so the sun could reveal its contents: two skinny animated snakes sliding around against the wall of the green jar.
“Snakes!” they shrieked. “Where did you get these? They are alive!”
I felt big, significant, and special. The boys, a foot taller than me only a minute ago, seemed much shorter now. A wide grin spread on my face.
"My dad got them for me."
"Where did he find them? Isn't he worried they may bite you?" the taller boy asked while the other boy, the one with curly hair, held his hand out. "Can I hold your snakes?"
"They are not poisonous,” I said as I handed the jar over to the curly-headed boy.
I loved sharing. When I was three years old, in a distant relative's house, I gave three of my intricate silver bracelets, the ones Mom had special ordered for me from Isfahan, to the girl sitting next to me only because she had said they were pretty. When I was five, I gave all my dolls to our orchard keeper’s daughter, Mehri, because Dad had mentioned she wished for a doll. All through my school years, I shared, or should I say gave away, all my snacks to my friends and classmates. Mom would pack more snacks every day in the hopes that I would save some for myself, but the circle that formed around me in the schoolyard during recess seemed to grow each day.
The slender, shiny creatures slid their bodies against the inside of the jar. They whirled around and around, looking for a way out. I felt sorry for them. I asked Dad if we could release them into the yard. But he said no because they would die outside the jar, or worse, might bite someone. I wasn't convinced. They seemed too tiny to bite and too strong to die.
“What would they eat?” Dad had asked me.
I didn't know but was certain the snakes could survive outside the jar. We had not fed them since they had arrived a week ago. I had asked Dad if we could at least open the jar and throw in some food for them, but Dad said no. He was worried they would get away.
In one of Ezy’s stories there was a clever girl who never ate, or at least that is what others thought. She got a prince who couldn’t stand the sight of a woman eating, to fall in love with her. What others, and especially the prince, didn’t know was that the girl had a hideaway full of great edibles. I turned the bottle around wondering if my tiny snakes had a hideaway full of food too.
My snakes ended up dead after all. I came home from school one day and the green jar was gone. Dad told me he had taken them to a pharmacy to put them in alcohol. I could go see them if I wanted to. I had seen those grotesque jars in the pharmacy window before. They were filled with a yellowish fluid covering a motionless, perfectly preserved snake coiled at the bottom. I had often stood and watched those snakes for a few minutes before they turned my stomach. Those snakes were all big and ugly. My snakes were tiny and cute. It took me a long time to forgive Dad even though being raised to be logical, I understood Dad’s reasoning. He wasn't going back to our citrus orchard by the Caspian Sea, where he had found the snakes, for a couple of weeks. By then my snakes would have died of hunger. So it was better that they die at the hands of the pharmacist, quickly, I suppose. Dad was too logical, kind of like Mr. Spock from the Star Trek series, which explains why Mr. Spock, and not Capitan Kirk, was my favorite character.
The neighbor’s boys are not here today. Perhaps they are sitting at home watching cartoons or drinking Sharbat from a tall glass like I had done before I left home – mine was sour cherry.
Standing outside Dad’s door in the heat is getting to me. Mom would be upset. She thinks I get sick if I stay in the sun too long. In fact that was one of the excuses she gave Dad for not wanting me to come here – the one she would admit to. I turn towards the door. I am here so I might as well go inside. I gather my courage and ring the bell.
A few seconds later there is an obnoxious buzz that opens the door. I push it open and go inside. Three steps up is another door by which Dad is standing, waiting to greet me with hugs and kisses before he takes me inside. The hallway looks almost the same with the burgundy color rug, though it is laid a bit crooked – Mom would have straightened it out.
I steal a quick glance to the left at the mehman-khaneh, the formal living room. My heart breaks to see all the furniture covered with old, grubby white sheets, like a dead person’s house. My mother's beautiful Formica coffee table, trendy yet classy, just like herself, struggles to show its slender legs from underneath the shabby sheets.
