Men never like to admit their nervousness, burying it beneath grins and brave words and exaggerated self-confidence, propping themselves up on the inside, hoping no one will notice.  But I can always tell.  I can figure them out.  My grandfather was a simple-minded farmer who washed up on the complicated shores of America.  He always got cow eyes when he was nervous.  Dad’s English thickens and falters, compelling him to switch to Farsi.  Saman overcompensates by becoming even more heavy-lidded and sullen than usual.

LA is streaking past in a highway frieze of vehicles and lane dividers and overarching reflective signs.  But I’m only pretending to watch the highway.  I’m actually studying Nick out of the corner of my eye.  Nervousness makes him vaguely hyper, talking a little too fast, glancing around too intently.  Channeling himself into the circumstances, because life is something he wants to turn out a certain way.  He always has a plan, always thinks about 7 or 8 steps ahead, which just makes the first step even more important.  That’s why he’s coaching me like this.

“And what will you say if Hercules asks, ‘Do you have any experience working with historical archives?’”

“I’ll say no, I don’t.”

His head swivels away from our terrifying velocity down I-405.  “No what?”

“Well, a library is like an archive, indexed and easy to use, and that’s a good model for any archive. And, um, I use libraries all the time, and…”

“No no no.  Just like I told you.”  Nick slams the turn signal so hard it almost breaks off, yanking the steering wheel at an exit ramp.  “We’ve got a lot riding on this, you know?” 

My stomach turns a cartwheel.  “Can you, like, not remind me of that?”

We decelerate into a gated subdivision of Spanish Revival homes, old enough to develop character through renovations and landscaping.  Some of the overhanging tile roofs are spectacular, but others have been cut back and replaced with roofing shingles – or in one case a copper roof, the burnished planes of metal climbing toward the sun.  Most lawns are fastidiously-mown bermuda grass, but some are creeping yarrow.  Beds of flowers and ornamental grasses ripple in the breeze, alongside cacti that don’t.

Nick screeches the Explorer into a wide driveway that abuts a two-and-a-half car garage.  I hesitate with my seatbelt off, not sure whether I should bring my purse or not, until he hisses “Just leave it!” and slams his door in irritation.  I follow his shadow across pavers that bob like circular islands in a sea of manzanita.  The porch is massive and tangled in honeysuckle vines that buzz with hummingbirds.  After smoothing back the hair he has left, he stabs the doorbell hard enough to kill it.

Nick warned me that Hercules robbed the cradle with his third marriage, but I’m still astonished by the Hispanic woman who answers the door.  She might be younger than me, a youthfulness exaggerated by her hairstyle – a messy bob – and a couple angry dots of acne.

“Nick!  It’s so good to see you again!” she exclaims, standing on tippy-toes and kissing him on the cheek.  Then she fixes her radiant face on me.  “And who’s this?”

“This is Nooshin.”  He waves a hand breezily.  “Nooshin, meet Eugenia.  Hercules’ wife.”

I shake her hand and compliment her Christmas sweater, which features a snowman grotesquely distended over her bustline.  It’s already apparent why Hercules made Eugenia his third wife – the same kind of hourglass body I envy on Nasrin.

“Where’s your hubby?” Nick is asking, all business beneath his jocularity.

Her face clouds over as she ushers us into the house.  “Hiding out in the garage.  He’s in one of those moods.”

“The professional kind?  Or the kind that happens when your parents are in town?”

Eugenia hovers in a sad bubble.  “I don’t know why he hates my parents so much.  What have they ever done to him?  Really, he makes me wonder sometimes.”  Shrieks of laughter echo from deeper inside the house.  She looks away brightly, restored by the thought of her children.  “You want to see the kids?  They’re in the playroom entertaining their nanna and poppa.”

Nick shakes his head slowly enough to imply regret.  “We should really check in with Hercules first.  Maybe we can hang out with you and the family afterwards.”

