Digging to America

Jin-Ho said, Okay…

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

However, Jin-Ho's mother said, turning from the stove, Saturday is still Binky Day! Remember that, Xiu-Mei! Saturday is still the day the Binky Fairy comes; you know that, don't you?

Oh, hon, give it a rest, Jin-Ho's grandpa said.

I just don't want her assuming But he said, So! Jin-Ho! What did you do in school today? and that was the end of that.

Snack was cocoa and alphabet cookies. Jin-Ho picked different cookies out of the tin and set them in front of Xiu-Mei. See?

An A, she said, and Xiu-Mei removed her pacifier long enough to say, A.

Right, Jin-Ho said. She felt happy and relieved, as if Xiu-Mei had just come back from a very long trip. And here's a B. And another A. And a C. And an A again. They seemed to be all A, B, Cs. She rummaged through the tin, hunting up an X to show XiuMei her initial.

Jin-Ho's grandpa was telling her mother that he had been a fool. Maybe it was just too long since I'd been part of the courtship scene, he said. I mean, what was I thinking? I picture how I must have looked, stashing that champagne in your fridge ahead of time like a total idiot, so cocksure, so all-fired sure that she would say yes Well, and she did say yes, Jin-Ho's mother said. You weren't an idiot in the least! She said, 'Yes,' in plain English, and we drank that champagne. It was only later that You know, her English seems to be a lot better than it is, JinHo's grandpa said. Did you ever notice that? She wrote me a letter once when she was away in Vermont, and that was the first time I realized that she often doesn't put article adjectives where she's supposed to. 'I am having very nice time,' she wrote, and 'Tomorrow we go to antique shop.' I guess that's understandable, when you've grown up speaking a language that doesn't use 'a' or 'the,' but it implies some, I don't know, resistance. Some reluctance to leave her own culture. I suspect that that's what went wrong between the two of us. The language was a symptom, and I should have paid more attention to it.

She also didn't put her s's on some things, Jin-Ho had noticed. Too many cracker will spoil your dinner, she would say. Jin-Ho didn't mention that, though, because she loved Maryam and she wanted her grandpa to love her too.

It's nothing to do with language, Jin-Ho's mother said. It's her. She has this attitude that she knows better than us. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if she claimed there wasn't supposed to be an article in those sentences.

She might, Jin-Ho's grandpa agreed. When you think about it the way she observed the Iranian New Year but never ours; and calling everyone 'june' and 'jon'; and that harem in the kitchen cooking rice for every occasion… Well, sometimes it seems to me that most of the adapting in this country is done by Americans. Do you ever feel that way?

But that's not really what I have against her, Jin-Ho's mother said. What I have against her is, she's elusive. Oh, I hate it that the world finds elusiveness so attractive! Elusive people are maddening! Why doesn't anyone realize?

Did she suppose I didn't have my own doubts from time to time? Jin-Ho's grandpa asked. I had recently lost my wife a lot more recently than she had lost her husband. I was working very hard to start over. It wasn't always easy, believe me.

You're well out of it, Jin-Ho's mother told him. Never mind, Dad. Someone else will come along.

I don't want anyone else, he said.

Then he must have thought he had left the wrong impression, because he said, Anyone, I mean. I don't want anyone, period. Jin-Ho's mother patted his hand.

Everybody would be coming to the party except Grandpa Lou and Grandma Pat. They had accepted another invitation and they refused to change their plans. Jin-Ho's mother said she couldn't understand that. Where are their priorities? she asked. Between some random couple and their own granddaughter It's not a random couple; it's their closest friends, Jin-Ho's father said. And their friends are celebrating a golden anniversary, while their granddaughter is merely giving up her pacifier.

Well, I don't know why I care, anyhow. I'm beginning to think this whole event is doomed, from the way they're talking on the radio. After Hurricane Isabel hits, we'll be floating in the Inner Harbor.

You said we couldn't blow away! Jin-Ho told her mother. You said we were too far inland!

No, no, of course we can't blow away. We don't have a thing to worry about. I was exaggerating, Jin-Ho's mother said.

But that evening, she and Jin-Ho's father dragged all the patio furniture into the garage just to be on the safe side.

Maybe the radio announcer was exaggerating too, because he said they'd be hit on Thursday and on Thursday the weather was fine. Jin-Ho went to school the same as usual, came home as usual, had her snack. The sky was getting darker, though, by late afternoon, and there was a bit of wind and a smattering of rain. When Jin-Ho's father got home from work he said, It's picking up out there. Jin-Ho began to feel prickly-skinned and excited, the way she did on Christmas Eve. During supper she kept twisting around in her chair to look out the kitchen window. The air was a weird shade of lavender and the trees were flipping their leaves wrong side to. Keep your fingers crossed for our elms, her father told her. As much money as I've spent on those things, I might as well be putting them through college. Jin-Ho giggled, picturing that.

Then the lights went out.

Xiu-Mei began to cry.

Jin-Ho's mother said, We're all right! No reason to panic! and she got up and fetched the candles from the dining-room buffet. Jin-Ho's father lit them with the pistol thing they lit the bad burner on the stove with two candles on the table and two more on the kitchen counter. Everybody's face looked flickery and different. Xiu-Mei kept waving one hand, and at first they didn't know why but then they saw she was experimenting with the shadows on the wall.

Isn't this fun? Jin-Ho's mother said. It's just like camping out! And it won't be for very long. Pretty soon BG and E will have it fixed.

But all evening, they stayed in the dark. They read picture books by candlelight, and at bedtime they climbed the stairs with the flashlight from the kitchen utility drawer. They left the flashlight lit and standing on Xiu-Mei's bureau so she wouldn't be scared, but she cried anyhow and Jin-Ho was a little bit worried herself. So they both ended up sleeping with their parents. The four of them lay in a row on the bed, which luckily was king-size. Outside the wind was roaring and the trees were making crackly sounds and every now and then a handful of rain flung itself against the windowpanes. Jin-Ho's mother had left one window propped open an inch because she'd read somewhere that otherwise, the house might implode. Jin-Ho's father said no, that was tornados, and they argued about it awhile until Jin-Ho's mother went to sleep. Not long afterward, Jin-Ho heard her father get out of bed and tiptoe over to the window to shut it. Then he came back and went to sleep too. Xiu-Mei was already asleep, although still from time to time she took a faint suck on her pacifier. Outside the wind went on and on till Jin-Ho started feeling mad at it. Several times she heard sirens. She wondered if their house was floating in the harbor yet. So far it felt pretty solid, though.

Then it was morning and she was the only one there. The window nearest her was matted over with leaves, which gave the room a greenish tinge although the weather seemed sunny. She climbed out of bed and went to look more closely, but she couldn't see; so she went to the other window and looked through that. The front yard was a mass of tree limbs. A huge old oak from across the street was lying on its side, extending into their yard and almost completely hiding her father's station wagon. He had parked it out front last night because the patio furniture was using up his half of the garage. Only a patch or two of the station wagon's gray roof showed from beneath the branches.

Downstairs, Jin-Ho's mother was making toast by holding a slice of bread over the stove with a pair of kitchen tongs. Xiu-Mei was stirring a bowl of Cheerios around, and her father was on the phone. Well, good, he was saying. You're luckier than we are, then! It looks like it could be days before we get our power back. He listened a minute and then he said, Thanks, Mom. But even assuming we could make it over there, one of our cars is smushed and the other's trapped in the garage with an elm across the driveway. We'll just have to leave things where they are and not open the freezer door, I guess.

He was wearing his pajamas and the red plaid bathrobe he ordinarily saved for weekends. When he got off the phone, Jin-Ho asked him, Aren't you going to work? and he said, Oh, I doubt any of my students will be showing up today, hon.

Do I have school?

I don't imagine it's open. In any case, how would you get there?

Jin-Ho's mother came to the table with the piece of toast, which was streaked with black and smelled nasty. I don't want it, Jin-Ho said, and her mother said, Fine, because I'd prefer you eat some kind of cereal. We need to use up the milk before it goes bad.

When is BG and E going to fix our electricity? Jin-Ho asked.

I don't know, honey. There are thousands and thousands of people all in the same boat, according to your daddy's little radio.

Aren't you glad now I bought that? Jin-Ho's father asked her mother. I told you it might come in handy!

He was a sucker for gadgets. It was the cause of a lot of arguments between the two of them.

