by JB Schroeder
Jonah hit save, then stood and stretched. He opened his taco dinner and took a few bites.
Insanely good, but he was going to need some paper towels. He went to the kitchenette on the other side of the wall. He opened the cupboard where they kept paper products and found both an ink cartridge and a box of condiments.
“Sohel.” He smiled thinking of Sohel’s complete inability to stay organized.
Wait—holy shit.
Jonah moved back a few feet to stare at the wall of cupboards. He’d looked in all the places Sohel should have stashed paperwork.
What he needed to do was search all the other places.
There was hope yet.
Jonah yanked open another kitchen cabinet and then another, pulling things down and out, making sure he could see every dark corner before he gave up on a space. He found manuals for equipment that had crapped out fifteen years ago, a hairbrush and crusty tin of pomade, a stash of Indian pop music on cassette tapes, and so many more things that shouldn’t be stored in a kitchen. At one point, he dug out a few large trash bags, knowing that if he could at least trash anything that was clearly not salvageable, his workload would be less later. Mainly, though, he just attacked every nook and cranny like a maniac, shaking his head or laughing now and then.
When he’d gotten through every single kitchen cabinet, he ran upstairs. Jonah’s room was his own, and he knew there were no papers in the bathroom vanity. But there was an odd linen cabinet up there to check, not to mention the back room. He’d checked the obvious spots in there, but now that he was thinking straight—or thinking like Sohel, anyway—he wanted to look again.
Finally, Jonah braced his arms on the doorframe of the back room and hung his head. He’d worked up a sweat and was breathing hard. He’d been sure that tonight he’d hit pay dirt…and nada.
“Dammit.”
Jonah trudged back downstairs, completely dejected. He checked the lock on the back door, headed for the kitchen—and stopped.
Slowly he turned around. At the back door. The coat closet—or, rather, the junk catcher.
Jonah lunged forward and pushed the sliding door to one side. It was a closet Jonah normally avoided—literally never opened because it was likely to erupt. Rubber rainboots, old coats, a ratty comforter, a pile of Terrible Towels, numerous broken umbrellas, an enormous tangle of wire hangers, a huge stack of phonebooks from floor to about waist high, a bolt of floral cotton fabric—for what exactly, Sohel?
He slid the doors the other way. A stash of candy bars and one of canned vegetables. A genie hat—Sohel’s idea of Halloween. And a three-foot Santa the old man had always dragged out during the holidays. No will jumped out at him, so Jonah started grabbing stuff from the top and worked his way down.
Hanging on a hook on the side wall, under a ball cap and a knit cap and a sweatshirt, was a plastic grocery bag that felt like it held—hopefully—papers.
Jonah held his breath and peered inside.
Dear God, he’d found it.
“Woohoo!” he yelled, and then leapt over the pile of junk he’d dumped in the middle of the walkway and ran to the front for more light.
He tore off the bag, removed the clip holding the sheaf together—thinner than he would have expected—and flipped quickly to the rear pages where he knew signatures would be.
His breath let out in a whoosh, his shoulders sank, and his knees nearly gave way.
“Oh, Sohel.”
The signature lines were blank.
But Jonah had seen enough to realize that there was writing—Sohel’s notes—all over it.
Jonah tapped the papers on the counter so the stack was tidy, then laid it down carefully. He unearthed a glass from the mess in the kitchen, added ice cubes from the mini fridge, and poured a healthy amount of Maker’s Mark.
Then he took the drink and the will to the cushioned chair in the corner—the one Sohel often rested in—and began to read.
This was a preliminary version of the will, likely the very same copy Sohel had showed Jonah. A copy that had definitely never gotten as far as a second pass, let alone a notary’s stamp. Sohel had certainly read it line for line, given the penciled questions in the margins, circled words, and underlined phrases. But he must have gotten distracted—likely put it in that bag to take home and set it near the back door, where it eventually got pushed aside. Maybe he thought if he hung it with his hat, he’d remember to take it with him—home or to the law firm.