“Can I get you something to drink?  Mineral water?  Diet Coke?  Nooshin, you want anything?”  She says it still looking in the direction of the happy echoes.

I’m about to ask for a Diet Coke when Nick silences me with a look.  “We’re fine, Eugenia.  Thanks.”

“What was that all about?” I ask as I hurry after him, following through a sun room hung with antique metal mirrors.  “I just wanted a Diet Coke.”

“Yeah, and then we’d be out in the garage talking to Hercules, and she’d bring it to you on a tray with a glass of ice and a slice of lemon, and just seeing her could make his bad mood even worse, and I’m not taking that chance.”

“Oh,” I say.

The garage is an unused kind of immaculate.  Bright fluorescent lights hum over a sleek black BMW, the same kind Saman’s uncles like to talk about, and a big boxy Land Rover with two carseats in the back.  Rakes and gardening tools hang on a wall like museum pieces.  Wooden shelving is sparsely decorated with bottles of motor oil and windshield wiper fluid.

Running in front of the car bumpers is a long workbench with a man bent over it, weathered and dark like wet driftwood.  His stiff denim shirt is sweat-stained in the back, where it puffs out from his corduroy work pants.  At the bottom the cuffs are rolled up, revealing a pair of delicate ankles in moccasins.  Nearby a radio is playing Latin music.

Hearing the door, he straightens up with an apocalyptic growl.  “Goddamnit – ”  Then he sees it’s us, not his wife or in-laws.  He puts away his fierce scowl and smiles, but only using his mouth.  His eyes stay hard and burning.

“Professor,” Nick greets him.  The two shake hands in some kind of alpha male ritual, making a clapping sound and putting their shoulders into it.  Then Nick steps back a little to include me.  “Nooshin, this is Professor Emeritus Hercules Gutierrez, my dissertation advisor.”

“Hi,” I manage to stammer.  “Pleased to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Nooshin.”  He makes our handshake linger, giving himself extra time to scrutinize me.  I can tell I’m a surprise to him, not what he expected.  But I’m not sure if he’s taken aback by the usual things – my lazy eye, this awkward height, the hijab – or something deeper.  “So you’re Mr. Robert’s…friend?”

“Um, yeah.  That’s me.”  Omigod, I sound like such an idiot.

“I haven’t seen you around campus.  Are you a grad student from another program?”

“Grad student!”  I laugh too loudly.  “No, that’s not me.  I haven’t even been to college.  But I graduated from Terrazas Park High School.  You know, over in East LA?”

Hercules slides his burning gaze sideways and raises a craggy eyebrow at Nick.  The command is plain – explain why the hell you want this girl as your research assistant.

Nick cheerfully ignores him.  “Here’s my supplemental grant application.  Just so you know, Nooshin gets the credit for making it stellar.  She rewrote about half of it yesterday.”

Hercules takes the bulging manila folder warily, as if it might pop.  He slips out the stapled paperwork and flips through the pages, forward and backward and forward again.  “It’s been so long since I submitted Cecilia’s that I barely remember what the application looks like.”

“As you know, the single biggest funding item is hiring a research assistant.  Thanks for the introduction to Professor Ensayo at the COLEF, by the way.  He sends his regards.”

“I’m sure he does.  That bastard only published his last book thanks to me.”  Hercules shifts his weight from one moccasin to the other.  “Didn’t Ensayo introduce you to any good candidates?”

“Yes and no.  He’s got some brainy students, but they weren’t particularly interested.  Too many hours, not enough money.”  Nick shrugs in a what-can-you-do? gesture.  “That’s partly why Nooshin is the right person for the job.  But let’s also keep in mind this is American funding.  Don’t you think American funding should go to unemployed Americans when the economy is so shitty?”

Hercules pauses.  “You’re too cute by half, Mr. Roberts.” 

“If you say so, Professor.”

His frown shifts to me.  “You ever do anything like this before?  Work in an archive?  Build indexes?”

