“What? What is it?” Mohan Lal shut off the motor.
“No, it’s all a little too raw still.”
“Please, Rachel.” He held out his hand.
She didn’t touch it. “Not now. It’s not the right time.”
Siddharth shrunk in his seat, worried that she was referring to him, then Mohan Lal restarted the engine.
Ms. Farber reached for his wrist and took another deep breath. “Okay, I’m done holding things back.” She paused before continuing. “Mohan, I want you to come inside. You can have some coffee and go home, and that’ll be okay. But you could also stay till tomorrow. That would be fine too . . . What am I talking about? It would be more than fine. I would love it if you both spent the night.”
Mohan Lal started rubbing his neck. He stared into the rearview mirror with raised eyebrows, and Siddharth met his eyes. These people are fucking crazy, he thought. It was almost as if they were waiting for him to decide. Well, he was done. He didn’t care anymore. He had seen what happened when he got in the way. They could do all the screwing they wanted.
He hopped out of the car and jogged toward the house. Marc was in the family room watching Saturday Night Live. Siddharth sat down beside him, sinking into the plush leather sofa. He laughed hard, forgetting all about the adults and their love life for a little while.
PART III
1
A World of Sheep
The doorbell chimed. Siddharth sighed as he extricated himself from the leather sofa. At the front door, he encountered the whirring of weed-whackers and the bearded postman, who was wearing his summer outfit—gray shorts and a light-blue short-sleeve shirt.
The postman said, “Summer break, kid?”
“Yup.”
“I’m gonna need a signature.” The postman held up a clipboard, then said, “You’re eighteen.” He winked. “Right?”
Siddharth forced himself to smile as he signed a pink form. “Thanks,” he said, accepting a small envelope from Walton Publishers. He returned to the family room, where a rap video was blaring, then picked up the remote control to mute it. The best thing about Ms. Farber was the fact that she had forced his father to get a real cable box, one with thirty new channels and an actual remote control. He turned on the Indian brass lamp that stood between the two leather sofas and held the envelope to the light. Mohan Lal had sent in his completed manuscript three weeks earlier, and Siddharth was curious about Walton’s reaction. A few words were clear—June 1992, Dear Dr. Arora—but before he could discern anything else, he felt her hand clutching his shoulder.
“What’s that you got there?” asked Ms. Farber. She was wearing an apron with red-and-white checks. It had once belonged to his mother.
“It’s for my dad.”
She snatched the envelope from his hands. “Sid, how do you like it when Dad goes into your room without asking?”
“Trust me, he likes me to sort the mail.”
“Honey, we’re all eager, but you need to learn to respect other people’s privacy.” She strode back to the kitchen, the letter sandwiched between her torso and the skin of her jiggly forearm.
He returned his attention to the television. A Nirvana video was on, so he unmuted it. Arjun had recently sent him a package from Michigan containing a Wolverines keychain and a Nirvana album. In the accompanying card, he wrote that today’s pop music was materialistic and superficial, but this group was reinventing old traditions. Marc disagreed—he said that Nirvana was a bunch of pussy-ass posers. As the video played, Ms. Farber’s words kept echoing in his head. How do you like it when Dad goes into your room without asking? At some point over the past few weeks, she’d stopped using the word your before dad.
Since Richard III, Siddharth had counted that Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber had spent twenty-two nights in the same bed, usually at the Aroras’ home. Back in June, when school was winding down, Siddharth had forced himself to forget the fact that his father was now sleeping with Ms. Farber and enjoy the agreeable aspects of this new arrangement. He and Marc were able to stay up late talking in bed or flicking through a Playboy together, and in the mornings they brushed their teeth in unison. During the first days of summer, the boys had biked to the playground behind town hall, where they would meet up with other kids, including Luca Peroti. They’d ride down a bumpy, wooded path to a nearby convenience store, where they got candy, lottery tickets, and chewing tobacco. One afternoon, Siddharth and Marc met up with Dinetta Luciani and Liza Kim at a Post Road pool hall. While they played eight-ball, Liza kept touching Siddharth’s arm. He told himself that she was begging for a kiss, that next time he would make his move.
