Jenn said, “Since you’re both here, we have something to ask.” She folded her hands in her lap and leaned forward. “We would like you to host a wedding for us in the backyard in May, on my birthday. And in July we’ll marry in Bangalore, Hindu style. We’d be honored if you came to the second wedding too.” She looked at Maggie and then Paul. The floating candles lit her face from below, exaggerating the baby-fat curve of her cheeks and the hollows of her soft, hazel eyes. She waited.
Maggie spoke slowly, “I don’t know what to think. It seems so sudden.”
“I know what to think,” Paul said.
Maggie interrupted him. “We hardly know Arun, and we don’t know how to react to your plans.”
“Just give us your blessing. The rest will come.”
“Why the backyard? Why not All Saints’?”
“We’re nondenominational,” Jenn said, “and we’d like to be outdoors.”
Paul drained his glass. The burn in his esophagus felt good. “I think you should do an experiment. Join the military and see what you’re made of. Then come talk to me about a wedding.” He couldn’t sit still and listen to this nonsense. He got up to refill his glass.
Maggie said, “In a way, your father is right. You could try out your relationship before making a commitment that might be too hard to keep.”
Paul stared at her from across the room. First time in a long time that she had stood up for him, albeit in a mealy-mouthed way. When they argued, what he called “mealy-mouthed” she called “diplomatic.” He distrusted diplomacy, an excuse for lies.
Jenn leaned back into the cushions and said, “I know what I’m made of. You two gave me the opportunity to learn.” No one spoke. Jenn rose. “Let’s not spoil Mom’s dinner. It smells so good. We can talk later.”
Queasiness crept from the pit of Paul’s stomach to his gorge. He swallowed, trying not to think about how limited his capacity for booze had become with age. His intolerance to alcohol, his aching arches, gray hair at the temples—all signs he didn’t want to see. He’d eat Maggie’s dinner, indigestion be damned. No one else should sit at the head of his table. He felt ambushed and more than a little pissed off.
During the meal, Arun told stories about his childhood. Maggie asked polite little questions here and there, and Jenn egged him on. She acted like a kid fascinated with a new toy. Arun caught the softballs she lobbed him and ran the bases. What a show! Impatient to be set free, Paul poured drink after drink.
He flicked on the light switch in his office at the lab, and the fluorescent glare made him cringe. Too much bourbon last night, and not enough sleep—his roiling gut had waked him every hour. As usual, Maggie had slept through his tossing and farting. At six, he had given up and gotten dressed to drive into the city. The lab would be quiet on a Saturday, and he wouldn’t have to see Jenn fawn over the fakir. He’d busy himself with work until Arun left. Then he’d go home and fix it with his girl.
He booted the computer and went looking for a clean cup. Alicia had left a magazine open on her desk. His eye caught on a picture of a bulbous green cloud enveloping a spiny yellow blob at the end of a red string of knobs floating in a turquoise surround. The caption read “Image from animated visualization of human mitochondria,” produced at a Harvard laboratory. He doubted that seeing molecular-level simulations helped the Harvard biologists discover anything. What he could do with a fraction of the money they spent on toys!
On the cabinet behind Sandi’s desk, he found a tray of coffee-making things. He filled one of the cups at the watercooler and drank. The last time booze had made him feel this sick was when the hospital threw a party to celebrate the opening of the new wing. They’d told him he could keep lab space in the old building on a permanent basis, and he had celebrated hard with the research team, most of them at least ten years his junior. It had been great fun; he danced the samba with all of them, male and female, and poured them shots of his best bourbon, toasting all around. Irene had taken him in that night, bless her. He told Maggie he’d spent the night on Tim’s couch, and she bought it. Now she might not.
Still too fuzzy to tackle numbers, he sat at his desk and opened email. As he deleted his way through the chaff, a noise came from the lab. Getting up to investigate, he found Hope Caldwell, in skintight jeans, riffling through a drawer. He said hello; she startled and faced him, looking flustered.
“I didn’t expect anyone to be here,” she said. “I forgot some notes I made after we talked, and I wanted to study up over the weekend.”
