A Brief History of Iran
by Nahal Suzanne Jamir
The queen is never as interesting as what people say about her. Katie’s mother had said that to her so many times. A bit older now, Katie wanted a break from everyone’s drama, even her own. Not a break. Time standing still along with her. The job at Miss Nancy’s house seemed simple.
Everyone knew Miss Nancy was Iranian and that Nancy was not an Iranian name. Some people said she was only half, others that she’d never become naturalized. Others still that her skin had lightened significantly over the years because everyone is cleaner here. Way back in high school, she’d heard some say Miss Nancy married an American just to take his money and have American children, then eat him up like a boa and you could still see him in her eyes which would flicker from brown to blue if you stared at her long enough but leave while you can.
On the bright, hot day of her interview to be a caretaker, Katie asked Miss Nancy about the picture frames and was given a word without a proper spelling in English. From some basic searching on her phone, she’d discovered khatam art, the geometric mosaic of tiles that could be used small-scale or large-scale, for a palace foyer or a picture frame. The khatam picture frames would spin in her imagination until she bought a kit to make mosaic coasters.
“Where do you go to school?” Miss Nancy asked first. “Aiken Tech?”
“No, I was at UCLA.”
“In California?”
“Yeah,” Katie said, thinking of how much of her life she’d longed for California, only to fall apart when she got there.
“I lived in San Francisco for five years.” Miss Nancy sat up straighter and squinted. “Five years? Well, almost five years.”
“Really? When?”
“When Nixon was president.”
Katie couldn’t help but laugh, partly at marking time by presidents and partly in delight at what it must’ve been like in San Francisco during that time.
How lucky Miss Nancy had been.
The old woman’s sister had called Katie’s mother about a month ago because someone needed to watch Miss Nancy. She’d gotten lost going on walks, lost inside her own house. Most recently, she’d been diagnosed with a type of diabetes that was in between type 1 and type 2, what some called 1.5, and her sister said this explained the confusion. Miss Nancy didn’t have the patience to keep her blood sugar under control—well, that’s what her sister said. Miss Nancy thought that simply avoiding sugar would do it, but her blood sugar would spike or drop for other reasons, any reason. So it seemed. The family was hoping to get someone to help monitor the diabetes and Miss Nancy until they could figure out what her diet should be or if she should go to a nursing home. There were two or three daughters, none involved like her sister.
“What are you majoring in?” Miss Nancy asked.
“It’s a graduate program for creative writing.”
“Oh,” Miss Nancy said rather forcefully. Katie always expected some criticism. “What do you write?”
“Poetry,” Katie said, preparing for, bracing for the comments about money and jobs.
“Persian poetry is the most beautiful in the world,” Miss Nancy said. “Do you see this?” She spoke before there was anything to show and got up with slow and careful movements. She gestured for Katie to follow her to the dining room. There, she pointed to an illustrated book with glossy pages on a clear stand. “This is the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. This copy is almost a hundred years old.”
“Wow, it’s beautiful.” Katie thought about how long it had been since a page had been turned. The clear stand itself had gathered dust.
The interview continued with more questions that a distant relative might ask. Nothing about Katie’s experience with caretaking or certification in CPR. When it was her turn to ask questions, Katie simply asked if Miss Nancy had any other needs in addition to her blood sugar issues. Miss Nancy only said her garden needed some watering, and sometimes she would hear things in the attic, so it might be nice if someone could go up there and check for birds or other creatures that might have gotten in.
When Katie left the house, Miss Nancy stood on the porch at the top of the steps watching her get in her car even though it was the middle of the day. If Katie had to pick a moment when she realized Miss Nancy’s loneliness, that might be it. If Katie had to explain why she took the job, that might be why.
Everyone knew Miss Nancy was Iranian and that Nancy was not an Iranian name. Some people said she was only half, others that she’d never become naturalized. Others still that her skin had lightened significantly over the years because everyone is cleaner here. Way back in high school, she’d heard some say Miss Nancy married an American just to take his money and have American children, then eat him up like a boa and you could still see him in her eyes which would flicker from brown to blue if you stared at her long enough but leave while you can.
