Maple and Spice

by Moushmi Biswas

Her fur-lined prison cell.

  Things would only get worse during spring break. Ten whole days of nothingness. No lab meetings. No salsa class and no John Davidson. He was on vacation with his family. Even Tina and Justin were going upstate.

  And now she’d spent her money decorating, she couldn’t afford a ticket to Mumbai, while that conniving Swanker had managed to wheedle money off her father and jump on a plane.

  On the Friday when term broke up, Tina asked her to meet at Café Uno. Monisha arrived at five o’clock on the dot. There was Tina, sitting forlornly at a table by herself, wearing tight jeans and a ski jumper; the bobble hat still on her head.

  As Monisha approached, Tina removed her headgear, shook out her curls and sighed.

  “I hope Justin is going to propose soon.”

  Monisha couldn’t understand the sudden rush. She thought he still had a few months to pop the question.

  The waitress arrived with two coffees, Tina passed on the hot cinnamon doughnut, Monisha grabbed it instead.

  “Only four years left till my scary year!”

  Monisha took a big sugary bite. What was a scary year?

  “Thirty-six,” said Tina. “If I haven’t found Mr Right and had kids by the age of thirty-six, I’ll just have to settle for Mr Right Sperm.”

  Monisha almost leapt out of her chair.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Tina shrugged her shoulders. She was talking about using a sperm donor. Monisha winced and crisscrossed her eyebrows into a giant frown. She knew her chemo patients donated to sperm banks. But that was different!

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Why not?”

  Monisha looked her friend in the eye. Wouldn’t it be nicer if the child had a mother and a father? And whatever happened to falling in love and marrying?

  Tina squirmed in her seat and stared wistfully into her latte.

  “That would be perfect… but you don’t get perfect.”

  Monisha folded her arms. Utter madness! There were thousands of babies in the world who needed a mother! Millions maybe. Why not adopt?

  “Bringing a child into the world without a father seems a little…” She had to be careful not to offend her best friend and divorce lawyer.

  Tina stared longingly at a baby in a pram.

  “I just want to go through the whole thing from scratch once. I’d adopt the second.”

  Monisha wiped her mouth and the sugar crumbs off the table.

  “Maybe Justin will propose,” she said, sounding as hopeful as she could. The rest was far too complicated.

  By the time they left it was dark and freezing. In Vermont, spring was more of a concept than a reality. Monisha stared dog-eyed at Tina as she jumped into her car. Any moment now, the week of solitude would begin.

  Tina groaned.

  “Hey! I’ve had had my share of lonely vacations too, ya know.”

  After a few minutes Monisha was back in her fur-lined prison cell. She flopped onto the couch and grabbed the remote.

  Tina’s scary year was thirty-six.

  Once upon a time hers had been thirty.

  34

  The air was riddled with the smell of rats and reagents. Her footsteps echoed along the empty corridor. No noise anywhere, except the sound of her sensible flats hitting the slip-proof floor. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

  A man’s voice made her jump.

  “The lab is not available over the holidays, but the computer room is open.”

  She turned slowly and saw him. Twenty-something. Brown hair and piercing blue eyes.

  Sensing he’d frightened her, he showed her his badge. He was supervising. She squinted hard and saw that his name was Joe Friedman. He was the archetypal college hunk. The kind that turned her into a nervous wreck. She asked him if she could use the computer room.

  “Sure, I can open it up for you.” He walked a few steps ahead and pulled out a key from his pocket.

  He was only a bit taller than her. Under his white coat, he wore a sweatshirt and jogging bottoms. He asked her if she had a writing-up deadline.

  This was embarrassing. Completely embarrassing!

  Her deadline was three years from now.

  “Sort of. I’m applying for oncology residency,” she said.

  He nodded. He was here because they paid double time to see to the animals over the break. She noticed a tiny gap in his teeth. Cute. Not ugly.

  “Why is the lab closed now? It’s impossible to book the equipment during term time!” she groaned.

