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ba； his causing an old woman to shake like that。
My father is still adjusting to life in America； I said； by way of explanation。
I wanted to tell them that； in Kabul； we snapped a tree branch and used it as a credit card。 Hassan and I would take the wooden stick to the bread maker。 He d carve notches on our stick with his knife； one notch for each loaf of _naan_ he d pull for us from the tandoor s roaring flames。 At the end of the month； my father paid him for the number of notches on the stick。 That was it。 No questions。 No ID。
But I didn t tell them。 I thanked Mr。 Nguyen for not calling the cops。 Took Baba home。 He sulked and smoked on the balcony while I made rice with chicken neck
stew。 A year and a half since we d stepped off the Boeing from Peshawar； and Baba was still adjusting。
We ate in silence that night。 After two bites； Baba pushed away his plate。
I glanced at him across the table； his nails chipped and black with engine oil； his knuckles scraped； the smells of the gas station……dust； sweat； and gasoline……on his clothes。 Baba was like the widower who remarries but can t let go of his dead wife。 He missed the sugarcane fields of Jalalabad and the gardens of Paghman。 He missed people milling in and out of his house； missed walking down the bustling aisles of Shor Bazaar and greeting people who knew him and his father； knew his grandfather； people who shared ancestors with him； whose pasts intertwined with his。
For me； America was a place to bury my memories。
For Baba； a place to mourn his。
Maybe we should go back to Peshawar； I said； watching the ice float in my glass of water。 We d spent six months in Peshawar waiting for the INS to issue our visas。 Our grimy one…bedroom apartment smelled like dirty socks and cat droppings； but we were surrounded by people we knew……at least people Baba knew。 He d invite the entire corridor of neighbors for dinner； most of them Afghans waiting for visas。 Inevitably； someone would bring a set of tabla and someone else a harmonium。 Tea would brew； and who ever had a passing singing voice would sing until the sun rose； the mosquitoes stopped buzzing； and clapping hands grew sore。
You were happier there； Baba。 It was more like home； I said。
Peshawar was good for me。 Not good for you。
You work so hard here。
It s not so bad now； he said； meaning since he had bee the day manager at the gas station。 But I d seen the way he winced and rubbed his wrists on damp days。 The way sweat erupted on his forehead as he reached for his bottle of antacids after meals。 Besides； I didn t bring us here for me； did I？
I reached across the table and put my hand on his。 My student hand； clean and soft； on his laborer s hand； grubby and calloused。 I thought of all the trucks； train sets； and bikes he d bought me in Kabul。 Now America。 One last gift for Amir。
Just one month after we arrived in the U。S。； Baba found a job off Washington Boulevard as an assistant at a gas station owned by an Afghan acquaintance……he d started looking for work the same week we arrived。 Six days a week； Baba pulled twelve…hour shifts pumping gas；