’t put too many glass bottles and jars together or they’ll hit against each other and break. And no eggs or bread on the bottom. You can put fruit on the bottom, but only if it’s hard like a coconut, not if it’s soft fruit like bananas. Even if they’re not very ripe bananas. And it all has to balance, otherwise it’ll be too hard for people to carry. And it can’t be too heavy, or it might break right through the bottom of the bag. I bet you didn’t know there was so much to know about it.’

Ben was directing his diatribe at Anat. Probably because he knew her better.

‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘I just know you’re very good at it. Everybody thinks so.’

‘Maybe we should let the guests talk a little,’ I said.

‘Do they want to?’ Ben asked.

‘I don’t know. Let’s find out. I was hoping we’d learn a little bit more about them.’

‘Like what?’ Ben asked.

Suddenly, alarmingly, I found myself fighting the urge to strike him. My frustration over the gap between Ben and acceptable social behavior had reached breaking point. And there was so much at stake. Love. My life. My
future.
Happiness. If only he could make a good initial impression.

Then I shook it off, and kicked myself for setting my expectations of him unrealistically high.

I’m pretty sure none of this showed on the outside.

‘I was hoping they’d tell us where they’re from—’

‘Egypt,’ Ben said.

‘I meant more specifically. Like we’re from the US. But we’re also from Norville, Kansas. And maybe how long they’ve lived here. What made them move so far from home. That sort of thing.’

I already knew. All that. I had asked Anat endless questions about herself. When we were all alone in the mornings. But I had to pretend none of that had ever happened. I had to act like she was almost a stranger.

‘Fine,’ Ben said. ‘OK.’

We both looked up at our guests. It was immediately clear that Nazir did not plan to speak. His head was bent slightly downward, toward his plate, as if the sawing of a slice of roast chicken were some type of life-or-death surgical procedure.

With a physical jolt to my gut, I knew he was upset. I didn’t know why, exactly. But I had a couple of ideas.

Then it was Anat’s turn to talk too much, with a brand of nervousness similar to Ben’s. But I heard only that they were from Kafr Dawar and that, when her mother died, her father had wanted to leave everything behind. Beyond that, I was totally distracted wondering what exactly was bothering Nazir, how soon I’d find out, and
how
much of a bad omen it would prove to be for my future.

‘I’ll gather up the dishes,’ Anat said.

‘No. Absolutely not. You’re our guest.’

‘I don’t mind at all. Ben will help me. Won’t you, Ben?’

‘OK,’ Ben said.

‘No, Ben and I can—’

Anat turned and shot me a look that I knew was significant. In fact, it stunned me a little. I froze, and awaited further instructions.

‘My father will want to smoke a cigar after dinner. He always does. So I thought it would be a good chance for you men to get to know each other better.’

I nodded carefully. Message received.

Then I wondered if Ben had caught his lack of inclusion in the category of men. Apparently not, no.

Nazir rose and patted the pocket of his sports jacket, as if to assure himself that the protruding cigar hadn’t been stolen.

‘Where do we do such things?’ he asked. ‘Inside your house, or out of it?’

I had a choice to make. Nazir was obviously perched at the border of The Land of the Offended anyway. Should I tell him he could not smoke in my house?

Yes. That’s what I decided. I’d promised Anat I’d tell the truth.

‘The front porch would be nice,’ I said. ‘I’ll see if I can find an ashtray. And I’ll join you out there.’

I rummaged through kitchen drawers, already pretty sure this hunt would turn up nothing.

‘Ben,’ I said. He was halfway into the kitchen with a precarious stack of dishes. ‘Did Mom have ashtrays?’

He stopped in his tracks. ‘Ashtrays?’

‘Never mind.’

I grabbed a saucer instead.

I ran into Anat on my way out of the kitchen. I looked full-on into her face for an extended moment. For the first time since she’d arrived. It made my heart melt again, but there was nothing hot or even warm about it. It felt cool, in a good way, like ice on a burn. She seemed OK. She didn’t look ready to call the whole thing off.

‘Am I in trouble with him?’ I whispered.

‘It’s a hard adjustment for him. Go and talk to him. Please.’

