Appetite

by Sheila Grinell

  He’d met her at the dealership as agreed and inspected her Prius. He’d okayed the repair job and suggested they go for a sandwich before he had to get back to work. Renovating a porch, he’d said, no big deal. She’d turned in the rental and driven to the diner he’d selected, parked next to his van. They ordered, and while they ate their sandwiches, she asked about his work. He answered her questions with a minimum of words. He said the job wasn’t important; he had other interests. Then he asked why had she really called. It took her a moment to reply.

  “I want to know how your generation thinks about things. My daughter is dating a thirtysomething-year-old Indian guru, and it’s giving me the creeps. He’s from India, but he went to school here. He wants her to follow him around India while he ministers to people, and she wants to do it. As if all the progress women have made since the 1960s never happened.”

  Brian picked up another potato chip.” How old is your daughter?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Are you paying her rent?”

  “She’s been independent since college.”

  “Forget about it. She’s on her own.”

  Maggie would not be dismissed. “Tell me what’s going on. Is there some kind of nostalgia movement? Or do they all want to go to China or India because Europe is old hat?”

  “Beats me. Never did travel.” He paused. “I don’t think there’s a ‘they’ anymore. People are different. There are a lot of options.”

  “My daughter’s in danger of taking the wrong one.”

  “Nope. You’re the one in danger.” He picked up the last chip between his first two fingers, like a cigarette, and held it in front of his mouth.

  “What do you mean?” She felt her chest tense.

  “You’re in danger of blowing the hour. We could be getting to know each other in the way that really counts.” He offered her the chip, holding it near her lips.

  Here it was, the invitation she’d thought would come. Could she imagine herself in bed with this man with dirty hands? A lean, hard, younger man whose only interest was sex. Straightforward. Potent. So different from Robert, who stirred no desire. She remembered the best times with Paul, when they longed for each other, before Jenny changed her. If she slept with this guy, would she feel the way she used to? For years she had brushed aside thoughts of an affair out of respect for Paul and in hopes that their intimacy would return. But Paul had not held their marriage sacred. Why not break an obsolete vow?

  She pulled back, embarrassed at sending mixed messages to this man who wanted her. She took the potato chip from his fingers and set it on her empty plate. “Thank you, but another time. I have a vegetarian banquet to cook.” She put a ten-dollar bill on the table and rose to leave. “That should cover my meal. Thanks for helping me with the car.”

  “Call me next time you want to talk,” he said, fishing his wallet out of his jeans. Evidently her retreat hadn’t ruffled him.

  She drove the Prius to the supermarket mechanically. Brown rice, onion, garlic, tomato; enough to make a pilaf for dinner and tomorrow’s lunch, anything else that looked good. She couldn’t really plan. Her mind felt wobbly, bouncing from her pantry to Brian to Jenn to conversation with Arun. Last night Arun had said something that resonated; he’d said that the goal of his work was to help children become the fullest versions of themselves rather than some ideal version of a child. Could the fullest version of herself include accepting a man like Brian Sayler? Or would yielding to him betray everything she had struggled to accomplish for her family? She could not banish her unwelcome desire to see him again.

  She stood at the sink, sleeves pushed up and hands in soapy water washing wineglasses while Jenn and Arun finished clearing the table. After Jenn had asked for a wedding, the dinner conversation had been polite enough; Jenn and Arun described some of the work they had done and the places they had visited during the year, and Maggie did her part, of course, asking questions about the sights they had seen. Paul glowered silently throughout the meal. After dessert, still sulking, he took a glass of bourbon to the basement.

  “Mom, please sit with us. I’ll finish the dishes later.”

  She turned to find Jenn and Arun standing at the breakfast nook. Wiping her hands on the dish towel, she joined them, and they sat.

  “Mrs. Adler, Jenn has suggested that I prevail upon you,” Arun said. “I hope that I may speak frankly.”

  She nodded.

