And Laughter Fell From the Sky (7 page)

Rasika hated to hear her calm and cultured mother get frantic like this. “I’m sorry, Amma.” She stood up and put her arms around her mother, nestling her head in her mother’s neck.

Amma pushed her away. “You must grow up, Rasika.” She sat down on the bed. Rasika sat beside her, draping her arms around her mother and resting her head on her mother’s shoulder.

“Other Indian mothers want their children to live at home.” Amma patted Rasika’s hand. “All the other youngsters run away as soon as they can, to New York, Chicago, San Francisco. Abhay ran away to that crazy farm. Pramod has all of a sudden decided he wants to join the Peace Corps. Can you imagine? We are not sending him to medical school so he can go rot in some African country. But, you are staying at home. You are a good girl. I think maybe . . . I don’t want to say you should leave. The girls in India stay at home, too, but when it is time to get married, they know they must follow their husbands. You cannot stay with us forever.”

“I know,” Rasika murmured. She wished she had better control over herself. What had made her stand up and call to Abhay? That’s what started it all.

Amma pushed Rasika aside and stood up. “I don’t know what we should do now. Your birthday is coming so soon. Maybe we should consider Subhash after all.”

“What?”

“I never told you before, but Deepti Auntie mentioned a few months ago that Subhash would like to marry you.”

“But—he’s related to me!”

“Second-cousin marriage is acceptable, but your Appa thinks we should not marry you to such a close relative. Now since nothing else is working out, maybe we should reconsider. He is a good boy.”

“Amma. I can’t marry him. He’s just so awkward. Did you know he’s even changing his name to ‘Sam,’ so he can attract more American customers?”

“When did you find out about that?”

“The other day, I—” Rasika stopped. She didn’t want to tell her mother about seeing Subhash when she’d been with Abhay.

“Many Indians change their names,” Amma said. “He will still be ‘Subhash’ within the family. He will do very well for himself, I am sure. He is a hard worker, and very conscientious and polite. Maybe we should get your horoscopes matched, just in case.”

Rasika started to panic. She pulled on her mother’s arm, as she used to do when she was a child. “Amma, I can’t marry him!” Rasika imagined a lifetime of trying to get Subhash to lose weight, floss his teeth, wear the right clothes, and acquire some social graces.

Amma shook off Rasika’s grip. “I have been wanting to go through personal connections, but maybe we should consider these Internet sites. I will ask Pramod to look into this.” Amma bustled into the hallway. “Pramod!” She started downstairs, shouting all the way. “Pramod! Come here. I have something for you to do.”

Rasika closed the door and crawled under the sheets. She didn’t want to think about anything right now. Her bed was one of her favorite places in the world. Since she’d been earning her own money, she’d dispensed with her mother’s polyester-blend sheets and used only Egyptian cotton in the summer, and thick flannel in the winter. She also had a goose down duvet. The air-conditioning made her want to get really warm in bed. She allowed her mind to drift pleasantly. She didn’t find it difficult to think of nothing, and never had trouble going to sleep.

Chapter 4

S
o many different muffled sounds: the metallic whirr of the X-ray machine, the high-pitched whine of a tooth drill, the low murmur of the telephone. It was Monday morning, and Abhay was at a dentists’ office—his first day of temping for a receptionist on maternity leave. The office was decorated in beige and gray, and smelled like an astringent mixure of dentist-office chemicals. Abhay sat at one end of a long gray counter, with the customer window in front of him. The office manager, Daloris, sat next to him.

“She wasn’t due for three more weeks,” Daloris was saying. “We were planning to have the person come in the day before and get trained. But she went into labor last night, so we’ll have to do the best we can.”

“He looks smart,” Shavonne said. She was in charge of billing and sat down the counter from him, in front of the billing window. She smiled at him, and when he glanced back, she looked away. She had smooth dark brown skin, and her hair was done in an intricate braided maze. She wore a skirt that just grazed her knees when she sat.

Daloris cleared her throat. “Here’s the list for today.” She opened a large appointment calendar. “When patients come in, have them sign here.” She reached through his window and patted a clipboard on the high counter.

As Abhay listened, he thought about the sad state of his life. How could Daloris and Shavonne be so cheerful, working here day after day? Shavonne had decorated her section of the counter with framed photos of two shaggy cats, a digital clock in the shape of an apple, and a giant mug with a cartoon hippo on it, which held pens. Wasn’t it strange how women in all dentists’ and doctors’ offices had similar things on their desks? Did they learn this at school or something?
In order to work in a dentist’s office, you must develop a liking for tasteless, useless items with which to decorate your work space.

“When you get a chance,” Daloris was saying, “you’ll need to make reminder calls for upcoming appointments. If you don’t get to it today, don’t worry about it. Shavonne and I can help.”

