When You Were Older (24 page)

‘I realize Ben’s a big strike against me …’

‘It’s some of each, actually,’ Nazir said. ‘On the one hand, I hate to think of my daughter using up so much of her life on his needs. On the other hand, it says a good thing about you. That you can be relied upon. That you don’t give up on your family. Young people in America today are not always so good about this. Mother gets old, they stick her in a facility. Dad gets sick, none of the children will even come home. “We have our own lives,” they say. They show no responsibility. At least you show responsibility.’

‘Thank you.’ Then, before I realized I was even going to say it, I said, ‘What if there were no Ben? What would you feel about me and Anat then?’

Long pause. As if he were truly trying this new thought on for size.

‘It will sound terrible.’

My stomach cramped in rhythm with his words.

‘Go ahead.’

‘It’s foolish on my part. But always when I thought about my daughter meeting a man, in my head, in the picture in my head, I see now that always the man was Egyptian. So what was I thinking with that, right? How far would you have to drive from here to find a marriageable Egyptian man? I’m not talking about interfaith marriage, mind you, because we are not that religious anyway. I’m not saying I insist she marry within Islam. I just pictured someone who looks more like us. The mind is a funny thing, isn’t it?’

I refused to answer the question.

‘Well,’ he said, when he’d given up waiting for a comment, ‘I guess we all have our little prejudices.’

‘Guess so,’ I said.

‘I apologize for mine. You have done a lot for us. You have been kind. I don’t know why I have said all these things to you.’

‘Because they’re the truth?’

Nazir puffed furiously, then said, ‘Yes. I suppose. Because they’re the truth.’

When we arrived back inside, the dishes were done. Drying in a rack beside the sink. Ben was seated on a kitchen chair, getting his hair cut. Properly, this time.

‘Look!’ Ben said. ‘Look what Anat did! It’s so much better than what you did! She put wet paper towels all around my neck. And the hair’s wet, and it sticks to the paper towels, and it doesn’t go down my shirt. And it doesn’t choke me.’

‘You’re supposed to wet the hair first?’ I asked Anat.

‘It helps. Why don’t you make some coffee or tea, and then go ahead and cut the cake? And by the time dessert is ready, we should be all done here.’

So I wandered in and out of the kitchen, fetching dessert forks and cups and plates and clean napkins, and setting the table for a second round. Nazir sat quietly in the living room by himself. I listened to Anat small-talking with Ben, and thought maybe he really would stay with them while I flew back to New York. Given time.

‘Got a hair dryer?’ Anat asked.

I fetched her one from my mom’s bathroom.

Then I sat at the dining room table, feeling the cracks and fissures between individuals, until the dryer turned off and Ben proudly emerged.

‘No itches!’ he shouted, as if that were the only criteria for a good haircut.

But it was a good haircut. For the first time since arriving back here, I looked at Ben and thought he looked just like anybody else’s brother.

‘Ben,’ I said. ‘You look so respectable.’

Then I looked past Ben and into the kitchen at Anat. Our eyes met, and caught. And stayed. And played. And communicated. And promised. And healed.

And I thought, She’s not gone. She hasn’t run screaming into the night.

I thought, It’s a goddamn miracle.

ANAT CALLED ME
at two in the morning. The phone blasted me out of sleep. It froze my blood. I could only think that something was wrong down at the bakery. Then I looked at the clock again, and realized she wouldn’t even be down at the bakery this early. Something wrong at home?

I grabbed up the phone.

‘What? Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said. Her voice was soft. Familiar. Affectionate. ‘I know I woke you up, and I know I scared you. I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk to you. And your number was right there on the refrigerator …’

’You’re at the shop already?’

‘I never went home. We took two cars. Because we figured it was silly for me to drive all the way back out to our house at about eight or nine at night, and then all the way back here at four in the morning. So I stayed in the room over the shop. But now I can’t sleep. I miss you.’

I lay still, feeling my blood and organs rapidly thaw.

‘I miss you, too,’ I said.

Then nobody said anything for a long time. And it hit me that we might both be thinking the exact same thing: that we were only two minutes apart.

‘I should stay here,’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t I?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, her voice small. Almost a whisper. ‘Should you?’

