South Haven

by Hirsh Sawhney

  Marc defeated the second level of his game and threw his controller onto the rug. “Yo, let’s get the hell out of here,” he said. “I need to smoke something.”

  Siddharth’s chest tightened with a mixture of fear and excitement. Marc had talked about smoking before, but he had never actually seen him do it. They walked down the corridor toward the bedrooms. Siddharth sometimes got lost staring at the paintings that lined this wide, carpeted hallway, many of which were Ms. Farber’s creations. Some of her paintings contained just a few splotches of color that had clearly been applied with a sponge, and they looked like something a child could have done. He knew that people considered this stuff art, but he’d never understood why. His mother had said that it was a case of the emperor’s new clothes. When Marc had once caught him gawking at the artwork, he said, “Yeah, Rachel’s a real Picasso. If this stuff starts selling, we’re gonna be loaded.” Siddharth had cocked his head to one side, unsure if his friend was joking. Marc grabbed his arm and gave him a shake. “I’m just fucking with you,” he said. “Dude, you gotta lighten up.”

  Marc paused in front of Ms. Farber’s door and knocked. “What?” she said, her voice gruff and tired. Marc pulled the handle down and stepped inside. Siddharth remained in the hallway, his back up against a small patch of the wall that didn’t contain any paintings. He saw Ms. Farber sitting up in bed watching some soap opera. He’d been inside her bedroom a couple of times, when Marc needed money or was looking for a video. It had puffy pink curtains and shiny white furniture. Yet today it was dark. Ms. Farber was usually so neat and tidy, but he glimpsed clothes and papers strewn all over the tan carpeting. The oddest thing was that the room smelled like smoke. He felt like an ass for not having noticed that Ms. Farber was a smoker.

  “Twenty bucks, please,” said Marc, the palm of his hand hovering near his mother’s face.

  “For what?” she replied.

  “To be a good host,” said Marc. “The young fella would like a little ice cream.”

  She turned toward Siddharth. “Oh, hi honey.”

  “Hello.” He waved and smiled, trying to give the impression that everything was fine.

  “You’ll have to excuse me today,” she said. “I’m just a little under the weather.”

  “Really, Rachel?” said Marc. He pulled an envelope of bills from her bedside drawer. “What do you got? A cold? A cough? I’m curious about the diagnosis.”

  Ignoring him, Ms. Farber turned down the volume. “Sid, honey,” she said, “I need to rest a little. But help yourself to anything. Please—make yourself at home.”

  The boys headed out to the garage, which never failed to mesmerize Siddharth. His own garage was disgusting and boring, filled with cobwebs, rusty rakes, and rotting firewood, but this one was spotless and contained numerous cool contraptions. Tools and saw blades hung from the walls, and the ground was filled with neat rows of hockey sticks, volleyball nets, and rollerblades. Marc had two bikes, a fancy BMX that he had built for himself and a ten-speed mountain bike that Siddharth usually rode. Marc started putting air into the mountain bike’s tires but after three pumps paused and gave him a look.

  “What’s up?” said Siddharth. Marc seemed annoyed, and Siddharth wondered if he’d done something wrong. Marc opened his mouth to say something but then resumed his pumping. “What is it?” asked Siddharth.

  “Nothing.” Marc was shaking his head. “But now you see what I gotta live with.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean my mom. She gets sick almost every single week. She should be in the Guinness Book of World Records—the only woman who gets her period four times a month.”

  “Dude,” said Siddharth, “she’s your mom.”

  “So? What’s your point?”

  “My point?” Siddharth wanted to say so many things. He wanted to tell Marc that it was wrong to talk about his own mother like that—that he would regret it when she died one day. He wanted to know if something was really wrong with Ms. Farber. Was she really like this all the time? But he didn’t want to ruin his sleepover. “I don’t have a point. I just don’t wanna hear about her freaking period.”

