Just go。 He had me park at the south end of the street。 He reached in his coat pocket and handed me a set of keys。 There； he said； pointing to the car in front of us。 It was an old model Ford； long and wide； a dark color I couldn t discern in the moon light。 It needs painting； and I ll have one of the guys at the station put in new shocks； but it runs。
I took the keys； stunned。 I looked from him to the car。
You ll need it to go to college； he said。
I took his hand in mine。 Squeezed it。 My eyes were tearing over and I was glad for the shadows that hid our faces。 Thank you； Baba。
We got out and sat inside the Ford。 It was a Grand Torino。 Navy blue； Baba said。 I drove it around the block； testing the brakes； the radio； the turn signals。 I parked it in the lot of our apartment building and shut off the engine。 Tashakor； Baba jan； I said。 I wanted to say more； tell him how touched I was by his act of kindness； how much I appreciated all that he had done for me； all that he was still doing。 But I knew I d embarrass him。 Tashakor； I repeated instead。
He smiled and leaned back against the headrest； his forehead almost touching the ceiling。 We didn t say anything。 Just sat in the dark； listened to the tink…tink of the engine cooling； the wail of a siren in the distance。 Then Baba rolled his head toward me。 I wish Hassan had been with us today； he said。
A pair of steel hands closed around my windpipe at the sound of Hassan s name。 I rolled down the window。 Waited for the steel hands to loosen their grip。
I WOULD ENROLL in junior college classes in the fall； I told Baba the day after graduation。 He was drinking cold black tea and chewing cardamom seeds； his personal trusted antidote for hang over headaches。
I think I ll major in English； I said。 I winced inside； waiting for his reply。
English？
Creative writing。
He considered this。 Sipped his tea。 Stories； you mean。 You ll make up stories。 I looked down at my feet。
They pay for that； making up stories？
If you re good； I said。 And if you get discovered。
How likely is that； getting discovered？
It happens； I said。
He nodded。 And what will you do while you wait to get good and get discovered？ How will you earn money？ If you marry； how will you support your khanum？
I couldn t lift my eyes to meet his。 I ll。。。 find a job。
Oh； he said。 Wah wah！ So； if I understand； you ll study several years to earn a degree； then you ll get a chatti job like mine； one you could just as easily land today； on the small chance that your degree might someday help you get。。。 discovered。 He took a deep breath and sipped his tea。 Grunted something about medical school； law school； and real work。
My cheeks burned and guilt coursed through me； the guilt of indulging myself at the expense of his ulcer； his black fingernails and aching wrists。 But I would stand my ground； I decided。 I didn t want to sacrifice for Baba anymore。 The last time I had done that； I had damned myself。
Baba sighed and； this time； tossed a whole handful of car damom seeds in his mouth。
SOMETIMES； I GOT BEHIND the wheel of my Ford； rolled down the windows； and drove for hours； from the East Bay to the South Bay； up the Peninsula and back。 I drove through the grids of cottonwood…lined streets in our Fremont neighborhood； where people who d never shaken hands with kings lived in shabby； flat one…story houses with barred windows； where old cars like mine dripped oil on blacktop driveways。 Pencil gray chain…link fences closed off the backyards in our neighborhood。 Toys； bald tires； and beer bottles with peeling labels littered unkempt front lawns。 I drove past tree…shaded parks that smelled like bark； past strip malls big enough to hold five simultaneous Buzkashi tournaments。 I drove the Torino up the hills of Los Altos； idling past estates with picture windows and silver lions guarding the wrought…iron gates； homes with cherub fountains lining the manicured walkways and no Ford Torinos in the drive ways。 Homes that made Baba s house in Wazir Akbar Khan look like a servant s hut。
I d get up early some Saturday mornings and drive south on Highway 17； push the Ford up the winding road through the mountains to Santa Cruz。 I would park by the old lighthouse and wait for sunrise； sit in my car and watch the fog rolling in from the sea。 In Afghanistan； I had only seen the ocean at the cinema。 Sitting in the dark next to Hassan； I had always wondered if it was true what I d read； that sea air smelled like salt。 I used to tell Hassan that someday we d walk on a strip of seaweed…strewn beach； sink our feet in the sand； and watch the water recede from our toes。 The first time I saw the Pacific； I almost cried。 It was as vast and blue as the oceans on the movie screens of my childhood。
Sometimes in the early evening； I parked the car and walked up a freeway overpass。 My face pressed against the fence； I d try to count the blinking red taillights inching along； stretching as far as my eyestould see。 BMWs。 Saabs。
Porsches。 Cars I d never seen in Kabul； where most people drove Russian Volgas； old Opels； or Iranian Paikans。
Almost two years had passed since we had arrived in the U。S。； and I was still marveling at the size of this country； its vastness。 Beyond every freeway lay another freeway； beyond every city another city hills beyond mountains and mountains beyond hills； and； beyond those； more cities and more people。
Long before the Roussi army marched into Afghanistan； long before villages were burned and schools destroyed； long before mines were planted like seeds of death and children buried in rock…piled graves； Kabul had bee a city of gho