Just a Hat, page 13
Joseph dreaded going to school the next day, but he was less worried about leaving Maman alone than he would have been before she barreled down the hallway with the fireplace poker. He’d have never guessed that Maman was more afraid of making a wrong turn on the interstate than of a redneck making a wrong turn into her house. Now Joseph had a first of all firsts to report to Shahla next Sunday. Maman had used a curse word. As he pedaled his bike to school, Joseph’s mood swung between dread and a grin at Maman’s “pedar sagg.”
At school, Joseph stopped Mateo in the hallway before homeroom. “Your papá came to our house last night,” said Joseph. “I got up this morning to pick up the trash in our yard before Maman saw it, and he was gone. He’d already picked up the trash.”
“Yeah,” said Mateo. “There was some bad talk going around town after your little outburst in Mrs. Draper’s class. Papi asked me if your baba was home, and I told him that he was out of town working. Papi talked to lots of our family and friends, and the men are going to take turns spending the night until your baba comes home. They think it will die down in a few weeks. Papi says the worst actors in town are all talk, and there’s not many of them. They just like to stir things up down at the honky-tonk at night when they get drunk. Makes a bunch of losers feel patriotic or something. Papi’s going to talk to your baba about calling the police. Maybe they can drive by your house more often.”
“Baba will never call the police,” said Joseph. “He’s afraid of them.”
Mateo shrugged. “Folks like us stick together. It’s not always easy to get police to help when you speak Spanish. They throw everybody in jail and let the judge sort it out later. My older brother Eddie just got accepted to the law school at University of Texas. He wants to be a judge.”
It would be nice if more Hispanics were policemen. That way people wouldn’t be thrown in jail for speaking Spanish in the first place, but being a judge sounded cool, too. “Well, tell your papá thank you for me,” said Joseph. “But it’s awful cold for them to sit on the porch all night.”
“Papi grew up on a ranch,” said Mateo. “You can’t kill him with cold or heat, that’s for sure.”
Men in dark toboggans and thick coats came each night after sundown. They remained on the porch until just before sunrise. It was improper for Maman to speak to them, but she fixed them pots of hot tea. She sent Joseph out before bedtime with reheated supper servings and sweets. Joseph wasn’t sure what the men thought about rolled grape leaf dolmeh, adas polo rice, and ash’e gureh soup, but they cleaned up every bite. Every spoonful.
When Baba came home the next Friday evening, Joseph met him at the door. “Maybe we should talk outside first?” Joseph suggested.
Baba frowned at Joseph’s seriousness. He put down his bag, hard hat, and briefcase. They sat on the porch swing, and Joseph told him everything. At first, Baba didn’t say anything. He stared across the porch as if seeing something seven thousand miles away. And maybe he was.
“Youssef, you will go with your mother when she goes to the market. Anywhere. You will not allow her to go anywhere alone when I am not home. Understood?”
“Baleh, Baba.” But how did Baba expect Joseph not to “allow” Maman to do anything? She was the grown-up. The danger of angry neighbors was very real, but Baba’s wording was strange. His father was always very protective of Maman. Joseph knew it was their culture. In some ways, Baba treated her like a child, but always with dignity. Like she was a little princess tragically banished to a strange land called Texas. It wasn’t really a Jewish thing. The other men at the synagogue didn’t act the same as Baba and other Persian men. Roberto called it macho. Joseph thought macho meant being very masculine, but there was more to it.
“If Maman needs to go somewhere, and you’re not here, then she will ask Miss Eleanor for help. It’s important that you both stay out of sight as much as possible so that the neighbors are not provoked,” said Baba.
How could seeing a kid and his mom provoke anyone?
“If matters don’t improve here, then I’ll send you both to Be’er Sheva to stay with her relatives in Israel. You are old enough to be enrolled in a yeshiva or public school there. Your Hebrew is good enough. Things won’t be better in Dallas as long as the Americans are hostage.”
