by Anne Cherian
No elastic, it’s fantastic,
Why don’t you buy a pair?
All three were laughing by the end, and even Mandy had a smile on her face.
Frances’s irritation graph dipped enough for her to ask, without a hint of displeasure, “How did you end up learning this stuff?”
“Oh, the chaps at school,” Jay said airily. “They came from England, America, Europe. There was even one bloke whose parents were stationed in Tokyo. He brought back seaweed one time, and you would have thought it was poison, the way we carried on about the smell and crinkly texture of it. Now I’m sure those same blokes are eating it, along with sushi. My roommate’s father worked for the World Bank in DC, and every time he went home on holiday, I benefited. Chocolates, Tang—which I can’t believe I drank, much less adored—and my all-time favorite, candy canes.”
Jay seldom talked about his school days, and Frances had assumed that the other students, like him, were the sons of rich people from all over India. But apparently Indians living in America had sent their children home for school. She would remember that if anyone at the party asked why Mandy was returning to India for her last year of high school. It would give their decision a cachet she hadn’t realized till now.
“In fact,” Jay continued to reminisce, “he bested Vinod, who came up with the Beatles version, by teaching us a very funny one about Nixon.”
“Sing it, sing it,” Lily begged.
“Do you even know who Nixon is?” Jay asked.
“He got impeached,” Mandy said, surprising both her parents. She raised her hands high and made the peace sign.
“Mandy knows who Nixon was,” Jay said, “so she’ll get the references. Jingle bells, Nixon smells, Watergate’s a mess.”
Frances’s mouth went dry, and her heart felt as if it was going to burst out of her body. She knew this song. Rich O’Sullivan had sung it during the only Christmas he had spent at their house.
This was the second time she had thought about Rich. This morning she had been worried that Jay somehow knew about him, and she had only been able to dismiss his memory when she realized that Jay was thinking about the characters in Enid Blyton’s books. But now, as she heard Jay singing the song, she could see Rich standing in the living room, teaching her family the words.
Mama had adored Richard and said that it made perfect sense for an American to be called “Rich,” because all Americans were exactly that. Rich had been traveling through India after working for the Peace Corps up north, and Frances had stumbled across him, he used to say, while he was stretched out on the beach. Frances had been home on Christmas break from her final year in college and had gone for an early morning walk. It was her favorite time of day, because the air was still cool from the night and the beach wasn’t filled with children playing, or families come to spend the day.
She had been looking at the froth-topped waves, not paying much attention to her path across the beach. His blond hair and white body blended in with the sand, so she only stopped when he said, “Hey, watch where you’re going.” He had been charming from the beginning, telling her he didn’t want an apology—he wanted her to take him to the best shack for breakfast. Frances was used to boys asking her sisters out, but they always made sure to receive permission from her parents.
Rich was utterly different from the other foreigners she had seen. Their beach wasn’t on the tourist map, so few Westerners found out about it. Those who did appear often left after one day. They were in holiday mode, wanting to make one-night liaisons, and they needed other whites to have that sort of fun. As one German told Frances, “Indian girls are boring. No drink, no smoke, and no sex. You don’t know how to enjoy life.” Some were couples who stayed a while, and Frances had once seen a family of four who were driving around India. The largest representation of tourists was from America, typically students who were running out of money, clothes, and soap—because many stank from afar. Frances would see the tattered T-shirt, the dirt-streaked hair, and act like she didn’t speak English. She had learned her lesson the time she had talked to a red-haired man. After a lovely conversation about the tea estates of Kerala, which he had just visited, he asked her for money and became angry when she refused.
Rich was educated and was interested in India as a country, not as a sex-and-pot destination. He told her it had been his first choice on his Peace Corps application. He also had money, because he was staying in one of the better hotels instead of bedding down on the beach. That initial breakfast had segued into afternoon tea. “I know Indians always stop for their four o’clock cup, so don’t try and squirm out of it.”