  He rolled his eyes. There were always kids doing crazy stuff and more people around to keep an eye on them in term time. His face turned serious.

  “You’re subspecialising? Finished medical residency?”

  He seemed impressed when she mentioned St Anthony’s. Her cheeks flushed with pride. The one thing that awful place had given her.

  They talked for a moment, about their projects. He’d just finished his science degree. Vet school or med school? He couldn’t decide. Perhaps she could help.

  He opened the room up. Towards the back were bookshelves, bursting with books. The kind that no one read and no one threw away. And, in the front, were the computers. Square, flat, black. Sterile. Flecks of dust gathering on top of them. Her heart sank.

  Nothing left to do but click away for the rest of the day.

  Joe Friedman followed her in. Now she was alone in an empty room. With a man she didn’t know and Tina’s voice ringing in her head.

  “Watch out for perverts and predators.”

  The panic began. Flutter! Flutter! She heard squelching noises, jogging shoes hitting the slip-proof floor. Three Asian boys tore in. Within seconds there were bags on the desk. Journal articles. Disks. A packet of M and Ms.

  “Hey Joe!” said one.

  When he made them all sign the register, her panic subsided.

  The next day, in front of the Asian students, Joe asked her if she wanted to help feed the animals. He could do with another pair of hands. And she could give him some advice about med school.

  Anything was better than sitting at a computer all day, so she agreed. When she followed him out, one of the students made kissing noises. The others began laughing.

  Nerdy geeks!

  Joe’s work was complicated. The rats needed to be weighed, given food and water. Drugs had to be drawn up and injected. Monisha held them down clumsily and managed to get bitten, even through thick rubber gloves.

  Joe was too busy to notice. Every so often she caught herself staring at his glimmering blue eyes. He didn’t notice that either. It was gone two o’clock when they finished.

  He invited her to the office for a coffee. On the back wall, she noticed John Davidson’s picture, in the top row of faculty members. Joe rushed off for a while and returned, with a steaming mug of coffee, which was almost black.

  “Sorry, not much milk… You must be pretty bored to be over here.”

  She froze. Tried not to answer. It was none of his business.

  “Look, I hate holidays too. My folks are in Wisconsin.”

  An awkward silence followed.

  “How about we go grab a bite to eat?”

  Monisha looked round. The Asian students had gone.

  Was this a date?

  Within moments, his white Toyota trailed behind her car. A flurry of white snowflakes trickled down against a grey sky.

  They found a burger joint and sat on high stools facing the window. He talked about his mother, a high-school beauty queen. And his father who’d died suddenly, after an argument, with her.

  It took a while for her to announce.

  “I’m separated… divorcing.”

  This time no chill ran down her spine. No faces of Shailesh and Mrs Kulkarni either.

  No finalit
y. Only possibilities.

  He made a thumbs-up sign and tossed an onion ring into his mouth.

  “I’ve got to get back and feed the animals. Shall we catch up… later?”

  Monisha nodded: a nervous yes. But where? A meal out, a drink and a club meant at least fifty $50. And she couldn’t expect him to pay for her.

  “Any ideas?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I could cook you dinner… if you like.”

  He heaved a sigh of relief. “Phew. I thought you were going to suggest something expensive.”

  They both burst out laughing.

  “I’ll bring the beers.”

  She headed back to the apartment and rummaged through her cupboards. What could she throw together. Tinned tomatoes. Onions. Garlic. Mince. Lasagne? Damn! No sheets, but there were aubergines. Moussaka! More upmarket than spaghetti bolognaise, but just as cheap. She opened the bottle of red Tina had gifted her when she moved in: Malbec. Apparently, Argentinian wine was the in thing.

  The bell rang. Swati Das and Saurav Das stood eagerly in the doorway. Did she want to join them for dinner? Lured by the smell of frying onions, Swati sauntered into the kitchen.

  Monisha told them she was on her way out.

  “Frying mince and wearing an apron?” enquired Swati.

  Her face turned scarlet. She told her it was for one of the guys in the lab.