But now Marc was in Florida visiting his grandparents with his father and his father’s new girlfriend. When he got back, he would have football camp. A full year would have passed since he had gotten arrested, and his grounding would finally be over. Siddharth wasn’t sure whether Marc would hang out with him once he could do anything he wanted.
In the kitchen, Ms. Farber started the noisy blender, the television shimmering in the background. She was at it again, making another dish from her brand-new vegetarian cookbook. He hated to admit it, but she was getting better at cooking. Her meals were rarely delicious, but at least they were a break from Indian food. And he appreciated her concern for Mohan Lal’s diet. She made them use sea salt in their food—not table salt—because it would be better for his blood pressure.
“Siddharth!” she called. “Honey, I need you to taste something.”
“I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
“It’ll only take a second. I promise.”
He lumbered to the kitchen and found her staring out the window with a goofy smile.
“Look over there,” she said, pointing at the backyard.
He saw two turkeys pecking at the ground underneath the maple. “So?”
“Aren’t they just beautiful?” She dipped a teaspoon in the blender and handed it to him.
He swallowed her green concoction, then coughed.
“What do you think?”
“It’s okay.”
“Just okay?”
He tasted another bite. “No, it’s good. Add a little salt maybe.”
She clapped to herself, then kissed him on the forehead.
He smiled and looked down, slightly embarrassed on her behalf.
As he repositioned himself in front of the television, he thought about the evening that lay ahead of him. The three of them would have dinner together and then maybe watch a movie. It didn’t actually sound all that bad. If Ms. Farber weren’t there, he and Mohan Lal might not exchange a single word over dinner. Or Mohan Lal would read all night, or babble to Barry Uncle about the BJP on the telephone. The truth was, even though there were many negative things about her—the most obvious one being that she was fucking his father—she brought many good things into their lives, at least when she wasn’t in a mood. Thanks to her, they went to the mall, the movies. One time, they had even gone to an art museum in downtown New Haven. At dinner, Ms. Farber asked him about his day, about the books he was reading. At dinner, they had conversations about the cruelty of the death penalty, or why it was important that abortion was legal. When the four of them had dinner together, he sometimes felt as if he had a real family again.
* * *
Mohan Lal got home around four and yelled for Siddharth to help him with the groceries.
“Five minutes,” said Siddharth.
“With you it’s always five minutes,” his father said, but he was smiling.
Mohan Lal walked through the family room cradling two paper bags brimming with hairy ears of corn. He had on new khaki shorts, with extra pockets on the side. He also had on new suede running sneakers and a pair of tan dress socks, which were pulled up way too high. He was wearing a collarless green T-shirt, and Siddharth wondered if he had ever seen his father leave the house in a T-shirt before. This one depicted a hotel in Martha’s Vineyard, a place that nobody in the Arora family ha
d ever visited.
Siddharth went outside and stretched his arms. He’d been avoiding the outdoors lately, as all the freshly cut grass made his eyes itchy, but he was glad for a break from the sofa. A breeze sliced through the sticky air and cooled his skin. He looped some bloated plastic bags around his fingers and lugged them inside, then froze before entering the kitchen. His father and Ms. Farber were in front of the sink with their arms around each other. Her lips were near Mohan Lal’s ear. Siddharth couldn’t tell if she was kissing it, or just whispering.
He stepped toward them, dumping his bags on the table. “Did you give it to him?”
“Give me what?” asked Mohan Lal. He slackened his embrace, but his bulging belly remained pressed against her apron.
Ms. Farber playfully smacked herself on the head, then slid open a kitchen drawer. She pulled out the letter and handed it to Mohan Lal. He unsuccessfully attempted to open the envelope with his fingernails, then removed a letter opener from the bottom drawer of the family room bookcase. Years ago, Siddharth had used it as a toy; it resembled a samurai sword.
Mohan Lal sliced open the envelope and read the letter on the family room armchair.
“Come on, already,” said Ms. Farber, who was leaning against the kitchen doorway. “Give us the good news.”