From breakfast time till lunch time, the whole family worked at cleaning up the yard. Of course they couldn't do anything about the Cromwells' oak tree, which crossed the street completely and blocked all traffic, or the elm that lay in front of the garage. But they collected the smaller branches, and the sprays of leaves still green and wet and healthy-looking, and they stuffed them into garbage bags and lugged them to the alley. Jin-Ho found a bird's nest. There weren't any birds in it, though. She was in charge of the little tiny twigs, which she put in a plastic bucket that her father emptied from time to time. On either side of them their neighbors were cleaning up too, and people called back and forth to each other in a friendly sort of way. Mrs. Sansom said one house down the block still had electricity. They were letting their neighbors run long, long extension cords to power their refrigerators. If BG and E doesn't get things fixed by tonight, she said, I vote we combine all our perishables and have a great big neighborhood cookout on our grills. Jin-Ho thought that sounded much better than using up the foods at home. She hoped BG and E wouldn't get things fixed. The weather was cool and breezy and pleasant, with a fresh smell to the air, and she had never seen so many of the neighbors out in their yards at one time.

For lunch they had an omelet to finish off the eggs. Then XiuMei went down for her nap, and Jin-Ho watched from her parents' bedroom window as the tree men worked on the oak tree in the street. Their saws were angry-sounding, like hornets. They cut a passageway for cars through the middle of the trunk, but they left the base in the Cromwells' yard with its roots clawing the air and the top in the Donaldsons' yard all leafy and bushy, still hiding their station wagon. Jin-Ho's father said they would have to see to that later, when it wasn't a state of emergency. He took Jin-Ho out to count the tree rings after the men had left. Mr. Sansom was counting too. It wasn't as easy as you might expect, though, because one ring sometimes blended into another and they kept losing track. The trunk had a strong, sharp, sour smell that caused Jin-Ho's mouth to water.

Now her mother was fretting seriously about her frozen foods. She had casseroles stashed in the freezer that she had spent a lot of time preparing, she said. Jin-Ho said, That's okay; we'll bring them to the cookout and grill them, but her mother said, You can't grill spinach lasagna, Jin-Ho. She wasn't talking anymore about what fun this was, and she had stopped saying, Think of the poor Iraqis, which was a good thing, in Jin-Ho's opinion.

In the end, there wasn't a cookout after all. Mrs. Sansom must have forgotten she'd suggested it. As twilight fell the neighbors disappeared indoors, and all that Jin-Ho could see of them was the glimmer of a candle here and there in a window.

Jin-Ho's mother carried the flashlight down to the basement and came back with a casserole. I just whipped the freezer door open and whipped it shut again, she said. I don't think I raised the temperature all that much, do you? She put it straight into the oven, but since it hadn't been thawed it took forever to cook. They were waiting, waiting, waiting, and reading books by candles again because there was nothing else to do. Right after supper, which didn't happen till nearly eight, they all went to bed in the king-size bed. Jin-Ho's mother didn't even wash the dishes. I'll do that tomorrow morning, when I can see, she said.

This is how people used to live, I guess, Jin-Ho's father said. Arranging their lives by the sunrise and sunset.

Jin-Ho's mother said, Whatever.

They didn't have their baths, either, although it had been two days now. That was something else that would have to wait till morning.

And why bother getting up early when they couldn't see to do anything? They slept so late that Jin-Ho's grandpa had to wake them by banging on the front door. Hello? Hello? he was shouting, because the doorbell didn't work. Jin-Ho's mother went to let him in while the others got dressed. Nobody mentioned baths. By the time Jin-Ho came downstairs, her grandpa was sitting in the kitchen watching her mother burn the toast. Jin jin! he said. How do you like roughing it?

It's getting boring, she told him.

You just have to pretend you're in Colonial times, honey. That's what I'm pretending.

Beside him on the table was a pack of disposable diapers. Jin-Ho's mother didn't believe in disposable diapers, but she was running out of the cloth ones. He had also brought three cardboard cups of store-bought coffee, and a quart of Xiu-Mei's special milk, and a rocket-looking silver object taller than Jin-Ho that stood just inside the back door. What's that? she asked him.

Helium.

Helium?

For the balloons we're tying the binkies to.

The binkies? she said. The binky party! She'd forgotten all about it.

You know your mom, he told her. She is one determined lady.

I said today was the day she would give her binkies up, and today it's going to be, Jin-Ho's mother said without turning from the stove. We don't want Xiu-Mei thinking I'm inconsistent. 'Consistency is the hobgoblin of '

Dad, I don't want to hear it.

Okay! Okay! He held up both his hands.

Sami and Ziba are bringing cold drinks, and everything else is room temperature anyhow cupcakes, cookies… I'm scrapping the ice cream. What more do we need?

Well, there is the little matter of getting here. Half the city's streets are blocked by fallen trees, or downed power lines shooting sparks, or both. Hundreds of traffic lights are out. The police are advising people to stay off the roads unless it's a life-or-death emergency.

All our guests think they can make it, though, except for Mac. That little bridge is gone that runs across the bottom of Mac's driveway. But I told him he should try fording the stream in his car, because it isn't really that deep.

Jin-Ho's grandpa started laughing. It was just a whiskery sound at first, but gradually it took him over until he was gasping for breath and wiping his eyes with his sweater cuff. What, Jin-Ho's mother said. She had turned from the stove to look at him, still holding the toast with her tongs. What is it? What's so funny?

But instead of waiting for an answer, she turned next to Jin-Ho and said, Where in heaven's name is your father? as if Jin-Ho were the one she was cross with.

He's dressing Xiu-Mei, Jin-Ho said.

Well, tell him we have coffee down here and he'd better hurry up if he doesn't want it to get cold.

When Jin-Ho left the kitchen, her grandpa was blowing his nose on his big white cloth handkerchief.

Filling helium balloons was hard work. Jin-Ho's father and her grandpa did that, and it made them very crabby because every so often a balloon would escape from the nozzle and go zooming around the kitchen and scare everyone half to death. Bitsy, could you please get these kids out of here? Jin-Ho's father finally said, although it wasn't their fault. In fact Jin-Ho was being a help. She and her mother were tying binkies to the strings of the balloons after they were filled. But her mother said, Okay, girls, let's go have your baths. As they left, Jin-Ho heard her father say, Other people would just order a dozen filled balloons from a balloon place; but not us. Oh, no, no. We have to rent our own helium cannister and fill the balloons ourselves.

If it were a matter of merely a dozen balloons, that's what I would do, Jin-Ho's mother told her as they climbed the stairs. She seemed to think Jin-Ho was the one who had objected. But we have forty-seven binkies to fly! No, forty-eight, because Xiu-Mei's still using one. Brad? she called down. It's not forty-seven balloons we need; it's forty-eight.

Unthinkable that we could fly just one or two token binkies, and bury the rest in the garbage, Jin-Ho's father told her grandpa.

Her mother rolled her eyes. Jin-Ho rolled hers too, because one or two binkies would be boring. Forty-eight would be something to see. They would cover the whole sky.

So here's what's going to happen, Xiu-Mei, her mother said in a storytelling tone of voice. Everyone at the party will take a couple of balloons and go outside. Let's see: with nineteen people… or seventeen, at least… Well, some of us will take more than a couple. You, for instance, because you're the guest of honor. You could take three balloons.

Four, Xiu-Mei said.

Four, then. You can take Five. Six, Xiu-Mei said. Apparently she was just practicing her numbers. But six was as high as she knew them; so that was the end of that. She held up her arms for her mother to pull her shirt off. Water was running into the tub and the mirror was steaming over.

Then we'll say, 'Ready, set, go!' and we'll all let loose of our balloons at exactly the same moment and the binkies will fly up, up, up… far, far away, and the Binky Fairy will look over the edge of a cloud and say, 'Oh, my, someone's outgrown her binky! I can see I will have to '

I am not outgrown my binky, Xiu-Mei said. She took the binky out of her mouth so she could speak extra clearly, but then she popped it back in again.

'I'll have to come down there and bring that someone a wonderful present,' the Binky Fairy will say. And she'll go into her treasure room I am not outgrown my binky.

Get into the tub, Xiu-Mei.

It's too hot, Xiu-Mei said.

It is not too hot! You haven't even felt it yet! You're just being contrary! Oh, Lord… Jin-Ho, get in the tub, please.

Jin-Ho was still undressing, but she finished in a hurry. Her mother lowered Xiu-Mei into the water. As soon as she was settled Xiu-Mei put her binky in the soap dish, because she always cried when her hair was washed and it was difficult to cry and suck on a binky at the same time. Jin-Ho climbed in after her, holding on to her mother's shoulder for balance. Mom, she said, with her mouth very close to her mother's ear.

What is it, honey?

What do you think her present is?

Well, we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?

Do you think it might be an American Girl doll complete with all assessories?

'Accessories,' you mean; not that that's a word you should have any use for at your age. And no, I do not think that's what it is. I think the Binky Fairy's too smart to fall for a toy that encourages blatant consumerism.