  Saurav Das butted in.

  “But I like moussaka!”

  “I’ll bring you some… tomorrow.”

  Oh God! Oh God! If they found out it would spread like wildfire.

  She put the dish in the oven and made them coffee. While they sat, her phone beeped non-stop. Joe was on his way. She messaged him back. Her aunt and uncle were here. Could he make his way to O’Grady’s around the corner? More messages flew back and forth.

  The Dases took the hint and left.

  After a shower she threw on a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater, then painted her lips. She glanced at herself. Her shorter hair with a fringe. The crystal ‘M’ on the chain around her neck. The raspberry coloured stretch knit sweater and plum gloss, all so different.

  Joe arrived at half past seven. The aroma of lamb, nutmeg and oregano filled the apartment. He stood in front of her. Smooth, clean and fresh. Under his thick, navy coat, he wore a handknit sweater, not an ounce of fat bulged from anywhere.

  There was an hour to kill before the food would be ready. He sat at the kitchen table swilling a bottle of beer. They talked. About nothing really. His life in Wisconsin. What it was like having a twin brother.

  She told him about St Anthony’s. Its work obsessed robots, who wouldn’t give you the time of day, unless you had connections.

  The Malbec was making her warm and dizzy. She teetered over to the L-shaped couch; he followed her. When she dropped onto it, he edged close. His blue eyes glimmered under the fairy lights. Suddenly the Malbec began doing the talking. She told him that his aftershave was complicated.

  “Musky. Seaside. Sealion.”

  They burst out laughing.

  “Ooh, that’s not nice.”

  He put his beer down and wrapped an arm round her. She sank into him. Head spinning. They kissed. His scent was overpowering: beer, fresh mints, musky aftershave. Their tongues locked together. His hands fumbled under her sweater, fondling her. Every inch of her oozed with pure delight.

  Now she was on top of him, her tongue gliding through his mouth. His hands moving deftly to her lacy bra, then its hooks at the back. He began removing her clothing bit by bit. Kissing her neck as he went. Running his fingers through her hair.

  He examined her topless body.

  “Wow!”

  She pulled off his sweater and played with the buttons on his shirt. Within seconds he’d pulled out a condom and they were making love on her L-shaped couch.

  Wild. Passionate. Carefree.

  When the timer on the oven buzzed, she led him to the table and served him hot bubbling moussaka. He devoured it.

  After dinner, Joe Friedman made love to her twice more. Then he curled up beside her and fell fast asleep.

  35

  Everything looked so different in the morning light. Her hair was limp and frizzy. The plum gloss had vanished from her lips. Mascara railroaded down her cheeks. And in the space next to her lay a mass of crumpled sheets.

  Monisha called out Joe’s name. There was no answer. She clambered up and shuffled into the living room, her head throbbing. Aargh! No one there. Just two beer stained cushions in a heap on the floor, and her lacy bra.

  She hobbled into the kitchen, her bare feet freezing against the tiled floor. In the sink was the dirty pie dish, which she hadn’t soaked. On the worktop, a jar of instant coffee, still open. The apples and bananas in the fruit bowl were gone.

  She flung opened the cupboard doors, hoping to find her emergency bar of chocolate. It was gone too.

  Asshole!

  Her phone beeped loudly. It was probably Joe. Apologising.

  She squinted at the message.

  “Thanks for a great night. Off back to Wisconsin. Best of luck with everything.”

  Best of luck… with everything?

  They were parting words. Ending words. What the Shirkes had said, with their noses in the air. When she wasn’t good enough for their son. Too dark. Too tall.

  But Joe hadn’t told her he was going back. Hadn’t said a word! She probably wasn’t good enough for him either! Too old. Too divorcee.

  But she was good enough for one night.

  She brushed off the pangs of self-pity. Soon she was frying bread, eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes, and inhaling the glorious scent of Italian roast. After a leisurely breakfast she began cleaning the place furiously. Wiping every trace of him out. The musky scent of his aftershave was blitzed over with lemon gel. The washed pie dish was rehomed right at the back of the cupboard. And, while the bed sheets rolled round in the dryer, she laid down brand-new floral covers.