Jonah sat for a long time, hearing Sohel’s voice clear as day as he read the man’s questions and followed his thoughts.
Little by little he let go of Sohel’s wishes that he continue on here, put aside what could have been, and began to wrap his head around starting over.
Then he toasted Sohel, and finally let himself really cry over the loss of his friend.
Jonah woke hard Sunday morning having dreamed of gorgeous, infuriating Kalpani—again. And wasn’t it some bitter icing on the cake that his body wanted someone who thought so little of him. He swore, punched his pillow, and then flipped onto his back to stare at the ceiling.
Other than being pissed at his body’s refusal to see reason, however, he was in decent shape despite the crying and the bourbon. In fact, he felt more clearheaded than he had since Sohel had died.
All because he’d found the will last night.
It didn’t matter what Kalpani or anyone else thought. Jonah knew where he’d stood with Sohel and was grateful for their relationship and the years they’d spent together. Jonah was honored that Sohel had wanted to entrust him with his business and customers, even if it wasn’t to be.
Jonah’s stomach growled, and he remembered that he had never returned to his takeout last night. He threw off his tangled covers and rolled to a sitting position.
Although things hadn’t turned out the way Sohel had once wished—last night’s discovery solidified the fact that there were some promises that weren’t in Jonah’s power to keep—Jonah could do what was right and act in Sohel’s—now his brother’s—best interests.
He thought of locking Kalpani and her contractor out and grimaced.
Time to man up. Starting now, he had to quit feeling sorry for himself. There was no alternate will that was going to save the day. The Print & Ship would be on the market soon—if it wasn’t already. And it would sell fast. Jonah needed to give Ranji an answer about the equipment before he ended up tossed out on his ass with nothing.
It didn’t matter if he felt like he had no direction. Today, he had to move forward. One step at a time. He needed to sort out a plan—even if it wasn’t a great one.
Jonah showered, dressed, and walked over to The Wanderlust with his mind spinning. He kissed his mom and Sadie, who were both hustling to seat people, take orders, and deliver food. He greeted a few customers he knew well but headed to the kitchen as fast as he could without being rude.
“Hey, bro,” Jake said from behind the grill. He set down a spatula and met Jonah halfway for a quick embrace. They’d talked a couple of times but hadn’t seen each other recently. Jonah was sure Rita had filled in both his brothers after she’d gotten the whole scoop from him during the ride home from the funeral Friday.
Jake asked, “How are you holding up?”
Jonah angled his head toward the cooktop. “I’ll be just fine if you can squeeze in another Black and Gold.” That was a special omelet their Dad had concocted years ago, and Jonah loved the burnt bacon crumbles coupled with the Kerry Gold cheese.
“You got it,” Jake said.
Jonah poured himself an orange juice and a cup of coffee. “You need help?”
“From you? No way.” Jake winked.
Jonah could cook—it was like learning to walk in his family—but he lacked the focus that kept a busy morning at the diner running smooth. Of course, his brothers never missed a chance to remind him of it.
Jonah didn’t care. He’d rather not help, especially today. “Cool by me. I’ll be in the office.”
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br /> The office was a small wood-paneled room off the kitchen where his mom and dad stored years’ worth of payroll and vendor and tax info.
He set his OJ on the desk then took a slurp of his coffee as he looked around. There were pictures on the wall of his whole family in the diner. His dad wearing his favorite bandana pirate-style, singing his heart out in the kitchen. His mom posing with her sister Reenie in front of what he thought of as the travel wall (a wall full of postcards and pictures from customers who had slaked their own wanderlust). Jake with his arm around one of the longtime dishwashers. Jeremy hauling boxes up the cement dock stairs outside. Even Sadie, Jake’s wife, laughing at the over-the-top flirting of old Mr. Salvatore when she was still in high school. And then Jonah, at maybe age four, squirting ketchup on a hot dog with the utmost concentration.