  “It appears that I have offended your husband. Naturally, he is concerned about Jenn’s welfare. I would like to discuss our plans in detail so he can see that Jenn will be well cared for and that I have the deepest regard for your family. But he does not permit me.”

  Maggie looked down at her hands. She rubbed the hard, dry stretch of skin on her right index finger that no amount of lotion could restore. “My husband has always had to work hard. He’s never taken time to travel. He gets impatient with privileged people. Perhaps some of that’s going on.” She refused to look at Jenn. She didn’t want to represent Paul or defend him.

  Jenn said, “He’s not being fair. We’re not exploiting privilege, we’re fighting it.”

  “I think you should take it up with your father.” She rose and moved toward the hallway. “You can use my car tomorrow. It should take about an hour to get to the airport.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Adler,” Arun said. “I appreciate the advice. I will endeavor to be more careful when I speak with your husband in the future.”

  As Maggie climbed the stairs, she heard voices murmur over the clang of pots and the slosh of water as Arun and Jenn finished the cleanup. She did not attempt to eavesdrop. In her bedroom, she sat in the old rocking chair at the bay window without turning on the light. How many hours had she spent in this chair nurturing her child or examining her feelings with Paul away somewhere? She would push with one foot, rocking slowly, watching the flickering shadows of leaves on the trees outside. Ellen called it meditation; she called it woolgathering because it didn’t make her serene. Like tonight.

  She felt defeated. She had been so patient with her daughter, encouraging her to follow her interests and explore life. Music lessons. A string of volunteer jobs. That summer in California with Sarah. Sophomore year abroad. Now Jenn had made up her mind to follow a bizarre man to the third world. Good-bye freedom, good-bye opportunity. Young women could do anything these days, not like when she was an adolescent and feminism felt new. She pushed herself up out of the chair and stepped to the bathroom. She turned on the faucets. Waiting for the water to warm, she told herself that she had best make her peace with the coming wedding. Jenn went her own way.

  THIRTEEN

  Paul opened the “current” file and clicked over to Alicia’s notes. He liked to check her progress when no one was around. Tim didn’t write up his experiments regularly, and C. K. couldn’t string together five clear English sentences, so he monitored them verbally. Alicia’s reporting, on the other hand, was methodical and consistent. He opened the entry, made the day before, summarizing her week’s work. She had laid out the logic of the experiments as directed but shied away from the conclusions. Always too cautious. He’d fix it Monday. He needed her answers in order to take the next step, the one for which Hope’s tasks would lay the baseline.

  Hope. Her appearance at the lab that morning had tickled him. She’d said she was looking for notes. Probably out to impress him. He was impressed, all right—by her strong legs in skintight jeans. He wondered if she wanted to fuck him. The others wouldn’t notice a liaison, and if they did, they wouldn’t care. Least of all Alicia, nicknamed Alice in Autoland by the guys because they thought she worked like a machine. They didn’t see how malleable she actually was, and how valuable. He counted on her doggedness to push the principal line of inquiry ahead and on her submissiveness to make it come out the way it should.

  His cell phone rang and he clicked out of the file. It was Jenn, calling from the airport after dropping Arun off. She asked to meet for lunch since sh
e was practically in the city. He suggested Zabar’s, thinking a greasy corn muffin would settle his gut. He wanted to take the subway to Columbus Circle and walk the rest of the way. It was a fine day, and half an hour’s walk would clear the hangover. Jenn needed talking to sooner rather than later.

  In deference to Jenn’s sore ankle, they sat on a bench in Central Park, sipping coffee from Zabar’s take-out cups. It was unseasonably warm and the park was crawling with people, jackets slung over their shoulders or hanging from one crooked finger. Dogs off leash flashed past them. Joggers with plugged-up ears trotted by. He nibbled a crumb left over from his muffin; he felt better.

  “I do love New York,” Jenn said. “You can’t sit in a park in Delhi without drama. Someone solicits you, someone harangues someone next to you, or a scooter whizzes past your feet. It’s like here but concentrated. Like frozen orange juice before you dilute it.”

