eucalyptus tree. “Where are you going in this desert wind? My midriff is shivering, and I’m not even making love.”
“I just received a call that Suheir Lababidi has passed,” Fatima whispered, holding up her black skirt. “And the dry cleaner has free doughnuts.”
Scheherazade hummed a Samarqand folk tune as she climbed down from the eucalyptus tree. “I’m hungry, too,” she decided. “I was looking for a fig on the fig tree.”
“Be careful,
dyiri balik
, don’t break any of its branches,” Fatima pleaded. “I brought that tree all the way from Lebanon.”
“Lebanon?”
“Well, Detroit,” Fatima clarified. “Ibrahim planted it in our backyard in Detroit with seeds from Mama. I had my oldest girl ship it from Detroit and replanted it here. Amir had to take down a persimmon tree for it.”
“Why aren’t there any figs on it for me to eat?” Scheherazade complained.
“I could never make it fruit.” Fatima sighed. “But Detroit’s soil was very hospitable to
the fe’oos
and
baeli
that I grew.”
“Why leave Detroit, then?” Scheherazade asked. “Nations have been destroyed for valuable soil.”
“After the divorce, I didn’t want to buy another house in Detroit, when I had a perfectly good one in Lebanon,” Fatima explained. “I thought I’d just spend a couple of weeks with Amir and then move back home to Lebanon. Then September 11 happened, and I didn’t want Amir to be alone in such terrible times.”
“But of course,” Scheherazade said, nodding as if she believed her. She sniffed the air. “Do I smell cucumbers?”
“They’re in Amir’s back garden,” Fatima said. “Let me use your arm, and I’ll take you back there. I don’t want my grandfather’s cane to get muddy.”
“You know you can make it without your cane or my arm,” Scheherazade said.
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d carried ten children on your hip for so long that it wore your bones out.”
“Fine, use my arm,” Scheherazade said. “
Yallah
, I’m very hungry.”
Fatima held on tightly as they approached the patch of vegetation in which she took so much pride. She had spent too much time in that room with Scheherazade, as if it were the only place stories could be told. There was no reason not to come to the garden at night, when Los Angeles’s cool breezes let its fragrances waft.
“
Kusa
, eggplant, mint for salad, tomatoes,” Scheherazade marveled, delicately walking through the garden. “Everything to make the summer dishes.”
Scheherazade plucked a young cucumber and bit into it.
“
Zaatar
for the
labneh
,” Fatima added, holding up a sprig of thyme to Scheherazade’s nose. “When I came here, Amir already had the garden. He said he had designed it with seeds from our garden in Detroit. A good boy. A boy who should have a wife.”
Fatima had created her garden in Detroit with the seeds of her mother’s garden in Lebanon, seeds that her mother had tucked into the cedar chest for her on the day of her first wedding. Somehow Fatima hadmade the garden flourish, but she had had a harder time re-creating Lebanon in Detroit than Amir had had re-creating her Detroit garden in Los Angeles. Both he and the vegetables were in their natural environment in West Hollywood, but Fatima didn’t permit that thought to take hold in her mind.
“Amir even added a lemon tree, which we did not have in Detroit,” Fatima boasted. “The house in Lebanon has three lemon trees in the back. Come on, the bus will be here in five minutes.”
They walked arm in arm with the only sound between them the growling of Fatima’s stomach. At the MTA #4 bus stop, the homeless man with the dimple looked up from his smoke. “Out late tonight,” he noted.
Fatima frowned at him before boarding the bus. She let go of Scheherazade’s arm to show the driver her senior citizen card. The short ladies holding bulky tote bags on their laps rattled a variety of Spanish niceties to Fatima. “
Sí
,”
“I just received a call that Suheir Lababidi has passed,” Fatima whispered, holding up her black skirt. “And the dry cleaner has free doughnuts.”
Scheherazade hummed a Samarqand folk tune as she climbed down from the eucalyptus tree. “I’m hungry, too,” she decided. “I was looking for a fig on the fig tree.”
“Be careful,
dyiri balik
, don’t break any of its branches,” Fatima pleaded. “I brought that tree all the way from Lebanon.”
“Lebanon?”
“Well, Detroit,” Fatima clarified. “Ibrahim planted it in our backyard in Detroit with seeds from Mama. I had my oldest girl ship it from Detroit and replanted it here. Amir had to take down a persimmon tree for it.”
“Why aren’t there any figs on it for me to eat?” Scheherazade complained.
“I could never make it fruit.” Fatima sighed. “But Detroit’s soil was very hospitable to
the fe’oos
and
baeli
that I grew.”
“Why leave Detroit, then?” Scheherazade asked. “Nations have been destroyed for valuable soil.”
“After the divorce, I didn’t want to buy another house in Detroit, when I had a perfectly good one in Lebanon,” Fatima explained. “I thought I’d just spend a couple of weeks with Amir and then move back home to Lebanon. Then September 11 happened, and I didn’t want Amir to be alone in such terrible times.”
“But of course,” Scheherazade said, nodding as if she believed her. She sniffed the air. “Do I smell cucumbers?”
“They’re in Amir’s back garden,” Fatima said. “Let me use your arm, and I’ll take you back there. I don’t want my grandfather’s cane to get muddy.”
“You know you can make it without your cane or my arm,” Scheherazade said.
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d carried ten children on your hip for so long that it wore your bones out.”
“Fine, use my arm,” Scheherazade said. “
Yallah
, I’m very hungry.”
Fatima held on tightly as they approached the patch of vegetation in which she took so much pride. She had spent too much time in that room with Scheherazade, as if it were the only place stories could be told. There was no reason not to come to the garden at night, when Los Angeles’s cool breezes let its fragrances waft.
“
Kusa
, eggplant, mint for salad, tomatoes,” Scheherazade marveled, delicately walking through the garden. “Everything to make the summer dishes.”
Scheherazade plucked a young cucumber and bit into it.
“
Zaatar
for the
labneh
,” Fatima added, holding up a sprig of thyme to Scheherazade’s nose. “When I came here, Amir already had the garden. He said he had designed it with seeds from our garden in Detroit. A good boy. A boy who should have a wife.”
Fatima had created her garden in Detroit with the seeds of her mother’s garden in Lebanon, seeds that her mother had tucked into the cedar chest for her on the day of her first wedding. Somehow Fatima hadmade the garden flourish, but she had had a harder time re-creating Lebanon in Detroit than Amir had had re-creating her Detroit garden in Los Angeles. Both he and the vegetables were in their natural environment in West Hollywood, but Fatima didn’t permit that thought to take hold in her mind.
“Amir even added a lemon tree, which we did not have in Detroit,” Fatima boasted. “The house in Lebanon has three lemon trees in the back. Come on, the bus will be here in five minutes.”
They walked arm in arm with the only sound between them the growling of Fatima’s stomach. At the MTA #4 bus stop, the homeless man with the dimple looked up from his smoke. “Out late tonight,” he noted.
Fatima frowned at him before boarding the bus. She let go of Scheherazade’s arm to show the driver her senior citizen card. The short ladies holding bulky tote bags on their laps rattled a variety of Spanish niceties to Fatima. “
Sí
,”
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