I take a deep breath, trying to remember what I’m supposed to say.  “Actually, I’ll mostly be standing over a scanner and making sure every document gets imaged correctly.  Nick is going to set up an initial index for me and then double-check my classifications.”

“And for this you’d be paid how much?”

“$9 an hour,” Nick says.  “At 30 hours a week, that works out to about $1,000 a month.”

“So that’s $12K for the year.  What about the extra $4K?”

One of my contributions to the application – detailing the expense lines.  I recite them from memory.  “Well, there’s a scanner and software.  A CD burner with lots of blank discs.  Long-distance calls and Fedex’ing.  Mileage.  Plus Tupperware containers for storing the original documents afterward.  You know those airtight home storage containers they make?”

Hercules shakes his head slowly, making my nerves fizzle with anxiety.

“Anyway, I just thought it would be important to preserve the original documents.  Nick says they’re in cardboard boxes right now.  You shouldn’t even store clothing that way!  Most cardboard has harmful acids that yellow materials and break down the fibers.  The Tupperware containers are opaque too, so there’s no sunlight damage.”

Nick jumps in, trying to change the subject.  “She’ll be an independent contractor, so she’s responsible for her own taxes – ”

Hercules cuts him off with a raised hand, still focused on me.  “Se habla espanol?”

A dangerous question, since the maquiladora documents are all in Spanish.  Nick coached me through an elaborate evasion, a way of talking around my inability to speak or read the language, but instead I just say, “Solamente un poquito.  Mi espanol esta el pesimo ahorita, pero yo estoy practicando.”  It’s a response I often use, meaning Only a little.  My Spanish is the worst right now, but I’m practicing.  Then I go on to explain that I need something to do when I’m standing around at bus stops, so why not practice my Spanish with the Hispanics who comprise most of the bus ridership in San Diego?  I’m probably mangling grammar like crazy and sometimes I have to switch to English because I don’t know the right Spanish words, but I do my best.

And maybe my best was okay.  My blurted Spanish leaves Nick gaping in shock, since I’ve always been too shy to practice with him.  Then he clamps his mouth into a tight smile, nodding almost imperceptibly.  A you-go-girl moment.

“English and Spanish.  That’s what I like to hear,” Hercules is saying in approval.  Then a canny look washes over his rugged features, and he jerks a thumb at Nick.  “So how’d you meet this hijo de puta?”

Another dangerous question.  He’s trying to find out if I have some kind of relationship with Nick.  “Well, my husband thought it would be a good idea if I got a job…” I begin to lie, and the flames in Hercules’ eyes burn a little lower.

“Have you ever been to Mexico?”

“Only Tijuana.”

“You’ve been to Tijuana?”  Hercules’ attention is burning hotter again.  “How did the Mexicans react to your eye?”

“Same as you, mostly.”

For an agonizing moment he just blinks at me – then suddenly he guffaws and reaches out and claps Nick on the shoulder, hard enough to make him wince.  “I like this one!  I like this one a lot!”  He jams the supplemental grant application back into its manila folder with a pleased flourish.

Afterward Nick manages to extract us with only a goodbye to Hercules, bypassing Eugenia and the unseen cacophony filtering through the house.  He’s an oddly stoic presence returning to the Explorer and sliding behind the wheel, calm and silent, and in the passenger seat I’m fracturing into doubts, a million compounding doubts –

“You were in-fucking-credible back there!” he explodes, checking the rearview mirror one last time.  “I’ve never seen Hercules warm up to anybody like that before.  And I didn’t know you could speak Spanish!  Why didn’t you tell me before?  You can practice with me, you know.  And that line about reacting to your eye – ‘same as you, mostly’ – that was goddamn perfect!”  He’s driving with one hand on the wheel, the other pounding his thigh in excitement.  “I’m so happy I could just, just…kiss you right now!”

And I almost say “Well, why don’t you then?” but I guess I used up all my bravery, because instead I sit there and bask in the warmth of Nick’s attentions.