On the bright, hot day of her interview to be a caretaker, Katie asked Miss Nancy about the picture frames and was given a word without a proper spelling in English. From some basic searching on her phone, she’d discovered khatam art, the geometric mosaic of tiles that could be used small-scale or large-scale, for a palace foyer or a picture frame. The khatam picture frames would spin in her imagination until she bought a kit to make mosaic coasters.
“Where do you go to school?” Miss Nancy asked first. “Aiken Tech?”
“No, I was at UCLA.”
“In California?”
“Yeah,” Katie said, thinking of how much of her life she’d longed for California, only to fall apart when she got there.
“I lived in San Francisco for five years.” Miss Nancy sat up straighter and squinted. “Five years? Well, almost five years.”
“Really? When?”
“When Nixon was president.”
Katie couldn’t help but laugh, partly at marking time by presidents and partly in delight at what it must’ve been like in San Francisco during that time.
How lucky Miss Nancy had been.
The old woman’s sister had called Katie’s mother about a month ago because someone needed to watch Miss Nancy. She’d gotten lost going on walks, lost inside her own house. Most recently, she’d been diagnosed with a type of diabetes that was in between type 1 and type 2, what some called 1.5, and her sister said this explained the confusion. Miss Nancy didn’t have the patience to keep her blood sugar under control—well, that’s what her sister said. Miss Nancy thought that simply avoiding sugar would do it, but her blood sugar would spike or drop for other reasons, any reason. So it seemed. The family was hoping to get someone to help monitor the diabetes and Miss Nancy until they could figure out what her diet should be or if she should go to a nursing home. There were two or three daughters, none involved like her sister.
“What are you majoring in?” Miss Nancy asked.
“It’s a graduate program for creative writing.”
“Oh,” Miss Nancy said rather forcefully. Katie always expected some criticism. “What do you write?”
“Poetry,” Katie said, preparing for, bracing for the comments about money and jobs.
“Persian poetry is the most beautiful in the world,” Miss Nancy said. “Do you see this?” She spoke before there was anything to show and got up with slow and careful movements. She gestured for Katie to follow her to the dining room. There, she pointed to an illustrated book with glossy pages on a clear stand. “This is the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. This copy is almost a hundred years old.”
“Wow, it’s beautiful.” Katie thought about how long it had been since a page had been turned. The clear stand itself had gathered dust.
The interview continued with more questions that a distant relative might ask. Nothing about Katie’s experience with caretaking or certification in CPR. When it was her turn to ask questions, Katie simply asked if Miss Nancy had any other needs in addition to her blood sugar issues. Miss Nancy only said her garden needed some watering, and sometimes she would hear things in the attic, so it might be nice if someone could go up there and check for birds or other creatures that might have gotten in.
When Katie left the house, Miss Nancy stood on the porch at the top of the steps watching her get in her car even though it was the middle of the day. If Katie had to pick a moment when she realized Miss Nancy’s loneliness, that might be it. If Katie had to explain why she took the job, that might be why.
*
When she had first left for California two years ago, Katie yearned for adventures only found in desertscapes: duels, gold, caravans, movie sets, and Harley Davidsons. A poet needs adventure, she told herself. Then, she landed in the city, and she’d known all along there would be so many people. But there were so many people. And somehow, she couldn’t shake the idea of desert and the space it should offer. She grew to hate the cars and the faded lines on the pavement, the buildings reaching for their own reflections in the haze, Ali’s Gyro Café, and even the old record store on the corner nearby. Even the clouds in the sky so sparse they looked like tire tread. Her roommate, a girl named Nika, worked as a waitress and walked dogs. Katie hated her, too.
Classes were mostly at night, which left her the brightest and hottest parts of the day to try to find something adventurous or inspirational. She ended up getting a job at a local pizza place because the bills were twice as expensive as she’d thought. The boys in her program didn’t have jobs. They wrote and wrote, spent nights at hookah bars. In class, her professor told her to rethink writing about reptiles, which were both a cliché biblical allusion and an alienating subject. But sometimes she wrote about turtles, and they seemed neither.
Katie felt a constant tickle at the back of her throat, a strange air in her mouth that wasn’t her own breath. Something trying to get out. She stared at her own reflection on the side of a pizza oven, the metal snake, and wrote poems about hating everything bright and hot.
