Ziba telephoned Bitsy the very first thing the next day. Bitsy said he hadn't breathed a word to her.
In April, at Maryam's own New Year's party that she had put on every spring since the girls' arrival, Dave was already settled in when Sami and Ziba got there. And they got there early. As usual, they came to help out ahead of time, not that Maryam ever left the slightest detail unseen-to. It was Dave who offered them drinks, Dave who went to answer when Ziba's parents rang the doorbell. Although again, he and Maryam stayed physically quite separate, and he complimented her food as any casual guest might wanting to know the name of a spice and appearing to have no previous, inside knowledge of her menu.
Bitsy, when she and Brad showed up, said, Oh, there you are, Dad! We've been phoning you all morning to see if you'd like a ride.
All morning? Ziba thought. Exactly how long had he been here?
Ziba's mother told her later that she should come right out and ask Maryam what was going on. She's your mother-in-law! she said on the phone. You see her almost daily! Ask, 'Should we be buying our wedding clothes?'
Ask Khanom? Ziba said.
As a rule, Ziba objected when her family called Maryam Khanom behind her back. Madame was all it meant, but in their particular tone it might as well have been Her Highness. Ziba pretended to disapprove. She never let on how intimidating she had always found Maryam. Really you just have to get to know her, she often told them, and she hoped with all her heart that someday that would be true. Now, though, she admitted it: I wouldn't have the nerve to ask her!
Her mother said, Well, Sami, then. Surely she would tell Sami.
Sami said he didn't mind asking in the least. But he waited till the next time he saw Maryam in person, Ziba noticed. He didn't just pick up the phone and address the subject head on. (Which Ziba refrained from pointing out. There was a certain delicacy between them, a certain gloved and tentative quality, when it came to discussing his mother.) The next Sunday afternoon, when they stopped by Maryam's house to drop off Susan on their way to a movie, Sami said, What: no Dave? Seems to me Dave is everywhere I look these days.
No Dave, Maryam said serenely. Susan, come look at my garden with me! I need to decide what flowers to plant.
Butter would not have melted in the canary's mouth; wasn't that the saying?
And if they are a couple, Ziba ventured to ask Sami once they were back in the car, how would you feel about that? Would you feel I'd feel fine, Sami said.
Because I know it might seem strange to you, seeing your mother with somebody new.
I would wish her every happiness. She deserves it, after all. It's not as if my father was an easy man to live with.
He wasn't? Ziba said.
Oh, no. He slowed for an intersection.
You never told me that.
Oh, he was very moody. Very up-and-down, Sami said. You just couldn't predict, with him. When I was a kid I'd check his face every morning to see if it was going to be a good day or a bad day.
That's not the way your mother talks about him at all!
On good days he was quite friendly asking about my schoolwork, offering to help with my projects. On bad days, he just… sank in on himself. He went all morose and dissatisfied; he demanded constant attendance. 'Maryam, where's my this?' and 'Maryam, where's my that?' Had to have his special tea and his English digestive biscuits. Demanding. A very demanding man. I always wished Mom would stand up to him more.
Ziba said, Really.
She wondered how it was that Sami hadn't mentioned this till now. Men! she thought. And then she felt a flood of appreciation for all the ways that he was different from his father. There was nobody steadier, more even-tempered and amiable than Sami, and he was so conscientious about helping with the housework and the child care. The women in her family marveled at that. She moved over as close as her seatbelt allowed and laid her head briefly on his shoulder. That must have been hard for you, too, she told him.
But he said, Oh, it wasn't too bad, and then, What time did you say this movie starts?
Men.
In May a new contraption appeared in Maryam's kitchen: an electric kettle with a teapot that matched it exactly both a modernistic brushed steel, the teapot's base the very same circumference as the kettle's top. No longer did she have to balance the one tipsily on the other. Oh! Where did that come from? Ziba asked.
From that import shop in Rockville, Maryam said.
You went to Rockville by yourself?
Bitsy's father drove me.
Ah.
Ziba waited. Maryam measured out tea leaves.
I thought you liked your Thousand Faces teapot from Japan, Ziba said finally.
Well, I did, Maryam said. But this is nice, too. And besides… it was a gift.
Ah, Ziba said again.
Maryam had her back turned, so Ziba couldn't see her expression.
It was a favorite subject now any time Ziba and Bitsy got together. What was happening? they asked each other. And why bother keeping it secret? Didn't Maryam and Dave realize that everyone in both families would be thrilled to see them dating? They cataloged the few clues they'd gathered: Maryam was less often available for babysitting duty; Dave had been caught playing an LP record of Iranian music sung by a woman named Shusha. Shusha! Ziba said. Maryam's favorite singer! And Maryam is the only person I know who still doesn't own a CD player.
Although she did own an answering machine now. After all the times that Sami and Ziba had urged her to get one! But she didn't seem to know how to work it. Her outgoing announcement kept reverting, for some reason, to the generic greeting provided by the factory Please… leave… a… message in a robot-like male voice without intonation. And then, mysteriously, a new announcement of her own would take its place, even though she had claimed to need Sami's help to record it. He would show up as requested and she would say, vaguely, Oh, it's back to normal again, I believe. But thanks. As if the new announcement had installed itself by magic, while she was looking elsewhere.
Dave must have done that. Dave must have bought the answering machine in the first place another gift. She used to say that an answering machine would just complicate her life. What are you implying: you can't be bothered calling me twice if you don't find me at home? she would ask. One of those Maryam-isms, those Her Highnessuisms, that always made Ziba close her eyes for an instant.
Oh, Bitsy said, they're dating, all right.
But if so, why not admit it? Ziba asked.
Maybe Maryam is embarrassed. She told me once she was past all that; maybe she feels sheepish now that she's changed her mind.
It's hard to imagine Maryam feeling sheepish, Ziba said. They smiled at each other.
Once upon a time, Ziba had been painfully shy in Bitsy's presence. Bitsy had seemed so much older and more accomplished; she was so creative; she was passionately involved in politics and recycling programs and such and she had very knowledgeable opinions.
But that was before she fell all over herself apologizing for her Americanness and her First Worldness and her white-breadness, as she called it. She was forever complimenting Ziba's exotic appearance and asking for her viewpoint on various international issues. Not that Ziba had much of a viewpoint, or any that was different from what she read in the Baltimore Sun if ever she could find the time. But somehow she was granted a kind of authority, even so.