He had planned to head down to Pondicherry to check out the French scene but kept postponing his departure. Mama was so excited. All her older sisters had been married or engaged by the time they were Frances’s age, and Mama had worried that her youngest daughter would end up a spinster.
“Did you meet anyone?” she would ask every time Frances came home from her all-girls college in Hyderabad.
Mama expected her to use the years away to find a boyfriend. She told Frances that the best place to meet nice Catholic boys was in church. Frances was to go every Sunday, wear nice clothes, and smile often. The trouble was, the church was filled with older couples whose children were marrying each other. Everyone was nice to Frances, but no boy was interested in her. The ones back home were already taken, and even Frances was beginning to despair.
Then Rich, with his smooth American accent and thick blond hair, walked into their home, and Mama told Frances it was clear he loved her. Otherwise why stay on in Goa? Rich came from a large family, and Mama firmly believed that meant he, too, wanted to marry and have a family. She assured Frances that Rich would propose.
Frances believed Mama, who always knew such things. After all, Mama had told Alba to wear her best dress the evening her boyfriend asked her to go for a walk on the beach. “He is going to propose to you,” Mama had assured Alba as she pinned on a brooch. And sure enough, Alba came rushing home to tell them the happy news. So Frances kept Rich company every day, showed him the grove of coconut palms that rose up tall and starry right next to the beach, and was monumentally relieved that he didn’t mind using their outdoor toilet when he started coming home for dinner.
“It’s a bit like camping,” he said, showing her photographs of his brothers and sisters in Yellowstone National Park. “They keep sending me pictures so I won’t be out of the loop when I return.”
He had applied to various universities and hoped to study at Berkeley. Until Rich told her about the school, her only knowledge of the place had been the line “Down from Berkeley to Carmel,” from the Simon and Garfunkel song “Cloudy.” She was impressed that he was so sure about his future. He knew exactly where he wanted to go, while she was still waiting to meet the right man.
Christmas came, and of course they invited Rich to spend the day with them. He had already helped them decorate the tree and set up the manger. He had been particularly intrigued by the big star Dada made every year.
“It’s like making a kite,” Rich had noted, as he watched Dada bend the bamboo into a star and cover it with transparent red paper.
“Ah, but we don’t fly it,” Dada had said. “We leave a hole at the bottom and put in a lightbulb. Then at night we switch it on and it becomes the star that the Magi followed.”
They invited him to attend church with them on Christmas Day, but he did not want to get up early in the morning. Mama and Dada liked him so much they didn’t mind. After all, he was a Catholic, even if he didn’t go to church regularly. He was waiting outside their house when they returned from morning Mass. All day long, they celebrated, starting with the special Christmas breakfast of eggs and sausage, then playing games, greeting neighbors, and singing carols while Mama played the piano.
At some point, Rich had belted out the Nixon/Watergate parody of “Jingle Bells.”
Everyone wanted to learn it—not so much because it was against Nixon b
ut because it was different, and represented a special connection to a land they had long heard about and would love to live in. As Mama said, their family was linked to Portugal, but every Goan yearned to go to America.
Later that evening, when everyone was tired, Rich went out and returned with a big bag of gifts. “I know this isn’t your tradition,” Rich said, “but in my family we always exchange gifts.” He had asked Frances what he should get her family, and she had explained that they treated Christmas as a day to pray, eat, sing, and get together with friends. It had nothing to do with presents.
Rich reached into the sack and started handing out gifts. Dada, Mama, each of her sisters got one, and Frances was worried that he wouldn’t give her a present, even as she felt bad that she hadn’t gotten him anything.
“Here, this is for you.” Rich gave her the smallest package, wrapped in gold paper. The others had received much bigger ones, and she fretted that this was his way of saying he didn’t really care for her—until she saw the ring.
Mama screamed with joy. Dada told her to hush and pointed to Rich. He was on one knee, and, looking at Frances, asked Dada, “Mr. Dias, may I marry your daughter?”
