Even while she argued, she could see the unfairness of accusing Peter of a position that he had never taken. Peter had never said a mocking or disparaging word about Sudhir. It was her own mind that had betrayed her, in the early throes of passion.
When the benediction was over, the audience waited until the professors in their colorful robes left the stage and walked down the aisle toward the exit doors. As he passed her, Sudhir mouthed, “I’ll meet you outside. Near the tent.” She nodded and blew him a kiss, wanting Peter to notice the gesture. Sudhir gave her a startled smile, and then he was past her.
As she moved toward the doors, Peter fell in step with her. “Hey,” he said. “You’re making me grovel. I’m not used to that.” Although there was a teasing note in his voice, Maggie could hear the undercurrent of frustration.
She stopped and turned to face him. “What do you want from me, Peter?” she said, aware that at any moment she could be overheard or spotted by one of Sudhir’s students or colleagues. “My husband is waiting for me outside. Don’t you know when something is over?”
She had never taken this tone with him, and Peter raised his right eyebrow. He watched her in silence for a full second before he said, “Boy, you’re cold.” He spun around and strode away from her.
She resisted the reflexive urge to ask him to stop and to apologize. This was not how she’d wanted it to end with Peter. But she was paralyzed. Something about Peter’s accusation of coldness, coupled with his own cool rejection, the aloof way he had gazed at her before walking away, as if the warmth and sweetness between them had never happened, echoed Wallace’s abrupt abandonment so many years earlier. Maggie stood alone, shivering slightly, a pinpoint of stillness in a crowd of shouting, moving, laughing people. In a flash, her attraction to Peter became crystal-clear—they were the same kind of men, Peter and Wallace, charismatic, enigmatic, capable of great warmth and great detachment.
Stunned by the insight, Maggie allowed herself to be moved forward by the cheerful crowd, hardly aware of being propelled toward the doors. Was she really so obtuse that she’d never recognized the similarities between Peter and her father? If so, she should turn in her license and take down her shingle.
She walked out of the gym and into the lobby and heard a soft “Hi.” It was Sudhir. “I thought we were going to meet outside near the tent,” she said, thankful that she’d sent Peter on his way, her heart lurching at the thought of the close call.
Sudhir shrugged. “Once we got outside, I realized I could just wait for you here.” He took her hand in his, and she hoped he wouldn’t notice how sweaty her palm was.
“But what if I’d come out of another door? What if I’d gone down a different aisle?” She realized that she was prattling, waiting for her heart to regain its normal rhythm, wanting to distract Sudhir from noticing that anything was amiss.
He shrugged again. “Based on where you were sitting, the probability of which door you’d exit from was over eighty percent.”
She burst out laughing. The answer was so Sudhir. She squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you waited for me, honey.”
Maggie stood under the giant white tent, a glass of wine in her hand. Sudhir was talking to the parents of a graduating student. Marianne Johnson, who taught in the psychology department, came up to her. “Hey, Maggie. Long time, no see. How have you been?”
As they chatted, Maggie looked out of the corner of her eye to see Peter standing outside the tent, his head bent a little as he listened intently to a young woman in a white dress with tanned arms. The sun caught in Peter’s hair when he threw back his head to laugh at something the woman had said, and Maggie felt her throat tighten. She forced her attention back to what Marianne was saying.
“It should be illegal to be that handsome, yes?” Marianne said, and with a start, Maggie realized that Marianne had caught her looking at Peter. She blushed, struggled for a lighthearted response, but her mind froze. “Yup,” she said, nodding, wishing away the gruffness in her voice.
She kept her eyes focused on Marianne and, as soon as she could, excused herself and headed toward Sudhir. “Oh, hi,” Sudhir said as she approached. “Let me introduce you to a few people. This is my wife, Maggie.”
She saw the usual mix of surprise and calculation in their eyes as they came to grips with the fact that Professor Bose, whom they’d heard so much about from their children, was married to a black woman. Usually, it amused her, their reaction, but today it barely registered. She took his arm and squeezed, their usual signal, and sure enough, after a few more minutes of chitchatting, he pulled her aside and asked, “What’s up?”
“Do you want to stay much longer?” she asked. “I have a headache.”
He grinned. “I was ready to leave a half hour ago. You know me and these affairs. Let’s go.”
They stepped into the bright sunshine, passing within a couple of feet of Peter; if Sudhir noticed him, he didn’t say. Peter seemed totally engrossed in his conversation with the woman he had been talking to earlier. Maggie realized with a pang that he didn’t so much as look up as they walked by.
And that’s a good thing, she told herself as they walked toward the parking garage. Peter will be gone in a few weeks. And then it will be time to start living the rest of your life with Sudhir. The rest of your life.
