“What the hell are you doing, Lester?”

“Officers tend to listen to other officers, Kathy. It’s worth a shot.” Les began to finish buttoning his shirt, but I stepped up and took over, like I used to do for Nicky.

“What if he doesn’t listen, Les?”

“Then we turn up the volume.” He laughed at his own line, at the cowboy toughness of it, it seemed. I told him to stay still, and I straightened up his shirt collars and kissed his throat. I was about to say thank you but he was already stepping off the porch, so I put on my Reeboks, then went out and started the Bonneville while Les unlocked his car. I watched as he straightened to buckle his gun belt on. He looked perfect walking to the passenger’s side of my car, the creases in his uniform sharp and clean, his badge positioned just under his heart. I noticed he hadn’t pinned on his name tag. When he got in and shut the door, I leaned over and kissed him and said, “I love you for doing this, Lester. I really do.”

A HEAVINESS OF HEART POSSESSES ME ON OUR NEW WIDOW’S WALK. ITS cause is remembering Jasmeen, but I begin to worry once more of the difficulties I already face in the selling of the home. Even if I were to sell the bungalow at the profit I have projected, I must still be prepared to move my family once again, and this time it will have to be a modest apartment in one of these modest villages along the coast. This will of course be the best way to avoid spending my pool while I search for suitable investment opportunities. But I recall my daughter’s face, the fashion in which she regarded me at her homecoming dinner, the aggressive and rude way in which she all the night long repeatedly apologized for the family’s present living situation by recalling our old life. How will she regard her mother, brother, and me living in a cottage in a place such as San Bruno perhaps? Or Daly City, with all those Filipino people? Will she be too ashamed to visit? To bring her husband and his family? These thoughts begin to anger me, for who does she think she is to judge her own father? To perhaps pity me? And yes, it was pity I saw in her face that evening as she viewed me in the candlelight at the sofreh, that, and a degree of shame as well. But also, she seemed to me confused at the change we are undergoing, and that is where I blame myself, for I have never let her know of our finances. Even when I worked two jobs for so long to uphold our charade, she never knew what sort of work and where, and of course I would leave the home well dressed and return as such. Perhaps I maintained this mask for my children out of pride and vanity. Perhaps I was being soosool.

But enough of all this self-examination. It is a habit I only began to assume after the fall of our society when I found more time on my hands and upon my shoulders than I would ever wish. I never wanted so much time. I must discpline myself to keep my attention on my present tasks and challenges, to drive into Corona before the department store closes to purchase one or two signs further advertising the sale of the home.

I BUY TWO signs, bright crimson letters over black, stating home for sale and for sale by owner. As the sky darkens, I secure the first with string to a utility post at the base of Bisgrove Street. In the sign’s space reserved for the telephone number, I draw a blue ink arrow pointing up the hill. The second sign I did not think to purchase a stake for, therefore I tape it to the left of the door over the lighted house bell button. Inside our bungalow, Nadi has for me drained a glass of hot tea from the samovar and placed it upon the counter. The sofreh is gone from the floor, and I see my wife has changed into her expensive French exercise suit which hangs upon her so loosely. Over this she wears a cotton apron, and she does not approve when I wash my hands in the sink near her clean and drying dishes.

“Nakon,” she to me says and she slaps me playfully on the shoulder. I attempt to kiss her quickly upon the nose and she pushes me away but her eyes are smiling and I sit upon the counter and eat a grape. From down the corridor come the strange electronic sounds of Esmail’s computer video game. Today, by his own decision, he acquired another newspaper delivery route. In my office, shortly before Nadi called us to the sofreh for dinner, my son told to me he would give me every penny he earns to go towards his education and his future. “And you can buy food with it too, Bawbaw-jahn. Whatever you wish.” He stood straight before me, his knees skinned once again from skateboarding, his thick hair in need of a brush, and I wished to hold him as tightly and completely against me as I did when he was a small child. But now he was approaching me as a young man of responsibility and I did not wish to diminish this, or take this from him. I stood and shook his hand, which was smooth and warm and no longer smaller than my own.

I drink my hot tea. I watch my Nadi dry the rice pot with a towel, and I feel much better than I did only a few short hours ago; this family has overcome challenges far more difficult than the selling of a small bungalow, and with the new signs in place and the advertisements still in the papers, I feel confident we will meet our true buyer very soon. Nadi turns to me with the dry pot in her hands and she begins to remind me tomorrow is her sister’s birthday. She has sent her a gift, but she would like to telephone her early in the morning, before the day becomes too late in Iran. She lowers her eyes at me like a young girl and says to me in Farsi, “I promise we will not talk long.”

I am filled with that old love for my wife, a love of nearly thirty years, and I cannot possibly allow a “no” to escape my lips. The house bell sounds. Nadi appears startled, and I go directly to the door expecting a buyer, a lady or gentleman who has seen my signs and is stopping to inquire. But standing on the step beneath the exterior electric light is a tall policeman with a thick mustache, and I think immediately of Soraya, is she all right?

The policeman points to the right of the doorway. “Did you post this sign, sir?”

“Yes.” I feel relief instantly. “Is there a difficulty, Officer?”

“And that’s your sign at the bottom of the hill?”

“Yes.”

The policeman looks over my shoulder into the home, his hands resting on his belt in a very relaxed manner.

“Please, come in, Officer.” I step away and allow him inside. I look behind me and see Nadi has left the kitchen, disappearing into her room, I am certain. I say to the policeman I am new to the area, is a permit required to post signs?

“Not on the house, but the utility pole is city property.”

“I see. Very well, I will put the sign elsewhere.”

The policeman regards the painting of the battle of martyrdom on the wall, stepping closer to view the framed photograph of myself and General Pourat with Shahanshah Pahlavi. I move to the door. “I will remove the sign immediately, sir. Thank you for informing me.”

But the policeman does not acknowledge my movement. He turns to me and I believe he is smiling beneath his mustache, which I see now is trimmed in a slightly disorderly manner. He says, “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”

“This is my home, sir. I am an American citizen.” I smile, but a stillness has entered my chest. The policeman walks over the carpet and inspects our family portrait on the table beside the sofa.

“Were you a general, sir?”

“I was a colonel.” I leave the door and join this man, but I stand at the kitchen’s counter so he cannot easily look down the corridor to our bedrooms. Now there is a heat in my stomach. I can no longer hear my son’s computer video game. The bungalow has become very quiet. “Tell me, Officer. What more can I do for you this evening?”