South Haven

by Hirsh Sawhney

  Mohan Lal said, “Boys, wouldn’t you like to know who you were in a past life? Marc, wouldn’t you like to know if you were an officer in Napoleon’s army? What if you were Roman senators, or Julius Caesar himself?”

  Siddharth sucked down some Sprite. “I’d only wanna know if I was, like, Cornelius Vanderbilt or J.D. Rockefeller or something.”

  “I’d be Michael Jordan,” said Marc. “Or maybe Donald Trump.”

  “Dude, they’re not dead,” said Siddharth.

  Marc smirked.

  “What now?” asked Ms. Farber.

  “Nothing,” said Marc. “But last time around, I musta been some sort of serial killer or something.”

  Siddharth laughed, but tensed upon noticing his father staring out the window.

  Mohan Lal was grinning to himself. “Siddharth,” he said after a moment, “tell me—what happens to a caterpillar as it grows?”

  “What? Dad, I have no idea what you’re saying.”

  “A caterpillar,” said Mohan Lal. “How does it grow?”

  Marc grabbed a second roll. “It becomes a butterfly. What’s going on with the food? It’s like they’re flying in the subs from Italy or something.”

  Mohan Lal’s eyes were gleaming. “Kids, answer me this: Do you think a butterfly can remember his life as a caterpillar? Does it have any recollection of what things were like before it could fly?”

  Siddharth began to answer the question, but Ms. Farber cut him off: “Oh, I see what you’re saying. That’s quite an analogy.”

  Marc said, “I have no freaking clue what any of you are talking about.”

  “Honey, think of the caterpillar as our soul,” said Ms. Farber. “Its metamorphosis is like our rebirth into a new body.”

  Siddharth glanced up at the ceiling. He had never noticed how high it was, but today it seemed a hundred feet tall. The ceiling was lined with wooden beams and heavy, tubular piping. He wondered what would happen if one of these ventilation pipes were to fall. Would it kill somebody? Or just wound them?

  Mohan Lal took a sip of wine. “Yes, we could be like the caterpillar,” he said. “Death could just be our cocoon.” He let out a sigh of satisfaction. “The ancient Hindus, they understood some truths. They knew about maths—even love.”

  Marc crunched on an ice cube. “If they were so smart, then why are they all so poor now?”

  “Jesus, Marc!” snapped Ms. Farber.

  “What? Haven’t you seen those commercials? The kids all got those big bellies. They got all those flies buzzing around their heads.”

  Siddharth forced himself to cackle.

  “He’s right, Rachel,” said Mohan Lal. “What can I tell you, son? If you aren’t a forward thinker, then it’s easy for others to destroy you.”

  When the food finally arrived, Mohan Lal proposed a toast. He called Ms. Farber a wise entrepreneur. He said they felt grateful to her, and were lucky to call her a friend. It dawned on Siddharth that his father had never proposed a toast to him. He tried to remember if the man had ever toasted his mother.

  * * *

  He lay in bed that night wondering if he and Marc had been friends in a previous lifetime. Then he fell asleep and had another strange dream. In this dream, he got home from school and the house was completely empty. Everything felt eerie and looked the way it did when he was much younger. The family room had no skylight, the fake wooden paneling still lined the hallway that led to the bedrooms, and the old National Parks wallpaper covered the wall behind the leather sofas. Staring out the kitchen window, he found that the backyard was occupied by big machines—yellow backhoes and bulldozers and a couple of smaller orange ones. There were nine of them in total, just sitting there like giant, lazy animals. He felt relieved upon spotting Mohan Lal, who was standing beside a dozer, his hand resting on one of its enormous fanged tires. Mr. Iverson from up the street was standing next to Mohan Lal. He still had a ponytail and a thick beard. He was wearing a Red Sox cap. Siddharth jogged toward the men, and Mr. Iverson picked him up, raising him into the air so that he could peer inside the machine. A baby was lying on the driver’s seat sucking on a bottle. It was a girl, and she had brown skin and a big crown of curls. Siddharth felt as if he knew this child, and a jolt of electricity pulsed through his bones.

  And then he woke up.