I remember the day my parents brought home the new furniture. I was five or six and we were living in Shemiran, a northern neighborhood in Tehran, with a huge yard that was actually a beautiful garden. The set included a charming loveseat and four armchairs, all in a deep red that complimented their modern birch wood handles. The fabric had an interesting texture, with a pattern of small geometric shapes made by tight clusters of tiny loops against the flat surface of the fabric. This caused the sofa to look different shades of red depending on the direction of the light, which created hours of fun and discovery for me as I examined the color at different times of the day.
The round Formica coffee table was made of two separate tables in the shape of Yin and Yang, or a pair of rounded paisleys. One was red and the other one matched the color of the chairs’ armrests. I had so much fun with that set. The texture of the fabric tickled me if I sat on it in my shorts instead of trousers. But now, all that beauty is hidden under a tacky layer of old sheets – something my Mom would not have allowed.
Underneath the hidden beauties lie the gorgeous matching pair of Isfahan rugs. I loved those rugs more than any other Persian rugs in our house. Why didn't Mom take them with her? We got those when I was four. I remember vividly. We had traveled to Isfahan and visited one of Dad's old friends. The city was magical and the store was amazing. I used to study all the patterns of our rugs and try to memorize them. They became my playground or rather my own city. I would pretend the borders were streets and the flowers were buildings. I would take my toy car round and round the city to pick up all my dolls one by one from school, shopping, friends’ houses, and the playground. In Dad’s friend’s store I saw infinite imaginary cities, some piled on a wooden platform in the center of the store, some pinned to the walls, and some on the floor. I wanted them all, especially a pair made of silk. They were small, perfect for Mom to throw on the balcony for me to play on. They were soft and the silk shimmered slightly in the light. My dad's friend was so taken by a little four- year-old's appreciation for his rugs that he offered to give me the pair of rugs, something my parents would not accept. Instead, we bought the warm beige colored pair of Isfahan’s with gorgeous dark red flowers, which in turn became the theme for the mehman-khaneh and selecting the red colored furniture. My mother had impeccable taste.
Dad guides me into a room, my old bedroom, the one with big bright windows opening to the porch and the yard. It is chaos in this room now. The burgundy colored table I used as a desk with its matching comfortable burgundy chair, my child sized armoire with the little puppy painted on the door, and the glass box for my dolls - though I used it mainly for my toy cars – are all missing. Instead of my bed, there now stands Mom’s ironing board with a still steaming warm iron on top and a shirt halfway done with its sleeves hanging.
A thick blanket lies on the floor by the door, folded for Dad to sit on. My dad, sitting on the floor, on a blanket, like an old man? The same Mr. Formal who always wore a suit and looked official as if he were going to an important Army meetings?
On the other side of the room stands a closet with its door slightly open, revealing its ugly contents – old-fashioned women's clothing hanging over a stack of garments at the bottom. Across from the blanket where Dad sits, there is a twin bed – one that reminds me of The Princess and the Pea since it is piled with mismatched bedding.
The room is a mess, as if someone wanted to prove to me that I am not an important enough guest for them to tidy up. Though I misunderstood their message and felt sorry for them since obviously they didn’t have time to tidy up. They deserved my sympathy for having such
poor taste.
Dad gestures me to sit down, and I sit on the floor as close to his blanket as I can. He asks me how I am and I nod “okay.”
“I’m fine. You’re the one who needs rescuing!” I want to scream.
A few minutes later, she comes in and I see her for the first time – the woman who has replaced my mother – the one who has hit the jackpot. Maybe I am having a nightmare, I think to myself.
“How could you?” I want to shake Dad and ask him. Instead, I just say “hello” as I eye the woman who looks like one of the witches in the Golden Book series I used to read.
I am trying to be open-minded but I can’t help myself. She is Mom’s age or perhaps older, with very long wavy hair that could have looked acceptable, except it is frizzy and dyed jet black. Her voice is squeaky and she has a gold tooth – how tacky, I think.
I can’t understand what made Dad marry this woman. I don’t want to seem high-brow – and this is not about me – but in my ten-year old head, the women who came to our house to clean were often classier than my Dad’s new wife. I simply could not understand why my Dad had picked this woman as his new wife.
“Here you go, Dad,” a thin teenaged boy says as he enters the room with