By October it was apparent that Sudhir was not coming back. It did not escape her notice that instead of stopping by to check on the house every Saturday, he was going longer between visits. Their conversations were brief, perfunctory. It was a new kind of loneliness, this, not as pungent a pain as she’d experienced when he first left, but more hollowed out, chronic. It made her feel old before her time. She had always struggled with melancholy at this time of year, affected by the shift in light, by the translucent leaves, whose extravagant beauty hid their imminent death. But for the past three decades, she’d had Sudhir’s love to protect her against the coming chill. Now she felt stripped of that protection, vulnerable.
So when Gloria called again and invited her out for ten days to celebrate her mother’s eightieth birthday, Maggie said yes immediately. Gloria and Martin had a big house in La Jolla, and she needed to be around other people. Besides, she wanted to see Gloria’s mother, Felice, again. The old lady had always been good to her during those long-ago days at NYU, when she had missed her own mother so much.
And now here they stood, in front of the little cottage in Encinitas where Felice had lived until they’d moved her to assisted living six months ago. “The housekeeper has been away on vacation,” Gloria was saying as they crossed the painted front porch. “So it may be a little dusty.”
Maggie barely heard. She was looking at the scruffy hardwood floors of the sunny, airy living room, the overhead wooden beams, the lace curtains on the many windows, the beautiful woodwork around the tiled fireplace, and trying to keep her heart still. This is it, a voice in her head said over and over again. This is home. She had always disliked the large modern house in Cedarville. This house fit her like a glove. And she hadn’t even seen the kitchen yet.
The next second they were in the kitchen, with wallpaper that hadn’t been changed since the 1970s and a beautiful old stove that reminded Maggie of the one in the apartment in Brooklyn. Her eyes filled with tears. “This is—perfect. This house has such character, such spirit.”
Gloria beamed. “I knew it. I bet Martin last night that you’d love it. Wait’ll you see the upstairs. I mean, it needs work, but . . .”
“Of course, it’s nothing I can afford. And it’s not like I can just up and move.”
Gloria eyed her quietly before nodding. “Let’s go see the upstairs.”
There were three bedrooms, one slightly larger than the other two. All had views of the ocean. Maggie thought of her enormous master bedroom with its vaulted ceilings and attached bathroom and shuddered. How lonely she had been in that room night after night. In contrast, she felt so safe in this snug, human-scaled room, with its old but cheerful wallpaper and roughed-up floor.
“Well? What do you think?”
“It’s lovely.”
“And it can be yours.”
Maggie laughed. “Gloria. Don’t give me your sales pitch. I’m not one of your millionaire clients. There’s no way I could afford anything like this.”
Gloria shrugged. “Don’t be too sure you can’t. Values have fallen around here something fierce. Besides, I spoke to Martin. I’m sure we can work something out.”
Maggie felt a spurt of excitement. Move? To California? Start anew in a place with no memories, no regrets? She shook her head. She had a steady job at the hospital. Her private practice was doing well. Her life, such as it was, was in Cedarville. Hell, she was fifty-five years old. Far too old to move to a new place where she had no friends except Gloria.
“It’s not like you’ll be alone,” Gloria said as if she’d read her mind. “We’ll be nearby. I would love to keep Mom’s home in the family, so to speak.”
Maggie leaned over and kissed Gloria’s cheek. “Thanks. But really, even if I took out every last penny out of my savings, I can’t afford California real estate.”
Gloria shrugged, headed down the stairs with Maggie following, walked into the kitchen, and put the kettle on for tea. They settled at the table, sipping their tea, before Gloria spoke. “You could sell the house and ask Sudhir for your share. You can rent this one here for the first year or however long yours stays on the market. And I’ll sell it at a very reasonable price.”
“But G. Why would you do this? This is a beautiful house. Someone will pay you top dollar.”
“No, they won’t. As you can see, it needs work. The housing market is bad. And I told you, if you’re nearby, I don’t have to worry about you. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”
“Don’t make me cry, G.”