  He stared at the ceiling, his father’s muffled snores echoing through the wall. His waist felt moist, so he ran a hand under his sheets. They were wet, as was his underwear. He felt hopeful. He might have just had a wet dream. He touched the wet patches again, then smelled his fingers. They were sour. Realizing what had actually happened, he went to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. As he soaped himself, the image of the curly haired baby lingered in his mind. It was her. He closed his eyes, allowing the hot water to pour over his face. He had previously told himself that dead meant the opposite of infinity. Like infinity, it was something human beings couldn’t truly understand, so there was no point in thinking too hard about it. But if all that caterpillar bullshit were real, then she might be alive.

  She could be in a zillion possible towns or countries, and if they ever passed each other on the street, they wouldn’t even recognize one another. But it didn’t seem to matter. She would have a new family who loved her, and he wouldn’t have to feel bad each time he offered up his forehead to Ms. Farber. He could stop feeling tense whenever Ms. Farber grasped Mohan Lal’s hand, for his mother would one day love another person too.

  Siddharth dried himself in his bedroom, then stuffed his soiled sheets into his closet. Sunlight streaked his worn, stained mattress. He heard a dull rumble overhead, squirrels scuttling across the roof. Some blue jays were squawking. His mother hadn’t liked these birds. They had ugly calls, and they bullied the other birds that frequented her feeder. He wasn’t thinking straight and needed to talk to somebody. He didn’t want Marc to think he was a freak, and he didn’t want to worry his father. Besides, Mohan Lal was clearly confused. One minute he was an atheist, and then he was a Buddhist. Now he wouldn’t shut up about the ancient Hindus. Siddharth picked up the family room phone and punched in Arjun’s eleven-digit number.

  His brother answered after five rings, and his voice was tired and scratchy. Siddharth suspected he had a hangover. He started rehashing what had happened with Michigan in the NCAA finals, saying how Weber had really blown it.

  “Are you serious?” said Arjun. “This is why you’re calling me at eight in the morning? Siddharth, we’ve been over it, like, five times already.”

  “Jesus, shoot me for caring.”

  “Siddharth, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing’s going on. Can’t I just call my big brother?”

  “You better tell me,” said Arjun. “Now.”

  “Well, it’s kind of a weird question.”

  “Just talk. You can tell me anything.”

  Siddharth took a deep breath. “Like, reincarnation and all that stuff—do you believe in it?”

  Arjun sighed. “You know, I wish Dad wouldn’t burden you with all of his fundamentalist crap.”

  “It wasn’t Dad, I swear.”

  “Look, you’re still young, but you’re mature—so I’ll be honest. I used to believe a lot of things, but the more I read, I just can’t anymore. Religion, it’s just meant to control people—to make them feel better. But it’s all a total fiction.”

  “Dad used to say the same thing.”

  “Used to being the operative words here. If you ask me—and you are asking me—reincarnation was something cooked up by people in power. They just wanted to justify their lives. They wanted to suppress the people who were below them in the caste system.”

  “What’s the caste system?”

  “Siddharth, you should know that. Look it up.”

  He swallowed hard. “Arjun?”

  “What?”

  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Say it, then.”

  He paused, unsure of why he hadn’t
said anything before—unsure of why he was saying something now. “I think Dad has a girlfriend, Arjun.”

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me. Dad—he has a girlfriend.”

  “A what?”

  Siddharth told him about the karate tournament. He told him about the books they exchanged and the business plan—all the dinners, goodbye kisses, and hand-holding. As he spoke, he knew he was betraying Mohan Lal. He might have even been betraying Marc. But he couldn’t hold back. He couldn’t hold back even though he might be ruining things for himself.

  Upon completing his narration, he was breathless. “You still there?” he asked.

  “I’m here.” Arjun’s voice sounded higher. “I just don’t understand why this is the first time I’m hearing about this.” Nobody spoke for a while, but eventually Arjun broke the silence. “It’s just selfish. Dad is so fucking selfish.”

  Siddharth bit the inside of his cheek, removing a sizable chunk of skin. He knew that he’d messed up. Why was he always messing up?

