by Sarah Bird
It rings a second time. I panic.
The IRS planted an electrode in my brain and they’re monitoring my thoughts. The future is here.
It rings a third time.
I am closest to the phone. When I don’t move, Sanjeev gives a grumpy sigh, slaps his mechanical pencil down onto the ledger book, answers the phone, then repeats the caller’s request: “You’re calling for Blythe Young?”
In spite of my frantically waving my arms in front of my face as I shake my head No! No! And hell no! Mr. Social Contract volunteers in a stern tone, “Why, yes, Blythe Young is right here.”
Sanjeev holds the phone out. “You have a phone call.”
“Male or female?”
“Why is that pertinent?”
Since I can’t tell Mr. Social Contract that it is pertinent because the IRS agent hunting me is male, hence I prefer not to communicate with that half of the world’s population, I settle for, “Would it be possible to tell whoever it is that I’m not in right now?”
Sanjeev blinks, as baffled as a toddler by the concept of the white lie. “But you are. You are in right now.”
“Technically, yes, but don’t you abhor the invasion of privacy that today’s modern devices afford?”
“No. If you don’t want to speak to him, tell him yourself.”
“So, ‘him,’ male then. How would you describe his voice? Punctilious? Bureaucratic?”
Sanjeev glares and jabs the phone at me until I take it. It is heavy as a brick in my hand. After Sanjeev disappears upstairs, I say in a bouncy Kolkata accent, “Hello, I regret to inform you that the party you are seeking does not reside at this address. Good-bye.”
“Blythe Young, that is the worst Indian accent I have ever heard.”
“Danny?”
“Millie told me you were back at the Seneca.”
“She did?”
“Yeah, I’ve been looking for a minute to talk to you ever since she called. And, oh, shit, it suddenly doesn’t look like it’s going to be this one, either. Fuck, they’re calling me. Listen, Younghole, I’m in the studio now and this prima donna I’m working with is finally ready. I’m coming to Austin soon, okay? If I call will you promise to do that really bad Indian accent again? That is so hot. Maybe we can round Templeton up for a little three-way action.”
“Only if you bring the deviled ham.”
“Deal. All right, Mistress Younghole, it’s a date.” Without moving his mouth away from the phone, Danny yells, “Calm the fuck down, I’m coming.” To me, he says, “The next Avril Lavigne is coming unglued, I’ve gotta go.” Before he hangs up, Danny chitters into the phone and I remember him back at Kinko’s, a line of unamused law students waiting for their copies, while he curled his hands under his chin, poked out his front teeth, twitched the imaginary whiskers on his upper lip, and imitated what he maintained was Templeton’s frenzied mating call.
I am chittering back when I realize that Danny has hung up and I am making a beaver face at Juniper. I dart upstairs like a dog with a bone that I want to gnaw on in private before the rest of the pack can take it from me. When I reach Millie’s room, however, the door is open, and Sanjeev, his back to me, is inside. Something about his posture causes me to stop dead. He hovers over Millie’s small desk, touching her pen, running his long, artistic fingers over her date book. He uncaps her ChapStick, rubs the tube against his lips, closes his eyes, and presses his lips together, kissing the pomade that has touched Millie’s lips, then he slips the tube into his pocket. It is both the creepiest and most romantic thing I have ever seen. I back silently away. Whatever is between Millie and Sanjeev, it goes way beyond a simple crush.
Downstairs, I wait until Sanjeev scuttles past, heading for his room at the rear of the house, before I go back upstairs. Which is where I am a couple of hours later when Millie returns. As soon as she enters, I pounce. “What did you tell Danny?”
“He called? Well, he certainly took his own sweet time.”
“What did you tell him? About me?”
“Only that you were back in the house.”
“You didn’t tell him why…you know, what happened?”
“You mean that you’ve been through a difficult divorce?”
“Yeah, right, that.” No need to bring up the difficult bankruptcy and difficult drug withdrawal.