Classes were mostly at night, which left her the brightest and hottest parts of the day to try to find something adventurous or inspirational. She ended up getting a job at a local pizza place because the bills were twice as expensive as she’d thought. The boys in her program didn’t have jobs. They wrote and wrote, spent nights at hookah bars. In class, her professor told her to rethink writing about reptiles, which were both a cliché biblical allusion and an alienating subject. But sometimes she wrote about turtles, and they seemed neither.
Katie felt a constant tickle at the back of her throat, a strange air in her mouth that wasn’t her own breath. Something trying to get out. She stared at her own reflection on the side of a pizza oven, the metal snake, and wrote poems about hating everything bright and hot.
*
Her parents rejoiced when she told them her plan to take care of Miss Nancy. Now, instead of having a broken, crime-adjacent, failure of a daughter, they had a daughter as noble as a field nurse. Never mind Katie’s lack of training. They bragged to their friends about her kindness and generosity. Katie’s small town quickly came to treat her with the respect due an honorable citizen. If she couldn’t find an item on Miss Nancy’s grocery list, a manager would help find it or order it.
Katie wondered what story the town was telling itself. Who was Miss Nancy to them? She was an outsider, so why did they care if she were taken care of or not?
Katie wondered what story the town was telling itself. Who was Miss Nancy to them? She was an outsider, so why did they care if she were taken care of or not?
*
After evening classes, Katie watched as her classmates headed off together.
She couldn’t connect and wasn’t invited to anything.
She couldn’t connect and wasn’t invited to anything.
*
Three weeks in, and they had a routine. Katie spent most nights there and really was grateful to not have to deal with her own liberal parents who only talked about the woes of gerrymandering and their exciting vacations.
She tried to focus on Miss Nancy’s questions.
“What was it like in Los Angeles?” Miss Nancy asked.
“Hot and crowded,” Katie said.
“You’ve never been to Iran,” Miss Nancy said. “It was hot there before anywhere else, and you can’t even move in Shiraz!” She threw her hands up. “What else?”
“Sad,” Katie said.
Miss Nancy squinted and pulled her throw blanket up around her, even though it was almost ninety degrees outside. “When I was your age, every place I went was beautiful. I had been to six countries, and everywhere the sky was beautiful in a different way.”
“My city wasn’t beautiful,” Katie said, “and you could barely see the sky. One night, I thought I saw the aurora borealis, and it was just space junk burning up in the atmosphere.”
“Isn’t it better than landing on your head?” Miss Nancy joked.
Katie didn’t mind her jokes. The old lady had an okay laugh.
Hours later, Miss Nancy would ask what space junk was.
She tried to focus on Miss Nancy’s questions.
“What was it like in Los Angeles?” Miss Nancy asked.
“Hot and crowded,” Katie said.
“You’ve never been to Iran,” Miss Nancy said. “It was hot there before anywhere else, and you can’t even move in Shiraz!” She threw her hands up. “What else?”
“Sad,” Katie said.
Miss Nancy squinted and pulled her throw blanket up around her, even though it was almost ninety degrees outside. “When I was your age, every place I went was beautiful. I had been to six countries, and everywhere the sky was beautiful in a different way.”
“My city wasn’t beautiful,” Katie said, “and you could barely see the sky. One night, I thought I saw the aurora borealis, and it was just space junk burning up in the atmosphere.”
“Isn’t it better than landing on your head?” Miss Nancy joked.
Katie didn’t mind her jokes. The old lady had an okay laugh.
Hours later, Miss Nancy would ask what space junk was.
*
Six months in Los Angeles, and pizza made her nauseous. She’d stopped going to class and wrote poems at Ali’s that she later burned in the fire pit in her apartment’s courtyard. Then, they put up a memo asking tenants not to burn trash. One of her professors emailed to say he hoped she was still writing.
Nika and some others from her apartment complex had a small intervention for her, nodding to soothe her while they spoke the truth. They told her she had to eat, and she wanted to show them the scratches inside her mouth.