What? Oh, no. He’d made the basketball team, and he was good. The pickup games at the park were great preparation. The coaches said all Joseph needed was some sharpening, and he could start playing the center position. His muscles were filling out, so he’d be even better at football next year. His new dirt bike. Flying lessons on Sundays. How could he leave Vonda? Joseph’s secret dream was to fly fighter jets, not to sit in a religious school and study all day.
“When things calm down here, I can send for you.”
How long would that be? How would he get letters to Vonda? Would she forget him and be attracted to another boy? Maybe a white one who hated Iranians?
Baba sighed. “If you and Maman need to live in Israel, I’ll visit as often as I can. I never thought the danger here would be worse than the danger there. At least there, you have relatives to look after you.”
No. Please, no. Baba was gone so much already. Shabbat was their island of peace. It was Baba’s job to keep them safe here, not to ship them off for Maman’s crazy brothers to babysit. Summer visits to Israel were nice, but Joseph always missed Baba, especially on Shabbat evening when his cousins huddled around their fathers for blessings. How could you ever make up for missing Shabbat blessings? It’s not like you could pile them on later.
Every good thing was slipping from his grasp.
31
HANDY CAP
Joseph thought Vonda would be a haven in his storm. Instead, she suggested that they eat with their own friends until things blew over. The look on his face must have made her feel bad, because she offered to exchange daily notes.
“Notes?” asked Joseph. He was horrible at writing. His participles and gerunds ran untamed across the worksheets. Mrs. Thornton didn’t appreciate his joke about pronouns being professional nouns, so his English grade was still dangling between an A and a B.
“Yeah,” said Vonda. “You’re the talk of the school right now. If people talk about you, then they may talk about us. If my dad heard about it . . .”
Funny she hadn’t worried about it before, but it did make sense. Her family was much more in the town gossip loop than Baba. He barely knew anyone but the Ybarras, Miss Eleanor, and a few men who also worked for the oil company. “Notes?” asked Joseph again. Girls wrote notes. Not boys. Joseph needed someone to talk to other than Roberto, who dismissed all the bomb-Iran craziness with his usual, “Dumbasses.” Joseph needed a blue-eyed “Canon in D” duet.
“Yeah. I already write you notes sometimes. Let’s write a note back and forth and exchange it each day. It could be fun,” said Vonda.
“Can I still walk you to class?”
“Well . . .”
Well? She wasn’t sure? The hated tears threatened to well up, but Joseph fought them back. He wasn’t allowed to be angry, either, and being angry made him teary. He had to not feel anything. Rage. Control. Smile. Fly above it.
“Never mind,” said Joseph.
“So you’re not mad?” she asked.
When did it ever matter whether Joseph was mad? He said, “I’m not angry. Mad people are crazy people. I’m not crazy.”
Vonda smiled and handed him a folded sheet of notebook paper. “I’m glad.”
That was the start of their correspondence and the end of their conversations.
Joseph was no good at writing. What did a girl like Vonda want to talk about? Their lunchroom conversations were easy back-and-forth. A note required at least twenty-four hours for a response. The first line told him she’d decided on the separation long before she suggested it.
I’m sorry, Joseph. I’m going to miss having lunch with you. You’re really funny and smart. I wish I could do math like you.
Yeah, me to.
Are you mad at me?
I think we already covered that. No. Not angry. Just dissappointed. I miss you.
I miss you, too. I always expect to look up and see you when I’m at Miss Eleanor’s for lessons. You’re really good at playing the piano. Will you be at the recital?
I don’t spend as much time at Miss Eleanor’s anymore. I can’t play in the recitals because they are on Shabbat. Did you know that you can play all Emily Dickinson’s poems to the tune of “Yellow Rose of Texas”?
That is SOOOOO funny, Joseph. I tried it, and you’re right. Mrs. Thornton would have a heart attack.
Do you like poetry?
Yes, I really like poetry. It’s more interesting than the short stories in English class. I write poetry in my diary. I’m too embarrassed for anyone to read it.
I wouldn’t laugh if you let me read one of your poems. My parents read a lot of Persian poetry, but they read it in Farsi. Not Farisi.