“Go right ahead.” He stood in the doorway and watched her, amused by the change in demeanor. She closed the drawer and opened the one below.
“Someone could have tossed them,” she said, still burrowing. “I think Alicia doesn’t like me. But I haven’t done anything.”
“You’re breathing.”
She looked up, puzzled. He leaned against the doorjamb. “Women with no confidence can’t stand the sight of women who look strong. It has nothing to do with you. It’s kinda like an allergic reaction. I bet you’ve provoked it before.”
She stood up. “I think I have.” She appeared to brood for a moment. “You know, I thought those irritated women were worried about their men. But you’re right. They were worried about themselves. Thanks for the tip.”
“I expect you to cooperate with Alicia.” He wanted peace among the staff. She needed to know his expectations. She could live up to them or she could leave.
“Yes, of course. Despite her allergy.” Hope closed the drawer and took a few steps toward him. “I’m so glad to be working with you.” She folded arms across her chest, pushing up the juicy breasts beneath her ratty purple sweater. A sexy, young woman unmistakably coming on to him. He felt tempted, and he enjoyed it.
“See you Monday, Hope.” He returned to his desk and busied himself shuffling paper while she gathered her belongings and made her way out. He felt invigorated: it was clear that she’d welcome his advances—in the right setting of course. And where would that be? Did she live alone or with a roommate? He remembered her saying something about her parents—working for them, not living with them. Pushing thirty, old enough to know her own mind about men.
Pressure built inside his chest; he released it with a long, low belch, tasting Maggie’s lentils from the night before. What a sodden evening it had been. Jenn and Arun went round and round on philosophical tangents. They tried to convince him that quantum mechanics—particles blinking in and out of existence—expressed the same view of the universe as the Vedic sages. As if life could be lived at the quantum level! He disliked pseudoscience even more than politics. He had retreated to the Lair as soon as the meal ended. Jenn might have been disappointed in his reaction, but she deserved to be, acting like a dummy, attaching herself to that pitiful guy. With a jolt, he realized that only a couple of years separated Jenn and Hope Caldwell. But Hope seemed much more sophisticated, and she had better taste.
He clicked out of email and into yesterday’s results, but he couldn’t focus. Frustrated, he rummaged in the center drawer for his brother’s latest number and punched it into the phone. Saturday morning, Lenny might be home.
Lenny boomed, “Hey there, bro. How are the test tubes treating you?”
“Tubes are good. Better than my progeny. Got a minute?”
“Sure. I’m doing well, thank you. And you?”
“Lenny, I’m serious.”
“Something wrong with the lovely Jennifer?”
“She brought a guy home from India you would despise. He’s not man enough for her. I can’t stand to look at him.”
“So she’s tasting the curry, eh?”
“He spouts mumbo jumbo and she thinks he’s some kind of genius.”
“Too brown for you?”
“Indians are Caucasians. She wants to marry him. In our backyard, on her birthday in May. This is not like her. He’s got some hold over her I need to break.”
Lenny’s voice lowered a notch. “Calm down. May is si
x months away. One thing I know about girls, they change their minds.”
“Jenn’s not like that.”
“Sure she is. Tell her how you feel and then back off. She’ll come around.”
Paul’s gut eased. “How do you know? When’s the last time you talked to her?”
“Listen, I know girls. You’ve got to give her a chance to do her thing.”
“Her thing is short and oily and wants to preach to poor children in India. And take her with him.”
Lenny’s voice lowered again. “Is he mistreating her?”
“Besides wanting to take her to India?”
“Is he slapping her around?”
“Of course not. Do you think I’d allow that?”
“Well then, you have no case. You got to let girls be girls. She’s a good kid. She’ll come around.”
“No thanks for the advice.” But he felt better. Lenny had the common touch. He could always see straight when things got rough. Even long distance.
Lenny said, “What does Maggie say? She’s pretty levelheaded.”
“She doesn’t like him either.”
“So he’s a creep. Time is on your side. Jenn will come around.”
“At least I won’t have to look at him. He’s going back to India for a while.”
“And Jenny’s staying home? You’ve got it made.”