But Ziba's smart, and she bought Susan one.

Her mother let out a breath that puffed the hair over her forehead. Then she said, In my opinion, Jin-Ho, the doll Susan has that's nicest is her little Kurdish doll. You know that doll on her bureau, the one with the long red veil?

But the Kurdish doll doesn't have any ack-sessories, Jin-Ho said.

Don't forget to wash behind your ears, her mother told her. Then she stood up and went over to flick the light switch. She'd been doing that all day. Nothing happened, though.

While they were toweling off, Jin-Ho's mother talked some more about the party. She said, The present will be on the hearth, XiuMei, because the Binky Fairy comes down the chimney just like Santa Claus. And everybody will gather around to watch you open it. Grandpa, Uncle Abe, Uncle Mac perhaps, the Yazdans… and Lucy is coming, too! Your friend Lucy will be here!

Is Lucy have her binky? Xiu-Mei asked.

Her mother said, Oh. Then she said, Well, maybe she will. But that's because Lucy's younger than you. She's a whole month younger! Practically a baby still! I bet when she sees your present she'll say, 'I'm going to give up my binky, too.'

Xiu-Mei set her front teeth together hard. Her binky made a sound like a door squeaking.

By the time they came downstairs again, all the balloons were filled and floating up under the living-room ceiling with their long tails hanging straight down and pink, blue, and yellow binkies tied to their ends. Xiu-Mei must have thought it was a dream come true, because she started running around the room with both hands reaching up for them. Some she could touch and set swinging, but most she wasn't quite tall enough for. Her mother said, Won't they look pretty going up in the sky? Xiu-Mei didn't answer.

While Jin-Ho's mother frosted cupcakes in the kitchen, Jin-Ho and her grandpa went out in his car to fetch lunch from the deli. Somehow Jin-Ho had managed to forget about the hurricane, and it was a shock to see all that had happened the torn-off branches everywhere, ragged white shreddy wood showing on the tree trunks, and here and there a sheet of blue plastic covering a broken roof. Twice they had to go a different way because a street was closed. Almost none of the traffic signals worked; so they drove through intersections extra slowly, her grandpa looking both ways and whistling no particular tune the way he always did when he was concentrating on something. The dead lights reminded Jin-Ho of a doll's poked-out eyesjust that hollow and blank-looking. It was almost as hot as summer, and the men sawing the trees were sweating through their shirts.

Your mother has really, really creative ideas, doesn't she, her grandpa said. I know sometimes it might seem she goes a little too far, but at least she's. . invested. Interested. You have to admit she cares deeply, right?

Jin-Ho said, Mmhmm. She was looking at a tree that had fallen over in perfect shape, as if someone had just laid it gently on its side. She wondered if it could be planted back in its hole the way Brian at school had his tooth planted back after he knocked it out jumping off the jungle gym. His mother had put the tooth in milk and brought it with them to the dentist. How did mothers know these things?

By the time they got home again, everything was ready in the dining room a flowered tablecloth on the table and platters of cupcakes and cookies and bowls of mints the same pale colors as the binkies. They had their lunch in the kitchen. Jin-Ho's mother barely ate because she was worried about the weather forecast. It was supposed to start raining again. She kept looking out at the sky, which was a pure, bright blue, and asking everybody how they could expect to send up balloons in a downpour. Jin-Ho's father told her not to trouble trouble till trouble troubled her. It was one of his favorite sayings.

After lunch Xiu-Mei took her nap, and Jin-Ho and her mother got dressed for the party. Jin-Ho put on a red T-shirt and her new embroidered jeans and then she walked into her mother's room and checked her mother's face. She knew that embroidered jeans weren't very Korean. But her mother just said, You look nice, sweetheart, with no sign of disappointment. And she dressed Xiu-Mei in jeans, too, when Xiu-Mei woke up; so it must have been all right.

Xiu-Mei didn't sleep nearly long enough. Maybe she was excited about the party. Or else upset. And she wouldn't take her after-nap sippy cup of juice but sat in a bundle on a kitchen chair, looking squinty and cross, and sucked her pacifier.

The first guests were the Yazdans. That was because they were in charge of the drinks. Sami and Ziba were lugging a Styrofoam cooler between them, and everyone went down to the street so that Jin-Ho's father could take Ziba's end away from her. This morning our lights flickered, Ziba said, and I thought, Oh, no! What if our fridge dies? But it was only for a moment.

She was wearing bellbottom jeans and a black knit top that showed part of her stomach. She looked very beautiful. Her ponytail stuck out straight behind her head like an enormous bunch of grapes, that same kind of purplish black.

Suppose the adoption people discovered they'd made a mistake. They'd handed the babies out to the wrong mothers. They would say they were very sorry but the girls would have to be switched back. Jin-Ho would get Ziba, and Susan would get Bitsy in her sleeveless sack dress and her sandals that showed the knobs on her toes.

Wouldn't it be terrible if mothers could read people's minds. Jin-Ho had hoped Susan would bring her American Girl doll, but she didn't. Susan didn't seem to like dolls, actually. What a waste. Instead she whipped a yo-yo out of her pocket that must be what they played with at private school and spun it snappily up and down as she walked. Meanwhile, Jin-Ho's mother was telling Ziba about her frozen foods. It's like the stages of mourning, she said. Denial the first day: maybe the power will come back on before any damage is done. And then grief the second day. You sink into a slough of despair and mentally say goodbye to all your casseroles.

I have a friend coming, Jin-Ho told Susan.

Susan said, So?

Her name is Athena, and me and her play on the sliding board every recess.

But Jin-Ho's mother jumped in to say, She's not as old a friend as you are, though, Susan! You and Jin-Ho go way back!

She had this knack for listening to two conversations at once. Why, maybe even your mothers go back! she said. Maybe your biological mothers were best girlfriends in Korea.

Jin-Ho was very careful not to let her eyes meet Susan's.

Wouldn't you know it, when Athena arrived stepping from her parents' car just as the rest of them were heading into the house she turned out to be the type that lost her voice around grownups. She stopped short when she saw them all and she stuck a finger in her mouth. Jin-Ho called, Athena! Hey! but Athena only stood there, wearing a frilly white dress and holding a wrapped gift.

Go and welcome her, Jin-Ho's mother whispered.

So Jin-Ho went down the front steps calling, Come on! Come on! in an encouraging way, and Athena started toward her inch by inch. When they were even with each other she pushed the gift into Jin-Ho's hands. It was some kind of book, Jin-Ho could tell through the wrapping. She said, Thanks, but Athena said, It's for your sister, which made Jin-Ho feel stupid. She said, I knew that. Then she led Athena toward the others.

Jin-Ho's mother did the introducing. She bounced Xiu-Mei on her hip and said, Athena, this is Jin-Ho's oldest friend, Susan Yazdan. And Susan's parents, Sami and Ziba, and Jin-Ho's grandpa, Dave…

Athena put her finger back in her mouth. She wore eentsy colored beads threaded on braids all over her head and another bead in each ear, gold. Jin-Ho had been wanting pierced ears for ages, but her mother was making her wait until she was sixteen.

It was awkward sitting in the living room because of the balloons. Somehow no one had thought of that. With all those strings hanging down, the ceiling seemed to be raining. The grownups had to duck their heads in order to talk to each other across the room, which made them have poor posture. Then Uncle Abe walked in without knocking and said, Whoa, what is this: a jungle? and Jin-Ho's mother said, Oh, all right, let's move to the dining room. Athena, these are Jin-Ho's cousins, Deirdre, Bridget, Polly…

In the dining room it was awkward too, though, because once the grownups had found chairs, why, there they were, sitting at the table like people expecting a meal, but the only things on the table were the platters of desserts that were meant to be passed around later. Maybe I should bring out some plates, Jin-Ho's mother said. Or… wait! The drinks! Where'd we put the drinks? Then she got the giggles. She did that sometimes. She told Ziba, Inventing a new tradition is not as easy as you might think.

Ziba said, I'll get the drinks. You sit still. Because Jin-Ho's mother had Xiu-Mei on her lap.

Thank you, Ziba, Jin-Ho's mother said, and then she turned to Aunt Jeannine. Someone is a little C–L-I-N-G-Y today, she said. But I guess that's to be expected.

Aunt Jeannine said, Xiu-Mei, what's that in your mouth? Is that a binky I see?

It's the one last holdout, Jin-Ho's mother explained. When everybody gets here we're going to tie it to the last balloon and send it up, up, up. . She seemed to be talking now to Xiu-Mei, but Xiu-Mei only frowned and chomped down on her binky.