BOOK THREE
31
HE WAS LEAVING town. Forever. The movers had picked up his furniture yesterday. He had loaded his car last night, eager to head out of town first thing in the morning. He was driving cross-country, headed toward his sister’s house in Washington, D.C., giving himself a week to make the leisurely drive. The plan was to stop at a few national parks along the way.
He walked out of the cottage where he’d spent the past year without so much as a backward glance and got into his car. He hoped to beat the rush-hour traffic on his way out of town.
R.E.M.’s “Bad Day” blared from his stereo as he got onto the freeway. He sang along. There was a heavy feeling in his heart but he ignored it.
He was almost past the Cedarville exit when he found himself yanking the steering wheel to the right and getting off at the exit ramp. It was an impulsive, almost unconscious decision and it took him a second before he understood that he was heading toward downtown Cedarville. When he got there, he realized that it was too early, so he headed to Dolby’s for breakfast. He sat at a corner table, hunched over his blueberry and granola pancakes, arguing with himself, commanding himself to stick to the plan, to head down to Orchard Road and get back on the freeway. Not to do what he wanted to do. It would be better this way, he knew, cleaner. That way, there would be no mess for someone else to clean up. He knew this.
He lingered over breakfast. His throat was so dry that he ordered an OJ, flagged down a waitress who was walking by. She was the chatty type, smiling suggestively at him as she set his glass down, and normally, he would’ve enjoyed the mild flirtation. He had spent so much time in places where women were kept behind locked doors, walled-off in their homes, or covered in their chadors, that he considered it one of the perks of returning home to America, the easy flirtations, the light conversations, the simple pleasure of seeing women on the streets, in restaurants, in the movie theaters. Normally, he would’ve smiled back at the waitress, tried to guess where she was from by her accent, maybe lightly touched her hand as he paid the bill. Not today. Not now, not for the last year, because all his senses had been engaged by a single woman. Who was not single at all but married.
He smiled grimly at the joke. He paid the bill and left the restaurant. It was still only nine a.m. Too early. Too risky. Besides, there was no hurry. It was Tuesday, and he knew she didn’t go in until two p.m. on Tuesday; she used the mornings to catch up on her paperwork. He would wait.
He wandered around downtown, window-shopping to kill the time. He thought that he might buy her something, but he was too agitated, too restless, to walk into a store and deal with a salesperson. No, he needed to be alone, so he made his
way to the little park with the wooden benches and the trees that grew tall around the riverbank. He sat on one of the benches and stared at the water. He had seen so many rivers in his line of work. Rivers so dry that they looked more like the suggestion of one, a fingernail scratch on parched land. Rivers lush and clean and swift-flowing like this one, surrounded by abundant earth. Rivers dark and oily with human blood. Rivers bearing the carcasses of dead animals while children splashed and played at their edges. Rivers humming with fish and rivers sinister with crocodiles and alligators.
This river was nice. He knew that if he plunged his hand into it, it would be cold and the water would taste sweet. There would be no foul taste, no chalky or dusty flavor, no odor. No suspicious-looking object would be lying in its bed. In fact, from where he sat, he could see clear to its green bottom. He knew the taste of such rivers. They tasted like home. Like America—reliable, tidy, organized, safe.
You’re nuts, he thought in disgust. She’s made you loopy. Better watch yourself. He had seen it many times, among soldiers and war correspondents. Love made you loopy. Dreamy. Tricked you into thinking that the world was a nice place. Made you forget the dangers. And that was all it took—a moment’s forgetfulness. A second’s sloppiness—getting into the wrong car, trusting the wrong person, not checking out of a hotel in time, stopping to help a stranded traveler, not being on guard for an IED, not being suspicious of the young man wearing a bulky jacket on a hot summer’s day. You closed your eyes for a second to imagine a loved one’s face, took your eyes off an unknown object to glance instead at a photograph or finger the medallion you wore around your neck, and the next minute, all that was left of you was that finger. He had seen it so many times, and he wasn’t going to end up like that, no siree, he wasn’t.
And yet he had to see her. One final time. He couldn’t leave town, not like this, not after how he had misbehaved at commencement. He’d had no right to accuse her of coldness when all she was doing was protecting herself. But that was the very fact that had stung him so—that she felt she needed protection against him.
He rose from the bench. The late-May sun blazed in the sky. He would simply drive by her house, and if the husband’s car was not there, he would knock on the door to say a quick goodbye. He wouldn’t even enter the house—he didn’t want to know its layout, didn’t want to have to imagine her in its rooms. And yes, he would apologize. He hadn’t meant to act like a bastard, he really hadn’t. That’s all he wanted to do. Tell her that he hadn’t meant what he said. Yup, that was what he would do, all he wanted to do, and then he would get the hell out of this sodden town and not stop until he was over the state line.