Mohan Lal removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Siddharth grabbed the letter from him. It was signed by Reginald Feldman, senior editor, and not Mr. Wasserman, the assistant editor who’d previously written.
“Read it out loud,” said Mohan Lal.
“Huh?”
“Are you deaf? I said read it aloud.”
Siddharth seated himself on the love seat. “Dear Dr. Arora, this letter is regarding your manuscript entitled Marketing for the Twenty-First Century: A New Paradigm, which we received on June 12, 1992.”
“Louder,” said Mohan Lal.
“While I applaud your efforts to push the boundaries of your field and raise interesting ethical questions, our editorial team—”
“Stop,” said Mohan Lal. “Skip to the next paragraph.”
Siddharth cleared his throat. “Though I personally appreciate your approach, your manuscript, in its current form, might be considered too eso—” He was unfamiliar with this last word and hesitated.
“Esoteric,” said Mohan Lal. “You should know that.”
“. . . might be considered too esoteric. Some readers might be repelled by its partisan nature,” continued Siddharth. “However, if you can rework your project along the lines we’ve previously discussed and resubmit in December—”
“Enough!” snapped Mohan Lal, pounding his fist onto the chair’s wooden arm. He shot up and stomped to the dining room. Still holding the letter, Siddharth followed behind, looking on as his father poured himself a tall glass of whiskey, the fancy stuff Barry Uncle had brought over.
“Mo, honey, hang on a sec,” said Ms. Farber.
“Leave me,” said Mohan Lal.
“We need to talk this through.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “There’s definitely a silver lining here. Actually, that’s an understatement. If you ask me, this is encouraging news.”
“She’s right, Dad,” said Siddharth.
Ms. Farber started rubbing Mohan Lal’s back, and Siddharth turned his head toward the window. Outside, a hummingbird was hovering over a withering pink blossom.
Mohan Lal sipped some whiskey. “Listen. Ours is a world of sheep, and this man is the biggest sheep of them all. He’s a bullshitter—a coward.” He grabbed the letter from Siddharth and crumpled it into a little ball. He chucked it at the window, and the hummingbird fled. “I’m in a useless profession—a useless profession in a useless country.”
“Oh, Mo.” Ms. Farber brought his fingers to her mouth and kissed them. “They want you to make a few small changes. Just some minor alterations.”
“You see, publishing is a business, and businesses exist to make money. Books that sell are written by stooges—people who are willing to uphold prevailing ideas, not challenge them.” Mohan Lal scowled. “The dean. He has a long arm now. His fingerprints are all over this affair.”
“The dean, Dad?” said Siddharth. “Are you for real?”
Ms. Farber retrieved the letter and placed it on the counter, smoothing it down with the palm of her hand. “I know you’re upset, Mohan. But is that really rational? Do you honestly think the dean had something to do with this?”
Mohan Lal slammed his glass down. “What do you know about it, Rachel? What do you know about anything?”
“Chill, Dad,” said Siddharth. “We’re just trying to help.”
* * *
Siddharth sat in front of the television, feverishly flipping through the channels, regretting that he hadn’t thrown the letter in the garbage as soon as it had arrived. He wished that his father hadn’t lost it in front of Ms. Farber. She entered the family room and flashed a nervous smile, then went out to the porch and lit a cigarette. He wondered if Mohan Lal had told her she could smoke out there. He wondered if Walton was right about the book. What if it was too esoteric?—whatever that meant. Arjun had once said that their father was addicted to his freakish opinions because he felt so small inside. Poor Dad, Siddharth mused, the man is a genius, but people never appreciate him.
He plodded down the hallway to his parents’ bedroom, where Mohan Lal had holed himself up. The door was locked. Siddharth knocked, but nobody answered. He picked the lock with a tiny screwdriver meant for repairing eyeglasses, something he hadn’t done in years. Hearing the shower running, he entered the bathroom. Mohan Lal’s dirty undergarments were draped on the toilet seat, and Siddharth brushed them onto the pink vinyl floor.
“Rachel?” said Mohan Lal.
“No, it’s me,” said Siddharth.
