e all the trees and open fields？ For two years； I tried to get Baba to enroll in ESL classes to improve his broken English。 But he scoffed at the idea。 Maybe I ll spell cat and the teacher will give me a glittery little star so I can run home and show it off to you； he d grumble。
One Sunday in the spring of 1983； I walked into a small bookstore that sold used paperbacks； next to the Indian movie theater just west of where Amtrak crossed Fremont Boulevard。 I told Baba I d be out in five minutes and he shrugged。 He had been working at a gas station in Fremont and had the day off。 I watched him jaywalk across Fremont Boulevard and enter Fast & Easy； a little grocery store run by an elderly Vietnamese couple； Mr。 and Mrs。 Nguyen。 They were gray…haired； friendly people； she had Parkinson s； he d had his hip replaced。 He s like Six
Million Dollar Man now； she always said to me； laughing toothlessly。 Remember Six Million Dollar Man； Amir？ Then Mr。 Nguyen would scowl like Lee Majors； pretend he was running in slow motion。
I was flipping through a worn copy of a Mike Hammer mystery when I heard screaming and glass breaking。 I dropped the book and hurried across the street。 I found the Nguyens behind the counter； all the way against the wall； faces ashen； Mr。 Nguyen s arms wrapped around his wife。 On the floor： oranges； an overturned magazine rack； a broken jar of beef jerky； and shards of glass at Baba s feet。
It turned out that Baba had had no cash on him for the oranges。 He d written Mr。 Nguyen a check and Mr。 Nguyen had asked for an ID。 He wants to see my license； Baba bellowed in Farsi。 Almost two years we ve bought his damn fruits and put money in his pocket and the son of a dog wants to see my license！
Baba； it s not personal； I said； smiling at the Nguyens。 They re supposed to ask for an ID。
I don t want you here； Mr。 Nguyen said； stepping in front of his wife。 He was pointing at Baba with his cane。 He turned to me。
You re nice young man but your father； he s crazy。 Not wele anymore。
Does he think I m a thief？ Baba said； his voice rising。 People had gathered outside。 They were staring。 What kind of a country is this？ No one trusts anybody！
I call police； Mrs。 Nguyen said； poking out her face。 You get out or I call police。
Please； Mrs。 Nguyen； don t call the police。 I ll take him home。 Just don t call the police； okay？ Please？
Yes； you take him home。 Good idea； Mr。 Nguyen said。 His eyes； behind his wire…rimmed bifocals； never left Baba。 I led Baba through the doors。 He kicked a magazine on his way out。 After I d made him promise he wouldn t go back in； I returned to the store and apologized to the Nguyens。 Told them my father was going through a difficult time。 I gave Mrs。 Nguyen our telephone number and address； and told her to get an estimate for the damages。 Please call me as soon as you know。 I ll pay for everything； Mrs。 Nguyen。 I m so sorry。 Mrs。 Nguyen took the sheet of paper from me and nodded。 I saw her hands were shaking more than usual； and that made me angry at Baba； 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？