Siddharth groaned, then squeezed his father’s hand. “Dad, my stomach’s killing me.”
* * *
Later that night, after Marc and Ms. Farber were gone, Siddharth lay in bed on the verge of sleep. His stomach felt better now. He was alone in the house with his father, and everything was totally fine. The ringing phone startled him, and he got out of bed and crept down the hallway. He seated himself on the floor, right by the doorway that led to the family room. That way his father wouldn’t see him.
Mohan Lal was on the sofa wearing pink shorts and an untucked striped shirt that had once belonged to Arjun. A glass of whiskey stood on the coffee table, and the receiver was sandwiched between his ear and shoulder. He was frowning silently as somebody spoke on the other end of the line. One of his hands held a slice of mango, and the other wielded the serrated Ginsu knife he had ordered from the television.
Siddharth could almost make out Ms. Farber’s angry words all the way from where he was sitting, but more than a minute passed before he heard his father say anything. When Mohan Lal finally spoke, his mouth was full of mango. “I never said that. Why would I think we’re doing anything wrong?”
Siddharth wished he could hear Ms. Farber’s words.
“Look,” said Mohan Lal, agitated, “it sounds like you’re giving me an ultimatum.”
. . .
“Well, to me it sounds like an ultimatum.”
. . .
“So you’re the boss then?” said Mohan Lal. “If you think something is right, then that’s the final word?”
. . .
“What if I said the same thing about you?”
. . .
“I don’t give a damn what you meant.”
. . .
“Frankly, I’ve also had more than enough!”
Mohan Lal slammed down the phone and took a long sip of whiskey. Then he used his free hand to suck on the heart of his mango. He devoured it like a savage, like someone who hadn’t eaten in ages.
Siddharth wondered what his father was feeling in that moment. Was he angry? Lonely? Did he miss Ms. Farber? No, Mohan Lal didn’t really care about her. He missed his wife, and she was dead now. Both of them missed the same person, and she was dead. Normally, Siddharth would have gotten up and wrapped his arms around him. But he didn’t feel like it tonight. Tonight he just wanted to go to sleep. As he tiptoed toward his bedroom, a small part of him felt guilty. But mostly he was filled with a deep sense of relief.
6
Buff Blue God
For the next two days, Mohan Lal didn’t let Siddharth answer the phone, instead sending all calls to the new answering machine. Ms. Farber stopped trying after she’d left a few unreturned messages.
Siddharth and Mohan Lal resumed their dinners together in front of the television, laughing along with their favorite sitcoms. Mohan Lal made him turkey burgers and a special vat of rajma, enough to eat all week. He asked Siddharth to check his manuscript for typos and then to read certain chapters out loud. Once or twice, Siddharth even got up in the morning and crawled into his father’s bed like he used to when he was younger. He brushed his teeth in his father’s bathroom while Mohan Lal shaved, the man dumping his mug of murky shaving water out the window for the sake of the septic system.
By the end of the week, however, Mohan Lal started to seem distant and distracted. He stayed in his office straight through dinner and resumed old habits like falling asleep in front of the television or not sleeping at all to work on his book.
Things at school weren’t much better. Even though Luca had invited him to sit at his lunch table and play kickball, he still felt on edge around these kids. One day in the cafeteria, when he was reluctantly eating the brown Indian beans his father had packed for him, Eddie Benson started sniffing the air and grimacing. “Yo,” he said, “your lunch smells like my dirty stinkhole.” For the rest of the afternoon, Eddie and Luca referred to Siddharth as the Prince of Poop.
Without Ms. Farber to collect him from school, he found himself on the bus more often, and these long rides felt quieter and lonelier than he’d remembered. One evening, his father made him come to Elm City College and sit in on his graduate-level management course so that he wouldn’t have to spend the entire evening alone. Mohan Lal showed his students a clip from a movie in which an ape picks up a bone and starts smashing the ground. The scene seemed weird and totally irrelevant, but the students kept raising their hands to make different comments—that the movie was “criticizing the inherent savagery of progress,” or that it “depicted mankind’s innate animalistic nature.”