“He did ask if you were quote, unquote, ‘involved.’”
“He did? What did you tell him?”
“I told him you aren’t. We didn’t go into details. He’s in the middle of producing a record and is super, super busy. Are they still called records? Albums? CDs?”
“Danny is a producer?” I imagine a garage with egg cartons stapled to the walls. “I can’t believe you called him.”
“Oh, we’ve…stayed in touch.” Millie giggles like an animated woodland creature. “All right, I called him because I knew you wanted to talk to him. And because I am certain he would want to talk to you.”
“Quite the little matchmaker.”
“Guilty as charged. So tell me everything.”
“Not much to tell, really. We barely spoke at all. He wants to get together next time he’s in Austin. Which will probably be never.”
“Don’t be pessimistic. Great loves always find ways to work themselves out.” Making that statement causes her giddiness to suddenly leak away. She plops down onto the chair in front of the desk where Sanjeev had been caressing her writing utensils earlier.
“What’s between you and Sanjeev?”
She is alert again. “Why? Did he say something?”
“No. But it’s clear, very clear, that he has feelings.”
“That’s not true. Why? What makes you say that?”
I can’t tell her about Sanjeev making out with her ChapStick. In any case, Millie holds up her hand and stops me before I can speak. “No. Don’t say anything. What is between Sanjeev and me is all that can ever be.”
“What exactly is between you two?”
Millie considers the question for far too long before answering, “Mutual respect, I suppose. We also share a certain sensibility. An awareness that life is both short and significant in ways that are not always immediately apparent. Sanjeev has said that it is rare for a Western woman to have such an awareness of the transitoriness of life.”
“Ooh, la, la, ‘transitoriness of life,’ that is so hot. Well, he is clearly smitten.”
“He is? How do you know?”
“The way he looks at you.”
“He does? How does he look at me?” Millie is on her knees on the bed. Then, abruptly, the excitement vanishes and she sinks down. “No, don’t answer that. It’s not possible. It will never be possible. I knew that from the start.”
“Oh, Millie, I’m so sorry. It’s so obvious now. Sanjeev is gay.”
“Please, shut up.”
“Did you just tell me to shut up?”
“Yes, I’m sorry, but you really can’t talk about this anymore.”
“Millie, it’s okay. I fell for this guy once who was gay. I don’t know how I missed that he was gay. He actually even looked a little like Sanjeev. Same great eyelashes. That lanky, slithery sexiness. In retrospect he was so obviously gay that I don’t—”
“Sanjeev is not gay! He’s engaged.” Millie gasps and slaps her hand across her mouth as if she can stuff the words back in. “I can’t believe I said that. I swore to him that I would never talk about this. To anyone. I haven’t even put it in my journal.”
“Sanjeev is engaged?”
“His parents have chosen a bride for him.”
“Does that still happen?”
“Ninety-five percent of all Indian marriages are arranged.”
“Why? Don’t they have Match.com in India?”
“Marriage is not a joking matter in India.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s all right. I didn’t really understand either until Sanjeev explained it to me.” Millie gets a sad, faraway look in her eyes. “According
to Hinduism, marriage is a sacred relationship that extends across seven or more lives. Two souls come together to help each other progress spiritually so that they may find salvation. They have to marry because their karmas are intertwined.” Millie sighs. “It is destiny.”
“It is also the twenty-first century.”
“Sanjeev’s parents are very traditional. His bride-to-be, Bhavani Mukherjee, is Bengali Brahman from Kolkata, as is Sanjeev’s family. They have already consulted astrologers who studied the heavens to determine the most auspicious day of the entire year for the ceremony. It will take place in one month. A week after the semester has ended.”
“Nice of the heavens to accommodate finals.”
“They have already selected the seven married ladies to portray the seven forms of God. One for each day of the week. They will use red powder to make the clockwise swastika on a pot of crystallized sugar to ask Ganesh to bless the couple and make the ceremony run well. They have engaged artisans to construct the mandap, the wedding canopy, on the grounds of the bride’s family estate. They’ve booked the priest and pared the guest list down to eight hundred relatives, business associates, and friends.”