“Hey, goofball. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m tryin’ to cheer you up.”
Maggie shook her head. “It’s too soon. I need to stay put for now. I need my job.” She forced into her voice a merriment she didn’t feel. “I’ll tell you what. If, by some miracle, it’s on the market a year from now, we’ll talk.”
“He’s not coming back, Maggie,” Gloria said softly.
Maggie looked away. “I know,” she mumbled. “I know.”
She went home five days later, convinced that she’d made the sensible choice. California was seduction, with its surf and sand and ocean and sun, all gleaming white teeth and linen shirts and sandals. No more seductions for her. She took a cab home from the airport, thinking how strange it was that Sudhir was not there to pick her up. It was nine-thirty when she turned the key and walked into her kitchen. The first thing she noticed was the note from Sudhir on the granite countertop. “Hi,” it read. “Hope you had a good time with Gloria. I spoke to the lawyer. The divorce will be finalized on Nov. 13. We have to go sign some papers on that day. Hope you’re free.”
She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. She went to the fridge and found a weeks-old bottle of white wine. She took a swig directly from the bottle and then went around the dark house turning on the lights. By the time she reached her cavernous bedroom, she’d made up her mind.
She reached Gloria’s answering machine. “Hey,” she said. “I’m home. Listen, if it’s not too late, I’ve changed my mind. I want to buy your mom’s house. I may have to rent, you know, for a year or more. But I want to move. I’m ready.”
35
NOW THAT I no more going to see Maggie on Mondays, I goes on outings with my husband. Restaurant and store close on Mondays so it become our especial day. The first time I not go to Maggie’s house on a Monday, he take me to the Chinese restaurant. He knowing I loves the Chinese food. Week after that, husband find out that there is Bharatnatayam dance concert on the college campus, so we go there. I know Sudhir babu teach on this campus but I never goes there before. On the way, we pass by the hospital in Burnham where I first meet Maggie, but not husband or I saying anything. I reminder everything that Maggie say and do, how she make me feel comfortable and safe. How she take me for that walk out of the lockup and show me I human being and not the animal. My heart break like a glass bangle when I thinks of Maggie. And husband can tell I sad, because what you think? He take his hand and put it on top of mine.
After that first time, we go to campus for functions often. I like seeing young student laughing, talking, joking. It remind me of how Shilpa and I use to run to school when we little children. In my next life, I wanting to come back as the college student in Am’rica. It is best life I can think.
Today we leaf after seeing a Hindi film arrange by the India Student Association. It is a comedy film, and as we walk to our car, the husband is making the face and saying funny dialogue from the film. He comic man, my husband. I know I never tell you before. I myself not knowing until recent.
It is cold today, even though it is almost end of March. My nose is red, my eyes like water tap, and I pulls the scarf to my face as we walk down the hill toward car park. The wind blowing so loudly that at first I think I hearing mistake when someone say, “Hi, Lakshmi.” But the man in the black coat has stop in front of me and my stomach do a spin because it is Sudhir babu. First time I see him since almost ten months, and he look hundred percent different. His hair
is long, his face thin, and he having light beard. He look sick, like man who been in hospital.
Husband take my hand in his. He stop in middle of laugh and I sees shock on his face also.
“Hello,” I say. “How you?”
Sudhir babu smile like it hurt his face. “Good. I’m good. And you?”
“Good,” I say, because what else to say? What I’s really wants to say is I wish this hill crack open and cover me inside it. Because I am reason Sudhir babu look like he do. Joseanne madam has told me that Maggie and Sudhir divorce. Where Maggie now living, I not knowing, but the day when I find out about divorce, I drive by their house and see the for-sale sign.
Husband make uh-uh noise in his throat and Sudhir babu smile his new smile. “Business okay?” he ask.
“Yes, sir,” my husband say. “Thanks God.”