Give her the present, Athena told Jin-Ho. They had managed to sit on the window seat next to Polly, who wore almost-black lipstick and six earrings in each ear, not a one of them matching any of the others. Jin-Ho slid to the floor and walked over to hand Athena's present to Xiu-Mei, and while Xiu-Mei was ripping gift paper the Copelands walked in. Mercy Copeland said, Sorry! But it doesn't seem your doorbell works. She was carrying Lucy, who of course the grownups had to make a fuss about. Lucy was so cute that Jin-Ho just wanted to bite her. Her cheeks were round and soft and her eyes were as blue as flowers and her hair was full of a million yellow curls that made people say, What an angel child! In fact she was a whole lot cuter than Xiu-Mei, who had straight black hair and slit eyes. Also, even though Lucy had brought her binky it was just dangling from her neck on a ribbon a clear plastic binky with colored polka dots inside the plastic, a really fancy kind that Jin-Ho hadn't seen before. So Lucy's mouth wasn't all plugged up the way Xiu-Mei's was. She had a cute, pink, pursy mouth, very small. She was holding a square box wrapped in striped paper, and as soon as her mother put her down she toddled over and set the box in Xiu-Mei's lap. Aww, everybody said, but Xiu-Mei seemed more interested in the polka-dot binky. She leaned forward and reached for it but Lucy was already heading back to her mother. Why, thank you, Lucy, Jin-Ho's mother said, and then, Thank you, Ziba, because Ziba was setting the Yazdans' present on the table in front of her. (The Yazdans always, always brought presents, for every possible occasion. It was one of the best things about them.)

Does everybody know each other? Jin-Ho's mother asked, and when no one spoke she said, Wonderful. Now, I think we should do the balloons first thing, don't you all agree? And get it over with.

Sort of like ripping off a Band-Aid, Jin-Ho's grandpa said. Right. So you bring that last balloon, Brad, and Xiu-Mei, you give me your binky…

She didn't wait for Xiu-Mei to give it to her, though. She just plucked it out of Xiu-Mei's mouth. Xiu-Mei's mouth stayed in a damp, surprised O shape and she looked around the room as if she wondered what had just happened. Here we go, her mother said, tying the binky to the balloon. It was a red balloon with white stars on it. The last, last one, her mother said in a sort of singsong. Ready, everybody? Everybody get some balloons from the living room, two or three apiece, and we'll go outdoors and let them fly off.

She stood up, setting Xiu-Mei on her hip again, and led the way to the living room. Xiu-Mei's mouth was still in an O shape. Jin-Ho kept expecting her to let out a howl but it seemed she was too surprised.

We fly the balloons? Athena asked Jin-Ho.

Jin-Ho said, Yup.

I want to bring mine home with me.

You can't, Susan said from her other side. You've got to let them go.

Other parties, you're allowed to bring them home.

Not when they have binkies on them, silly, Susan said. Athena blinked.

They went into the living room and chose three balloons apiece. Susan said, I'm taking all pink, which Jin-Ho didn't understand at first because the balloons were either red or white or blue, some with stars or stripes or with both, as if they might have been left over from the Fourth of July. Then she saw that Susan was talking about the color of the binkies. Jin-Ho herself had two blue binkies and one yellow. The yellow happened to be the binky that looked like a sideways 8, and that made her sad, a little, because she had a very clear picture in her head of Xiu-Mei sucking on it.

They all went back through the dining room, through the kitchen, out the back door, and down the porch steps. Mercy Copeland said, Oh! What a shame! She was looking toward the elm that had fallen across the garage front.

Yes, it broke our hearts, Jin-Ho's mother said. Not to mention we can't get my car out, or the patio furniture.

She was holding just one balloon, the last one with the white stars. Xiu-Mei wasn't holding any. Didn't she say she'd have six? She was sitting astride her mother's hip with her lower lip kind of pooched.

All right, everybody! Jin-Ho's mother called. Ready, set, go!

All the balloons floated upward. They went at different speeds, though, and some didn't go very far. One of Jin-Ho's balloons snagged on the fallen elm. One of Susan's landed in the Sansoms' hedge. But a lot of the others made it, and in a minute you couldn't see the binkies anymore but just the balloons they were strung to, like little red, white, and blue thumbtacks stuck to the perfect sky. Jin-Ho's mother had been right: they did look pretty.

Then Mrs. Sansom called, Bitsy?

She was standing on the other side of the hedge, holding Susan's balloon.

Bitsy, it seems there are infants' pacifiers everywhere in our yard, she said.

Jin-Ho's mother said, Oh, dear.

There are pacifiers in our rosebushes and our gutters and our dogwood tree.

I'm sorry, Dottie That TV cable that's hanging down from the electric pole in the alley? There are pacifiers all over it.

We'll clean them up, I promise, Jin-Ho's mother said. Oh, dear, I never thought Say there! Xiu-Mei! Jin-Ho's father called.

Jin-Ho's mother turned toward him as if she were glad to hear from him.

He was standing on the back porch, although Jin-Ho had assumed till now that he was in the yard with everybody else. Wonder if the Binky Fairy's left you something! he called.

Ooh! people said, and Xiu-Mei! Let's go look!

Xiu-Mei turned from face to face, still poochy-lipped, as her mother carried her up the steps to see what she had gotten.

Well, it wasn't an American Girl doll. But it was a fairly good present, even so: a little tiny stroller she could push instead of her grocery cart. It sat in front of the fireplace with a red bow tied to the handle. Won't your kangaroos just love this? her mother asked. Xiu-Mei didn't answer, but when her mother set her down she went over to her grocery cart and hauled out her kangaroo mama and baby and piled them into the stroller. Then she started pushing them around the living room. She looked a little naked without a binky in her mouth. She was so short that even though the stroller was toy-sized, she had to reach up to hold the handle. Everybody said, Aww, again. Lucy came toddling over and grabbed hold of the handle too, and the two of them pushed the stroller together while Jin-Ho's father and Lucy's father snapped about a million photographs.

In the dining room, Ziba was handing out soft drinks from the cooler she'd set on the table. Jin-Ho wasn't allowed to have soft drinks. She accepted one and walked off toward the window seat where Athena and Polly had settled again. Did the holes at the tops of your ears hurt more than the holes at the bottoms? Athena was asking. I want to get more holes too but my mom believes that's trashy.

Polly said, Trashy! Well, that's just because she's a grownup. And the two of them smiled at each other as if they were oldest, best friends. Neither one of them paid any heed to Jin-Ho.

Deirdre was talking on her cell phone over in the corner, facing the wall and keeping her voice low. She had a boyfriend, Jin-Ho knew, although she was only thirteen, which was way, way too young for a boyfriend according to Jin-Ho's mother. And Bridget was telling Mercy Copeland where she went to school and what grade she was in and so on and so forth, poor Bridget, while Mercy nodded very seriously and took a sip of her soft drink.

Jin-Ho's soft drink tasted like tin, but maybe it was supposed to.

Now her father was photographing Uncle Abe and Aunt Jeannine. They had their arms linked like a movie-star couple and they were smiling with all their teeth and Uncle Abe was saying, Cheddar! Roquefort! Monterey Jack! which was his way of being funny. But Lucy's father had stopped taking pictures and was talking with Sami in the living room. You want three megapixels at the very least, he was saying. Jin-Ho drifted on past them, keeping her drink can down by her side in case she ran into her mother.

But where was her mother? Oh, yes, there: standing on the front-porch steps with Jin-Ho's grandpa. Jin-Ho could see them through the screen door. They had their backs to her and they didn't even notice when she came up and set her nose against the screen.

Her grandpa was telling her mother that anyhow, he had work to do. He still had branches on his lawn as big around as his arm. And why I own an electric chain saw instead of gasoline, I don't know, he said. You might have thought it would occur to me that if I needed to cut any trees up, perhaps it would be due to a storm that had interfered with my power. So I'm having to use a hand saw, and I've still got a good, oh, eight or ten I understand, Dad, Jin-Ho's mother said, and I'm not trying to stop you, honest. But if you're leaving for some other reason if you're leaving because of Sami and Ziba… well, that's just silly. They love to see you! They don't feel the least bit strange!

No, I know that, Jin-Ho's grandpa said. Goodness! It's nothing to do with them. It's only that my yard, you see. . Then he trailed off, and when he started speaking again he'd switched to a whole new subject. He said, I keep going over and over it, trying to figure it out. I say, 'She seemed so happy; she never gave me the slightest indication; why did she let me imagine she loved me?' I remember how she'd bring me something to eat and then sit down across from me and watch my face to see if I liked it. No one will ever do that again. I don't kid myself! Nobody else is going to care about me that way again at my age.