Paul grunted.
Lenny said, “Why don’t I invite her to visit her uncle? I can get her cousins to show her a good time. You come too. Since I’m single again, there are things growing in my refrigerator you wouldn’t believe. You might find the next penicillin.”
Paul could see him grinning over the phone. You had to hand it to Lenny, master maker of lemonade.
“Can’t. I’m doing the final experiments that prove my hypothesis. You’ll be able to read all about it in a couple of months.”
“Okay, but the offer stands. Say good-bye to Maggie for me.”
Paul hung up. Lenny had soothed him. He looked at the double page on his screen, with its intricate calculations and elegant assertions. Time for some incisive work.
TWELVE
Maggie lay in bed, about to rouse herself. Next to her, Paul snuffled. During the night, the snuffle had turned into a roaring snore that had wakened her, as so often before. In the early years of the marriage, she had tried to ignore his snoring. She would roll away from him and bury one ear in her pillow. After Jenn was born and she had to fight for sleep, she stopped respecting his rest. She discovered that if she nudged his shoulder, he’d roll over and the snoring would stop. Most of the time, he didn’t remember in the morning. She’d had to nudge him three times last night. She slept better the nights he didn’t come home. Ironic, all those years she pined for him, and now she preferred that he stay away.
The house was quiet. Jenn and Arun lay together in Jenn’s old room, filled with college memorabilia. Maggie resented the impropriety; they shouldn’t have made a show of their lovemaking. He should have spent the night in the guest room. She had prepared it for him, piling her sewing machine and paraphernalia into the garage so he would have plenty of space for whatever rites he practiced. And she’d washed the curtains, put lavender under the pillows. When he’d deposited his backpack on Saturday, Arun had noticed the scent and thanked her. He seemed okay in the guest room, but last night Jenn had taken his hand and drawn him into her room. Paul hadn’t notice the indiscretion. Paul complained about Arun’s being pompous, not promiscuous. Paul was usually either completely right about people or dead wrong. She thought he was wrong about Arun, but she wasn’t sure.
Yesterday at dinner, Arun had talked about the books his mother had made him read when he was a kid and how boring they had seemed. But he said that later they became his treasures. It would be nice to have had a mom who cared about what you read. Her own self-absorbed mother had preferred women’s magazines she didn’t share. Maggie, on the other hand, had taken baby Jenn to the library’s reading program for years. She sighed, refusing to follow that mental thread.
What had Arun said he liked best about the old books? The language: a thousand suns rising in the noon sky. He’d said it made him wonder about all of creation. She wanted to know more. She was trying so hard to be objective, to learn what Arun was all about for Jenn’s sake. For her own sake, really, so as not to build another barrier between herself and Jenn. The thought of Jenn’s embracing Arun’s religion, being swallowed up by his family, frightened her. She wanted to live in the same world as Jenn; Arun might spirit Jenn out of reach.
She pulled back the covers gently and swung her feet onto the chilly, wood floor. Paul didn’t stir. The thermostat switched on the furnace at six thirty, too late for the floors to warm before her rising. She hurried into the bathroom, even colder tile under her bare feet. Slippers, she always said, were a waste of time and money. There was something life affirming about warm feet on cold tile. The dog must have thought so too. She used to sit patiently on the tile, watching Maggie’s morning routine.
She hustled downstairs, picking up the newspaper at the front door, planning her Friday, the last day Arun would spend with them. She was going to make a sendoff dinner. She’d look online for a vegetarian recipe that everyone could enjoy. At least the food would be good. In the kitchen, making coffee, she heard the plumbing groan overhead. Someone would descend shortly. She hoped it would be Paul. She didn’t want to have to greet the others with “Did you sleep well?” or other conventional words that would ring insincere in her ears. Their hot physicality disturbed her, and her own discomfort embarrassed her. Moving toward the refrigerator, she spotted her reflection in the window. She looked angry. But she wasn’t angry—she was thinking. Ellen always said that she could tell when Maggie was thinking because she scowled, even at Zumba. When she opened the door to reach for the milk, last night’s dream popped into her head.