  In just under an hour, any reminder of that night had vanished. And the apartment was exactly how it used to be.

  Sterile.

  Now there was nothing to do. She started on another moussaka, chopping onions and browning mince. Oregano and nutmeg permeated the air once more. She rang the Dases, asking if she might pop over later.

  Swati said, “Yes.” But it was a very tentative yes.

  Monisha spent the afternoon watching reruns of Oprah. By seven o’clock she was bored senseless. She raced over to the Dases with her moussaka. The street in front of their house was lined with BMWs and Mercedes Benzes, there was barely a space for her own car. With her casserole dish tucked under her arm she pressed the doorbell. Vinal Verma’s pregnant wife answered. A waft of biryani spices filled the air.

  “Ah, Monisha! It’s been such a long time! Come, come! Aunty Swati is busy in the kitchen.”

  Her heart sank. Her stomach fell to her boots. The dreaded Saturday night dinner party. And she was makeup-less. In a faded shirt and old jeans. Aargh!

  Saurav Das leapt to her rescue.

  “Monisha! You’ve made my moussaka! Wonderful! Could I eat it tomorrow?”

  Her cheeks burned hot. The other ladies rushed towards her. Poor girl, they said. What a terrible thing to happen! Shailesh didn’t deserve her. Why did she look so dreadfully thin and pale? Had she stopped eating?

  Silk saris in blue, mauve, pink and green were cloaked round her. French perfume shot through her nostrils. The hooks and studs of necklaces and bangles stabbed at her face. These aunty types were dripping in gold.

  Saurav Das grabbed her by the elbow, talking as he went. Single malt on his breath. “Monisha is so busy with her college friends these days.”

  She walked along the hallway, in a trance-like state. Ravi Sinha’s toddler daughter came hurtling towards her, almost knoc
king over her dish. His pregnant wife followed behind waving a sticky ball of rice.

  When she reached the kitchen, she heaved a sigh of relief. Swati Das was alone.

  “If I see one more pregnant woman, I’m gonna puke,” said Monisha.

  Aunty Swati stopped and stared. Glassy-eyed, speechless, motionless. Her oven gloves wrapped round a tray of samosas.

  Monisha cupped her head in her hands and dropped to the floor.

  “Aunty Swati, I am so sorry.”

  Tears trickled down her face. And turned into sobs.

  Swati Das put the tray down and rushed over to lock the door.

  “It’s just that everyone’s gone now… Mom… Dad… Shailesh…”

  Swiftly, robotically, Swati Das wrapped four samosas in tin foil, then spooned out biryani and salad into takeaway boxes and corked up a half-bottle of wine. She packed them into a shopping bag and handed it to Monisha.

  “You need some time on your own,” she said, nudging her towards the back door. “To figure it all out. Things could get messy here… with all these people.”

  Monisha nodded, then slipped away quietly. Firstly, onto the wet grass and then out into the half-lit darkness of the Dases’ car-lined street.

  Later that night, between mouthfuls of Merlot, Monisha blurted out every detail to Tina on the phone. About how she’d met Joe. Their banter at the lab. The nerdy geeks and their kissing noises. How he’d ended up in her apartment and in her bed. Blown in like a gust of wind and disappeared, equally fast. Then the ultimate ending. Being shoved out through the garden gate by Aunty Swati.

  “You have to wear a crash helmet if you want to play this game, Monisha,” said Tina solemnly. “And a bulletproof vest.”

  36

  There was nothing to kill the emptiness of the cold, dark winter days in Vermont except ice skating and hard work. John Davidson was a tyrant when it came to deadlines. Most PhD students spent their first year planning their project and learning techniques, but he expected her to finish her lab work. Completely! And he always dangled a carrot. If the experiments were done and their results published, her job in oncology was guaranteed.