Her sisters teased her that she was going to be just like the twins in the Enid Blyton books they had all read as children. “You will be Mrs. O’Sullivan,” they said.
“Frances O’Sullivan sounds downright Irish,” Rich had agreed. “Imagine everyone’s surprise when they expect a redhead and see Fran.”
Mama suggested that they marry immediately, but Rich wanted a proper ceremony in his hometown. He would keep his original plan and return to the States after New Year’s. He would work and start saving money, not just for college but for Frances to join him in the summer. By then she would have her BA degree, and she, too, could start applying to study in a university—hopefully Berkeley, he said, crossing his fingers—but, as he told her ecstatic family, “Any place with Fran in it will be fine with me.”
He had only kept one part of that plan. He had returned to the United States.
She had forgotten all about that song, and it had been—eons—since a white man had made her look again, to make sure it was, or wasn’t, Rich.
“Sing more, Dad, sing more,” Lily begged.
“Sorry, can’t recall the rest,” Jay said. “Ask your mother to sing you the real version.”
It was the last thing she wanted to do.
She wished she could tell Jay to turn around, no questions asked, and then, when they got home, let everyone watch a movie while she got into bed by herself.
Instead, she said firmly, “This is not the right time of year to sing Christmas carols,” even as her mind was back in Goa. She saw herself waiting by the gate for the postman, heard all their neighbors and friends ask, “When are you going to join your fiancé in America?” Mama was the one who finally told her there was no hope, that Rich was gone, really gone, and would never return for her.
A year later, Mama told her that he had sent a letter. It arrived six months after he had left, was very short, and mentioned that he was busy with school and was sorry but his parents had objected to the marriage. He hoped they would understand and forgive him. Mama never showed her the letter, saying that she had torn it up immediately. For a long time, Frances had wondered whether Rich had sent the letter or whether Mama had made it up so she would stop waiting.
Now, once again she forced herself to stop thinking of Rich. She had enough anxieties today without remembering that earlier, traumatic failure.
“We’re almost there,” Jay said, thumping the steering wheel with his hands. “Do you think Vic will have sprung for valet parking?” he asked Frances.
“That’s like asking if ice is going to be warm,” she responded, trying to get back to the familiar territory of Vic being inherently stingy.
“Can ice be warm sometimes?” Lily inquired.
“Don’t be a moron,” Mandy abjured her sister. “Mom just made up an oxymoron.”
“Watch your language,” Frances automatically warned her oldest daughter, and Jay added, “Careful, or your mother will wash that word out of your mouth with soap.”
“Mom never washes my mouth with soap,” Lily said virtuously.
“That’s because you’re the good daughter,” Mandy said.
“Okay, everybody, say good-bye to the freeway,” Jay said, as he took the exit. “Let me know as soon as you smell Indian food. We’ll let our noses lead us to Uncle Vic’s house.”
Lily was giggling as Jay started driving down wide streets with huge lawns and obscenely large houses.
“Wow,” Lily said, “how many families live in that house?” she pointed to a pale yellow mansion they had just passed.
“Just one,” Frances said crisply. She had checked out what houses were going for in Newport Beach. Vic’s house didn’t face the beach, but a two-story one on his block had recently sold for six million dollars. Vic had probably paid less than half a million when he bought his place years ago. He really had done well for himself.
She and Jay were in the process of refinancing, but they weren’t hopeful, because the appraiser had noted that though their house had increased in value, it was in a declining market.
“We just passed 10335,” Frances said, “so his house should be three blocks away.”
“I think I can smell the Indian food,” Jay announced. “Are you excited?”
“I think I hear some music,” Frances said, then added urgently, “Park here, park here,” pointing to a space on her right.
“I can see some spaces up ahead,” Jay said.