On the ride home that night, Mohan Lal asked Siddharth what he had thought of his teaching.
“It was fine,” said Siddharth, who had spent much of the class squirming in his seat, embarrassed by his father’s accent and constantly gesticulating hands. To Siddharth, Mohan Lal actually resembled the ape from the movie.
“Just fine?”
He turned to face his father. The man looked particularly exhausted in that moment, vulnerable. Siddharth’s embarrassment and frustration suddenly evaporated. He wondered how Mohan Lal could make it in the world if even his own son were so cruel to him. “Dad, your students totally love you.”
“They do?”
“Come on—you’re one of the greatest teachers in the world.”
Mohan Lal grinned, the glow returning to his tired face.
* * *
After almost a full week without Marc or Ms. Farber, Siddharth felt himself falling into a dark place. Even his favorite movies weren’t distracting him. He needed someone to talk to, but his brother was flaky these days, and also rather annoying. First Arjun had hated Ms. Farber and ranted about their father’s selfishness, and then, out of the blue, he called to say that he thought their relationship was a great idea. “Dad’s finally moving on. You need to be mature and let him.”
Siddharth wished he could talk to Marc. Two days earlier, he’d left a message on his friend’s answering machine, but Marc hadn’t called back. At the time, he told himself it didn’t matter, that he had other friends now and was doing just fine. But he’d come to see how this was bullshit. Maybe Arjun was right. Maybe he needed to stop living in the past. His life would probably be better if his father and Ms. Farber just did whatever they wanted. He felt like an ass for the way he had acted that night—for exaggerating about his stomach.
On Saturday morning—eight days after the adults had fought—he decided to give Marc another try. He took the cordless phone into the bathroom and dialed his number. The machine picked up again, so he called Ms. Farber’s office line. She answered after three rings.
“Hi. May I please speak with Marc?”
“Siddharth? Is everything okay?”
“Can I talk to him, please?”
“He’s out, Siddharth.” Her voice was deeper than usual, and raspy. “He’s been at his father’s for the past few days.”
“Really? Why?” He heard her light a cigarette.
“What do you mean, why? It’s his father.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment. He stared at himself in the mirror and tugged at his bangs, which came down to the middle of his nose. Soon his hair would be long enough to get it cut right—long on top and shaved on the sides.
“Siddharth, is there something you’d like to say?”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure? How’s your dad?”
Oh God, he thought. She never knew when to shut up. “He’s fine—great, actually.”
“Has he mentioned anything?”
“About what?”
“About me, Siddharth.”
He swallowed hard, wondering if he should make something up. “No.”
She scoffed. “He’s a stubborn man, your father.”
Siddharth gritted his teeth.
She took a long, audible drag. “Honey, it’s fair to say that the four of us were getting along—right?”
“I guess so.”
“You guess s
o? You mean you didn’t like hanging out with Marc? You boys have gotten pretty close. That’s a good thing—right?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, what?”
“Yeah, right. That’s a good thing, I guess.”
“Remember that, honey. Keep that in mind.”
* * *
Rain poured on and off for the next few days. It stopped on a Tuesday, and when Siddharth was walking to the bus stop that morning, he noticed that the trunks of the nearby pine trees had started oozing an orange slime. He thought about the awful afternoon that lay ahead of him. His father was insisting that he attend his idiotic after-school program. A part of Siddharth had wanted to say, Call Ms. Farber and tell her you’re sorry. But the pissed-off part of him won out, so he kept his mouth shut.
The school day was fine. During recess, he played a board game with Luca and Eddie, and then came math. Once that was over, Mr. Latella started going on about Memorial Day, which was only a couple of weeks away. He wanted to know if anybody’s father had ever served in the military. Siddharth thought about mentioning Mr. Iverson, his neighbor who rode a Harley-Davidson. Mr. Iverson had fought in Vietnam, and he and Mohan Lal were always talking about how that war was a disgrace to the nation. Siddharth wished he could bring up Marc’s uncle, who was wounded in basic training before actually shipping out to Vietnam, or Marc’s grandfather, who had been in one of the World Wars. He stayed quiet though. These people weren’t family; they were strangers.
