I am surprised to see Nadereh has left the silver tea table broken upon the floor, a bowl of pistachios and wrapped chocolates scattered about. From her closed room comes the melancholy music of Daryoosh, that kunee singer with the pretty voice I have come to despise. But frekresh neestam, it makes no difference; I can no longer protect my wife from troubling news the way one would a child. If she is afraid and miserable and unable to adjust to our new lives as I have, if she cannot respect me or stand by me another day, then so be it. Een zendeh-geeheh, this is life. Our life.

I clean up the nuts and sweets, then inspect the broken legs of the table. They are made of cypress wood from Turkey, and two are split and broken. Tomorrow I will glue them. I lean the tabletop neatly against the sofa, the last remaining legs jutting out like a final salute. The door to my son’s room is open and he is lying upon his bed, still dressed in shorts and tank T-shirt, his legs crossed together, his hands resting upon his stomach. He regards me as I enter, then fixes his eyes once again on the wall. I take the chair from his desk and sit. In Farsi I say that I am sorry for the fighting between his mother and me. “I was wrong to strike her, Esmail-joon. When you are one day married, please do not do as I did this evening.”

My son says nothing. Nor does he turn his head to me. I reach out and squeeze his upper arm. He stiffens slightly, but I ignore it and tell to him how strong he is becoming. Soon he will be stronger than me in every way. My son blows air from his mouth, crossing his arms over his chest. He turns his head completely away from me now.

“Do not be disrespectful, son. Look at me when I speak.”

Esmail sits up quickly. “Why did you lie to me, Bawbaw? You told me that woman didn’t pay her taxes so they took her house.”

“Yes, that is why they took from her this house.”

“But I heard through the window everything that cop said. Why did he say she was the real owner?”

“Because they are all fools, that is why. The county tax officials made a mistake and took from the wrong person her house. Now she wants them to buy it from us so she may return here.”

“Then we should return it, shouldn’t we? Why don’t you give it back to her? We can live someplace else.”

I do not wish to discuss further these details with my son, but he regards me so intently, his dark eyes upon mine, I feel the time has come to give him something more of the burden I carry. “Pesaram, my son, I am sorry I withheld from you the truth, but that woman’s house was taken because they thought she did not pay her taxes.”

“But you knew they made a mistake?”

“Not when I purchased the house. But now I am quite willing to sell this home back to them so they may return it to her.”

“Then why did that cop say he would send us back to Iran? Can he really do that, Bawbaw?”

“No. We are American citizens, they can do nothing to us.”

“But—I don’t understand.”

“The tax bureaucrats will only pay to me what I paid to them. You see, they will not allow us to earn the profit we deserve, Esmail. I am therefore forced to sell it to someone else. We have no choice.”

Esmail is quiet a moment. He looks beyond me at the wall. “But what about that lady?”

“I have told her myself she should sue the county officials for enough money to buy ten homes. With a good lawyer, Esmail, she could be very pooldar over this.”

“But that day in the yard she told me her father gave it to her before he died.”

I stand. “Her fight is with the men who took from her this place, Esmail-jahn, not us. We have done nothing wrong here. Remember what I’ve told you of so many Americans: they are not disciplined and have not the courage to take responsibility for their actions. If these people paid to us the fair price we are asking, we could leave and she could return. It is that simple. But they are like little children, son. They want things only their way. Do you understand?”

Esmail looks upon the floor, nodding his head. “I feel bad for that lady, Bawbaw.”

“You have a good heart, Esmail, but do not forget this woman is refusing this new opportunity before her.” I replace the chair beneath the desk. “I am pleased you have taken this newspaper job.” I lean forward and take my son’s face in both hands, kissing his forehead and nose. I smell traces of dried Coca-Cola upon his lips. “Soon all of this will be behind us. Wash your face before sleeping. Shahbakreh.”

HOURS LATER SLEEP has still not come to me. I lie upon a blanket on the floor of my office in the darkness, but I am unable to rest. Earlier I knocked upon Nadereh’s door but she did not answer, though I am certain she heard me over her music. But this is not what keeps me restless. It is that man’s final words to me, his threats of contacting Immigration. Of course he can do nothing to the Behranis—we are all citizens now—but there is Soraya’s new family; her husband has applied for his green card, while his mother and sister are still waiting to be granted asylum. But I did not tell him of the existence of my daughter, so perhaps he will miss this altogether.

These thoughts increase the speed of my heartbeat. The muscles in my back and neck become tight. I think of this Gonzalez telling me there are many things he can do. Late in the night an automobile passes by and I rise and walk to the dark living-room area in my underclothes. My bare leg knocks against the extended leg of the table, and I curse it on my way to the door. Its lock is secure. I turn on the exterior lamp, seeing nothing but a few flying insects, the small lawn beyond. I leave on the light and make my bed upon the sofa.

I WAS SMOKING BEHIND THE WHEEL OF MY BONNEVILLE WHEN LESTER marched back down Bisgrove under the streetlights, ripped the House for Sale sign off the pole, then got in. I drove off, holding my question about what happened until we were on our way. When I did ask, Les glanced over at me, his hands on his legs, looking almost like he knew I would ask and sort of hoped I wouldn’t.

“This guy’s obviously not right off the boat.”

“What do you mean?” I flicked my cigarette out the window, my heart beating somewhere in my throat. We were riding out of town for the shortcut to San Bruno on the Junipero Serra Freeway. Earlier we’d decided to go to my storage shed and get some things to make life at the fish camp easier���a box of candles I hadn’t opened since Christmas, glasses, plates, silverware, and the small hibachi barbecue Nick used to grill mushroomburgers on in the backyard. Fog was beginning to roll in from the beach and my headlights lit it up in front of us as I plowed through. “Well, tell me what happened, Les.”

“He knew to ask my name, Kathy. I had to lie to him.”

I didn’t know how to read his voice. Whose fucking idea was this? Was he blaming me? I turned onto the lighted freeway where the fog was only a mist and I stepped on the gas. “So what did you say to that Arab prick?”

“He’s not an Arab, he’s Iranian. I think he’s probably got money coming out of his ears, too. Or at least he used to. There’s a picture of him on the wall with the Shah. The Shah. That guy had his own mint.”

“What did you say to him, Lester?” My hand felt tight on the wheel. I wanted to scream. Les looked at me, then out the window.

“I swear to Christ, Lester, if you don’t hurry up and tell me what happened back there I’m going to drive us right off the road.”

“I gave him an ultimatum.”

“What?”

“I told him I’d call Immigration on his family, and I hinted I could get nastier than that if he didn’t clear out.”

“You said that?” I let out a nervous laugh, accelerating to pass a muddy farm truck. “What did he do?”