hairy belly, while he lay in bed, waiting for me to wake him up. But that was something I kept to myself. Ma and Pedar worshiped the ground he walked on. Pasha Moradi could do no wrong.
“Of all the places, you had to move to this god forsaken piece of frozen land.” He cursed as he stuffed his fingers into Pedar’s gloves.
Pedar laughed and buried his cold, bare hands in his pockets.
“You taste like yesterday’s lamb.” Pasha Moradi smacked Ma’s bottom and kissed her on the lips.
Pedar laughed and refilled his drink.
“Really, Kamal. My driver’s shack is bigger than this hell hole. I can’t spend another night here. Dirty elevators, cockroaches, stinking hallways. Find me a real place.”
Pedar laughed and called a realtor.
I liked Bob Worthing and what he did. He was around Baba’s age, and his job was to match people with their dreams, to fill empty spaces with families that belonged. I gawked at the beautiful homes he showed us. A stately brick manor snuggled amid towering trees; a gated estate with soaring ceilings; a cozy bungalow with walnut floors and a stone fireplace.
Stepping into Bob Worthing’s van was like taking a trip to a world I had left behind, when everything safe was contained within sturdy walls and the air was fragrant with citrus blossoms. After every outing with Bob, I played with the tail end of possibility, the chance that Hafez and I could build our own nest, and there, perhaps, I’d find the part of me that had fallen out the day Maamaan, Hossein and I ran up the hills.
“You take the front, Kamal.” Pasha Moradi insisted that day, as we got into the van. “I hate making small talk with these people.” He added the last bit in Persian, ‘these people’, meaning Bob.
He slid into the back seat next to me. I inched closer to Ma, trying to get away from the feel of his pudgy thighs pressing into mine. Ma smelled like rose water and garlic, more so when Bob cranked up the heat.
“How old are you, Shayda?”
I felt Pasha Moradi’s sweaty stare on me.
“I turn twenty one this summer.”
“A baby.” He put his arm around me and squeezed. “A sweet, little baby.”
His hand stayed on my shoulder, fondling me in small circles. I felt his whisky breath in my ear, but there was nowhere to go. Bob caught the exchange in the mirror. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed my discomfort.
“What do you and your husband do?” he asked as we stood at the entrance of a new townhouse later.
Ma, Pedar and Pasha Moradi were in the kitchen, checking out the appliances.
“Hafez works at his father’s auto shop. I stay at home.”
“Your English is very good. Have you thought about getting a job?”
We talked about my qualifications. High school, yes. Experience, no.
“You know, I’m looking for an assistant—answering phone calls, looking after the paper work, simple stuff. It doesn’t pay much, but it would get you out of the house.” He didn’t have to say it, but I knew he was thinking about Pasha Moradi’s hand on my shoulder.
“Thank you,” I replied. “But my father-in-law wouldn’t approve of me working outside the home.”
“I have a daughter, a few years younger than you,” said Bob, as if that explained the concern. “Here’s my card. In case you change your mind.”
I slipped it into my pocket as Pasha Moradi came out of the kitchen, shaking his head.
“No good. What’s next?”
Bob crossed one address after another off his list. Nothing pleased Pasha Moradi.
“Too close to the road. Too much traffic.”
“What do I need such a big backyard for?”
“Too much light.”
“Too little light.”
White neighbours. Chinese neighbours. Black neighbours. Indians. No. No. No. No. Too far from the bus stop. Too close to the bus stop.
“He’s never going to leave,” said Hafez.
Every day, he looked more gaunt. And strained.
Ma and I took on sewing jobs to pay for extra groceries. Pasha Moradi did not eat left overs. He wanted
“Of all the places, you had to move to this god forsaken piece of frozen land.” He cursed as he stuffed his fingers into Pedar’s gloves.
Pedar laughed and buried his cold, bare hands in his pockets.
“You taste like yesterday’s lamb.” Pasha Moradi smacked Ma’s bottom and kissed her on the lips.
Pedar laughed and refilled his drink.
“Really, Kamal. My driver’s shack is bigger than this hell hole. I can’t spend another night here. Dirty elevators, cockroaches, stinking hallways. Find me a real place.”
Pedar laughed and called a realtor.
I liked Bob Worthing and what he did. He was around Baba’s age, and his job was to match people with their dreams, to fill empty spaces with families that belonged. I gawked at the beautiful homes he showed us. A stately brick manor snuggled amid towering trees; a gated estate with soaring ceilings; a cozy bungalow with walnut floors and a stone fireplace.
Stepping into Bob Worthing’s van was like taking a trip to a world I had left behind, when everything safe was contained within sturdy walls and the air was fragrant with citrus blossoms. After every outing with Bob, I played with the tail end of possibility, the chance that Hafez and I could build our own nest, and there, perhaps, I’d find the part of me that had fallen out the day Maamaan, Hossein and I ran up the hills.
“You take the front, Kamal.” Pasha Moradi insisted that day, as we got into the van. “I hate making small talk with these people.” He added the last bit in Persian, ‘these people’, meaning Bob.
He slid into the back seat next to me. I inched closer to Ma, trying to get away from the feel of his pudgy thighs pressing into mine. Ma smelled like rose water and garlic, more so when Bob cranked up the heat.
“How old are you, Shayda?”
I felt Pasha Moradi’s sweaty stare on me.
“I turn twenty one this summer.”
“A baby.” He put his arm around me and squeezed. “A sweet, little baby.”
His hand stayed on my shoulder, fondling me in small circles. I felt his whisky breath in my ear, but there was nowhere to go. Bob caught the exchange in the mirror. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed my discomfort.
“What do you and your husband do?” he asked as we stood at the entrance of a new townhouse later.
Ma, Pedar and Pasha Moradi were in the kitchen, checking out the appliances.
“Hafez works at his father’s auto shop. I stay at home.”
“Your English is very good. Have you thought about getting a job?”
We talked about my qualifications. High school, yes. Experience, no.
“You know, I’m looking for an assistant—answering phone calls, looking after the paper work, simple stuff. It doesn’t pay much, but it would get you out of the house.” He didn’t have to say it, but I knew he was thinking about Pasha Moradi’s hand on my shoulder.
“Thank you,” I replied. “But my father-in-law wouldn’t approve of me working outside the home.”
“I have a daughter, a few years younger than you,” said Bob, as if that explained the concern. “Here’s my card. In case you change your mind.”
I slipped it into my pocket as Pasha Moradi came out of the kitchen, shaking his head.
“No good. What’s next?”
Bob crossed one address after another off his list. Nothing pleased Pasha Moradi.
“Too close to the road. Too much traffic.”
“What do I need such a big backyard for?”
“Too much light.”
“Too little light.”
White neighbours. Chinese neighbours. Black neighbours. Indians. No. No. No. No. Too far from the bus stop. Too close to the bus stop.
“He’s never going to leave,” said Hafez.
Every day, he looked more gaunt. And strained.
Ma and I took on sewing jobs to pay for extra groceries. Pasha Moradi did not eat left overs. He wanted
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