nice to see you,” Martha said.
“Killer gardens, Mom.”
“Just trying to keep things alive. If I could get your father to help more …”
Her mother avoided the living room to pull Zehra into the kitchen. She set the pita bread on the counter, dipped a bread chip into the lemon hummus her mother had been mixing, tasted nothing but garlic, and put the wine next to the bread. Like a lot of older Iranian women, her mother gladly took on all the trappings of an American, including her name. So did her father, Joseph.
“How’s work? I don’t know how you can defend those guilty criminals,” Martha asked. “Isn’t it dangerous?” She avoided the living room.
“No … just a pain in the butt.”
“How can you represent this terrorist?”
“I don’t want to, believe me.” An uncomfortable twinge raced through her lower body when she remembered the email. Zehra pushed the thought away
“These crazy ones give all us Muslims a bad name. Remember after the Oklahoma City bombing, we were afraid to let you and your brother outside for days? I was scared to death our usually wonderful neighbors would do something to you. Why do you insist on defending these terrorists? I’m so disappointed.”
“I said I don’t want the case, Mom. I’m trying to get rid of it,” she sighed.
“Well … why don’t you go back to medical school?”
Zehra stopped her. “Okay, Mom. Let’s go meet him.”
“Huh? Oh, yes. He’s such a nice man. And so handsome.” Martha’s face glistened like the edge of the sweating wine bottle.
Pulling Zehra by the hand, she led her back into the living room. As they entered, a tall man stood with his legs together and his arms flat against his sides. He nodded and waited for the introduction.
Oh, brother! Zehra thought, here we go.
“Zehra, this is Robert Ali. He’s got a good job at 3M.”
He stuck out his hand to grasp Zehra’s. He nodded again and said, “Hello, Zehra. I’m an accountant at 3M, but I’m also interested in the theatre.”
“How interesting.” She looked up into a narrow face with a sharp nose and large nostrils. She marveled at the contrast in colors—pale face surrounded by thick black hair, black eyes, black nostrils, and a black, pressed dress shirt.
“After your mother told me all about you, I was anxious to meet you.”
Zehra shot her mother a glance. “Oh, I’m sure she told you everything.” She felt like an abandoned dog in a pound that Robert inspected for possible purchase.
“I’ve got a role in a play at the White Bear community theatre.”
“How interesting.”
“How do you like your job?”
Zehra said, “Well, right now, with the case I just got, I’d be happier teaching snowboarding.”
“My role is Marc Antony in Julius Caesar . That’s by Shakespeare, you know.” He emphasized the playwright that any sixth grader would recognize.
“I know. How interesting.”
“Do you like Indian food?”
“Huh? Yeah, the spicier, the better.”
“The early reviews in the paper, the White Bear Lake Community News , said my performance in rehearsals has been outstanding. I think it comes from my naturally out-going personality and my love of fun.”
Zehra felt dizzy. “Mom, where’s Dad?”
“He’s still stuck in Arden Hills at his job. It might be described as part time, but he works like it’s full time.” She whispered to Zehra, “He told me he’s working with a nice young Muslim man. A bio-engineer.” Her eyebrows bounced upward. Louder, she said, “The lamb’s almost ready. Lamb is Robert’s favorite dish.” She smiled at him. “Isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes. I tried to get the director to substitute lamb in the food scene but not too many Americans are used to it.”
As they filed into the kitchen to check on dinner, Zehra looked at her mother. Pretty, in an old-world way. Long nose, deep, expressive eyes, dark skin, and long hair cut below her shoulders, which she hid during the day when she usually wore
“Killer gardens, Mom.”
“Just trying to keep things alive. If I could get your father to help more …”
Her mother avoided the living room to pull Zehra into the kitchen. She set the pita bread on the counter, dipped a bread chip into the lemon hummus her mother had been mixing, tasted nothing but garlic, and put the wine next to the bread. Like a lot of older Iranian women, her mother gladly took on all the trappings of an American, including her name. So did her father, Joseph.
“How’s work? I don’t know how you can defend those guilty criminals,” Martha asked. “Isn’t it dangerous?” She avoided the living room.
“No … just a pain in the butt.”
“How can you represent this terrorist?”
“I don’t want to, believe me.” An uncomfortable twinge raced through her lower body when she remembered the email. Zehra pushed the thought away
“These crazy ones give all us Muslims a bad name. Remember after the Oklahoma City bombing, we were afraid to let you and your brother outside for days? I was scared to death our usually wonderful neighbors would do something to you. Why do you insist on defending these terrorists? I’m so disappointed.”
“I said I don’t want the case, Mom. I’m trying to get rid of it,” she sighed.
“Well … why don’t you go back to medical school?”
Zehra stopped her. “Okay, Mom. Let’s go meet him.”
“Huh? Oh, yes. He’s such a nice man. And so handsome.” Martha’s face glistened like the edge of the sweating wine bottle.
Pulling Zehra by the hand, she led her back into the living room. As they entered, a tall man stood with his legs together and his arms flat against his sides. He nodded and waited for the introduction.
Oh, brother! Zehra thought, here we go.
“Zehra, this is Robert Ali. He’s got a good job at 3M.”
He stuck out his hand to grasp Zehra’s. He nodded again and said, “Hello, Zehra. I’m an accountant at 3M, but I’m also interested in the theatre.”
“How interesting.” She looked up into a narrow face with a sharp nose and large nostrils. She marveled at the contrast in colors—pale face surrounded by thick black hair, black eyes, black nostrils, and a black, pressed dress shirt.
“After your mother told me all about you, I was anxious to meet you.”
Zehra shot her mother a glance. “Oh, I’m sure she told you everything.” She felt like an abandoned dog in a pound that Robert inspected for possible purchase.
“I’ve got a role in a play at the White Bear community theatre.”
“How interesting.”
“How do you like your job?”
Zehra said, “Well, right now, with the case I just got, I’d be happier teaching snowboarding.”
“My role is Marc Antony in Julius Caesar . That’s by Shakespeare, you know.” He emphasized the playwright that any sixth grader would recognize.
“I know. How interesting.”
“Do you like Indian food?”
“Huh? Yeah, the spicier, the better.”
“The early reviews in the paper, the White Bear Lake Community News , said my performance in rehearsals has been outstanding. I think it comes from my naturally out-going personality and my love of fun.”
Zehra felt dizzy. “Mom, where’s Dad?”
“He’s still stuck in Arden Hills at his job. It might be described as part time, but he works like it’s full time.” She whispered to Zehra, “He told me he’s working with a nice young Muslim man. A bio-engineer.” Her eyebrows bounced upward. Louder, she said, “The lamb’s almost ready. Lamb is Robert’s favorite dish.” She smiled at him. “Isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes. I tried to get the director to substitute lamb in the food scene but not too many Americans are used to it.”
As they filed into the kitchen to check on dinner, Zehra looked at her mother. Pretty, in an old-world way. Long nose, deep, expressive eyes, dark skin, and long hair cut below her shoulders, which she hid during the day when she usually wore
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