You always make me laugh. It’s Pharisee, not Farisi. Can you translate any of it into English?
Your wish is my command. It’s not like English poetry, though. It doesn’t rhyme in English . . . “Ever since Happiness heard your name, it runs through the streets trying to find you.” The Persian poet Hafiz wrote that. He lived a long time ago. You won’t let me read one of your poems?
That’s very romantic. I think that’s “personification.” Or maybe “metaphor.” Mrs. Thornton would be proud.
Hafiz wrote it, not me. Can I walk you home as far as the park on Friday? I don’t have practice. No one can say anything if we both have to go home that way.
That may not be a good idea. Translate some more poetry for me.
Okay, here you go. 1. “Your heart and my heart are very, very old friends.” 2. “The subject tonight is love. And the subject for tomorrow night, to. As a matter of fact, there is no better topic for us to discuss until we all die.” Hafiz wrote those. He’s a very romantic poet. Kind of like Pachelbel’s “Canon in D.” It takes two to enjoy him.
Middle Eastern men must be very romantic. You’re the only person I know from the Middle East. Joseph is in the Bible, but it seems like a strange name for someone from the Middle East.
I was born in Los Angeles, not the Middle East. My real name is Youssef. I always go by the teachers’ desk on the first day of class and ask if they will pencil in Joseph. Saves me a lot of greif when they call roll the first time. It’s only translated Joseph in English Bibles. The Bible was written in Hebrew, so it’s really pronounced Yosef, like mine in Farsi. Could we talk for a minute on Wednesday before I go to gym class?
Okay. Come to my locker.
Thanks for talking to me. Did you like the card?
It was very nice. I put it in my diary with your other notes.
Wow. I made the diary? Maybe one day you’ll send me a poem. Heres another one. “The Heart is a thousand-stringed instrument that can only be tuned with Love.” Bigger than a piano, huh?
Yes, that’s a pretty big instrument. By the way, are things getting better for you?
Not really. We still get trash in the yard. Someone wrote something really bad on my locker, but the janiter allready got most of it off before I saw it.
I’m sorry that’s happening to you. I read about the Persian Jews in the Book of Esther in Sunday school class. You have aninteresting heritage. Our family is from Germany. I mean, not like Nazi or anything. Our family was here before World War 2.
I guess that’s where you get such pretty blue eyes. When do you think we can meet and talk? I really miss you.
Dad and Mom go to a ministers’ retreat each winter. One of my older sisters will come home from college to stay with me for the weekend. I could slip out for a while and she wouldn’t say anything.
When????
32
HAT SHOP
Maman sniffed grapes. She sniffed tomatoes. She sniffed melons. Joseph dreaded trips to the grocery store. He stood by with the cart, rolling the wheels back and forth while she inspected every potential fruit or vegetable. It was maddening. She held the fruit, sniffed it, tested its texture. She turned it around and around checking for over-ripeness or bad spots. She held her ear close and thumped. She carefully weighed it. She returned some to the bin or added more. She squinted at the numbers on the scale. When they finally made it through the produce section, she knew to the penny and pound how much she’d purchased.
If the cashier tossed her careful selections onto the scale, Maman’s expression turned to a frown. Today was one of those days. The Piggly Wiggly cashier flung the apples onto the scale. The apples bounced and skittered inside the bag. “Tell her not to bruise the fruit,” Maman told Joseph in Farsi.
“It’s okay, Maman,” Joseph said. Baba said they were to keep a low profile as long as the Americans were held hostage. It wouldn’t be smart to cause a disturbance over a dent in an apple. This wasn’t friendly territory. Maman’s headscarf sometimes caused a stir in the aisles or checkout line when people realized that she wasn’t wearing it to conceal hair curlers or chemo treatments. The scarf screamed that the woman wearing it didn’t belong in a grocery store named after a pig.
“No, she’s ruining my fruit,” insisted Maman, still in Farsi. “Tell her to be careful. I won’t pay for what she ruins.”