“Do they have an event coordinator? No, forget I said that. Can’t Sanjeev just tell his parents that he’s having second thoughts?”
Millie smiles ruefully and shakes her head at my ignorance. “To change his mind at this point would cause his parents, himself, and Bhavani Mukherjee to be cast out of society. Bhavani would suffer the worst. No decent family would ever have her once she’s been rejected. Her life would be ruined. All their lives would be ruined.”
“Couldn’t he do it in a way that wouldn’t impugn this Bhavani Mukherjee? He could tell them he’s converted to Scientology. They’d never want him then.”
“Sanjeev is far too honorable to attempt such a subterfuge. He wouldn’t be the person I admire if he did. He was very clear from the beginning: He is here in America only to learn enough so that he can return and help with his father’s work. He has nothing but contempt for his countrymen who come here and are seduced by Western ways. His parents are still reeling from the shock of learning that Sanjeev’s brother, Vijay, has switched his major from molecular biology to video game design. No, Sanjeev will never betray his parents or who he is. He will return to India and marry Bhavani Mukherjee. And that is that.”
“Does Sanjeev even know how you feel?”
“No! And you must never tell him. Ever. Do you promise?”
“Okay, yeah, sure.”
“No, really, Blythe, you have to promise me. If you told him that I have, uh, feelings it would destroy our friendship and I don’t think I could go on without at least that. So promise.”
“I promise.”
“No, really, really, really promise.”
“All right, all right. I really, really, really promise.”
Millie nods her head sternly. “Good. The case is closed. Forever. Let’s move on. Danny called.”
“Yeah, he called. That’s all. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“But after all these years? It means he’s still carrying a torch.”
“There was never a torch.”
“In his heart. There was a torch in his heart. A love all the purer for remaining unspoken.”
“Millie, you just might be the most romantic person I know.”
“Me? You’re the one who’s been carrying a torch for all these years.”
Millie turns off the light, and in the twilight moment between sleep and waking I see Sanjeev pocketing Millie’s ChapStick. But when he turns around, it is Danny, and the ChapStick is mine.
You Never Turn a Stranger Out
OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, I notice how being a nitwit with a crush opens me up to things I’ve previously blocked out. Lying in bed, thinking about Danny, I hear, really hear, music again for the first time in almost a decade. From every corner of the house, a Babel of musical genres beams in, and every song reminds me of Danny, the musical chameleon who changed bands and styles as often as he switched girlfriends. The music transports me and I wonder why I unplugged from what had once been a major power source in my life. When had I gotten to the point that the last time and place I’d moved to music was “It’s Raining Men” at an aerobics studio?
All those years of making, then losing, money, I hadn’t noticed that music had disappeared from my life any more than I noticed that friends, movies, ethics, sex, and Snickers bars had vanished as well. When had a Snickers bar from the freezer stopped being a treat? When had all my friends mutated into connections who slowly, then swiftly, dropped me after the divorce?
The music flows in from every room in the house. It streams over parched aural passages and soaks into desiccated synaptic pathways. Reggae from Nazarite and Yay Bombah, of course. Presto and Clancy beam in lugubrious, indie stuff. Korean hip-hop floats up from one of the computer wizards downstairs. Sanjeev occasionally cuts loose with a hit from the eighties taken from the blander side of the charts. My favorites, though, filter in from a surprising source: Juniper’s room. The stuff Juniper plays fills the air with haunting female voices that seem to have bounced off of the Appalachians, Dollywood, and the moon on their way to my ears.
Just as one of my particular favorites starts up, Millie walks in. I ask her, “What is that song?”
Millie cocks her head, listening intently as the female singer yowls and gargles lyrics to a kerplunking banjo and tinkling mandolin accompaniment.