In her dream, she needs to go somewhere and orders a taxi. Two red cabs pull up outside. She goes upstairs to collect her stuff, and when she comes back down the cabs are gone. She sees another cab, also bright red, and hails it. The driver is unkempt; he pulls out his phone and starts thumbing it, shaking it, leers and says it doesn’t work so he can’t work and drives away. She sees a bus coming down the boulevard and jumps on. She finds a seat and the bus turns off onto a different street in a dangerous-looking slum: dark, sullen men sit on stoops; women in gaudy shirts lean out of tenement windows, showing off their bosoms and glaring at her. She gets off the bus, heads back to the boulevard, tries to call Ellen to come get her. Ellen’s line is busy. The rest is fuzzy.
Maggie scrutinized the dream: bright bloodred taxis, an impossible color. Where was she going? Why couldn’t she get there? Most of the time, she welcomed dreams and the coded messages they contained. This one stumped her, and she didn’t have time to noodle it. They’d be coming down soon; she needed to organize breakfast. She had planned vegetarian, but last night Jenn said Arun would appreciate vegan. Paul wouldn’t eat with them; he’d hurry off to work. She admired his productivity. Too bad more of it wasn’t directed toward her. Since Jenn left home, she thought, we have existed in parallel. We are two steel rails without wooden ties to bind us. Now there was a third rail.
She heard fast footsteps on the stairs. Paul came into the kitchen dressed for the lab. He scanned for coffee, looking disappointed that it wasn’t ready. He said he was late for the train and had to run. When she reminded him to come home early for the farewell dinner, he grunted, which she interpreted as a concession that he would. Paul took a jacket from the hall closet and closed the front door behind him.
Arun’s pending departure promised to bring relief. She felt crowded out of her own house, compressed by his presence. He was terribly polite, which made him so hard to decipher. Jenn was uncharacteristically quiet around him, sitting back and letting him occupy the limelight. He deferred to Jenn often enough though. Perhaps Jenn wanted him to strut his stuff. Who was he, beneath all that philosophy and polish? Sh
e pulled the Moosewood Cookbook off the shelf and looked for “brunch” in the table of contents. Steps on the stairs drew her attention.
“Morning, Mom.” Wearing a sweatshirt over a long, flared skirt, Jenn opened the fridge and poured orange juice into a tall glass. Her hair hung in dark, wet ringlets that had moistened the back of her top.
“You’re up early.”
“Mmmm. Jet lag, still.” She drank half the juice and made a sour face. “You should taste the fruit in Bangalore. We buy it every day from street vendors in from the countryside. I don’t haggle even though people expect you to. It’s cheap enough.” Jenn angled herself into the breakfast nook and sat. She ran a hand along the yellow tile wall. “I love these cracks. I used to play mind games with them when I was a kid. Can I help?”
Maggie imagined her daughter at an Indian market, holding a baby in one arm and a bag brimming with mangoes in the other, chatting with vendors who patronized the odd American woman. How could a girl with spunk and brains want to be buried alive in ancient customs? She handed Jenn the cookbook. “I’ll put out some inferior fruit and bread. See if you can find a casserole for dinner that Arun would eat and your father would tolerate. I’ll go shopping lunchtime when I pick up my car.”
“Already fixed? That didn’t take long.” Jenn leafed through the cookbook.
The dealership had called two days earlier, but Maggie had waited, deciding whether or not to take up Brian Sayler’s offer of help. He had called three times since the accident. She’d ignored the first two, but yesterday she decided to speak to him. He repeated his offer to check out her car repair. She accepted. She wanted someone neutral, and younger, to talk to about Jenn. Robert and his Indian doctor friend had been no help.
They sat in a diner not far from the Toyota dealer. Brian munched potato chips left over from lunch, and Maggie watched his strong-looking hands move. The grimy hands of a man who worked with his hands. There was paint on his jeans and the tips of his work boots, but he seemed unselfconscious about the stains. He had an ordinary, clean-shaven face with ordinary brown hair. His body was lean and tight; he appeared to have all the time in the world, munching and waiting for her to speak.
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