The cashier glanced up, sensing Maman’s objection was related to something she was doing.
“Please, Maman,” said Joseph. “She’s not hurting the fruit.”
“Yes, she did,” said Maman. “She bruised that apple.”
“I’ll eat it in the car,” said Joseph. “It won’t have time to rot.”
“This is unacceptable,” said Maman, pleading her case to Joseph for translation into English. She thrust her hands forward, palms upward. It was a Middle Eastern gesture that really didn’t translate into English. She wanted Joseph to make her case for undamaged fruit.
Joseph didn’t know why he did it, but he did. He lifted his chin back at Maman, a gesture that his baba sometimes used. It meant the argument was over. Joseph instantly felt guilty. It was too late, though. The store manager was correcting something on the cash register in the checkout line next to them. He stepped over with a clipboard, bifocals slid down his nose. “Is there a problem here?” he asked.
Maman wasn’t confident speaking English, but she understood a lot. She extended her fingers toward the evidence, two apples that had rolled out of the plastic bag down to the bagging area.
“Do you speak English, ma’am?” the manager practically yelled.
Good grief. She wasn’t deaf. Now they had the attention of everyone in the front of the store.
“I speak English,” said Joseph as quietly as he could.
“De apples,” said Maman. “I don’ pay for de hurting apples. Two hurting apples is forty-four cent.”
“Hurting apples?” asked the manager, managing to arch his eyebrows upward while his mouth and bushy mustache arched downward. The manager had extraordinary facial hair control.
“Yes, she trow de apples down,” said Maman, but this wasn’t the Middle East. There, merchants specialized in meat, dairy, fruits, or vegetables. They prided themselves on the quality of their selection. In the open-air markets or sidewalk stands, merchants sliced open deep-ruby pomegranates and bright-pink melons to entice customers to taste their sweetness and smell their freshness. They hovered over their customers like a mother following a toddler. They selected the best fruits for the customer. They assured with every breath that this was the freshest, sweetest, or crispest in the entire city. In the Middle East, you don’t trow de apples or anything else.
“It’s okay,” said Joseph to the manager. “I think the lady just dropped them.”
“Where are y’all from?” asked the manager.
“Seventh Street,” said Joseph. “Really, it’s not a problem.”
The manager paused suspiciously. Maman interrupted, “Yes, is problem. I don’ wan’ to pay for dem.”
“Wait, aren’t y’all those Iranians?” said the manager.
Eye-rainians. Well, great. Here we go. “It doesn’t matter,” said Joseph. “I’ll put those two apples back.”
“I already rang ’em up,” said the cashier to the manager as if the man hadn’t just deleted a charge off the cash register next to them.
The cash register rhythm of the checkout lines on either side faded to an uneasy standstill, like when the school band started wrong in marching practice. Maman and Joseph had stopped everything, two trumpets playing the wrong song. The customers and cashiers looked at Maman as if she’d been uncorked from a genie bottle. Not a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, sexy I Dream of Jeannie, but a dark-skinned, raghead nightmare genie from Eye-ran.
“I was born in California,” said Joseph. “Not Iran.”
“Well, you can just tell your mama to do her grocery shopping in California . . . or Iran. Wherever she’s from,” said the manager in a drawl. “Ain’t much difference.” A few nods of the head in the checkout lines affirmed the manager’s banishment decree from their happy, hometown Piggly kingdom.
Maman had given up on the conversation between Joseph and the manager. She’d gone around to collect the two hurting apples from the bagging area. Rage. Control. As badly as Joseph wanted to lob the entire bag of apples at the manager, cashier, and everyone standing there, he took the two bruised apples from Maman’s hand. He put them back on the counter. Gently.
“What . . . ?” she asked, but Joseph shook his head.
“Come on, we’re going, Maman,” said Joseph in Farsi.
“But why?” she protested. Maman already knew how much the groceries would cost, to the penny. She pulled the cash and change from her dress pocket. Then she started to pluck forty-four cents in coins from the total. Joseph shook his head again and folded his hand over hers.