‘I’ll be right there.’

She met me at the kitchen door of the bakery, grabbed my hand, and led me upstairs. Her face looked tight and frenzied.

‘I have been doing nothing but worry since we talked on the phone.’ Before I could open my mouth to ask why, she said, ‘I hope you don’t think—’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think that. I didn’t think that.’

‘Oh. Thank goodness.’

I sat on the edge of the bed, because there was nowhere else to sit. I looked around. The room was small, maybe six feet by ten feet. No bathroom that I could see. Probably she had to use the one downstairs. There was just a bed, and a bedside table with a lamp, a drinking glass, and a bottle of water. On the other side of the bed was a small set of shelves, with a few folded clothes. It reminded me of a room in a monastery. Not that I’ve ever been to a monastery.

She came and sat beside me, but not too close. She offered me her hand, and I took it, and held it. My heart
didn’t
pound, and it didn’t melt. It just felt warm. Full. For the first time in my life, I felt full.

‘I’m glad you understand,’ she said. ‘I have to be a virgin. Until I’m married. At least I have to meet my father that much of the way. I know probably you’re thinking he won’t know. But I will. I’ll know.’

I put one finger to her lips. ‘It’s fine.’

She leaned forward and kissed me. Gently. Tenderly. Almost tentatively, but not quite. More like thoughtfully. She pulled back, and we looked at each other for a moment, then broke into a spontaneous, incurable, embarrassing attack of the smiles.

I looked at her hair. Brushed it back from her shoulder.

‘I thought you’d never want to talk to me again after last night,’ I said.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because of Ben.’

‘Oh, no. It was just the opposite. It was so sweet to watch you with him. If I hadn’t already been so taken with you, I would have been after last night.’

‘Really? Am I good with him? I don’t feel like I am.’

‘You’re too hard on yourself. You correct him when he needs it. But then other times you make allowances for him. And you’re so patient. Like a good parent. You’ll be a good father.’

‘Think so?’

‘I know so. You want children, don’t you?’

‘Sure I do.’

‘How many?’

‘I’ve always thought two,’ I said. But then I added, ‘But I’m completely flexible.’ In case she had other thoughts. ‘What about you? What’s the right number for you?’

‘Two. That is a perfect number. Two. And Ben will be a good uncle, I think, to two children.’

‘Well, they’ll all have a lot in common.’

She laughed. And everything in the world was right. Everything. Even Ben.

Then she lay back on the bed, and I lay down beside her. We stared at the ceiling together. There were cracks in the plaster of the ceiling. It made me feel better about the paint on my mother’s house. I remember thinking I would always love those cracks. Not because they got me off the hook for my own peeling paint, but because I was so happy on the night I memorized them.

After a while she rolled closer and rested her head on my collarbone.

We lay there together for what seemed like ten or fifteen minutes, and then she raised her left hand and looked at her watch.

‘I’m late,’ she said. ‘I have to start the donuts.’

I sat up. Took hold of her left arm. Looked at the watch myself. It was almost four thirty. Our ten or fifteen minutes had, in reality, lasted well over two hours.

‘OK, Buddy,’ I said. ‘Come on.’

Ben stood at the end of the garage, as though waiting
for
me to pull the car out. Even though I’d told him we were taking the bus today. Even though I was standing near the end of the driveway.

‘Why again?’

‘To show you that you can do it.’

‘But the car’s right there. You could just drive me.’

‘But if I just drive you, you’ll never know you can do it.’

‘I pretty much don’t think I can.’

I sighed. And walked to where he was standing.

‘You know you can ride the bus to work
with me
, right? With me right there telling you where to get off and all?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, that’s all we’re doing today. Let’s go.’

‘Why again?’

‘Ben. I said let’s go.’

We walked side by side together, two and a half blocks to the bus stop. I had to slow my pace over and over again to match his. I had to breathe, and think consciously about going easy on him.

A woman in a bathrobe was letting her dog out to pee in the yard. She waved as if we were long-lost friends. ‘Hi, Ben!’ she called. ‘Hi, Rusty! Welcome home, Rusty!’

I waved, but said nothing.