Sudhir babu nod. He quiet and then say, “Well, I should get going. Nice to see you both.”
And he put his hands in his coat pockets and walk away. I turn around to look at him, wanting to say so much, to touch his feet and begs him to please forgive me, but he go around building and then he gone, like a bhoot. “Come on, Lakshmi,” husband say, still holding my hand, and I follow him.
In the car, I feel my whole body dead. My nose, ears, hands dead from the cold. And my heart dead from how Sudhir babu look. I reminder the look on Maggie’s face when I last see her and I wants to cry. Husband driving quietly, not saying anything, all our joking-foking about the film now stop. At red traffic light, he turn to me and say, “I’s sorry for you.”
For ten months, my husband tell me he proud that I expose Maggie’s wickedness to Sudhir babu. You do correct thing by leaving the neck chain for him, Lakshmi, he say. So many time I thinking that my new happy with my husband build on Maggie’s grave. But today he seeing the truth—I not just punishing Maggie. I punishing Sudhir babu also. Today my husband understanding truth of what sin I do. And still he say he feel sorry for me.
At that moment, in the car, I begins to love my husband. “I loves you,” I tells him and then, because my face burn with the shame, I look out the window. Maybe he not hear me.
But he do. He take my hand and hold it to his heart. With his other hand, he drive.
Late that night, husband wake me up. He turn on bedroom light and sit on the bed, smiling. “What, ji?” I say. “Tummy upset?”
He laugh. “No. No tummy upset.” And I see he holding his cell phone.
Still I confuse. “Who calling so late?”
“Nobody.” He put phone in my hand. “It nine o’clock in the morning in India. Call your dada.”
I looks at him as if he gone mad. “Dada not having phone,” I say.
“Tuch,” he make sound. “Chokri, use your akkal. Call the shop of that landlord of yours. You still having his phone number, na? Tell them to call for your dada. Then you call back in half hour.”
I shakes my head. “But you said . . .”
He bite his lip. “I said many things. I’s sorry. My baba always told me it was a maha paap, what I doing. Not allowing you to talk to your people.” He touch my shoulder. “Go wash your face. And then call. Go.”
Dada sound exact like six year ago. He not even surprise that I call. Menon sahib more surprise to hear my voice than Dada. It is as if Dada always know that his Lakshmi never forget him. He talking about the kheti and new cow he buy and how my rascal Mithai chase Menon sahib’s fat wife around the yard last week when she be mean to Munna’s wife. But then he give me the biggest news. Shilpa have a son. He three years old. She and Dilip doing well. I am auntie. His name is Jeevan. It mean life.
When I hang up, I having phone number for Shilpa. I also having the new life. Jeevan.
36
HUSBAND LAUGHING AT me. Look at her, he say to Rekha. She still have two-inch space in the box, so she looking for something to pack in it. I pays him no attention. I mailing gift package for Jeevan in prepay postal box. I looks around store for something that he enjoy. “Ae, Lakshmi,” husband say. “This Indian grocery store, no? What you going to find here that they not getting in India?”
I already talk to Shilpa six time. She sound like old Shilpa, not the angry sister I live with until my husband send for me to Am’rica. I ask her question per question about Jeevan, what his taste, what he like to eat, drink, wear, size number. I already been to Walmart and Target for toys and clothes. I buy chocolate, sweets, stuffed bear from drugstore. But a little space left in box. I want to pack it so full, when Jeevan open it, things fall out, like shower.
“Here,” husband tease. “Put in a fresh hot samosa. It will be nice and stale by the time he get parcel.” My husband is big comic these days.
I go behind the counter. There are three silver statues of goddess Lakshmi for sale, and I pick up the biggest one. I wrap it in the brown paper and push it into the box. “Hey, hey.” Husband not joking now. “This costing seventy-five dollars, Lakshmi. You know how post office in India is. Postman will open the parcel and steal everything. Why you wasting money?”