It mesmerizes me. Now that I have reactivated my atrophied music muscle, it won’t stop flexing. “I love that song. I have to know who that band is.” I strain to make out the melancholy words that drift through the air and catch a few words. “Did they say, ‘Legs of punch a train’?”
Millie shrugs. “I couldn’t understand. Let’s go ask Juniper.”
“Uh, me and Juniper…” I mime trying to force two magnets together.
“Jerome, Jerome will know; he’s a music genius.”
Millie leaves and returns almost immediately with Jerome in tow. “Listen,” she commands him.
After only a few seconds, the song ends, but Jerome has heard enough. He taps away on Millie’s laptop. “Might the song you are seeking sound a little like this?” He punches a key and plinking banjo notes patter down like fat silver raindrops on the dust.
“That’s it! That’s my song!”
An angelic voice yowls and slurs. We never turn a stranger out from the lakes of Pontchartrain.
“‘The Lakes of Pontchartrain,’” I yell, happier to possess the name of this song than any furs or designer frocks I once owned. Okay, maybe not the striped sable. Or the Jean-Paul Gaultier cocktail dress with the garnet piping.
“You want me to download it?” Jerome asks.
I jerk my eyebrows in Millie’s direction and scowl at Jerome, but it is too late.
“Download?” Millie asks. “Are you talking about illegally downloading music? Don’t do that on my computer.”
“Don’t worry,” Jerome says. “You’re thinking of Napster. That’s all over now. This is just an intrahouse music-sharing network. Choi Soon Yong and Elmootazbellah Kamolvilassitian hooked the house into the university’s system so that they could run their programs.”
“So this system is sanctioned by the university?”
“Oh, completely,” Jerome assures Millie. “It’s just us students sharing our music.”
I may have little interest and less expertise in the technicalities of file sharing, but I can recognize the sound of a moral corner being cut when I hear one.
“Why don’t you just have a listen?” I say, snapping headphones over Millie’s ears and turning up the volume so she can’t hear when I ask Jerome, “That ‘sanctioned by the university,’ that’s bullshit, isn’t it?”
“Total crock. But not to worry. An adorable side effect of being a self-contained module sheltered by the university’s computer system is that it makes the house invisible to RIAA bots out trolli
ng for music pirates.”
“So you all run this swap meet with total impunity? There’s no chance of anyone, of Millie, being caught?”
“None.”
Millie takes the headphones off and asks me, “Blythe, are you certain this is totally on the up and up?”
Jerome, his fingers hovering above Millie’s laptop, waits for my reply. Not wanting Millie’s moral persnicketiness to get between me and something I crave intensely, I answer, “Totally.”
The album is downloaded onto Millie’s laptop by the time Jerome steps out the door. Then Millie and I listen to the kind of Appalachian fiddle playing that saws directly into the most tender part of your heart and makes a person yearn for all that is lost, and I could not care less where this music came from, only that it is here. The elegiac tone makes me slump into a comfy mournful mode.
Millie brightens when the next song plays. “Oh my gosh! Is that ‘Oh, Susanna’?” We listen to:
I come from Alabama with my banjo on my knee.
I’m going to Loozeeana my true love for to see.
It rained all night the day I left, the weather was bone dry.
Sun so hot, I froze to death. Susanna, don’t you cry.
Millie joins in on the refrain.
Oh, Susanna, don’t you cry for me.
I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee.
On the second verse, she drags me off the bed and we swoop through a jokey, joyful waltz.
I had a dream the other night
When everything was still
I dreamed I saw Susanna
A-comin’ down the hill
A buckwheat cake was in her mouth
A tear was in her eye.
I said I’m coming from the south
Susanna, don’t you cry.
As we whirl around the room, pounding century-old dust out of the floorboards, I catch a glimpse of the shimmering Zac Posen jacket, my suit of lights. It is a ghostly blur, a streak of past motion on a photograph. I did have a lot of sublime things in my old life, but I didn’t have this, a friend to dance with.