I found Nazir sitting up rigidly straight in one of our porch chairs. He had that odd little cigar smoker’s tool. I’ve never understood those. Somehow they nip off the ends and drill little holes or something. Something I always thought the cigar manufacturer should probably do for its customers. Instead of forcing them to buy accessories.

I placed the saucer on the porch rail in front of him, suddenly embarrassed by the condition of the paint on
my
mom’s house. The paint was peeling. And I’d never noticed. Somehow I’d have to find a way to paint the house.

I watched out of the corner of my eye as Nazir lit the end of his cigar with the equivalent of a blowtorch. He puffed and puffed until it drew, then clicked the flame off.

Then, with nothing to trim or light, the silence felt more awkward.

We sat in the dusk and watched a car go by, and a neighbor walking her basset hound. She waved to us. As if we both lived here, like a couple, and she completely expected to see us sitting out on the porch together. I waved back. Nazir didn’t.

A minute or two passed.

Then I said, ‘You’re awfully quiet.’

For a terrible thirty seconds or so, I thought he didn’t intend to answer.

Then he did.

‘It’s a little different than I thought, with you and my daughter. It’s a little different than what you told me.’

‘What I told you?’ I asked, stupidly. What would I have dared tell him about my feelings for his daughter?

‘You said you didn’t feel that way about her.’

‘No. I didn’t. I said I had no dishonorable intentions toward her. And look at me. Look at us. I’m bringing the families together. To get to know each other. I stand by what I said.’

‘Hmm.’

He puffed a few more times. The air around his head filled with a cloud of smoke that didn’t seem to want to move or dissipate. The smell made me a little bit sick. Well. Something did. Maybe I was scapegoating a smell.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I will grant you that.’

It took a little courage to say the next thing. But I said it. ‘I sense a “but” coming.’

Nazir sighed. ‘She is my little girl. My only family. Yes, of course I knew she would grow up and meet someone. That she would want to settle down and start a family of her own. Yes, I know this. I accept this. But I cannot say I am pleased that the moment seems to have arrived. I feel like I’m losing my little girl.’

‘You’re not,’ I said. ‘Just …’ Then I couldn’t think how to put it.

‘Right, I know. I’m not losing a daughter. I’m gaining you.’ He turned to me and leveled me with that frighteningly intense gaze. ‘And him,’ he added, with a flip of his head toward the inside of the house. ‘He comes with the deal, you know. And that’s a bit of a disadvantage.’

Nazir was nothing if not direct.

‘I know.’

‘Maybe Anat won’t want that responsibility for all of her life.’

‘Maybe she won’t.’ I felt numb as I said it. Beyond feeling. Willing to accept anything that came along, including the guillotine. As if it was too late to affect my own fate. I was just a limp dishrag, moving forward
through
one of the most important junctures of my own life.

‘Don’t get me wrong. I like Ben, as far as that goes. He is a good boy. And it’s not his fault what happened to him. But you said it yourself. He can be trying. He is a lot to take on.’

‘A lot of families have something like that, though. You know. Something – someone – who comes along for the ride. A horrible in-law. Or children. Lots of people have to deal with ready-made children when they meet someone. So this is not so different from that.’

‘It is and it isn’t,’ he said. ‘In-laws die while you are still fairly young. While you still have some life left. Children grow up to be self-sufficient. Ben is for ever.’

We sat quietly for a while longer. It was getting dark. I was wishing I’d turned on the porch lights. But then I thought, No. I’m glad I didn’t. Maybe it was better to air these thoughts without a strong light, like the one the cops turn on you when they want the truth.

‘Ben can be more self-sufficient,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a lot of thoughts about that.’ This was not entirely true. I mostly had the thoughts right then, as I spoke them, in response to Nazir’s candor. ‘I was thinking maybe he could be enrolled in some kind of school or program that would help him be more independent. And I’m going to start teaching him to ride the bus to work and back. I think our mother might have given up on that too soon.’

‘And how independent do you think he can learn to
be?’
It wasn’t so much a request for information. More a request for realistic thinking on my part.

My heart fell. I sat still, feeling its descent, for a long moment.

‘I think he can do better than he’s doing now,’ I said.

He smoked. I sat.

Mark came out of his house and walked down his driveway and back for no reason I could see. I marveled at his choice not to bother pretending he had some purpose in doing so.