  * * *

  A subtle wind tickled Siddharth’s ears as they rode through the sand-covered streets of Woodford. His nose started to run. He wiped it on the sleeve of his quilted blue jacket, which had once belonged to Arjun. It seemed like his day with Marc was going well. He just hoped he hadn’t messed things up by saying that thing about Ms. Farber’s period. They flew down a steep hill, and the combination of cold and adrenaline slowed his mind. He loved riding through Woodford, which was so much nicer than South Haven. It had more Jews than Italians, and they had much bigger houses. Their yards were the size of entire parks, and they contained trees that were as tall as the Twin Towers. The boys rode by Siddharth’s favorite home, which was separated from the street by a stone wall and remote-controlled gate. Its three stories had five large columns that made it look awesome—like the White House, or the mansion from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. A few minutes later, they arrived at a deli located in a red wooden building at a large but quiet intersection. They got off their bikes, leaning them against a dust-covered freezer in which bags of ice were stored.

  Marc told Siddharth to wait with the bikes.

  “This is Woodford,” said Siddharth. “No one’s gonna steal ’em.”

  “Bro, you look like you’re ten. Just stay outside.”

  Siddharth sat on a boulder at the parking lot’s edge, staring at the passing cars and thinking about his father. He hoped Mohan Lal was working on his book and not drinking or moping on the sofa. A disturbing image flashed in his mind. He saw his father lying in pain on the bathroom floor, and nobody was there to help him. Siddharth spotted a pay phone and wondered if he should call home—just to check on things—but by the time he decided this was a good idea, Marc emerged from the squat wooden shop brandishing a pack of five cigars. He lit one with a match, then handed it over. Siddharth had tried a cigarette before, in India, with his cousin, but he had never smoked a cigar. This one had a plastic tip. He brought it to his lips and sucked as hard as he could. The smoke singed his lungs, and he coughed until his eyes watered. Until his throat burned.

  Smirking, Marc lit up his own cigar. “Dude, don’t inhale that shit. Just taste the smoke—savor it, then blow it out.”

  Siddharth hunched forward, resting his hands on his thighs. He thought the cough was slowing down, and then it flared up again. He saw a cop drive by and felt a surge of panic. But the cop kept on going.

  “Don’t waste that shit,” said Marc.

  His throat still hurt, but he took another drag. This time, he made sure to keep the smoke confined to his mouth. It tasted kind of sweet. Another pull made him light and dizzy. He smiled.

  Marc nodded. “That’s what I’m talking about. Shit, I needed that.”

  The boys gave each other a high five. They kept on smoking in silence.

  Eventually, Marc spit out a wad of phlegm and said, “That woman is a total maniac. Marc, I have a headache. Marc, I have a cold. Help me. Help, Marc. Make it all go away.”

  Siddharth giggled at this scratchy, high-pitched imitation of Ms. Farber.

  Marc’s face suddenly became serious, and he looked Siddharth straight in the eye. “A cold my ass,” he said. “Why do you think they got divorced?”

  He wasn’t sure, but it seemed like his friend wanted an actual answer. “I dunno. Communication problems?”

  “Yeah, but why? Why didn’t they communicate, Sid?”

  Siddharth shrugged and puffed on his stogie.

  “I’ll tell you why: Rachel’s a greedy bitch. So my dad got with someone else.” Marc smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “Honestly, I don’t blame him. I’d do the same thing if I were him.”

  * * *

  Ms. Farber didn’t emerge from her bedroom that evening. For dinner, Marc made them turkey sandwiches, slicing onions and tomatoes and teaching Siddharth how t
o correctly apply mustard. You had to use the red piece of the plastic container to dab it onto the bread, and whenever possible, the bread had to be rye. Siddharth had never tasted rye before, but these were the best sandwiches he had ever eaten.

  Late at night, they went into the guest room, which had a sofa bed, cable TV, and a VCR. Marc put on a porno, and Siddharth couldn’t believe what appeared on the screen. People were having actual sex. There were close-ups of men fingering women, of women giving blow jobs. Gigantic penises were thrusting into hairy vaginas. In one scene, four people were having sex at the same time. At first, Siddharth was a little disgusted. Then he started worrying about the size of his own puny dick. Soon all these thoughts vanished, and a strong erection was pressing into the zipper of his jeans.

  “Dude,” said Marc, “I’m gonna go to the bathroom and take care of my boner.” When he got back, he was grasping a minibottle of whiskey, the kind of thing they handed out on airplanes. He cracked it open and held it out to Siddharth.