I take two steps to face my husband and look into his eyes. “This is for my nephew,” I say quiet. “I wants him to know my name. So I sending him statue name after me. You having objections?”
Husband look away first. “Okay, waste money if you want.” But he not force me to put it back on shelf.
I nods and go back to wrapping my parcel. This is love—not what we say to each other but what we not say. Sometime it just one look exchange. Sometime one word. But underlining everything we say or not say, something else. Something heavy and deep, like when we in bed and looking into each other’s eyes. For six years, everything between husband and me was on top, like skin. Now it hidden, like bone and muscle. I not explaining this good. But I feels the difference. He care for me now. He finally see me. And he like what he see.
Ma wrong about one thing. When I was girl, she only talk about love in the marriage. In Hindi movies, same thing. All love, love, love. Singing and dancing in the snow in Kashmir or in Shimla. Nobody tell me what make real marriage—respect. Ever since day I call husband the stupid for loving a ghost, he begins to respect me. And once I see he no longer loving a ghost, I respect him.
Now I says to him, “Listen, ji. When you go out today, can you post this parcel for me?”
He make long face, wink at Rekha, but I know he just acting. He will take it and soon my nephew, Jeevan, will be knowing he have a second mother in Am’rica who love him as much as his first mother do. Jeevan cut from my Shilpa’s body. My blood flow in his vein. He now as real in my life as moon in the sky.
In the afternoon, after closing restaurant at three, husband leaf to go errand running. Rekha having bad stomach cramp today, so I tell her to go to storage room and lie down. I feels bad not offering her my bed when apartment is so close by, but home and business two different place. She puts flat cardboard on the floor and lies down. I tell her to put Zandu balm on her stomach but she say no. Her wish.
It is quiet today. One Am’rican lady come in wanting to buy curry. I say to her, What you need? Curry leafs? Chicken curry in frozen section? But she wanting curry powder. No Indian customer buying readymade mix—everyone making their own. But I happy to sell to her. Then she ask me what she do with it and I gives her recipe for making the curry.
After she go, I pulls up stool and begins to look at the accounts book. Usually, I doing this upstairs in the evening because Rekha don’t need to know our profit business. But today Rekha sleeping, so, as husband like to say, the coat is clear (what that mean?). The company that send us goat meat every Wednesday increase price last month, so I doing new maths. Maybe I find new supplier close by.
The front door bell ring as someone come in. The sun come in strong, so I cannot see his face, but it is male customer. I say hello and go back to my book. The store is long-shaped, and usually, customer shop first before coming up to the counter.
But when I look up, the man standing in front of me. My shock so great,
the pen fall from my hand and roll under the counter. My hand go to cover my mouth. It is Sudhir babu. Looking more thin and sick than when I see him on campus week and half ago. He still not shave and his hair dirty. He stand in front of me, long and thin, like a candle whose flame put out. When he smile, it is cold as snow.
“Hello, Lakshmi,” he say and I knows—he come to kill me. In open daylight he going to shoot me, like those mens who walk into the school with the gun. Why today only I sent my husband to post office? Why Rekha sleeping in stockroom today? Sudhir babu come to shoot me for what I do to his marriage.
“Forgive me,” I say. Something roll down my cheek and then I knows that I is crying. “I not trying to cause mischief in your life, Sudhir babu. I myself not knowing why I doing what I do.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I in so much shock,” I say. “I only come to borrow vacuum machine. But I poking my nose in your business and I so sorry.”
He shake his head. “No, no. That’s not why I came. Oh I see. You thought . . .” He quiet for a minute. “No need to apologize,” he say. “You did me a favor. If you hadn’t . . . done what you did, I’d still be in the dark. Living a lie.” His body shiver, like he cold.
So why he here if he not angry with me? Maybe he here to shop for grocery? But Maggie say they shop with that baniya who cheat customer left and right. I see again how thin he is and I ask, “You hungry, Sudhir babu? I gets you some food from restaurant?”
The Story Hour Page 24