Jonah sucked in a deep breath. Nothing had changed in this room at all. He felt his dad’s presence here, just as strongly as he felt Sohel’s at the Print & Ship.
He drank another sip of coffee and then riffled through stacks of paper on the desk until he found a pad. He plucked a pen from a mug he’d made for his dad when he was about six.
He snorted. He’d liked bright colors even then—red ketchup on a white bun counted—but thankfully his skill had matured.
He wrote PLAN and underlined it. He stared at the page, nothing coming to mind. He began to doodle a series of flowing swirls but was saved when Jake hollered from the kitchen. Jonah jumped up to retrieve his omelet.
Rita was there, too, transferring plates from the warmer to her tray, and she nodded at the commercial toaster. “That rye just coming out is yours, too.” Rita never forgot someone’s favorites.
“Thanks.” He smiled and gave her another kiss on the cheek. “You want me to carry that?”
She swatted him. “Certainly not. Eat while it’s hot. If it gets much busier, though, we might have to press you into service. We’re down a server today.”
“No problem.” Jonah buttered his toast, snagged his omelet from Jake, grabbed a fork and a napkin, and escaped into the office again.
His stomach rumbled happily as he forked bites into his mouth. Jake was just as good a chef as their dad had been.
Jonah eyed a picture of his dad. “Not that I’d tell you that.”
He flipped the sheet and started over.
Buy garbage bags.
Clean out shop.
Alert customers.
The list went on from there in no particular order. Print & Ship tasks were straightforward. He didn’t need to keep much other than materials and tools for printing, building stretcher frames, and then wrapping and shipping his art. He’d clear that with Ranji, but Jonah was ninety-nine percent sure the man wouldn’t care.
The act of writing itself jump-started his brain, and he went back to the first page. But the word PLANS froze him up again. He started a clean sheet and titled it OPTIONS.
Less intimidating. Nothing was set in stone. Everything was just something to consider at this point. This list was all about how to keep selling art and bringing in income from it. He wrote:
Talk to shopkeepers about renting window space
Create website
Determine which equipment is essential
Look into renting workspace/retail space
Apartment hunt
He took a bite of toast and sat back in the chair. How fast could he find somewhere to live that wasn’t a pit? Now that he was holding his head high, he wanted somewhere decent. He didn’t want to take the first thing to come along, which meant he might have to talk to his mom about staying at her place for a while.
Everything in him resisted that idea. It would buy him time, yes—but if he couldn’t work, he’d end up stuck there. Workspace was the priority, then, even if he had to live in a hovel or put a mattress under his framing table.
He went back to the list.
Check savings account / consider loan
Business cards
Flyers
Damn. The website would have to be done first—in order to show the web address on the printed pieces. He’d need access to the computers and printers. Which meant he’d better get that done before Kalpani or some other buyer swooped in.
Jonah started to feel overwhelmed, every piece of the puzzle depending on another. He rubbed his temples, decided more caffeine was in order, and carried his dishes to the kitchen.
“Hon, I need you,” Rita said as she burst through the door.
He took the overloaded bus bin from her. “Where do you want me?”
Jonah spent the next two hours run far too ragged to think.
When he returned to the diner’s office to rip off his lists from the pad and head back to the Print & Ship, he had a little more clarity.
It was Sunday. Not a good day to call on other business owners or reach out to customers, but an ideal time to sort out what equipment he really needed and clean up some of the mess he’d made last night. He could also draft a letter to thank customers for their many years of loyalty to Sohel and explain about closing up shop. And hopefully he could begin to create a website.
Side bonus? Sunday surely meant he was safe from one of Kalpani’s unexpected visits.
6
On Sunday, Kalpani automatically called out a greeting as she walked through the door into the narrow entryway of her parents’ apartment.
Her mother’s head popped around the doorway of the kitchen. “Be quiet, beta.” A fond child’s nickname, right along with a child’s scolding. Chetana pointed her wooden spoon at the far corner of the living room.