  He shook his head. “Nah, I’m not in the mood.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Marc, downing the whole thing in a long gulp. “Yo, the bathroom’s all yours.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t just sit there with a hard-on all night. Go and relieve yourself.”

  He walked to Marc’s bathroom and turned on the light. He placed his hands on the granite counter and looked in the mirror. All the toothpaste stains on the mirror were nasty, but they reminded him of a sky full of stars. He spotted the beginnings of a pimple on his forehead. The pimple was pleasing; pimples meant he was normal. And his skin was light in tone, just a shade darker than Marc’s. He was Indian, but at least he wasn’t a dark one. The problem was that he would be twelve in a few weeks, and he barely had any hair on his balls. He put his hand down his pants and grasped his swollen penis. When he’d tried masturbating, it had never really happened—he had stroked and pulled, but nothing came out. He would die if anybody knew that his dick didn’t work. He would die if anybody knew that he was a freak who couldn’t jerk off.

  He tucked his penis up into the waistband of his underwear and pulled his shirt over his crotch, then headed back to the guest room, holding up his hand for a high five.

  “Dude,” said Marc, “get your cummy fingers away from me.”

  Siddharth sat back down feeling contented. As far as Marc was concerned, he was normal. As far Marc was concerned, he worked just fine.

  * * *

  Upon waking up in the morning, Siddharth discovered that Ms. Farber was already in the kitchen. She was listening to classical music and flipping pancakes, and her face looked like it had gone back to normal.

  “Morning, boys,” she said. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Of course we’re hungry,” said Marc. “I’ve been living on cold cuts for three days straight.”

  Smiling, she stacked some pancakes on two plates, which she placed in front of the barstools. Siddharth relished his breakfast. The pancakes contained canned peaches and walnuts, two things he’d never tasted before as far as he could remember. While he shoveled food into his mouth, Ms. Farber asked him if he might want to be a professor like his father. He said no, because professors barely made any money. He wanted to be rich. He wanted to own a DeLorean, Marty McFly’s car in Back to the Future. He wanted to own more than one mansion, like Donald Trump.

  Ms. Farber laughed. “Well, I hope some of your ambition rubs off on my Marc.”

  “Whatever,” said Marc. “I’m gonna work for my father.”

  “Sorry, Marc,” she countered, “I’m afraid you have greater things in store.”

  “There ain’t nothing wrong with scrap metal, Mom. Last time I checked, it pays your bills just fine.”

  Siddharth didn’t know where to look. He gripped the back of his neck and peered down at some leftover gobs of maple syrup. “I better call my dad,” he said. “He can come pick me up.”

  “Pick you up?” said Ms. Farber. “Marc’s father’s away, and we’ve got no other plans. You should stay, Siddharth. You boys can have a little fun. And Mohan can get some bonus time with his book.” She pulled a packet of green cigarettes out of a drawer. She lit one with a lighter that was meant for the stove. Smoke streamed out of her nose.

  * * *

  Later in the day, while Ms. Farber was reading on the family room sofa, Siddharth and Marc were back on the kitchen barstools, eating one of her bland lentil soups and watching MTV. A video by Bell Biv DeVoe came on, and Siddharth told Marc to turn up the volume. He loved this group’s dance moves, and their women had long legs and enormous tits. Marc said, “Screw that. This song is gay.” He said that rap was cool, but real hip-hop—not pussies like Bell Biv DeVoe.

  Siddharth heard his father’s signature honk, one short beep followed by two long ones. He was about to get up, but Ms. Farber rose from the sofa and told him to finish his food in peace. She needed to have a word with his father. Siddharth’s stomach tightened. He hoped that she hadn’t found the Playboys. He hoped there wasn’t another problem with Mr. Latella.

  She went out to the driveway via the kitchen door and returned a few minutes later with Mohan Lal, who kissed Siddharth on the forehead. He used the sleeve of his Michigan sweatshirt to soak up the saliva and turned to stare at his father, who was wearing a tweed jacket and his especially thick bifocals. This was the first time Mohan Lal had ever been inside Marc’s home, and Siddharth felt uneasy. This was his special place now, and he didn’t want to share it.

