My son bags the cut grass and moves his head up and down to the music only he hears, my wife hums contentedly in the kitchen, and I feel foolish for worrying more than God ever wants us to. I call out to Esmail that he dances like a rooster, but he does not hear me and I begin to think of Soraya, of how tightly I will hold her upon her return. And I am thinking so deeply of this moment, of the love I hold for that dear girl, that when the small white automobile drives up the hill and stops in front of the woodland across the street I stand, thinking it is them returning early, surprising us at our new home. But written on the driver’s door is Bay Area Couriers, and soon I am holding in my hand a sealed envelope from a Society of Legal Aid, Lambert & Walsh, Attorneys at Law. My name is misspelled upon the front. I tear open the paper, but I must go indoors for my glasses, and I close the office door and sit at my desk.
Dear Sir,
I am writing to inform you this firm has determined the property at 34 Bisgrove Street, Corona, California, to have been auctioned to you under improper and erroneous circumstances by the tax officers of San Mateo County. We have today notified the county regarding this matter, and we request the sale of the aforementioned property be promptly rescinded so the rightful owner may be restored proprietorship of her home.
Please be advised you will be expected to vacate the premises as soon as possible. We regret any inconvenience this may cause you.
Sincerely Yours,
C.S. Walsh, Attorney at Law
Three times I read the letter, and I begin a fourth time to read it when my hands tear the paper to pieces and I throw them at the trash basket where they scatter and fall to the floor. My heart beats as if I have just climbed a mountain. I pick up a pen and break it, the blue ink spraying once into the air. Oh, this country,this terribleplace; what manner of society is it when one cannot expect a business transaction to be completed once the papers have been signed and the money deposited? What do they think?No, it is clear they do notthink; they are idiots; and they are weak; and they are stupid. And what of the widow’s walk? What of that?Will they return my eleven hundred dollars? Will they return to me my forty-five thousand dollars? But I must not even thinkof such an event, for I will not accept the return of anything!I will proceed as planned; I will sell this bungalow for the profit to which I am entitled, and may God damn them all to helclass="underline" a sale is a sale.They cannot stop it now. It is too late. How can this be a legal practice? I must phone them immediately.
I lower myself to my knees and search through the bits of paper for the letterhead of this lawyer. Nadi steps into the room, polishing a silver serving bowl she holds with two hands.
“Chee kar meekonee, Massoud?”
“Heechee, nothing, I am doing nothing.” But she must see something in my face for her eyes darken and she stops passing the rag over the bowl. I begin to gather the letter pieces from the floor.
In Farsi she asks: “What is wrong, Massoud? What is this mess?”
“I missed the container, that is all. Is it time for eating? I feel a bit weak.”
This answer seems for her enough, and she tells to me she said not to stay in the sun so long. “And the champagne, Massoud. Come, you must eat. Come.”
I stand and she takes my hand and leads me down the hallway but I pull free and say I must wash my hands, then I am coming.
“You must hurry. Esmail is hungry.”
In the office I fold the lawyer’s envelope into my pants pocket. It is too late to call these leeches, these modargendehs, these mother whores, but tomorrow I will drive there myself. I do not want them telephoning here; Nadereh must know nothing of this. Nothing. In the bathroom I wash my hands and arms with hot water and some of Nadi’s lavender soap. The water is very hot and I let it grow hotter still and I fill my hands with it. I want to open them but I lower my head and splash my face, scalding my nose and cheeks, the lids of my closed eyes. I shut the water and leave the bathroom, sitting upon the floor at the dinner sofreh with my wife and son. In Farsi, Nadi to me says: “Eh Massoud, your face is wet. Why did you not dry yourself?” She rises and brings to me a towel. “What is wrong with you, Behrani? Sometimes you act like a child.”
W E MADE LOVE TILL WE WERE BOTH SO HUNGRY WE HAD TO STOP ANDLes left to go buy us something to eat. While he was gone I stayed under the sheet and blanket, lying on my stomach and breasts, one knee drawn up beside me, damp and sore between my legs. When Les opened the door to leave, I could see that the fog had lifted outside and the sun was almost down, but now the dusky light coming through the curtained window made the room dim.
For a while I stared at the pistol he’d left on the bedside table. It had a black checkered grip and square-looking barrel. It was so strange he was in that job; he made love so tenderly, moving as if each push and pull depended on if I liked it or not. And it made me think of Nick, the difference in their two bodies; Nick’s back was smooth and cool, a little fat, while Lester’s was hard, his skin heated; Nick would bury his face at my neck and sometimes suck on my skin, while Lester kept kissing me on the mouth and face and shoulders like he’d been on a long trip and was finally home. He came twice, both times inside me, but I didn’t say anything, just held him. For a black second I thought of the virus, of being unprotected from it, but then reminded myself I was with a married man, which made me feel better in one way, but worse in another.
Nick wasn’t coming back. Waiting for Lester in the Eureka Motor Lodge, I think I knew this for the first time, that my husband was really gone, that one day I’d hear from his lawyer, get a phone call or a letter or both, but not from Nicky himself. And for some reason, because I’d just slept with a man, I knew that day was closer in coming than before, than even this morning when I woke up in our car across from our house like some refugee.
I took a long shower like there was nothing more to feel about this afternoon than the hot water on my face and breasts, my upper back and rear, the steam clearing my nose and lungs, the slip of the bar soap in my hands, the slightly bruised feeling between my legs, and the ache in my shin and foot. I felt as connected to the ground as an old newspaper blowing down the street. I started to feel a little scared, and as I turned off the shower I could hear Lester out in the room, taking something from paper bags. The mirror was too fogged to see my face, but I didn’t want to anyway. I wrapped myself in two towels, then limped out to the room and sat at the glass-topped table near the window across from Les, who’d just finished laying out paper plates and plastic forks and take-out boxes of Szechuan food that smelled like soy and cooked meat. He was smiling at me, taking me in. He leaned down and took my face in his hands, kissing my cheeks and lips. I held his wrists and kissed him back, surprised at how grateful I felt when he did that.
We ate beef teriyaki on pointed sticks, fried rice, spring rolls, and hot mushi pork we wrapped in thin pancakes. Sometimes I would look over at him and he’d smile and I’d smile back. I was still eating when he stood up, took something from the bag, then squatted in front of me and started rubbing ointment on the bottom of my foot. It tickled more than it hurt and I laughed. “Okay, that’s enough.”
“It’s antibiotic. I bought you some gauze too.”
My legs were parted and he was rubbing my foot with both hands, smiling up into my face, his mustache a straight line, his deep brown eyes as warm as any I’d ever seen. I was suddenly wet and I stood, twisted from his hands, and lay back on the bed, opening my towel for him, and almost immediately he was inside me again, his pants around his ankles, his star and name tag pushing against my skin.
After, he took a shower. I knew he was washing the smell of us off him, and I wondered how he would explain getting home so late to his wife, the wet hair. The word “wife” sort of sunk into my stomach like hot metal, but then I thought how I was a wife too, and that my husband was probably with somebody else right this second. But this was such a lame excuse for what I was doing, and I could hear the water shut off in the bathroom, the curtain jerking open.