Jin-Ho was expecting her mother to argue. Of course, they all cared, she should say. What on earth was he thinking? But she didn't. She said, Oh, Dad. It wasn't just that she seemed happy; she was happy. You both were. And she did love you, I swear it. She deeply, truly loved you; anyone could see that, and I am so, so sorry you're not together anymore.

Behind Jin-Ho, her father said, Psst.

She turned and looked up at him.

Do me a favor, he whispered. Inch the door open. I want to get a picture of the two of them.

She pushed the screen door as silently as possible. Sometimes the spring made a twanging sound but not today, luckily. Her father stuck his camera through the opening and pressed the button. Thanks, he whispered. Got it. I can tell it'll be a good one. Doesn't your mom look great?

She did, really. Her face was turned toward Jin-Ho's grandpa and the sky beyond lit her smooth skin and the sweet, full curve of her mouth.

Jin-Ho closed the screen door and followed her father back to the living room.

Once again he was aiming his camera at Xiu-Mei and Lucy. They were still in front of the fireplace, but the stroller was off to one side now and they both faced Susan, who was leading them in some kind of game. She stood with her hands on her hips, as bossy as a schoolteacher, and said, Okay, repeat after me: Wah, wah, wah, we always cry at bedtime.

Dutifully, they echoed, Wah, wah No! Wrong! Did I say, 'Susan says'? Repeat: Wah, wah, wah, we always cry at lunchtime.

Wah, wah What is the matter with you guys? Now. Susan says: Wah, wah, wah, we always cry at swimming-lesson time.

Wah, wah, wah…

Lucy spoke very clearly for her age, but Xiu-Mei was harder to understand because she had a polka-dot binky in her mouth.

Maryam was picking up Susan at the Tiny Toes School of Ballet and Modern Dance. Unfortunately she was early, because she'd never been there before and she'd allowed too much time for the drive. She was filling in for Ziba, who had a dental appointment.

It was a sunny day in late June, and she could feel the heat rising from the sidewalk as she stood in front of the school, which was an ordinary brown shingle-board house set back a bit from the street. Another woman was waiting also, but she was busy chasing her toddler and so they merely exchanged smiles, which suited Maryam just fine.

Then a man said, Maryam? and she turned and found Dave Dickinson standing next to her.

Hi, he said.

Oh, she said. Hello.

This wasn't the first time they had run into each other. Once shortly after their breakup she had met him when he was dropping Jin-Ho off at Sami and Ziba's, and once again a few weeks later when she was standing in line at the post office. But that had been over a year ago, and on both occasions he had been so curt almost not speaking, really that she was uncertain how to behave now. She lifted her chin and braced herself for whatever might come next.

He had that strong, tanned, leathery skin that was so attractive in aging men and so unattractive in women. He was in need of a haircut, and if she had reached up to touch his curls they would have encircled her fingers completely.

Is Susan taking lessons here? he asked.

Yes. Beginning ballet.

So's Jin-Ho.

Well, of course: that would be how Ziba had come up with the idea. Maryam should have known. She said, I guess it's that summer panic. What to do with them once school is out.

Yes, for sure it's not because of any God-given talent, Dave said. Or not in Jin-Ho's case, at least. How about Susan? Is she at all graceful?

Maryam shrugged. In fact she considered Susan to be very graceful, but she didn't want to say this to the grandparent of a child as clunky as Jin-Ho. I believe they just want to introduce her to all the possibilities, she said. Last year it was art camp.

Oh, yes, Jin-Ho went to that.

They both smiled.

Then Dave said, Bitsy's sick.

It was the suddenness of his remark that told her he meant something more than the usual. She waited, fixing her eyes on his. He said, That's where they are at this moment, she and Brad: consulting with the oncologist. Last week they removed a lump from her breast and now they're discussing options.

Oh, Dave. I'm so sorry, Maryam said. I know this must bring it all back to you.

Well, naturally I'm worried.

But every year they find new treatments, she said. And they caught it early, I assume.

Yes, the doctors have been very encouraging. It's just that it's kind of a shock to all of us.

Of course it is, she said. She shaded her eyes with one hand; the sun had moved directly above him. I hope she'll let me know if there's anything I can do, she said. I'd be happy to pick up the children, bring food…

I'll tell her that. Thanks, he said. I know she means to talk to Ziba as soon as they're sure what the plan is.

Another woman approached, pushing a baby in a stroller. Now that they had an audience, Dave changed the subject. Anyhow! he said. Will you be going to the Arrival Party this year? Oh. Of course you will. It's your turn.

Well, not my turn; Sami and Ziba's. And I may be in New York then.

New York?

Kari and Danielle and I have been talking about seeing some plays.

But you could do that anytime, he said.

One of the plays may close soon, though. And besides. You know. Really that's a young people's party. I'm getting too old for such things.

Old! he said, so sharply that the woman with the stroller sent Maryam a curious glance.

And also there's a chance that my cousin Farah will be here, Maryam said.

It's both the time when you're away and the time you have a guest?

Well, not on the exact same date…

She gave up. She stopped speaking.

Dave said, Look. Maryam. It's absurd to think we can't both attend the same social event.

This from the man who had told her straight out, No, we can not go on seeing each other.

But she said, Well, you're right, of course.

You didn't come last year either. You missed a good party. Yes, so I heard. Ziba told me.

Jin-Ho accidentally dropped the videotape in the punch bowl, but we fished it out before any damage was done. And 'Coming Round the Mountain' got so raucous that when the cousins shouted, 'Hi, babe!' you'd swear they must be hanging out the windows of a brothel. Other than that, though. .

Maryam laughed. (She had always loved his particular way of wording things.)

Think about it, he said.

She said, All right.

Then the children started trickling forth from the school their own two in front, blocky-haired Jin-Ho and Susan with her long braids swinging and they went their separate ways.

During the next few days, she found herself haunted by a lingering sorrow. Partly, of course, this was due to the news about Bitsy. Maryam assumed she fervently hoped that the cancer had been caught in time, but still she hated to think of what the Donaldsons must be going through. And then another part of her grieved once again for Dave. Seeing him had reminded her of how he'd stood on his porch that morning watching her drive away, his frayed, patched gardening pants buckling at the knees in an elderly manner. She missed him very much. She tried never to allow herself to know how much.

She wrote Bitsy a note, expressing her concern and offering any help that was needed. I am sending you my best thoughts, she wrote, wishing for the thousandth time that she were religious and could volunteer her prayers. I hope you will not hesitate to call on me. She debated a moment before she signed it. Sincerely? Yours very truly? In the end she settled on Affectionately, because Bitsy might have her faults but at least they were well-meaning faults. She was a good-hearted, generous woman, and Maryam felt the same sympathy for her that she would feel for an old friend.

Her world had become very peaceful since the breakup. Well, it had been peaceful before, too, but somehow her brief venture into a livelier, more engaged way of life made her appreciate the blessed orderliness of her daily routine. She awoke before dawn, when the sky was still a pearly white and the birds were barely stirring. One of the cardinals on her block had a habit of omitting the second note of his call and repeating just the first in a flinty, bright staccato. Vite! Vite! Vite! he seemed to be saying, like an overeager Frenchman. A jet plane crossed the highest windowpanes perfectly level, perfectly silent, and sometimes a wan, translucent moon still hung behind the neighbors' maple tree.

She lay gathering her thoughts, absently stroking the cat, who always slept in the crook of her arm, until the young doctor down the street started his noisy car and set off for morning rounds. That was the signal for her to get up. How creaky she was becoming! Every joint had to learn to bend all over again each morning, it seemed.

By the time she came back from her shower, the sun had risen and more of the neighborhood was awake. The new puppy exploded from the house next door, yapping excitedly. A baby started crying. Several cars swished past. You could tell what time it was on this street just by counting the cars and hearing how fast they were going.

She dressed with care, eyeliner and all; she was not a bathrobe kind of woman. She made her bed and collected her water tumbler and the book she had fallen asleep with, and only then did she head downstairs, trailed by the cat, who liked to twine between her feet.

Tea. Toasted pita bread. A slice of feta cheese. While the tea was steeping she arranged her silver on a woven-straw place mat. She refilled Moosh's water bowl and checked his supply of kibble. She went out front for the newspaper, barely glancing at the headlines before laying it aside and sitting down to breakfast. (She preferred to concentrate on one thing at a time.) The tea was fresh and hot and bracing. The feta was Bulgarian, creamy and not too salty. Her chair was placed to catch the sunshine, which gilded the skin on her arms and felt like warm varnish on her head.