Nika and some others from her apartment complex had a small intervention for her, nodding to soothe her while they spoke the truth. They told her she had to eat, and she wanted to show them the scratches inside her mouth.
*
And they had a routine. Miss Nancy didn’t require much. Katie checked her blood sugar five times a day and sat nearby while Miss Nancy watched soap operas and gameshows. On Wednesdays, they went for dinner at B.C. Davenport’s. Miss Nancy always had the grilled chicken salad.
This Wednesday, it was so hot you could smell the lemonade.
“Miss Nancy,” Katie asked. “When did your husband die?”
“Oh, just before my two girls graduated high school.” She always crumpled her paper napkins. “Thankfully, he had life insurance, or we would’ve been dead, too.”
“Young,” Katie said, and felt a little bad for it, but all she could think about was how just ten years ago, she was their age, a baby.
“I’m sure your parents missed you when you were in California.”
“No, they were finally child-free,” Katie said.
“Did you see any Persians out there?” Miss Nancy asked. “You know, we’re everywhere.”
“There was a gyro place.”
“No, no, that’s not Persian.” Miss Nancy pressed the crumpled napkin to her upper lip and nose. “Tell me more about Los Angeles.”
“My city wasn’t a place for anyone,” Katie said, “but there were so many people. I never saw a dog in a stroller, though I did see a monkey on a leash.”
Miss Nancy seemed about to ask a question. Instead, she told Katie she never saw a monkey until she came here.
The waiter kept Miss Nancy’s glass full and nodded at Katie each time. He called them both ma’am. When Katie opened her mouth to ask for the check, he flinched.
This Wednesday, it was so hot you could smell the lemonade.
“Miss Nancy,” Katie asked. “When did your husband die?”
“Oh, just before my two girls graduated high school.” She always crumpled her paper napkins. “Thankfully, he had life insurance, or we would’ve been dead, too.”
“Young,” Katie said, and felt a little bad for it, but all she could think about was how just ten years ago, she was their age, a baby.
“I’m sure your parents missed you when you were in California.”
“No, they were finally child-free,” Katie said.
“Did you see any Persians out there?” Miss Nancy asked. “You know, we’re everywhere.”
“There was a gyro place.”
“No, no, that’s not Persian.” Miss Nancy pressed the crumpled napkin to her upper lip and nose. “Tell me more about Los Angeles.”
“My city wasn’t a place for anyone,” Katie said, “but there were so many people. I never saw a dog in a stroller, though I did see a monkey on a leash.”
Miss Nancy seemed about to ask a question. Instead, she told Katie she never saw a monkey until she came here.
The waiter kept Miss Nancy’s glass full and nodded at Katie each time. He called them both ma’am. When Katie opened her mouth to ask for the check, he flinched.
*
After the intervention, Katie got on a bus and headed for the Santa Monica Pier so she could get lost in noise. On the ferris wheel, the wind unspun her cotton candy.
She paid a tired man at a cart for an old hot dog and ate it.
Something ancient coiled in her stomach. Some old breath escaped her lips.
She knew she was thin. She knew she was stressed out, depressed even, and far away from home. She didn’t think she was that thin.
She stood now in front of the ocean with vomit rising in her.
She paid a tired man at a cart for an old hot dog and ate it.
Something ancient coiled in her stomach. Some old breath escaped her lips.
She knew she was thin. She knew she was stressed out, depressed even, and far away from home. She didn’t think she was that thin.
She stood now in front of the ocean with vomit rising in her.
*
Had a routine. Miss Nancy had bought them matching recliners. Katie’s parents had the same set up: matching recliners to watch t.v. Katie liked the idea of having skipped over the middle part of life right to retirement. Here, everything was cool and dim, easier on her senses. And they had their thrones from which to judge the actors and contestants.
One day, Miss Nancy asked Katie to read one of her poems out loud. Katie had never done that except in class. But she did. She climbed out of her throne and read a poem to Miss Nancy. A poem about people who lived in windy caves and chomped at glowing calcite until they bled to death.
“You are a Sufi poet,” Miss Nancy said, pointing at her. “A mystic.”
Katie started crying, and Miss Nancy left her throne to come comfort her.
“It’s okay. You don’t have be anything you don’t want to be.”