  3

  Happy Birthday, Bobby

  During his twenty-month career at Deer Run, Siddharth had been invited to a total of seven birthday parties. He had only attended one of them, Sharon Nagorski’s, back when they were still friends. The other invitations had either come from popular kids whose parents made them invite everybody, or those who were desperate for friends. As soon as any invitations arrived, he normally threw them in the compactor. Unfortunately, Ms. Farber was over the day the invitation from Bobby Meyers arrived. As he was eyeing the envelope, which had been penned in fine calligraphy, she said, “Ooh, what’s that, honey? Why don’t you open it up?”

  He tore it open, noting that the card inside looked like a poster Arjun had once owned, back before he’d put up the ones of Bob Dylan and the Beatles. It depicted a bikini-clad blonde atop a Ferrari, and she was coaxing invitees with a curled finger.

  Ms. Farber snatched it out of his hands. “Bobby Meyers . . . Marc, isn’t that Jocelyn Meyers’s boy?”

  “Who?” said Marc.

  “She’s an architect, I think. Her husband is definitely a podiatrist. This is good, if you ask me.”

  “Good?” said Marc. “Dealing with other people’s nasty-ass foot fungus is good?”

  Siddharth let out a laugh and slapped him five.

  Later that week, Ms. Farber called Bobby’s mother, RSVPing for him and soliciting an invitation for Marc. She said she was letting Marc go despite his grounding since he’d been so positive lately. “If you keep it up, Marc,” she said, “you might just drive before the age of twenty-five.”

  The party was at Amity Rec, an arcade on the Woodford–New Haven border. Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber drove the boys there the following Saturday. As the adults listened to a report about the Democratic presidential primaries, Siddharth grew nervous. He dreaded the idea of Marc seeing him among his classmates. If Luca were to say something, Marc might find out the truth about him. He might stop talking to him, and then Siddharth would go back to being alone. He’d been especially anxious about their friendship over the past couple of weeks. Marc had quit karate because he couldn’t juggle it with baseball. Without karate to link them, Siddharth worried that that their connection might start to dissolve.

  Fortunately, they were still seeing a lot of each other, and they spoke on the phone as well. In fact, not much had changed at all. Siddharth had decided to take a break from karate too, but Ms. Farber was still picking him up from school, even when Marc had practice. Sometimes she brought him back to her house. Other times, she brought him straight to his own home, and together they waited for Mohan Lal to return from work. When Mohan Lal finally arrived, he cooked them delicious dinners—Indian food, but also his lasagnas and eggplant parmigiana.

  Before reaching the arcade, they stopped at a record store to buy Bobby a birthday present. Mohan Lal insisted they get him a cassette and not a CD. He said, “I’m fifty-eight years old, and I’ve yet to indulge in such extravagances.” Marc picked out a tape by NWA, but Ms. Farber said she didn’t like the looks of it. “Those men on the front,” she said, “they look like criminals.”

  Marc said, “Mom, I thought you used to be an artist.”

  “I am an artist. But something tells me this doesn’t qualify as art.”

  They ended up opting for Siddharth’s choice, an album by EMF, and then Ms. Farber used some newspaper and Marc’s new Swiss Army knife to wrap it. Her wrapping job failed to impress Siddharth, whose mother had been an expert at such chores. By the time they pulled into the parking lot, the party had already started. Mohan Lal handed Siddharth a quarter and told him to call them at Ms. Farber’s twenty minutes before they were ready to come home.

  “Marc, I’m trusting you,” said Ms. Farber. “Siddharth, make sure he stays out of trouble.”

  “Mom, I’m trusting you,” replied Marc.

  The boys strode past gaggles of smoking adolescents, Puerto Ricans with flattops and gang beads, and ponytailed white kids with jean jackets and pimples. They went straight to the food court and found the tables with the balloons. None of the other guests were around, but Bobby Meyers was there in a blue blazer and jeans. He was carrying a clipboard and had a leather fanny pack around his waist. “Welcome,” he said, jotting something down before holding out his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Thanks,” said Siddharth. “This is Marc. Your mom said he could come.”

  “Oh, I know this guy.” Bobby grinned, revealing a dimple. “We go way back.”

  Marc shook his hand and clapped him on the back. “What up? Happy birthday, Bobby.”