“It looks very crowded up there, and this way, it will be easier when we want to leave,” Frances lied. She didn’t want to park their car amid the BMWs (Brown Man’s Wheels, as Jay dubbed them) and Mercedeses that were the preferred cars of the Indians who had made it. In this crowd, she could not get away with saying that she refused to buy German cars because the German companies had never made reparations for using Jewish labor during World War II. Americans would applaud her sensitivity. Indians would understand that she could not afford the luxury cars.
“Okeydokey,” Jay agreed, and stopped the car in front of a high wall that hid the house behind it.
“A cat!” Lily pointed to the gray-haired bump that was sitting in the only spot of sun that lit up the dull brown wall. “Here, kitty, here,” she called.
The cat didn’t move, didn’t turn an ear, just kept on crouching.
“Now that’s a billy-ant cat,” Jay laughed. “He knows how to make the most of the sun. He’s just billy-ant. Get it?” he asked Frances, and she shook her head.
“Oh, come on, it’s quite brilliant of me if I say so myself. Billy is cat in Hindi, so billy-ant? Just like when Lily couldn’t say her r’s,” he reminded her.
“I can say brilliant,” Lily rejoined.
“I know you can,” Jay responded. “I made up that whole story titled ‘When Lily Found Her R’s.’ This cat can say his r’s as well. He’s billy-ant, I tell you.”
The children laughed, and the cat, hearing the noise, rose disdainfully, turned its back to them, and jumped into the yard.
“Come back, Mr. Billyant, come back,” Lily begged the cat.
“The cat doesn’t speak Hindi,” Sam informed his sister. “I’m thirsty, so let’s go and find something to drink.”
“You’re always thinking about your stomach,” Lily said. “I just want to see Mr. Billyant one more time.”
“Cats aren’t dogs, Lily,” Jay said. “Even if this one speaks Hindi, he might take a message, but he certainly won’t jump over and let you pet him. We’ll look for him on the way back, okay?”
A few minutes later, they approached the canopied lawn. Hindi music announced that this was the party house, and the aroma that Jay had wanted to follow was right in front of their noses.
“Wow,” Lily said, “it’s a big house.”
Frances assessed the residence with real estate eyes. Vic indeed
had the biggest house on the block. It was probably one of those with an enormous living room that was perfect only when entertaining large groups. The structure had two levels, with dormer windows and a slate roof. There was no fence, though someone must have worried about privacy, because a row of jacaranda trees lined the narrow stretch of land between the street and the cement pathway. The jacarandas were in the last stages of flowering, and the large lawn was scattered with petals. The lawn itself was edged with vivid blue lobelias and white alyssum.
Vic had gone all out, with tables and chairs arranged in clusters. He had covered the tables with nice tablecloths and topped them off with vases of bright flowers that complemented the ones bordering the lawn. The white canopy made the open area cozy and inviting. The rain that Jay had wondered about in the morning wasn’t spoiling anything. Vic must have worried about an ocean breeze, because Frances could see the warm, red glow of standing heaters. It was seven o’clock, and the lawn was dotted with people hovering around the heaters; others were sitting at the tables, eating and drinking.
“Your uncle Vic needs a big house because he’s having a party, while all the other houses are just, well, houses,” Jay joked. He didn’t recall Vic’s house being this huge. Had Vic moved? Or had Jay not paid attention the time he had dropped off Vic after a lunch?
“No valet,” Frances said. She checked the sidewalk. BMWs, Mercedeses, Jaguars, Porsches lined the street, each car pristine and shiny. She was glad she had thought to park farther away. “There is someone greeting people,” Jay murmured as they approached the walkway.
“GOOD EVENING, GOOD evening,” Rajesh shouted above the music. “Please, welcome, come in and annjoy.”
“Thanks,” Jay said. “Where are Vic and Priya? And Nikhil?” He raised his voice. Just then someone turned down the music and Jay said, “Oh, that’s better. Now I will actually be able to hear you. Where’s Vic?” he repeated.
“The family is all inside and outside, both. But I am party-of-one welcoming committee.”
“You’re Vic’s brother?” Jay thought he recalled Vic saying he had a younger brother.