On the counter near him was a large vase filled with red roses. One of the dentists bought flowers every morning, and the receptionist (he, in this case) was to hand one to every woman patient as she left the office. Abhay objected silently to this sexism. What about the men? Surely they could also use some floral cheer after enduring a visit to the dentist.

Daloris went back to her office. Abhay began asking people to sign in. Between patients, he picked up the phone and made a few reminder calls. Fortunately, no one answered, but he felt ridiculous leaving his message: “This is the office of Doctors Harley, Tan, and Remerovsky, calling to remind you of your dentist appointment on Wednesday at nine-fifteen. If you are unable to make this appointment, please call us at your earliest convenience.” Who cared? So if someone missed an appointment, they might get a cavity, or maybe some gingivitis. The whole thing was just so unimportant.

A patient appeared at Shavonne’s window, a young white man in a business suit. As she ran his credit card through the machine, the man probed thoughtfully around his mouth with his tongue. When he walked past Abhay’s window, Abhay tugged a rose from the vase and stood up. “Would you like a flower?” he called.

The man stopped. Abhay was sure he’d refuse, thereby confirming Abhay’s opinion that most men in American society had cut themselves off from natural beauty. Not that this rose was particularly natural. It had probably been grown in a greenhouse and fed a diet of chemicals.

The man held out a pink hand. “Sure.”

Shavonne leaped up, reached across Abhay, pulled open a drawer, and withdrew a paper towel, which she handed to the man to wrap around his dripping stem.

“It’s for the
women
.” Shavonne giggled after the man walked out clutching his rose. She leaned in front of Abhay again, lifted a pile of paper towels out of the drawer, and set them beside the vase.

“Men like flowers, too,” Abhay said. Maybe things were changing, and even conventional young men were willing to embrace at least some of their femininity.

“He’ll just give it to his girlfriend or his assistant.” Shavonne sat back down at her section of the counter. “If you hand them out to everyone, you’ll run out before the end of the day.”

The frilly V-neck of Shavonne’s blouse suggested what was underneath. She also wore a silver-colored cross with a lifelike figure of Jesus attached to it. He never understood why people wore jewelry depicting a tortured man.

“It doesn’t seem fair that only the women get roses,” he said.

She cocked her head at him dramatically. “You’re not gay. Are you?”

He shook his head.

“Good.” She looked at him suggestively. He glanced away. Why was it he was never particularly interested in the women who liked him? Shavonne was certainly cute, and she was shorter than him, too.

The morning wore on, occasionally enlivened by banter with Shavonne. At lunchtime he ate his sandwich, chips, and apple in the tiny employee kitchen. From his backpack he tugged out a stack of career books, opened one of them to a random page, and read about an exercise called “clustering your interests.” The words swam on the page, and he thought about Rasika. She couldn’t be interested in him. But why had she called out to him at the mall on Saturday? Why had she suggested they get together again? And in front of that stuffed shirt she was supposed to marry. Probably she was trying to give the guy a hint, and he, Abhay, happened to be convenient. She must not have meant anything by it.

Yet she’d seemed so happy to see him.

Even if she were interested, he ought to stay away from her. She probably voted Republican. Or worse, maybe she didn’t bother to vote at all.

By Wednesday, Abhay felt like his brain would collapse from emptiness. He couldn’t keep temping. During his lunch break he wandered around the building, looking for a pay phone. He finally found one near the bathroom at the gas station next door to the office. He called his temp agency supervisor and told her this would be his last week with the agency, because he’d found another job. “What will you be doing?” she asked, surprised. He said, “Uh. It involves, uh, books.” Which was true. He planned to do a lot of reading in the coming weeks.

He put in another fifty cents and, before he could change his mind, called directory assistance, asked for Ohio West Bank’s commercial loan office, and was connected. When the recorded voice said, “To use the company directory, spell the last name of the person you wish to reach,” he spelled out
Subramanian
and was connected to Rasika’s voice mail. He listened to her message—her voice seemed so distant and businesslike—heard the beep, and hung up. Then he felt cowardly, deposited yet another fifty cents, called again, and said into her voice mail, in what he hoped was a casual, cool voice, “Rasika. It’s Abhay. Just wanted to catch up with you. Maybe we can get together on Friday. Give me a call.” He left his parents’ phone number.

He went back to the dentists’ office, ate his lunch, and felt elated. Two more days of this, and he’d be free! The money he’d already earned could last him for weeks—months, even—depending on how careful he was. Of course, he didn’t want to live at his parents’ house for months. Would Rasika return his call? He tried to pretend he didn’t care much one way or the other. He tried to pretend he was only calling her because he was newly back in town, and ought to reconnect with the few old acquaintances who were still here.

That evening he walked around the house and checked on Seema, his mother, and his father. No one was tying up the phone, and still it didn’t ring.

Finally he felt so restless that he called up an old high school friend, Christopher Haldorson. He knew Chris’s number by heart because Chris still lived with his parents. Abhay had been avoiding him—Chris hadn’t progressed much since high school—but after all, Abhay himself was now living with his parents.