They sat there for almost an hour. Miss Nancy told her about her family’s old garden in Iran, her daughters’ failed marriages, and her grandchildren’s doomed futures. She held Katie’s hand the whole time and kept saying, “Just be what you want to be.”
Katie’s own parents stopped calling and texting when it became clear she had moved in with Miss Nancy. She knew they wanted to enjoy their retirement.
Still, was Katie done being a child?
She told Miss Nancy that she was a good mother.
One day, Miss Nancy asked Katie to read one of her poems out loud. Katie had never done that except in class. But she did. She climbed out of her throne and read a poem to Miss Nancy. A poem about people who lived in windy caves and chomped at glowing calcite until they bled to death.
“You are a Sufi poet,” Miss Nancy said, pointing at her. “A mystic.”
Katie started crying, and Miss Nancy left her throne to come comfort her.
“It’s okay. You don’t have be anything you don’t want to be.”
They sat there for almost an hour. Miss Nancy told her about her family’s old garden in Iran, her daughters’ failed marriages, and her grandchildren’s doomed futures. She held Katie’s hand the whole time and kept saying, “Just be what you want to be.”
Katie’s own parents stopped calling and texting when it became clear she had moved in with Miss Nancy. She knew they wanted to enjoy their retirement.
Still, was Katie done being a child?
She told Miss Nancy that she was a good mother.
*
Nika grew up in Missouri, no more a natural city dweller than Katie, yet Nika acted like she knew everything. Nika said you couldn’t walk dogs unless you knew the city well. She decorated her room with outdoor party lights and secondhand scarves. There was one nice chair in the whole apartment, and Katie had broken it by tripping over it in the dark one night after work. Nika had superglued the loose upholstery together. It still looked like something had burst out of the chair, like a little rat had burrowed inside and finally made its escape.
*
Routine.
Miss Nancy grew skinnier and more tired despite her good blood sugar readings. She never wanted to go anywhere, and so Katie had things delivered. The grocery store didn’t have Instacart set up yet, but they worked out a deal with Katie. B.C. Davenport’s, too. Everyone respected Katie as a sort of vanguard. They started calling her ma’am and Miss Katie.
She read all her poems to Miss Nancy, and they became morning fog. Katie’s mother had always said don’t blame the fog if you can’t see.
When Miss Nancy’s hands got cold, Katie would rub them gently, hold them in her own.
Katie tried to build up the courage to ask Miss Nancy about her husband, how he died. Katie wanted a real connection, wanted to be necessary to the old woman. She wanted to know her secret.
Sometimes, Katie missed her own mother.
Yet, Miss Nancy seemed fine without her family. If her sister hadn’t asked for help on her behalf, Miss Nancy would be all alone. Even her sister didn’t come by for visits. Katie had never gotten a blood sugar reading out of range and had begun to suspect the whole thing was a lie just to get some company for Miss Nancy.
Miss Nancy grew skinnier and more tired despite her good blood sugar readings. She never wanted to go anywhere, and so Katie had things delivered. The grocery store didn’t have Instacart set up yet, but they worked out a deal with Katie. B.C. Davenport’s, too. Everyone respected Katie as a sort of vanguard. They started calling her ma’am and Miss Katie.
She read all her poems to Miss Nancy, and they became morning fog. Katie’s mother had always said don’t blame the fog if you can’t see.
When Miss Nancy’s hands got cold, Katie would rub them gently, hold them in her own.
Katie tried to build up the courage to ask Miss Nancy about her husband, how he died. Katie wanted a real connection, wanted to be necessary to the old woman. She wanted to know her secret.
Sometimes, Katie missed her own mother.
Yet, Miss Nancy seemed fine without her family. If her sister hadn’t asked for help on her behalf, Miss Nancy would be all alone. Even her sister didn’t come by for visits. Katie had never gotten a blood sugar reading out of range and had begun to suspect the whole thing was a lie just to get some company for Miss Nancy.
*
A week after the intervention, Katie and Nika had gone to a comedy club with a few other people Katie didn’t know. On the way there, one of them turned around and asked if everyone had eaten. We don’t want to drink on an empty stomach, do we? No, no.