  “This is supposed to make me feel better about India?”

  Jenn laughed. “Yes. Look there!” She nodded toward a couple walking by, speaking a voluble Spanish, followed by a string of eight children in size order with successively lighter complexions. “Is that genetics in action or socialization? Or is it just New York, where people from anywhere get a new life?”

  “No speculating without evidence.” He used to answer her little girl’s questions with that line whenever they reached the imponderable. He used to be so proud of her ability to follow the logic of any argument. Even at age eight, she could categorize the differences between mushrooms and green plants. When she decided to study philosophy in college, he had approved. Maybe he should have steered her toward something less theoretical.

  Jenn turned and looked him in the eye. “Arun will be gone for a while. He’s meeting with microfinance people who want us to work with them. Then he’s going to see his parents. He’ll be back in the spring, for the wedding.” She set her jaw and pursed her lips, an awful gesture she had learned from her mother.

  “What’s microfinance?”

  “Lending poor people a tiny bit of money so they can start a business and get a leg up. Mostly women, which is why I like it. They pay it back.”

  “Where will you get the money?”

  “The microfinance organization will take care of the money. We’ll take care of the soul.”

  “This is getting more and more preposterous.”

  “Microfinance isn’t preposterous. It’s all over the world, and the Bangladeshi who started it got the Nobel Prize in 2006.”

  “What does that have to do with you?”

  “Everything. I see that you can make change at the grass roots. In fact, you have to. The politicians accomplish nothing except hold onto power and hold people back. Arun and I can do better.”

  He couldn’t contain his disgust. “I’m not going to tell you how to live your life, but I am going to tell you you’re making a mistake. This is not the guy for you. Any thirty-five-year-old man worth his salt would have a career by now. You can’t live on pipe dreams.”

  “Dad,” she said coldly, “we spent the last year testing Arun’s vision. You haven’t given him a chance to explain. And he’s thirty-one.”

  “He’s explained enough. I get it. He wants other people to pay for his lifestyle. He wants you to pay too.”

  “Other people pay for your research.”

  “I work my ass off to get peer-reviewed grants. Apples and oranges, kiddo. The point is, why should you start out with a burden? Life’s tough enough.”

  “Yes, it is, which is why I want to share it with Arun. He’s the most compassionate, intelligent person I know.” She stared at him, as if daring him to contradict her. “You have no idea.”

  “So tell me.”

  She sighed. “The guys I dated in college were childish. The guys I dated in Brooklyn had more going on, but it was all about them. Arun is different. He’s ambitious, but it’s for something bigger than himself. He’s smart and humble.”

  “And humorless. You want to live with that?”

  “He makes me laugh all the time! He’s trying to impress you and Mom that he’s serious about our future together.”

  “How did he sell you on becoming Mother Teresa?”

  “He didn’t sell me on anything. He didn’t chase me at all.” The tone of her voice changed, as if explaining to a child. “One day I watched him talking with this woman in her house. It had a dirt floor and walls made out of black plastic stretched between poles. They were talking seriously, and he saluted her. When he came out of the hovel, his eyes were flashing. He said he had just learned that the woman’s brother was in jail and had somehow heard a rumor that someone was going to rob the microfinance group she was part of. The brother managed to make a phone call to the telephone lady in the village, telling her to warn his sister, who warned Arun, who alerted the group leader. Do you see how important that phone call was? Arun says there’s no better measure of how much the group and our work meant to the woman and her community.”

  Paul harrumphed.

  “Once I saw how good Arun was with people, I went after him. It took him a while to turn on to me. Indian men are a lot more emotional than Americans, but Arun kept his distance. He was concentrating on the work.”

  “It’s an act, kiddo, to get into your pants and my wallet.”

  “I can’t believe you said that. You must think I’m an idiot.”