Samantha R. raised her hand and said that her father had fought in Grenada. John G. said his grandfather had gone to Korea.
“That’s wonderful,” said Mr. Latella. “We should all be grateful to these men. Do you know that? Do you know why?”
Nobody raised a hand.
Mr. Latella scanned the room, then let out a sigh of exasperation. “You guys are really still babies. I’ll say it again—they’re gonna eat you for breakfast in junior high.”
Siddharth looked up at the clock. There were only fourteen minutes remaining in this crappy day, but even Mr. Latella was better than his stupid after-school program. Even though he had only stayed after school three times in the last six months, when he did so, it was like he was a pathetic little fifth grader again. He would wander around the playground alone, time passing like a broken clock.
Mr. Latella pointed up at the American flag. “Let me tell you,” he said, “if it wasn’t for guys like John’s grandfather, we might not have that anymore. To be frank, you and me might not even be here today. We might not be able to vote, and we probably wouldn’t be free.” Mr. Latella explained that the next day they were going to make cards for Samantha’s father and John’s grandfather, and also for a battalion of soldiers who had fought in the Gulf War.
Siddharth wished he could be teleported to his sofa, and if that weren’t possible, he would rather just disappear—just evaporate into nothing. If only Marc would be waiting for him by the pay phone like he used to. Siddharth started making promises to God. If Marc showed up today, he swore to watch less TV and be nicer to his father. He swore to stop watching pornos, touching his penis, and smoking cigars. And then it happened: the phone on the cinder-block wall began to buzz.
Mr. Latella took the call and then told Siddharth to gather his things and go to the office. Siddharth smiled. He wanted to take back all his negative thoughts about religion and God.
* * *
With his backpack over his shoulder and Marc’s old hoodie dangling over his wrist, he walked down the hallway feeling relieved but also anxious. Who would be there for him? Ms. Farber? Marc? Both of them? He paused before entering the office and caught a glimpse of black denim through the windowed wall. It must be her, he thought. When it comes down to it, she’s really not that bad. He opened the door. The school secretary was standing behind the counter that separated the office from the reception area. She had short silver hair and was smiling. “All set, hon?” She peered at Siddharth over her tiny rimless reading glasses. “Aren’t you gonna say hi?”
Siddharth couldn’t speak. All he could do was stare at the man standing a few feet away from him. This man was wearing black jeans and a rugby shirt with fat yellow stripes. The man smiled, and his capped teeth gleamed in the fluorescent light.
The secretary cocked her head to one side. “Hon, you know this gentleman, right?”
The man took a step toward Siddharth. “Of course he knows me.” He had a booming, raspy drawl. “Known me since the day he was born.”
Siddharth wanted to turn around and run. He glanced down at a gummy black stain on the worn blue carpet.
The secretary scowled. “What’s his name, honey? Can you tell me his name?”
“Hi, Barry Uncle,” said Siddharth. He knew something really bad must have happened. His father had had a heart attack. He’d been carjacked. Bloody bits of his brain were splattered all over Boston Post Road.
The secretary brushed her forehead and recommenced her smiling. “Well, go on then,” she said. “Don’t be shy, honey.”
Barry Uncle opened his arms widely. “Come on, squirt. Give your uncle a hug.”
But Siddharth just stood there and stared. Barry Uncle’s hair used to be gray, but now it was jet black. His face had always been mottled, but today it was looser. His chest seemed thick and strong, and so did his shoulders. Though his stomach bulged like a basketball, and it rested on a leather fanny pack that was strapped around his waist.
Barry Uncle stepped toward him. He engulfed Siddharth in his arms and gave his head a vigorous rub, then leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
Siddharth clicked his tongue and used Marc’s sweatshirt to dry his wet face.
