Garbage swirls in the thick breeze as I trudge along the sidewalk in front of Crown Center, a tall facade of steel tubing and acres of glass and colored panels tied with bows. I’m following Saman into the cold dreary end to a cold dreary day. The pedestrians we meet are hurrying through the darkness with pained looks on their faces. Taillights brighten and dull in slow pulsing retreat from downtown, carrying silhouettes into temporary suburban exile.

Eventually we find a bank of thick glass doors advertised by banner-sized emoticons that blurt ENTERTAIN THE POSSIBILITIES! He ushers me into Christmas and stylish tile and expensive brandname stores, with everything reflecting in the dark skylights far overhead. We pause at a mall directory backlit with neon, then click-click-click in our dress shoes toward The American Restaurant and its legendary four star cuisine.

I immediately feel out of place in the refined elegance of its interior. The dinner crowd is strung out across plush booths and long tables draped in white linen tablecloths. Candlesticks flicker everywhere, making wine and water glasses shiny, giving people reflective eyes. Servers bustle around in uniforms of white dress shirts and black pants, delivering tiny entrees on huge plates and helping the Missourians pronounce “arugula” and “remoulade”. I try to make myself innocuous, tilting forward so my bangs screen my crooked eye, tugging at my long sweaterdress.

The hostess is a statuesque black girl with tiny University of Missouri studs in her earlobes. She announces “Your party is this way!” in a twangy voice and sails across the dining room, chatting over her shoulder with Saman. I lag behind on backless heels that are supposed to be sophisticated but just feel uncomfortable.

Our destination is a plush semi-circular booth tucked into an intimate corner. My first impression is three intent faces, six hunched shoulders, a million words flying back and forth in Farsi. This is what happens when Saman’s uncles in Kansas City — Majnoon, Nasser, and Gamal — get together for dinner.

“Sorry we’re late,” Saman says, and there’s an obligatory outbreak of hugging and cheek-kissing between the men. I’m greeted with respectful nods and handshakes. Then I slide into the warm leather of the booth, Saman blocking me in. Under the table his hand slides under my hem and rides up, checking to see if I’m wearing the garter belt and thigh highs he recently bought me. As if.

Majnoon looks like a raisiny Albert Einstein. His swarthy face is centered in a riot of wispy salt-and-pepper hair and his suit is rumpled, tie askew. He emigrated before the Shah fell, which is cited as proof of his business acumen — Uncle Majnoon decided to make a fortune in America rather than lose one in Iran. Sometimes his name appears in The Kansas City Star because of his run-ins with the City Council over zoning and assessments.

Next to him Nasser is a cheerful jewelry display who can’t shut up. He’s involved in everyone’s life, a torrent of gossip and prying questions. Almost every liver-spotted finger is adorned with a gaudy ring, both his wattled wrists are covered in bracelets. Loose skin cascades from his chin into his collar, tight with a blue power tie. My mother-in-law calls him a faldhi — old woman — behind his back, but he just seems like a politician to me.

Gamal is the youngest of the uncles, only a decade older than Saman. He’s also the most religious, a veritable imam who can cite extended passages in the Qu’ran from memory and argue the finer points of sharia. I’ve heard him describe America as godless and make jokes about living in the heart of the Great Satan. That’s why he spends most of his time in Iran, where his wife and children still reside. His suit is cheap and ill-fitting and he wears a full beard, “the mark of the believer” as he calls it. He must get stopped by airport security all the time.

They’re all on a first-name basis with the waitstaff. The waitstaff are on a last-name basis with them. “Mr. Aforezeh!” they say with stilted respect whenever one of the uncles ropes them into conversation about the wine list or some new entree. Meanwhile I watch Saman for behavioral cues. He just sits there, a slouching lump of ease, smiling tightly and nodding every once in a while.

That same approach works for me until a waiter glances my direction and asks, “Is this one of the Aforezeh daughters?”

Majnoon chuckles indulgently and replies, “No Paul, this is a happy addition to our family — my nephew’s wife Nooshin!”

Becoming the center of attention makes my skin crawl, but I force a smile anyway.

Majnoon and Nasser are drinking cabernet that costs $100 a bottle, an indulgence associated with their many decades in America. The rest of us stick to ice water flavored with lemon wedges. When it’s time to order, the men sidetrack into a debate about which items on the menu are halal. Majnoon and Nasser have gotten loose in their practice — bismillah as Gamal calls it, a reference to invoking God’s blessing on food, any food, even pork. The youngest uncle is an unwavering authority, steering us away from most of the menu. When Saman orders for me, he chooses the gnocchi with truffle mole.

Conversation turns to male things — cars, sports teams, taxes this and taxes that. I notice there are too many forks in my place setting, and maybe too many knives. Are they breeding? I eye my solitary spoon suspiciously, wondering if it will suddenly bud into twins through some inexplicable process of silverware mitosis.

I’m relieved when the entrees finally arrive, giving us the perfect excuse to lapse into silence while Majnoon luxuriates in his role as elder, talking in a raspy voice. He discusses the latest events in Iran, everything from gas rationing to new highway projects. He brags about the family’s status in America, their conspicuous consumption underwritten by dollar stores and Subway franchises. He praises Saman for his contributions, first in Iran, now here in America, predicting a long and successful career.

Eventually Nasser tires of Majnoon’s voice and shifts the conversation to me, asking how I like Kansas City. I glance across the dining room at the massive windows. They glitter with a nighttime vista of half-lit skyscrapers with navigation beacons pulsing on top, malls trimmed in Christmas lights, illuminated fountains. The pattern of lights is familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. I start to answer truthfully — this place is still new to me, since I spent last month wandering San Diego — but then Saman kicks me under the table. Hard. I’m never to speak of our brief separation. It never happened.

Gamal picks crumbs out of his beard, nodding sympathetically. He even sounds like an imam when he talks, using the measured cadence of a Qu’ran reading. “Ah, the burdens of following your husband to a new place. But is it not fulfilling to make a house into a home?”

I say “If you think it’s so great, why don’t you try it yourself sometime?” but just in my head, not out loud.

Nasser’s bracelets jangle as he saws at charred beef flesh. His gaze slides toward Saman, then me. “So you lovebirds — planning to start a family soon?”

“Yes we are, God willing,” my husband nods. His hairy hand is patting mine fondly. This is the man who threw away my birth control pills.

The room seems to mist over and I blink rapidly, watching halos form around sources of light. I wonder how long before any residual hormones wear off, before I become pregnant. I almost knock over my water glass reaching for it.

His uncles bump shoulders in amusement, smiling at their niece-in-law’s perceived shyness. Meanwhile Saman is noticing my distress and warning about the late night, the early morning. That leads to a parting round of conversation, a long Persian goodbye. I hover on the periphery. I can’t bring myself to nod, can’t bring myself to make conversational noises. I just sink deeper and deeper into the cushioned leather, tilting my good eye upward to the glassed-in ceiling. I’m trying to glimpse the moon through the dark overcast sky, but I don’t know where to look, or even if there’s a moon to see at all.