  Ms. Farber placed a bowl of lentil soup in the microwave. “Boys, why don’t you keep watching somewhere else?”

  “I thought TV was bad for you,” said Marc. “Should a kid who’s grounded really be watching so much television?”

  “Scoot,” said Ms. Farber. “The adults have to look at some paperwork.”

  Marc grabbed their dirty bowls and plunked them down in the sink. “What kind of paperwork?”

  “My business plan.”

  “Wait, you’re starting a business?” said Marc, walking toward the sofas at the far end of the room.

  The microwave chimed, and Ms. Farber removed the soup. “Marc, why don’t we stop while we’re ahead?” She set the soup down in front of Mohan Lal, who was now on a barstool beside Siddharth.

  Marc jumped onto the cushiony brown sofa and turned on Fox. “I mean, I thought a business had to, like, actually produce something. Last time I checked, psychologists don’t really make anything. They just talk. They talk and talk and talk until there’s nothing left in your head.”

  Siddharth laughed, but he wished Marc wouldn’t give his mother any attitude in front Mohan Lal.

  Ms. Farber slammed the dishwasher shut, rattling some plates inside. “Marc, it’s like your father’s sitting over there on the sofa. And trust me, I don’t mean that in a good way.” She walked over to a cardboard box below the kitchen window and started sifting through a stack of papers.

  Mohan Lal spooned some soup into his mouth. “Mrs. Farber,” he said, “this soup is delicious.”

  “Really?” She looked up at him over the rims of her reading glasses. “Wow, a compliment. I could get used to that.” She went back to her papers but then paused. “By the way, it’s Ms. Farber. But you need to start calling me Rachel.”

  Mohan Lal swallowed more lentils in silence.

  “Hey,” said Ms. Farber, “how about a glass of wine?”

  Mohan Lal bit into a piece of bread. “Thank you, but I’ve been writing all weekend and now have to get to my grading.” The bread made his words hard to decipher, and Siddharth elbowed him in the thigh. He hated it when his father spoke with his mouth full. He noticed that Ms. Farber had placed her hand over her own mouth. Was she laughing at him?

  “You sure?” she said. “I’ve got a lovely merlot.”

  Mohan Lal turned to Siddharth. “Have you finished your homework, son?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m
sure.”

  Mohan Lal told Ms. Farber that he would have half a glass of wine.

  7

  Snow Day

  Ms. Farber left her job at Deer Run in the first half of January. This turn of events was upsetting. Siddharth wondered what it would mean for him and Marc. But things kept going strong with this new friendship, and Ms. Farber continued the karate carpool. It was upon her suggestion that the four of them made plans to attend a regional martial arts tournament in Springfield, Massachusetts. Marc had been nominated to represent the dojo in a sparring competition for the thirteen-to-fourteen age group, and Ms. Farber arranged for Siddharth to participate in an exhibition forms demonstration.

  He was looking forward to a day trip with his friend, and also to the possibility of winning a medal to hang around one of Arjun’s many baseball trophies. But as the Sunday of the tournament approached, he began to grow anxious, knowing that he might mess up in front of the other kids, that his father might do something embarrassing. He lay awake remembering the previous year’s PTA meeting. It seemed inevitable that Mohan Lal would do something odd again, would say some strange, incomprehensible thing to one of the referees or Ms. Farber.

  The morning of the event, the Aroras pulled into Ms. Farber’s driveway just after ten. Marc was already outside in his big black parka, waiting beside a dumpster filled with debris from his mother’s renewed program of renovations. Ms. Farber came out five minutes later wearing black jeans, a purple coat, and a furry cake-shaped hat. She pulled a steel thermos out of a brown paper bag and poured out a Styrofoam cup of steamy hot chocolate for each of them.

  It was a cloudy, windy morning with sporadic flurries. Mohan Lal drove especially slowly, which seemed to annoy Marc, who kept saying he would be glad to lend a hand at the wheel. Siddharth forced himself to laugh. He wondered why his father had to drive like such a fairy. As they headed north, his mind drifted to Arjun. He felt guilty for admitting it, but he was relieved that Christmas break was over and his brother was back at college.