The bathroom was dark and steamy, and he found it peaceful. Mohan Lal shut off the water and started soaping himself. He then turned the tap on to rinse off the suds, muttering a Buddhist prayer to himself. After shutting off the shower a second and final time, Mohan Lal reached for his rough yellow towel. “Son,” he said, “your old man can be a fool sometimes.” He wiped himself down slowly and meticulously, then exited the bathroom and threw his towel on the patchwork bedspread.
Siddharth hadn’t seen his father naked in a long while. The tufts of hair on his ass were totally white now, and his wrinkly penis seemed smaller than before. It was darker too, darker than any other part of his body. He shifted his eyes to the black lacquer nightstand that used to belong to Mohan Lal. It now contained Ms. Farber’s things—her reading glasses, a psychology journal, and a couple of orange bottles of pills. On top of his father’s dresser sat a stone statue of a blue Indian god playing a metal flute. He had never seen this statue before and wondered where it had come from.
Mohan Lal put on a fresh pair of underwear. He sat himself on the edge of his bed and began clipping his fingernails. Siddharth scrutinized the scar on his father’s chest, a hairless depression between his nipples that resembled a map of Florida. A few weeks ago, Mohan Lal had been trying to repair Ms. Farber’s busted dryer wearing nothing but an undershirt. She asked him how he had gotten that scar, and he told a story that Siddharth had never heard.
When Mohan Lal was just a baby, he had suffered from various respiratory problems. As a last resort, a Buddhist monk took Mohan Lal up into the mountains and performed surgery on his lungs. But the wound from the operation got infected, and it smelled so badly that Mohan Lal’s mother wouldn’t hold him. She didn’t hold him for an entire year.
When Mohan Lal finished his story, Ms. Farber said that nobody could be crueler than a person’s own parents. Mohan Lal insisted that it was no big deal, that it was wrong of Western psychologists to always blame the parents. The thing that really mattered, he said, was that he was still alive thanks to that monk.
Mohan Lal finished with his fingernails and put the nail cutter in a drawer. He threw on sweatpants, then a new pair of beige dr
ess socks. “Son,” he said, “will you do your father a favor?”
“Of course.”
“Put some ointment on my back? Today it is very sore.”
Siddharth grabbed a blue plastic bottle from atop the cistern and squirted the gelatinous substance onto his fingers. It smelled like peppermint, only much stronger. He sat beside Mohan Lal and began applying the cool gunk to the skin of his back, which was soft and warm. Mohan Lal emitted little moans of relief. “Good boy,” he said. “I don’t know what I have done to deserve such a son.”
2
Communal Dinner
Siddharth was sitting on his bed drawing for the first time in a while, attempting a sketch of a Michigan basketball player taking a jump shot. He planned on turning it into a birthday card for Arjun. Mohan Lal was making a racket in the kitchen, preparing a huge Indian spread for Barry Uncle. The thought of daal and rice turned Siddharth’s stomach.
When Marc got home from football camp, he barged into the room and started rummaging through the closet.
Siddharth looked up from his drawing. “What’s the plan?”
“The plan?” said Marc. “The plan is, I’m sleeping at Andy’s.” He fished out a flask of Southern Comfort from one of Siddharth’s winter boots, and then a can of spray paint from inside a board game.
Siddharth had no idea that either of these things were in his closet. He said, “You’re kidding me—graffiti?”
Marc gave the can a rattle. “Nah, makes a good blowtorch.” He cocked his head to one side and cracked a smile. “You know what?”
“What?” said Siddharth, feeling hopeful.
“I got a bottle of Bacardi in there—up top, behind that old camera. I think it’ll do you some good.”
Soon Marc left with his mother, and Siddharth tried to return to his drawing. He wondered how he could make things go back to the way they were with him and Marc. When Marc had first gotten back from Florida, everything seemed fine. He’d even invited Siddharth to the mall one day and helped him pick out clothes, telling him what would be cool for junior high. After swearing him to secrecy, Marc confessed that his father’s girlfriend, Madeline, was pregnant.
South Haven Page 18