Chris invited him over. On the way, Abhay walked past their old high school. He stopped at the driveway and looked at the sprawling brick building set back on the lawn. The school was silent and still, now that it was summer. He remembered, as a senior, longing to get away from the school, and here he was again, living within a mile of it.

Chris’s parents lived in a 1950s neighborhood of modest one-story houses. From the outside, Abhay could see the blue flickering light of the large-screen TV through the living room picture window. He knocked on the back door, as usual, and Chris let him into the kitchen, which was brightly lit and spotless.

“Adios!” Chris slapped him on the back. “How goes it?”

Abhay was startled to hear his high school nickname again. In ninth grade some kids noticed that his name, correctly pronounced “uh-bye,” sounded like “good-bye,” and started calling him “Adios.” Apparently because he could pass for Hispanic, most kids thought this nickname was appropriate or hilarious or both, and it stuck.

Chris looked the same—tall, with dull tan hair—except that he’d gained some weight. As they headed down the hallway to Chris’s room, they passed the dark living room, where Chris’s parents were watching
Wheel of Fortune
.

“Mom, Dad, Adios is here,” Chris called.

Mrs. Haldorson padded over in her fluffy bedroom slippers, with Mr. Haldorson behind her, leaning on a cane. She wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. “Great to see you, honey.” She turned him so he faced the lighted kitchen, and looked at him. “You haven’t changed,” she declared. “He’s the same, isn’t he, Steve?” she said to her husband.

Mr. Haldorson shifted his cane to his left hand and held out his right hand. “Good to see you,” he said. He was a shorter, older version of Chris, and Abhay was startled by his apparent ill health. Mr. Haldorson had for years coached the baseball team at the high school.

Chris’s room was even more crammed with stuff than it had been in high school. His double bed took up most of the floor space, but around it were stacks of cardboard boxes. In one corner was a desk with a computer. The desk was clean except for an upright rack of file folders. On a bookshelf next to the bed were displayed a variety of porcelain figurines—horses, dogs, cats, dancing ladies, praying children, a fat chef next to a wine barrel—all clean and free of dust. Abhay hadn’t known that Chris collected figurines.

“What’s with the boxes?” Abhay asked. “You moving out?”

“I sell stuff on eBay.” He tossed his thick bangs out of his eyes, just as he used to do in high school.

“You make money that way?”

“Yeah. It’s not bad. It’s something we can do as a family.”

“So your parents are involved, too?”

“Dad’s on disability now. He’s had a couple of strokes.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Abhay murmured.

“Yeah, it’s been scary, but at least the house is paid off, so we’re not desperate for cash. Mom and Dad scout out estate sales, and Mom’s even set up a little sideline where we help people clean out all the junk in their house, and organize things, and in exchange we get to keep anything we want to sell. And Dad’s an expert about old tools. But I’m the brains of the operation. You’d be amazed how much difference it makes just to keep on top of things.”

Abhay sat down on the bed. He remembered how Chris had trouble keeping his homework organized in high school. He’d dropped out of college after a semester; he just wasn’t interested. And then he spent what seemed like years bumming around, working here and there.

“My uncles give me a hard time because I’m still living at home.” Chris sat down next to Abhay and peered at his fat hands. “But Mom and Dad don’t mind. I take care of things around the house, and we have fun together.”

“That’s great, Chris,” Abhay said. “You’re being a good Indian son, living at home and taking care of your parents.”

“Yeah. Too bad my uncles aren’t Indian.”

“So how’d you get into this?” Abhay waved his hand at all the boxes.

“I had a job for a while with an estate sale company. I got them started doing eBay sales, and then I went out on my own. Hey, what’re you doing, Adios, now that you’re home?”

Abhay wondered whether to ask Chris not to call him “Adios.” He’d successfully left this nickname behind since he’d graduated from high school. He decided to let it pass.

“You looking for work?” Chris persisted.

“I’m temping now.” Abhay didn’t want to say that he’d just quit temping.

“I need someone to help take photos to post, and to pack stuff up to send out. You interested?”

“Um. Maybe.” Abhay glanced at the shelf of figurines. “These are for sale?” Abhay picked up a little statue of a brown woman wearing a gold and blue sari blouse and loose pants, and sitting in lotus posture, palms in prayer position. “I had no idea there were yoga statues. What does this go for?”

“There’s a whole set of them.” Chris picked up another brown woman doing a backbend. “I’m selling them for $29.95 each, free shipping, but if you’re interested I can make you a deal.”

Abhay replaced the figurine. “No. That’s okay. I’m good.”

“Listen, now that you’re home, you should come over to our weekly barbecues on Saturday nights. I grill up a bunch of things, Mom makes salad, Dad makes his famous cherry cheesecake, and we invite the neighbors. Remember Emily Cross from high school? She’s Emily Nuttman now. She and her husband and kids come over.”