What a small, small life she lived! She had one grown son, one daughter-in-law, one grandchild, and three close friends. Her work was pleasantly predictable. Her house hadn't changed in decades. Next January she would be sixty-five years old not ancient, but even so, she couldn't hope for her world to grow anything but narrower from now on. She found this thought comforting rather than distressing.

Last week she'd noticed an obituary for a seventy-eight-year-old woman in Lutherville. Mrs. Cotton enjoyed gardening and sewing, she had read. Family members say she hardly ever wore the same outfit twice.

No doubt as a girl Mrs. Cotton had envisioned something more dramatic, but still, it didn't sound like such a bad existence to Maryam.

If it was a Wednesday the one day she worked, in the summer she would set off for Julia Jessup shortly after nine, when the rush-hour traffic had finished. She would greet the janitor, open the mail, see to the small bit of paperwork. The smell of waxed floors made her feel virtuous, as if she were the one who had waxed them, and she drew a sense of accomplishment from discarding the past week's calendar pages. The school without its children their Hi, Mrs. Yaz! Morning, Mrs. Yaz! gave her a gentle twinge of nostalgia. On the bulletin board, an unclaimed mitten from last winter seemed to be shouting with life.

If it was not a Wednesday, she would take the newspaper into the sun porch after clearing away her breakfast things. She read desultorily bad news, more bad news, more to shake her head at and turn the page. Then she placed the paper in the recycling bag underneath the sink and went to weed her flowerbeds, or paid some bills at the desk in Sami's old room, or busied herself with some household task. Very rarely did she go out in public during the morning. Going out was work. It required conversation. It raised the possibility of mistakes.

She had noticed that as she grew older, speaking English took more effort. She might ask for es-stamps instead of stamps, or mix up her he's and she's, realizing it only when she saw a look of confusion cross someone's face. And then she would feel exhausted. Oh, what difference did it make? she would wonder. So unnecessary, for a language to specify the sexes! Why should she have to bother with this?

She was lonelier in public than she was at home, to be honest.

Before lunch she generally took a long walk, traveling the same route every day and smiling at the same neighbors and dogs and babies, noticing a new sapling here, a change of house color there. Summer was the time to call in the painters and the nursery crews. Workmen swarmed over the neighborhood as industriously as ants. She encountered her favorite plumber clanking through the tools in his panel truck.

It was hot now, but she liked being hot. She felt she moved more smoothly in heat. The glaze of sweat on her face took her back to airless nights in Tehran, when she and her family slept on mattresses dragged up to the rooftop and you could look across the city and see all the other families arranging their mattresses on their rooftops, as if every house had split open to show the lives going on inside. And then at dawn the call to prayer would float them all up from their sleep.

It wasn't that she wished to be back there, exactly (so much about that unprivate way of life had gone against her grain, even then), but she wouldn't have minded hearing once more that distant cry from the minaret.

She went home and rinsed her face in cool water and fixed herself a light lunch. Made a few phone calls. Looked at her mail. Sometimes Ziba stopped by with Susan. Or sometimes she just left Susan off while she ran errands; Maryam liked those days best. You could amuse a child more easily if no grownups were around. She would let Susan play with her jewelry box, sifting gold chains and clusters of turquoises through her fingers. She would show her the photo albums. This is my maternal great-uncle, Amir Ahmad. The baby on his knee is his seventh son. It was unusual in those days for a man to be seen holding a baby. He must have been an interesting person. She studied his face stern and square-bearded, topped by a heavy black turban, giving nothing away. She had only the faintest memory of him. And this is my father, Sadredin. He died when I was four. He would be your great-grandpa. But would he? The words sounded untruthful the instant they slipped from her mouth. Close though she felt to Susan as close as any grandmother could possibly feel she had trouble imagining the slightest link between the relatives back home and this little Asian fairy child with her straight black hair, her exotic black eyes, her skin as pale and opaque and textureless as bone.

On several occasions Jin-Ho came along, and twice Xiu-Mei too. Ziba looked after them quite a bit during the month of July, because Bitsy's chemotherapy made her want to nap all the time. But she was doing very well, Ziba reported. She said, Are you sure you don't mind, Mari june? I promise I won't be gone long. Maryam said, Of course I don't mind, and meant it. For one thing, this was a way of helping Bitsy. And then two or three children could entertain each other. All Maryam did was serve them refreshments at some point during the visit homemade cookies or brownies and apple juice tea in tiny enamelware cups.

Jin-Ho was now a head and a half taller than Susan, and she had asked to be called Jo, although none of them could remember to do it. Xiu-Mei was still small and frail but feisty, with a mind of her own. She wore hand-me-downs from both Jin-Ho and Susan; it was strange to see Susan's faded playsuits resurrected, coupled with JinHo's old sandals and a pacifier strung on a length of elastic around her neck.

In the late afternoon, on her own again, Maryam might finally venture forth for whatever shopping she needed to do. Then she would fix a complete and serious dinner, even if she was the only one eating it. Often, though, her friends would come over. Or else she would go to one of their houses. The four of them were all excellent cooks. Each had a different cuisine: Turkish, Greek, French, and Maryam's own Iranian. It was no wonder they ate less and less frequently at restaurants.

Dressing for an evening with her friends, Maryam felt none of the anxiety she used to feel dressing for social events in the old days. Back then she might change outfits several times before deciding what to wear, and she used to prepare a mental list of conversational gambits. It wasn't just age that made the difference (although that helped, no doubt); it was more that she had winnowed out the people she wasn't at ease with. No longer did she accept invitations to those meaningless, superficial parties she and Kiyan had endured. Her friends occasionally questioned this. Or Danielle did, at least. Danielle was forever seeking new acquaintances and new experiences. But Maryam said, Why should I bother? This is one good thing about getting old: I know what I like and what I don't like.

Whenever Danielle heard the word old, she would wrinkle her nose in distaste. But the other two women nodded. They knew what Maryam meant.

They talked often about aging. They talked about where the world was headed; they talked about books and movies and plays and (in Danielle's case) men. Surprisingly little was said about children or grandchildren, unless they happened to be dealing with some specific crisis. But almost always the subject of Americans came up, in an amused and marveling tone. They never tired of discussing Americans.

Whether Maryam spent her evening in or out, she was in bed by ten as a rule. She read until her eyelids grew heavy two or three hours, sometimes and then she turned off her lamp and slid further under the covers and curled one arm around Moosh. Outside her window the neighborhood mockingbird sang alone in the sycamore, and she would fall asleep feeling thankful for the tallness of her trees, which let birdsong fall from such a great height and were wonderful too during summer rains, when they gave off a steady murmur that sounded to her like Aah. Aah.

One morning she answered her phone and a woman said, Maryam?

It was only from her pronunciation that Maryam knew it was Bitsy. (Bitsy always broadened both the a's in Maryam's name to a comical degree, evidently believing that foreign a's couldn't be flat.) Her voice was faint and slightly hoarse, as if she were getting over a cough. In fact she did cough, just then.

Maryam said, Bitsy? How are you?

I'm fine, Bitsy told her. The treatments have been no fun, but I'm finished with them now and the doctors are very pleased. Then she coughed again and said, Sorry, a little side effect. Nothing that worries them. Anyhow: thanks for your note. I should have written back long ago.

No, you should not have written back. Or only if you had thought of something for me to do.

But just to thank you for getting in touch, I mean. I was so happy to hear from you! I've really missed you; all of us have. We're looking forward to seeing you at Sami and Ziba's party.

Maryam said, Oh, the… Arrival Party.

Dad mentioned you might be coming.

Well, I did say I'd think about it, Maryam said. But this summer is so complicated; I'm not quite sure if It would be like old times! Bitsy said, so forcefully that she coughed again. It didn't feel the same last year. Even Xiu-Mei noticed. She said, 'Where's Mari — june?' I hate to think that you might not be in our lives anymore.

Maryam said, Why, thank you, Bitsy.

The excuses she'd been about to offer New York, Farah's visit suddenly seemed transparent. Instead, she told the truth. I'm afraid it might be awkward, though.

Awkward! Nonsense. We're all grownups.

This argument came as a disappointment; Maryam wasn't sure why. What had she wanted Bitsy to say? A pinch of injury tightened her chest. She said, I know your father feels I didn't handle things very well.

Now, is that in any way relevant to this discussion? We're talking about a simple little, normal little family get-together, Bitsy said. Shoot, we should just shanghai you.

Shanghai. As a verb, it was unfamiliar. Maybe it meant something like lynch. Maryam said, Yes, perhaps you should, in a tone that must have sounded more bitter than she had intended, because Bitsy said, Well, forgive me, Maryam. I'm a meddlesome person; I realize that.