* * *
As they walked through the jam-packed parking lot, Siddharth parted his hair with his fingers. He noticed a few blue fissures forming in the dark sky. Some light-blue eggshells were lying in a clump of pachysandra, and he guessed they’d belonged to a family of robins. He asked, “Where’s my father?” He didn’t understand how his father could have done this to him. First he had made up with Barry Uncle without even saying anything, and now he’d sent the man to his school unannounced. Mohan Lal could be a real dick when he wanted to. He could be a negligent father.
“Working,” said Barry Uncle. “He asked me to take you for a little ride.” He pressed his keychain, and a burgundy Integra flashed its lights.
Siddharth seated himself in the car’s passenger seat and whistled as the electronic seat belt clicked into place automatically.
“It’s an old car,” said Barry Uncle. He started the engine and revved it. “I’m looking at a Beamer now.”
But Siddharth wasn’t in the mood to talk about cars. He wanted to know what was going on with his father.
“Or what do you think about a Porsche?”
“Beats me,” said Siddharth. “Get a Porsche. Go for a 911.”
Barry Uncle chuckled. “Good taste, kiddo. The Germans, they know engineering. They know lots of things. I dunno why your dad insists on that American junk.”
Despite his discomfort, Siddharth found himself smiling.
“I’ll work on him for you.” Barry Uncle unzipped his fanny pack and pulled out a tiny blue sachet, emptying its contents into his mouth, and the car suddenly smelled like mint and pepper—like Delhi. “We’ll get him driving something more appropriate.”
Barry Uncle drove fast, taking a right turn where he should have gone left. They didn’t pass the old white church or town hall like they were supposed to. A nervy roller-coaster feeling churned in Siddharth’s stomach, but it was better than the unabating deadness of the past few days. He was too stunned to talk. He just sat there absorbing his surroundings. An actual car phone rested behind the gearshift. Did it work? Could he use it to call his father?
From the rearview mirror dangled a cardboard cutout of a blue Hindu god. It somehow looked different from the deities that had once rested on Arjun’s nightstand. This god had chiseled pecs and a six-pack, and it d
idn’t seem all tranquil and girly.
Barry Uncle, still masticating the contents of his blue sachet, touched the god and brought his fingers to his forehead. “You like him?”
“Huh?”
“Who’s that? Can you tell me his name?”
Siddharth shook his head. He could only identify the gods that resembled animals.
Barry Uncle pressed a button to lower his window and then hawked a glob of phlegm. “Ain’t your fault. Your father’s a busy man. Believe me, women take up a lot of energy.”
Siddharth clenched his jaw and stared out the window. They were paused at the intersection of Center Road and Route 1. To the right was a bank that could have been a suburban home. When he was six, Mohan Lal had taken him there to open his first savings account.
The light changed, and Barry Uncle made a left. “So what do you think of her?”
“Who?”
“Of what’s-her-name.”
“Ms. Farber?”
“That’s it.” Barry Uncle snapped his fingers. “She pretty?”
He shrugged. No, he wanted to say, she’s a fucking dog. He punched some of the buttons on the car phone.
“Easy,” said Barry Uncle. “Emergency use only.”
They drove in silence to the next light, passing by the road that led to the dump, then the pancake house where Arjun had once worked as a dishwasher.
“He should watch out, you know,” said Barry Uncle. “My ex-wife was a gori—what a terrible storm.” As Siddharth listened to these words, a surge of optimism pulsed through his veins. Maybe Barry Uncle’s return was the sign he’d been waiting for—a sign that things were really and truly returning to normal.
Barry Uncle said, “At least Dad’s got himself a Jew. With them we have something in common.”
“I know, I know. Bad tipping and hating Arabs.”
Barry Uncle turned into a plaza containing a bridal shop and a Subway, parking next to a Jeep Wrangler. “Good man,” he said. “Yes, we both have the same problem with the Mohammedans.” He shut off the engine, and the seat belts slid forward on their own. “Listen, kid, this all must be strange for you. But your father’s a smart man. And we all gotta look to the future.”
South Haven Page 15