Kalpani sucked in a quick breath and checked to see which patient was visiting her father. Please not Meenu.
Her shoulders sank with relief. She couldn’t entirely see past her father—but the woman was older and wide. Thank you, Waheguru.
Ever since Kalpani could remember, her father had worked in a hospital and been responsible for all the ordering and restocking of supplies—everything from gauze to light bulbs. But he’d been a doctor before emigrating. His own community trusted him with their health. Plus, they were pleased not to pay exorbitant fees, offering what they could. No appointments; they simply showed up evenings and weekends. Her father always pushed patients toward a doctor or hospital if the issue was serious enough—but often there were matters people wanted to keep as private as possible.
Kalpani averted her eyes, shed her coat, knit cap, and gloves, and joined her mother in the kitchen.
“Hi, Mummyji,” Kalpani said, though she was distracted by her father’s patient.
“It is Auntie Urvi again only,” Chetana said with the speech pattern elder Indians often used. Kalpani breathed even easier. Auntie—not related—wasn’t so much a hypochondriac as a lonely older woman who used the visits as social hour.
Kalpani had dreaded patients coming since her seventh birthday. She remembered sitting on the floor, trying to plait colored string into her new doll’s hair, when one of her father’s regular patients stumbled in. The woman didn’t see Kalpani tucked into the corner and therefore didn’t hide her face as she often did. The area around her eye was swollen and already turning ghastly colors. But it was the globe of red nestled inside—looking for all the world like she’d shoved a red bouncy ball into her eye socket—that Kalpani had had nightmares about for years. Even at that young age, she understood that the woman had not fallen down the stairs again.
At the time, Kalpani and her dolls whispered an oath to each other never to allow an arranged marriage. But as she matured, she realized that arranged marriages were not the cause. Some even worked out well. The larger culture—especially when ethnically insulated or isolated—carried long-held beliefs of subservient women.
Meenu was a case in point. And Kalpani had been worrying over her friend. She’d tried and tried to reach her since Wednesday. But Meenu never answered and hadn’t returned her calls.
Kalpani sighed and reached for the pot on the stove that always held chicken
mukni, or butter chicken. She lifted the lid, stuck her finger in, and then licked it.
Her mother swatted her—luckily not with a dirty spoon, which she wasn’t above.
“You know I can’t resist.”
Chetana smiled. “Help me with the bhartha.”
No chore, that. Kalpani happened to love the spiced eggplant dish, and part of the reason she was here was to ease the burden on her mother, who did the bulk of the week’s cooking on Sundays.
Kalpani washed her hands at the sink and got busy, the familiar tasks and distinctly Indian smells helping to continue the train of thought her father’s patient had launched.
She chopped with more force than necessary. Sometimes she wished her parents would just order out, or maybe make grilled cheese or something once a week. Their marriage was a good one, but despite her mother’s education and job, she played second fiddle to Kalpani’s father. He wanted only his wife’s home-cooked meals, but they also needed the income she brought in.
For Kalpani, too, her mother’s job had been important. Kalpani would often sit in the car and wait with the cleaning crew as businesses closed up shop for the evening. Often, she saw American women coming out of a salon—smiling, confident, shiny—like they could take on the world. Then the stylists would exit looking capable in their sleek black clothing, counting their cash. To her, it looked like a lot of money.
In the Indian culture, parents pretty much pushed their children to three careers only: doctor, engineer, or lawyer. That meant a topnotch education first—preferably an Ivy League one. But Kalpani wasn’t blind. Even those degrees and careers weren’t infallible. Companies downsized. People were passed over for promotions. And, oh yes, prejudice still thrived.
The salons and other places that her mother cleaned gave Kalpani a glimpse of alternatives: trades and cash businesses where a person might have more control over their own success. A first-generation Indian girl like her didn’t have to be dependent on a father or a husband or even a boss.