  “Everyone’s having a great time.” Bobby pulled out two rolls of tokens from his fanny pack. “These are for you—spend ’em any way you want.” He winked, then handed them over. “Oh, and please keep an eye on the clock. Pizza will be served in precisely forty-three minutes.”

  “Thanks,” said Siddharth.

  “Wait,” said Marc, “should we synchronize our watches?”

  Bobby’s face became stony for a second, but then he broke into a smile. “Guy, you’re hysterical. That’s funny stuff.”

  * * *

  After a few games of pinball, Marc led Siddharth toward a video game that simulated the experience of piloting a real military helicopter. Marc inserted five tokens into it, and the game rattled and shook as he gunned down enemy aircraft. He played so well that a group of ponytailers started hovering around. When he finally lost, the ponytailers clapped, and a screen prompted him to enter his initials into a top-scorers chart.

  Siddharth patted him on the shoulder. “You should be a pilot someday.”

  “My cousin Brian,” said Marc, “he’s in the Israeli air force—only twenty-two, and the kid flies an F-15.”

  As they headed back to the food court, Siddharth felt someone flick him in the ear. He turned around and saw Luca Peroti. Shit, he thought. Siddharth had just seen him a day earlier, but Luca looked different. He’d pierced his left ear, and his hair had changed too. It was shaved on the sides and floppy on top, just like Marc’s.

  “What up?” said Luca. “No hug, kid?”

  “Hey, Luca.” Siddharth wanted to flee.

  “Sid, who’s your friend here?” said Marc.

  “Yo, Marc,” said Luca, “it’s Luca. Luca P.? From basketball? Holy Infant basketball?”

  “Rings a bell,” said Marc.

  Luca smiled, revealing his multicolored braces. “You’re a jokester, kid. We were in the same league for a whole freaking season.”

  Squinting, Marc tilted his head to one side. “Wait, you were, like, fatter back then. Right?”

  Luca’s face turned red, and he glanced down at his black Adidas. “Yo, Marc, why you hanging out with this tool?”

  Siddharth swallowed. He wished Ms. Farber hadn’t made them come.

  “You mean Sidney?” Marc placed a hand on Siddharth’s shoulder. “Are you calling him a tool? Because he’s, like, one of my best friends. So if
you’re calling him a tool, you’re kind of calling me a tool too.”

  “Yo, I was just kidding,” said Luca.

  “You sure?” said Marc, puffing out his chest.

  “Siddharth and I go way back,” said Luca. “We’ve been friends for, like, years.”

  Marc smiled. “You know, Siddharth here just ran out of tokens. You got any left? I’m sure he’d appreciate a few.”

  Luca stuffed his hands into the pockets of his acid-washed jeans. He pulled out some candy wrappers and two rust-colored tokens, which he offered to Siddharth.

  “Thanks,” he said, suppressing a smile.

  “That was extremely kind,” said Marc. “You know, it’s important to be respectful to this kid. He’s, like, royalty.”

  “What?” said Luca.

  Siddharth furrowed his brow. He had no idea where Marc was going with this.

  A PA announcement interrupted them, requesting all members of the Meyers birthday party to proceed to the food court.

  “His great-great-grandfather?” said Marc. “He was, like, an Indian prince—with a castle and elephants and shit. He even had people to wipe his ass for him.”

  Siddharth figured it out: Marc was referring to something Mohan Lal had said to Ms. Farber ages ago, way back in the fall.

  Marc’s eyes were gleaming. “I guess that means you should probably bow down—or kiss his hand or something.”

  Luca let out a nervous laugh.

  “Go on,” said Marc.

  Luca flicked his hair out of his eyes. “Are you for real, man?”

  Marc let out a cackle, then punched Luca in the shoulder. “Nah, I’m just fucking with you.”

  The three boys headed to the food court, which had purple carpeting and wallpaper with multicolored lasers. As Siddharth ate his soggy pizza and french fries, he felt uneasy. On one hand, he was sitting between Marc Kaufman and Luca Peroti, and so many of his classmates were there to witness this triumph. Then again, good things never lasted, and Luca couldn’t be trusted.