Which she was, in fact. But Maryam said, Oh, no, Bitsy, you're very kind. You were very sweet to call. And then, trying to match Bitsy's energy, But you haven't told me what I can do for you! Please, give me a task.

Not a thing, thanks, Bitsy said. I'm getting stronger every day. You'd be amazed. Wait till you see me at the Arrival Party.

That was Bitsy for you. She always had to have the last word, Maryam thought as she hung up.

How will you tell your family? he'd asked her. They were so happy for us. How will you explain throwing everything away?

She said, I've already told them. I've just come from there.

The look on his face made her wish she'd kept this to herself. You told them before you told me? he said.

Well, yes.

How could you do that, Maryam?

I don't know, she said flatly. She no longer had the strength to defend herself. I just did, that's all, she said. It's done.

Now, though, it crossed her mind to wonder the same thing. Why had she told them first? What an odd way to proceed!

Had some tiny part of her hoped that Sami and Ziba would talk her out of it?

And, oh, if only, only she hadn't admitted that she'd told them, would he perhaps have agreed that they could go on seeing each other?

She had fallen in love with him while she was looking the other way, you might say. It had come as a total surprise. First he was just another hapless man desperate for a helpmate a likable man, but what was that to her? Even after they had started spending time together, she didn't feel, oh, related to him, as she'd felt related to Kiyan. Really, Dave, she had told him once, we have nothing in common. We have no common ground. Why, I can't begin to imagine what your childhood might have been like.

Childhood? he'd said. Where did that come from? What difference does my childhood make? It's what we've boiled down to in the end that really matters when we're left with just the dregs and the essence.

Yes, he could be persuasive, all right. When he said such things, she could see his point. But only while he was saying them.

She had left for Vermont that summer with a sense that she was escaping. Somehow, against her better instincts, she had started seeing too much of him, and here was her chance to regain some distance. She had greeted Farah with such a flood of Farsi that Farah had laughed at her. Maryam! Slow down! I can't understand you! Maryam, are you speaking with an accent?

Was she speaking with an accent? In her own language? What was her own language, anyhow? Did she even have one, at this point?

She had slowed down. She had settled once again into Farah's molasses-like tempo. Lolling on a recliner in the pine-shaded backyard, she had cast a sideways glance at William and wondered how Farah had ever adjusted to someone so outlandish. That summer he'd been perfecting a pet-stain-removal product that he felt sure would make him millions. This started life as an extra-fast-drying correction fluid for typists, he had confided to Maryam. I thought it up a few years back. D'elite, I was going to call it D apostrophe elite; get it? But then just my luck, typewriters went kaboom; so I've invented this new use for it. And here's the best part: without even a name change! D'elite! Don't you love it? Plus, people who don't know any better could go on and say 'Delight' with no real harm done.

And meanwhile Farah, reclining next to her, was murmuring away in Farsi as if William hadn't spoken. Why is it that older women in this country cut their hair to resemble monks? Why do the women of the upper classes here never wear enough makeup?

Like two small children, they had competed for Maryam's attention; and Maryam, to her own surprise, found herself favoring William his enthusiasm, his innocence, his endearing optimism. There was a world-weariness to Farah that could be dampening, at times. Maryam smiled at William and thought suddenly of Dave. Dave in fact was nothing like William, certainly not so extreme or eccentric; but even so…

I don't know why truly good people always make me sad, Kiyan had told her once. She understood now what he had meant.

She had written Dave during that Vermont trip to tell him that she missed him. Well, she had put it more subtly than that. (I am having a very nice time here, but I think of you constantly and wonder what you are doing.) Still, she knew the effect it would have. Slipping the letter through the mailbox slot, she had held on to it for a long, indecisive moment before she let it fall. And then she'd thought, What have I done? and half wished for some way to retrieve it.

When Dave met her return plane, though, he had behaved no differently. Clearly he was pleased to see her, but he didn't refer to her letter or act as if things had changed. Enjoy your visit? he had asked. Catch up on all the family gossip? She had been mortified. How conceited of her to believe that what she had written would matter to him! She had treated him coolly, and sent him home early. She had tossed and turned all night mourning what she had seen to be her very last chance at love. Forever after she would be one of those resolutely cheerful widows carrying on alone.

Oh, the agonizing back-and-forth of romance! The advances and retreats, the secret wounds, the strategic withdrawals!

Wasn't the real culture clash the one between the two sexes? The next day he had arrived on her doorstep in the middle of her lunch. I got your letter, he'd told her.

My letter?

They delivered it just ten minutes ago. You beat it home. Oh!

Maryam, you thought about me constantly? You missed me?

Then even before she could answer he had gathered her up and covered her with kisses. You missed me! he kept saying. You love me! and she was laughing and returning his kisses and fighting for breath all at once.

It was nothing like her marriage. This time around, she proceeded knowing that people died; that everything had an end; that even though she and Dave were spending every day together and every night, the moment would come when she would say, Tomorrow it will be two years since I last set eyes on him. Or else he would say it of her. They were letting themselves in for more than any young couple could possibly envision, and both of them were conscious of that.

This made them less likely to quarrel or take umbrage. They wasted little time on petty irritations. She was tolerant of his clutter and his insistence on reading the paper aloud. (Listen to this: ' I have a three-million-dollar home, the boxer boasted to one interviewer, and sheets with a ten-thousand thread count. ' Ten thousand threads! Is that possible?) He, for his part, learned that she could be revived by a bowl of plain white rice when she was feeling fluey or tired; and once when Moosh disappeared for two days he had printed up dozens of posters reading LOST and REWARD and CHILD GRIEVING. Child grieving? she had asked. What are you talking about? There's no child here.

But he had said, You are. You are the child. And he'd taken her face between his hands and kissed the top of her head.

And he'd been right.

She used to fantasize about traveling on a time machine to eras long, long ago. To prehistory, for instance, where she could witness how language had developed. Or to Jesus's time; what had that all been about? Now, though, she would choose a much more recent period. She would like to board a BOAC plane again to visit her mother, crossing the tarmac on clicking heels because in those days, women always did wear heels for plane trips, and settling in one of the two-by-two seats and smiling at the stewardesses in their aerodynamic-looking uniforms. She would like to dine with Kiyan in Johnny Unitas's old Golden Arm Restaurant on York Road. (She would order the famous shrimp salad and the crusty fried eggplant slices, and the waitress would be singing Strangers in the Night to herself as she served them.)

Then she remembered how whenever she and Kiyan ate out, Kiyan would study the menu too long before he finally made his selection, and after their food arrived he would look at his meal, look at hers, look at his again and say, Poor me! She always seethed when he did that.

Or that time she'd dumped the crock of yogurt on his plate: she'd spent all afternoon making his favorite meal, baghali polo, with the lima beans whose skins she'd had to pop off one by one till her fingertips grew puckered and waterlogged; and when she'd set the platter before him he had said, No yogurt to put on top, I see.

A forgivable remark, but the wrong one for the moment, and that was why the crock of yogurt had ended up where it did.

She saw her past self as grudging, miserly. She should have told him, Here, take my shrimp salad if you like it better. She should have said, Yogurt? Of course. I'll fetch it. But at the time she had resented his never-ending neediness. It hadn't yet occurred to her that a life where no one needed her would be a weak, dim, pathetic life.

Wasn't that what had drawn her to Dave? It had been so clear that she could make him happy. All it took was a yes; how long since she'd had that power? Seduced by Need, she thought, picturing it as the flame-edged title on a lurid romance comic book. In the end, that had been her downfall: the wish to feel needed.

Fool.

For the sake of feeling needed she had linked herself to a man so inappropriate that she might as well have fished his name out of a hat. An American man, naive and complacent and oblivious, convinced that his way was the only way and that he had every right to rearrange her life. She had melted the instant he said, Come in, even though she knew full well that inclusion was only a myth. And why? Because she had believed that she could make a difference in his life.

How could you do that, Maryam? he had asked. And, How will you explain throwing everything away?

Sometimes lately she felt as if she had emigrated all over again. Once more she had left her past self behind, moved to an alien land, and lost any hope of returning.

The reason Farah was visiting Maryam this year, instead of Maryam's visiting her, was that William had a plan to refinish all their floors and he said it would be easier if Farah was out of the way. But her visit didn't really coincide with the Arrival Party; that had just been an alibi. She arrived on a Friday afternoon at the end of July, bringing so many clothes that you would think she was staying a month rather than a weekend. Her hostess gift was a painted tin box filled with saffron. (Living in rural Vermont, she had no inkling that saffron could be found nowadays in most supermarkets.) I ordered it off the Internet, she said. I have become an Internet wizard! You should see me with my mouse, click-click! She had also brought an assortment of little cardboard squares streaked to resemble wood in different shades of brown or yellow. What do you think, Mari — june? Which finish should we choose for our floors? I say this one; William says that one.