It was ten a.m. and she was still in her sweats. She had woken up at six this morning, taken a quick shower, made herself coffee, and then hit the stack of papers on her desk. She had worked steadily for three hours, and now her back was stiff.
She rose from her chair, rubbing her back with her left hand. Maybe if she left for work a little early, she could squeeze in a quick walk around the lake. She had meetings starting at three, which meant more sitting. She felt a twinge of pain at the thought.
The silence in the house was as thick as carpet. It felt good to have the house to herself, although Sudhir was returning home this evening, and she’d be happy to see him when she got back late tonight. A low humming began somewhere outside her window, the indistinguishable sounds of late spring. She stretched and decided to make herself another cup of coffee.
She had just taken her first sip when she heard a knock on the door.
This is wrong, this is wrong, everything about this is wrong except for the part that is so right, and what is right is so right, might makes right, white is right, right is right, wrong is right, wrong, he said he was wrong, what he’d said to me was wrong, he stood at my doorstep looking so forlorn, little boy blue, so lost and confused, blue, so blue, those baby blue eyes looking at me, searching my face, but wait, his eyes are not blue at all, they’re green, but blue, he’s blue, he’s my little blue man, my blue lover, his white skin blue as ice, his breath against my hot skin like blue vapor, my body lost in space, in ether, which is blue.
I am cold, ice-cold, and he covers me with his naked body; I am hot and he cools me with his naked body. I am lonely and he befriends me with his naked body. I am hungry and he feeds me with his naked body. His autumn hair falls across his forehead and brushes my face; his honey saliva coats my tongue, my open mouth. His face is so near mine, it is my face. When he blinks, his eyelashes tickle me. When he exhales, I inhale his breath. I give up my breasts to the wisdom of his hands.
There is no church that is like this. There is no temple, no mosque, no synagogue that is like this. There is no holy that is like this. There is no evil that is like this. There is no deceit that is like this. Oh, but there is no holy that is like this. This is what religion was invented for—to keep this holy in check. Under control. Because unleashed, it can look like this, it can burn like this fire that is capable of burning down this bed, this house, this life. Because unleashed, it can roar like this, like the sound of the oceans roaring in unison, like the sound of the four winds howling.
And then we are at rest. And then we are spent. Then we are lying on clean sheets in a bed in a house in the twenty-first century. Then our bodies begin to assume their everyday shapes again. Then our breaths come to nest in their own bodies. Then everything falls back into place. Then our tongues reenter their own caves. Then breasts become the business of their bearers. Then the oceans are once again separated by continents and the four winds quit their howling and we become two people again. Then I lie panting, my ear on his chest, listening to the sound of his racing heartbeat calming itself down.
It is in this silence, in its own way as holy as the jumbled noise that went before it, that I hear the bedroom door open.
32
YOU ASK ME why I do what I do and I tell you I don’t know. Gods swear, I telling the truth. Since Tuesday, I asking myself the exact question hundred times, why I do what I do, but I telling you, I not knowing.
One answer is, I’s in shock. This is what happen: I not suppose to go to Maggie house on Tuesday. I suppose to clean for Joseanne madam that morning, but when I gets to her house and begins to clean, her vacuum machine is died. She is all worry because they having party on Friday and need to have the clean house. So I thinks, Maggie not mind if I run in and borrows her cleaning machine. Maggie so generous like that and she introduce me to Joseanne in first place. I think Maggie may be home because sometimes she do her writing work on Tuesday morning. And even if she not home, no problem, I have key and I just go in and take the machine.
Maggie car not in the driveway. I rings doorbell, then I remindering it not working. I knocks the front door two times, and when no answer, I uses my key to go inside. I say, “Hello? Maggie?” but no answer so I thinks she not home. The cleaning machine kept in closet in guest bedroom, I knows. So I goes upstairs to get it.
I opens the door and what I sees, I cannot forget. I cannot forget but I also cannot say. It is so shock that I feel like I going to vomit and faint and laugh and scream all in one breath. Maggie in the guest bed with a guest. A whiteman who is not Sudhir babu. I feel like I have enter the wrong cinema hall and am watching the wrong film. So I just standing there and then my eyes meeting with Maggie’s and for one minute I thinks she is to cry but then her face get mean and she yell, “Get out.” And then I am shutting the bedroom door and running down the steps and into the living room. My hand is on the front door handle when I hears Maggie’s voice saying my name. “Lakshmi,” she call. “Wait. Jesus God. Please wait.”
So I stand like a statue with my hand on the door, waiting for her. My head going buzz-buzz from the inside, like an insect stuck in it. My whole body cover in sweat and again I feels like I will fainting, but I stand. Maybe Maggie say something that take this crooked picture and make it straight again. Maybe she tell me something that make me see I make the mistake
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