At the club, a guy who looked about forty with a ginger complexion kept hitting on Nika.
When Katie saw him outside in their courtyard three days later, she didn’t say anything.
A week later, when she got home, music screamed from Nika’s room, and Katie found Nika half naked and faceup on her bed, only wearing a dark blue tshirt with a small ice cream cone on it. Tied in a knot below her breasts. Her skin looked hand-painted, her eyes and lips protruding too far out to be sexy. A tattoo in the shape of Texas on her left thigh. Then, she saw the ginger man in the corner.
At the club, a guy who looked about forty with a ginger complexion kept hitting on Nika.
When Katie saw him outside in their courtyard three days later, she didn’t say anything.
A week later, when she got home, music screamed from Nika’s room, and Katie found Nika half naked and faceup on her bed, only wearing a dark blue tshirt with a small ice cream cone on it. Tied in a knot below her breasts. Her skin looked hand-painted, her eyes and lips protruding too far out to be sexy. A tattoo in the shape of Texas on her left thigh. Then, she saw the ginger man in the corner.
*
Since starting work at Miss Nancy’s house, Katie had missed birthdays, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Thanksgiving. When she went outside to meet her family for a Christmas candlelight mass, she was surprised to find vines overgrowing her car. Did vines grow like that? Was it kudzu or something poisonous? She looked back at the pale yellow house, sitting like a withered flower among so much green. She went back inside to find gardening shears or to call a tow truck, but she stayed inside where it was warm. They watched a choir on t.v. Miss Nancy smiled and sang the amens.
*
The story made national headlines. Nika had been murdered, yes, but they couldn’t determine cause of death. No ligature marks. All the blood in her body had stopped, seemingly at the same time. The ginger man was the murderer, and he’d stayed in the corner of the room until cops dragged him out. Katie told them about seeing him at the club, then their apartment complex. He confessed to rape, not murder. He said Nika had just stopped breathing, an unseen force pulling or pushing her upwards. At first, he’d been sure she was orgasming. Then, she stopped moving and an impossibly long breath came out of her mouth, one that not even an Olympic athlete could have exhaled. So long. He’d backed up until he was in the corner.
The autopsy didn’t reveal any cause of death. No other underlying conditions either.
The police asked her to stay in town for a little while. Katie went for walks in rich neighborhoods, and in the Anime Green fescue, she thought she could see any number of frightening things crawling and gliding that didn’t scare her. The ginger man killed himself in prison. Her mouth watered and burned at the same time.
The autopsy didn’t reveal any cause of death. No other underlying conditions either.
The police asked her to stay in town for a little while. Katie went for walks in rich neighborhoods, and in the Anime Green fescue, she thought she could see any number of frightening things crawling and gliding that didn’t scare her. The ginger man killed himself in prison. Her mouth watered and burned at the same time.
*
Miss Nancy said Shiraz escaped destruction at the hands of angry rulers like Genghis Khan by being smart and submissive and that they built tombs for their dead poets. She said there was a pink lake nearby, chanting voices in the air at all hours of the day and night. Khatam everywhere, reminding you of life’s own pattern pulsing like a child inside.
*
Katie couldn’t go anywhere in person or online without questions and comments, especially from the podcasters. How did Nika die? How did Katie escape death? The answer to the latter question seemed simple to her: she wasn’t the object of desire.
Her own question was simpler. Why was the ginger man cowering in a corner? Why hadn’t he run?
Her own question was simpler. Why was the ginger man cowering in a corner? Why hadn’t he run?
*
The high ceiling of Miss Nancy’s living room had exposed wood beams that Katie imagined as an old tree protecting them. She’d known oak trees so old. Maybe when a hundred years have passed, just one year doesn’t feel like time at all but a sneaky little tingle.
“I’ve been thinking about one of your poems,” Miss Nancy said. “You know, in Persian culture, we have stories about snakes.”
“We have them, too,” Katie said.
“Ours are older.” She told Katie about Shahmaran, half-woman and halfsnake, and Azi dahaka. “Some of our snakes are human, and some are dragons. No one ever won against a snake. The lesson is to listen carefully.”