To Maryam there was little difference, but she said, Yours is nice.

I knew you would agree! I'll call William tonight and tell him. Then she said, Oh, Maryam, American men can do anything. Unstop a toilet, replace a light switch… Well. But you know that. She looked flustered, suddenly, and Maryam couldn't think why until Farah asked, Do you ever hear from him?

From…? Oh. From Dave, Maryam said. No.

Well, you must have had your reasons, Farah told her forbearingly. Remember back home: Aunt Nava? How everybody urged her to marry the man her father chose for her? And she said no, no, no, and her parents were at their wits' end, but of course they couldn't force her. So one night she's lying in bed; her father knocks on her door; 'Nava — june. Are you awake? Nava, june-am,' he says..

Oh, those old, old stories, repeated with all the proper inflections, lowered tones, dramatic pauses! Maryam found herself relaxing and drifting as if to music.

But the visit was not relaxing in general. It never was, in Maryam's experience, because Farah was so intent on catching up with all her acquaintances. First they had to fix a dinner for Sami and Ziba and Susan, and Farah had to make a big fuss over Susan and display the many gifts she had brought her. This was fine with Maryam; her own family wasn't work, after all. But next they had to drive to Washington to visit Ziba's parents, who adored Farah (so much more fun than Maryam, they no doubt felt) and never failed to throw a party for her when she came. A huge party, overflowing with caviar and iced vodka, at which Farah held forth like a queen. She sparkled and she trilled her jeweled fingers and she laughed with her head flung back. Graciously, she tried to make Maryam feel a part of things. You all know Maryam, yes? My favorite cousin! We were girls together. Maryam would move forward, smiling stiffly, offering her hand; but she was not a member here. As soon as possible she retreated to a quiet corner, where she found Sami reading Susan a coffee-table book about Persepolis. (He was not a member either, although Ziba was happily circulating among the younger guests down in the rec room.)

If we lived in Iran, Maryam told Sami, every night would be like this.

Sami glanced up at her and said, Even now?

Maryam said, Well. . She wasn't sure, as a matter of fact. She said, When I was a girl, how I hated it all! At any of the family parties, I'd be sitting where you are this minute.

She wondered if there was a gene for that for holding oneself back, resisting the communal merriment. It had never before occurred to her that she had passed this trait on to Sami.

On Farah's last day, a Sunday, they went shopping at a giant mall and Farah fell in love with a discount store that catered to teenage girls. She bought a multitude of billowy rayon pants that looked extravagant and sophisticated when she tried them on not discount at all, not teenage. Then they had lunch in the food court. And what did you buy? Nothing, Farah said in a fond, scolding tone. I tell you, Maryam jon: There are two kinds of people in this world. One kind goes out shopping and comes back with way too much and says, 'Oh-oh, I overbought.' And the other comes back with empty hands and says, 'Oh, dear, I wish I'd bought such-andsuch.'

Maryam had to laugh at that. It was true that she often saw something she wanted but the transaction seemed too complex; it required too much energy, and so she passed it up and then later she was sorry.

In the afternoon they cooked together, preparing several of the Iranian dishes that had proved most successful with foreigners, and that evening Maryam's three women friends came to dinner. They knew Farah from past visits; so it was a comfortable occasion. Maryam traveled between kitchen and dining room while Farah kept the others amused with a description of the Hakimis' party. Really it was two parties, the old people's and the young people's, she said. Maryam instantly understood what she meant, although she hadn't considered it at the time. The old ones dressed up and the young ones wore jeans. The old ones listened to Googoosh on the sound system upstairs while the young ones danced to something bang-bang-bang playing downstairs in the rec room.

Then she said, They're losing their culture, the young ones. I see this everywhere. They pay their traditional New Year's visits but they're not sure what they're supposed to be doing once they get there. They go through all the motions but they keep looking at everyone else to see if they've got it right. They try to join in but they don't know how. Isn't that true, Maryam? Don't you agree?

Maryam's guests turned to her, waiting for her to answer. And although she could have simply said, Yes, and let the moment pass, she had a sudden guilty feeling, as if she were an impostor. What right did she have to speak? She was outside the culture herself. She had always been outside it. Somehow, for no reason she could name, she had never felt at home in her own country or anywhere else, which was probably why her three best friends were foreigners. Kari, Danielle, and Calista: outsiders every one, born that way themselves.

Don't you agree, Mari — june? Farah was asking again, and Maryam stood in the kitchen doorway with a salad bowl in her hands and wondered if every decision she had ever made had been geared toward preserving her outsiderness.

Ziba told Maryam that for this year's Arrival Party, she wanted to serve something different. All those Iranian dishes are getting a little old, she said. I was thinking maybe sushi.

Sushi? Maryam repeated. For a moment, she thought she had heard wrong.

I could order it from that place in Towson that delivers. Maryam said, Ah. Well, but For my parents and my brothers I'd get California rolls. You can be sure they won't eat raw fish.

But California rolls have crabmeat, Maryam said.

Oh, nobody observes those old restrictions anymore. Last Christmas, Hassan's wife served lobster.

And the Donaldsons? Maryam wanted to ask. The Donaldsons would be devastated! No authentic Middle Eastern cuisine! But all she said to Ziba was, Let me know what I can bring. A bottle of sake would be nice, Ziba said.

Maryam laughed, but Ziba didn't. Evidently she was serious.

Maryam did plan to attend this year. She had given herself a talking-to. It was cowardly of her, she realized, not to have gone to last year's party. Apparently she still cared too much about other people's opinions. At this age, she should be able to say, Oh, so what if things would be awkward?

She chose ahead what to wear, perhaps giving too much thought to it, and she consulted the man at the liquor store about which brand of sake to buy. The night before the party, she slept poorly. In fact she would have said that she didn't sleep at all, except that at one point she had a dream and so she must have drifted off at least for a moment. She dreamed she was back in primary school and her class was singing the chicken song. Jig, jig, jujehayam, they sang, in cute little ducklike voices; and Dave was looking on and reproachfully shaking his head, Dave the same age he was now, with his gray curls and his drooping eyelids. Child grieving, Maryam, he said, and she woke annoyed with herself for dreaming a dream so obvious. Her clock radio read 3:46. After she'd lain there watching it change to four, four-thirty, and five, she got up.

Probably her restless night was the reason she passed the morning in such a fog. It was a Sunday, unusually cool and pleasant for August, and she should have worked in her garden but instead she lingered over the newspapers. After that she finished reading a novel she had started the evening before, even though she had trouble remembering the beginning and she wasn't all that interested in the end. Then all at once it seemed to be twelve-thirty. How had that happened? The Arrival Party was scheduled for one o'clock. She rose and collected her newspapers and went upstairs to change.

Ziba would be setting out the sushi trays now and the chopsticks she had bought. Her brothers would be stealing pistachios from the sheet of baklava bristling with American flags, and she would shoo them away and call for her sisters-in-law to come take charge of their husbands. Everyone would be milling about, jabbering half in English and half in Farsi, sometimes confusing the two, so that they would accidentally address Susan in the wrong language.

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.

In the silence that followed, the Vite! Vite! of the overeager cardinal chipped the air above their heads.

She's not home, a small voice said sadly Maryam's first indication that Jin-Ho must be standing on the porch with her mother.

The others were murmuring and debating. Maybe…, one said.

And, See if..

Then either Mac or Abe said something decisive that Maryam couldn't make out, and she bent closer to the window and saw a kind of shuffling motion in the group below first one person and then another turning away, hesitating, then peeling off to leave. Brad was no longer holding Xiu-Mei, who was headed now for Dave. When she reached him she took his hand, and he looked down at her for a second as if trying to remember who she was before he, too, turned and began walking toward the street. Polly and Bridget had Jin-Ho between them. Deirdre twirled a little purse by its pink ribbon strap as she followed.

And then at long last here came Bitsy, catching up with Brad and taking hold of his arm. So frail, she seemed! In fact, she was leaning on him for support, and her tightly wrapped headscarf gave her skull a shrunken look.

Maryam thought of Bitsy's hopefulness, her wholeheartedness, her manufactured traditions that seemed brave now rather than silly. The sudden wrench to her heart made her wonder if it might be Bitsy she loved. Or maybe it was all of them.

She spun away from the window. She left the bedroom. She crossed the hall. By the time she reached the stairs, she was running. She ran down the stairs; she ran to the door. She burst out of the house crying, Stop!

Wait! she called. Don't go!

Wait for me! she called.

They stopped. They turned. They looked up at her and they started smiling, and they waited for her to join them.