  “No, inexperienced. Maybe you should look around some more.”

  “For what? Someone with a job you approve of who’ll cheat on me at the first opportunity?”

  Paul felt slapped. “What are you getting at?”

  “Come on, Dad. You know you’re not qualified to give relationship advice.”

  “What has your mother been saying?”

  “Mom doesn’t talk about personal things. But I know. There’s been plenty of evidence over the years.”

  He wanted to challenge her facts, but he didn’t trust himself to stay cool.

  “Your mother and I have an understanding.”

  “Maybe so. Look, you know I admire you and love you, but I won’t let you lecture me about something where you haven’t a clue.” She stood. “I have to take Mom’s car back. Should I tell her to expect you for dinner?”

  “I’ll call. Depends on what I find back at the lab.”

  Jenn pecked him on the forehead. “Thanks for the coffee.” She headed toward Central Park West, stepping gingerly.

  He raised the rim of the cup to his lips, tasting the cardboard as well as the brew. He was angry; Jenn had played offense as her defense. He wasn’t going to let her get away with it. She needed to hear the truth about lover boy, and it was up to him to tell it. That evening. Tossing the cup into the trash bin, he rose and took out his phone. Irene just might be home on a Saturday afternoon, and her place was on the way back to the lab. No romantic, she would agree with him. Her machine answered; he left no message.

  He pushed through the mudroom door, a basket of fruit under his arm, expecting to see Maggie in the kitchen. He’d picked up the fruit on the way home to show her that he appreciated the fancy farewell dinner she’d made the night before, despite his behavior. As the last of the day’s light played across the dim yellow walls of the empty room, he deposited the basket on the counter next to the sink and went to look for her. He found her upstairs, sitting at her desk in the dusk, bent over some paperwork.

  “Want to go out for dinner tonight? You could use a break.” He leaned against the wall beside the desk.

  “Jenn’s cooking. My spice cabinet may never recover.” Maggie looked up, pen in hand. “She went to the supermarket to pick up fish. I think she’s thanking me for a week of vegetarian meals.”

  “Want me to switch on a lamp?”

  “No. It’s time to stop.” She put down the pen. “Jenn said she met you in the city and you’d probably be home for dinner. She’s clairvoyant.” She swiveled her chair to face him. “What’s going on with you two?”

  He bris
tled, resenting the implication that he and Jenn could converse as equals. Jenn was his daughter, dammit, and he could school her if he wanted to. He’d always refused to pussyfoot around other people’s sensibilities—he knew his mind and didn’t care what anyone else thought.

  “She wanted to talk about the wedding she thinks she’s having. What have you been telling her about our marriage?”

  Maggie looked surprised. “I haven’t said anything. We haven’t had a chance to talk yet.”

  He felt a little calmer; Jenn was just fishing, clever girl. “I’m trying to show her what a loser he is. She’s resisting me.”

  “What does our marriage have to do with it?”

  “She’s our daughter. We need to stop her now, before she gets the wedding bit between her teeth.”

  Maggie spoke slowly. “You’re taking the wrong tack. He’s not a loser. Not to her. Maybe not at all. But she shouldn’t marry him.”

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he thought, count on Maggie to split hairs. In their early years together, he’d been grateful for the way she’d analyze situations and help him understand the angles he was too busy or too hurried to see. She’d been his secret weapon at the university, talking him through his frustrations and charming his competition. But he’d learned the angles and had outgrown her help. Except when it came to Jenn. Maggie had been able to predict her behavior better than he could, so he listened. “Tell me what tack you think I should take.”

  Maggie got up and walked to the window. She lowered the blinds and switched on the overhead light. It cast unflattering shadows on her tired-looking face. She said, “I’ve been thinking. There’s nothing to do about her affection for Arun.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “We need to find her an alternative. A person or a cause or both—on this continent. She needs to know she can lead the kind of life she wants without turning her back on her culture. I’m going to talk to Reverend Stevens.”