Wedding Song by Farideh Goldin Page B

in the same house as one family. As the eldest, she was in charge of the household allowance. I knew that. I recognized this as an indirect way of criticizing my mother and felt my usual pang of insecurity that came when the two women I loved used me as a tool against one another. I tried to evaluate the situation, averting my eyes. In an Iranian gesture, I threw my head back for a “no.”
    “Anything cleaner?” She squinted her eyes. When no answer came, she sighed, “Run and ask your mother.”
    I hesitated, fearing my mother’s anger that would undoubtedly come.
    “Well, do you want to go out or not? I can stop by your aunt’s house and take one of your cousins if you don’t.”
    She knew I was dying to go out, to get out of the lonely house. I tiptoed to my mother, who was still in the same position I had left her, in the backyard washing the dirty clothes in a large, soapy aluminum wash tub. I could see her back, bent and rounded. Her short curly hair was a mess in need of a haircut. Her hands were rough and raw from the rubbing and contact with cheap soap. Her dirty, deeply cracked heels hung out of a pair of rubber flip-flops. I couldn’t bear to watch them. She was sitting there alone, in silence, mumbling stuff to herself, just stuff. I felt sorry for her, for her hard work, for her loneliness. My job was to hang the wash on the clothesline, and part of me felt ashamed for leaving her by herself. At the same time, I hated her for creating such emotions in me.
    I swallowed hard and asked, “Maman, is there anything clean for me to wear?” She turned, obviously embarrassed to have been caught complaining to herself, and looked at me with a child’s eyes, vulnerable, hurt.
    “Going out with your grandmother,
haa?
” she mumbled.
    I stood there, not knowing what to say, hating her and pitying her. She pointed to another dress hanging on a tree without looking at me and disappeared again into her own world. I grabbed the dress, changed quickly, threw the dirty one on the pile next to her, and happily ran back to my grandmother.
    Khanom-bozorg pointed to a large sugar cone sitting on the mantel to be brought to her. I pressed the heavy piece against my stomach as I carried it and laid it down on a large flowery napkin. She tied two opposite corners on top of the cone and then the other two. It was a pretty package. I was curious to know what it was for, but knew not to ask any questions. I didn’t want to be called a
verag
. The despicable adjective was attached to me, and I couldn’t cleanse myself of its negative connotation. Adults didn’t appreciate too many questions from children; I had learned to draw information by deciphering the circumstances and by listening and watching. I knew we had to be heading to a
simkha
, a happy event, since the sugar cone was used as a gift for such occasions.
    Khanom-bozorg adjusted a white calico
chador
with tiny black polka dots on her head, making sure the sides were of equal length. I picked up the gift and followed her. We walked down the old stone stairs to the yard and stopped by my mother’s station. While my grandmother gave her instructions for the day’s chores, I refused to make eye contact with Maman, refused to feel like a traitor. I was heading out for adventure and would not allow anyone to ruin it for me.
    My grandmother and I walked down the narrow alleyways of the
mahaleh
. Khanom-bozorg gathered and lifted her
chador
when she reached a small puddle in the middle of the road, and held its top corners with her teeth to keep it from slipping down her head and disgracing her. She cussed from under her breath, “May they meet the washer of the dead!” She stopped, turned sideways, and made herself as small as possible to avoid any contact with a man passing through. “It’s hard enough to walk down the alley without touching the walls. It’s so narrow. How is one supposed to stay clean in this place?” She bent her head and added her own spit to