Ben called back, ‘Good morning, Mrs Givington.’

‘Where are you two going so early?’

Ben called, ‘My buddy is teaching me to ride the bus to work.’

Her face fell. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Well. Good luck.’

I knew the universe wanted me to see it as an omen. But I refused to.

‘So, are you here every morning?’ I asked the driver, as I helped Ben count out the change I’d given him.

‘Beg pardon?’

‘Are you on this route at this time every morning?’

He still seemed confused by, or suspicious of, the question. ‘Five days a week,’ he said.

‘You’ll be here tomorrow?’

‘Should be.’

‘Good. Tomorrow I’ll bring my brother down here to the bus stop, but I won’t get on with him. And I’d appreciate it if you’d remind him to get off at Ridgewood.’

‘Tomorrow might be too soon,’ Ben said, tugging at my sleeve.

The engine roared as the driver pulled away from the curb, and Ben spoke loudly to be heard over the drone of it. ‘What if I forget Ridgewood between now and tomorrow?’

‘I’ll be standing at the bus stop. I’ll remind you.’

‘Oh. Right.’

I led Ben to a seat right up front and across the aisle from the driver.

‘Always sit right here,’ I said. ‘So you can watch the driver and hear what he tells you.’

‘What if someone else is sitting there?’

‘Then just sit as close to the driver as you can.’

‘Oh. OK. I think tomorrow’s too soon, though.’

‘Let’s just focus on today.’

‘Oh. OK.’

We got off at Ridgewood, and I stopped a minute to help him orient himself. It was only about six thirty.

‘See where you are?’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean, no? How can you not see where you are?’

‘Well. I see what’s around me. But I don’t know where I am.’

‘You’re only two blocks from the market.’

‘But I don’t know where it is.’

‘Ben. You’ve lived in this town all your life.’

‘Don’t yell at me, Buddy. Sometimes I get confused.’

I hadn’t yelled, actually. But I’d spoken from a lack of tolerance, and it had shown through.

‘Sorry. Just stand here a minute and look where you are.’

‘OK.’

‘You get off the bus …’

‘I did.’

‘I know that, Ben. Just listen.’

‘OK.’

‘And you go left. You know which way left is, don’t you?’

‘Sometimes,’ he said.

I just stood a minute, trying to find the patience that had made such a positive impression on Anat.

‘Let’s try this, then. You see that pet shop?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Turn toward the pet shop and walk to that corner.’

‘Aren’t you coming with me?’

‘Yes, I’m coming with you.’

‘Then why are you telling me this? Why can’t I just follow you?’

‘I’m trying to teach you what to do tomorrow.’

‘I think tomorrow is too soon.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. I started to walk, and he followed me. ‘I’m beginning to see your point about that.’

‘You’re so late,’ Anat said. ‘I was just getting ready to worry about you. I thought you weren’t coming in.’

It was twenty minutes after seven. And she had other customers. Three of them. So we had to speak in a different way. A different tone. As if none of these words had any weight behind them. As if we were nothing to each other. As if she were only teasingly commenting on a customer’s routine.

Frankly, I don’t think we were doing well. I think that, after our early morning happenings, there was no turning back.

I looked around to see all three of her customers staring at us. We must have been shedding an energy that stuck to them. They must have felt an overspill of our emotion.

‘Today was my first day trying to teach Ben to ride the bus to work. So then I had to wait for the bus myself. To come back. And then I had to get off at Whitley and walk four blocks. It’s not a speedy process.’

‘How did it go with Ben?’

‘Badly. But I intend to keep at it.’

‘Good. Well …’ And behind that ‘well’ was an evaporation of all of our options. We had reached the end of our tether, like a couple of chained dogs. All we could do now was strain until we choked. Or accept our limitations. ‘What will you have?’

‘Cinnamon twist,’ I said. And I reached into my jeans pocket to pull out a few folded bills.

I saw her start to shake her head, but I stopped her with a look. And she caught it and understood it. I needed to pay for the cinnamon twist. This was the first time I had ever been beaten into the shop by other customers. And it would be the first time I’d paid for my food. Otherwise it would leave a bad impression.