Katie gazed up at a snake winding on a wood beam, protected from them. Protecting them. Was she listening carefully?
“I’ve been thinking about one of your poems,” Miss Nancy said. “You know, in Persian culture, we have stories about snakes.”
“We have them, too,” Katie said.
“Ours are older.” She told Katie about Shahmaran, half-woman and halfsnake, and Azi dahaka. “Some of our snakes are human, and some are dragons. No one ever won against a snake. The lesson is to listen carefully.”
Katie gazed up at a snake winding on a wood beam, protected from them. Protecting them. Was she listening carefully?
*
When the police took her statement, she’d been unable to stop coughing. They brought her four cups of water, and they all tasted odd. That night, she couldn’t sleep because of a stomachache.
*
None of Miss Nancy’s windows had screens, and she never opened them. Sometimes, when Katie managed to look out a window, the screenless view still seemed marred by fine lines, wrinkles. Pieces moving together, pulling apart. What a fragile mosaic world. If you tapped at the glass, you might scare the world back into its component parts. Katie’s mother had always said that when you were looking out, something else was looking in.
*
Katie didn’t miss Los Angeles—except for sometimes when she felt dreamy like an old movie. Then, she missed the cold ocean and the awful smells. Even the impossible crowds and endless smells. Dreamy like an old story. Dreamy like something old. Something that didn’t belong to you and never could no matter how painful your desire was.
*
One day—it must’ve been about a year after she’d started working for Miss Nancy—Miss Nancy told Katie she’d been hearing noises in the attic again. Maybe a bat or a bird. After Miss Nancy went to take a nap, Katie pulled the attic access cord and climbed up. She had to wait for her eyes to adjust. Katie realized she didn’t need her flashlight. She moved around quietly at first and then made a little noise to see if any creature would startle. Because she had taken a college elective on reptiles, she knew that snakes could hear you scream.
Nothing moved in the hot attic except her own breath. A smell of body odor unsettled her, and she followed the stench.
In a far corner, there was a white basket shaped thing. When she pulled it out into the dim light, Katie realized the basket was made of napkins dampened by something sticky and hardened into shape. A bassinet. She peered into the other dim corners of the attic, for this seemed the work of an animal of some sort. Katie wasn’t afraid of coming face-to-face with any creature. She’d been born without fear, her mother had always said.
She sniffed the basket. Sour.
She replaced the basket and left the attic.
In the evening after dinner, Miss Nancy said the last queen of Iran was Queen Farah. She was a beautiful queen, her name meaning happiness or joy. “I never met her, but once when I was very young, I was close enough to smell her perfume, like honey.”
Miss Katie laughed, then grew concerned when Miss Nancy covered her face with her hands. “Are you okay?”
Miss Nancy said her eyes hurt. She asked Miss Katie if she saw anything in them.
Miss Katie perched on the arm of Miss Nancy’s recliner and pulled the old woman’s hands away from her face. “Let’s have a look.” Miss Katie got close and gently held each of Miss Nancy’s eyes open, looking for a clue about her animal.
Nothing moved in the hot attic except her own breath. A smell of body odor unsettled her, and she followed the stench.
In a far corner, there was a white basket shaped thing. When she pulled it out into the dim light, Katie realized the basket was made of napkins dampened by something sticky and hardened into shape. A bassinet. She peered into the other dim corners of the attic, for this seemed the work of an animal of some sort. Katie wasn’t afraid of coming face-to-face with any creature. She’d been born without fear, her mother had always said.
She sniffed the basket. Sour.
She replaced the basket and left the attic.
In the evening after dinner, Miss Nancy said the last queen of Iran was Queen Farah. She was a beautiful queen, her name meaning happiness or joy. “I never met her, but once when I was very young, I was close enough to smell her perfume, like honey.”
Miss Katie laughed, then grew concerned when Miss Nancy covered her face with her hands. “Are you okay?”
Miss Nancy said her eyes hurt. She asked Miss Katie if she saw anything in them.
Miss Katie perched on the arm of Miss Nancy’s recliner and pulled the old woman’s hands away from her face. “Let’s have a look.” Miss Katie got close and gently held each of Miss Nancy’s eyes open, looking for a clue about her animal.