And Laughter Fell From The Sky Part 10

"Why not?" He was still looking up at her, and he seemed bewildered.

"For one thing, I'm not looking for a safe life."

His eyebrows knitted. He didn't seem to know what to say to this. She surprised herself by what she had said. She glanced around the room for a way to escape this conversation. "My parents are looking for a boy for me, and my marriage should be fixed quite soon."

"If you-if nothing works out for you, then-my offer still stands."

"Thank you, Subhash." Rasika didn't know what else to say to him. She fixed her eyes at a point across the room, smiled, and waved at an imaginary friend. "Excuse me." She made her way to the knot of women around Amisha Menon, and spent the rest of the reception with them, admiring Amisha's clothes, her accomplishments, and her job. In this way she managed to stay out of the way of Subhash, Abhay, Kanchan Uncle, and her mother.

At the end of the reception, while guests were milling around Amisha and her husband to congratulate them one last time, several girls took up a position near the doorway with baskets of favors. Rasika remained with Amisha until she saw both Abhay's family and Subhash's family leave. Mita Auntie and Kanchan Uncle were still talking to her parents. It appeared that the families would be walking out together.

Rasika drew near her mother, and away from Kanchan Uncle, as she walked toward the door. On the sidewalk in front of the party hall, in the darkness lit by car headlights and streetlights, she felt someone brush past her and press a piece of paper into her hand. As she glanced up, she saw Kanchan Uncle walking away from her. She crushed the paper in her fist and kept it hidden during the car ride home.

When she was safe in her bedroom, sitting on her bed in her Indian finery, she smoothed out the paper and read a time, 6 P.M., and a room number. Nothing else.

Chapter 7.

Raindrops pelted her winds.h.i.+eld as Rasika drove to work the next morning. She flipped on her wipers. The sky was a heavy gray around her, and the familiar scenery outside dripped and smeared through her windows.

When she was growing up, all the Indian uncles-who weren't really her uncles, just her parents' friends-were men to be looked up to, intelligent men who'd graduated at the tops of their cla.s.ses and who were thus able to attend graduate school or get medical training in the United States, and find jobs. Every once in a while, she'd hear a story about some uncle, not a close friend, who left his wife for someone else, or who verbally abused his children. Kanchan Uncle was within their own circle of friends. True, he'd moved away. Still, the idea of who he really was, what he had proposed . . . she felt dizzy and sick to her stomach, as though she had spun too fast in an amus.e.m.e.nt park ride.

Her office reflected the outside gloom. The windows and white walls all looked gray. As she stowed her purse in one of her drawers, her phone trilled. She didn't recognize the caller ID number on the display, so she let it go to voice mail.

The phone stopped. She realized she'd been holding her breath and let it out. Her heart was fluttering in her throat, and she still felt sick. She sat at her desk and opened a folder full of information about McMillan and a.s.sociates, a real estate development firm they were scheduled to meet with that afternoon. Kanchan Uncle would go back to Chicago tomorrow, and the whole thing would blow over. She flipped through the glossy brochures. The company was in the business of developing "a lifestyle of service, luxury, and convenience." She liked the photos: upscale brick apartment buildings with lots of windows. If she didn't live with her parents, she'd like to live in a building like that. She didn't pay much attention to the printouts of the financial data. Her role would be to charm the folks at McMillan and a.s.sociates into using her company's financial services.

The rain continued. She couldn't concentrate on work. She wandered into the kitchen for some coffee. Estelle, the grandmotherly receptionist, was rinsing out the coffeepot in the sink. She asked, "Did you get your message, honey?"

"No." Rasika decided not to wait for the coffee. She flipped the lever of the water dispenser, and water glugged into her mug.

"It sounded important." Estelle ripped open a package of coffee. Her upper-arm fat jiggled. "I put him through to your voice mail."

At her desk, she picked up the phone receiver and pushed the voice mail b.u.t.ton. "Rasika," she heard, in a slow, cultured Indian accent. "Kanchan here. I have found out where you work. I am expecting you here at six. You will not want to disappoint me."

All morning Rasika told herself she could ignore Kanchan Uncle without any repercussions. And she wasn't going to meet Abhay at the Fox and Hound either. She'd go straight home and stay out of trouble.

At lunchtime she darted out in her car, picked up a salad and a cup of soup from a nearby restaurant, and ate at her desk. What if Kanchan Uncle spread scandalous stories about her, and what if her father became ill, or had a heart attack, as a result?

Late in the afternoon, after she'd a.s.sured the men of McMillan and a.s.sociates that her company would provide excellent service, she decided she'd better meet Kanchan Uncle for a short while. She'd be charming and chat with him, maybe have a drink, and pacify him enough to smooth things over. That's all he wanted-to spend a little time with a beautiful woman, since he was saddled for life with dumpy Mita Auntie. She was reading far more into this than was warranted.

After work she drove through the rain to the Renaissance Hotel. Her heart was beating in her throat. She kept reminding herself, "Don't worry. It's not what you think. He's an Indian uncle, after all. Indian uncles never do bad things." She gave her keys to the valet parking guy and ducked into the lobby. The glare of the lights hurt her eyes, and the noises-clicking of heels and rumbling of suitcase wheels on the hard floor-seemed too loud. A man in a gray jacket mopped rainwater off the floor. As the elevator car zoomed upward her heart plummeted. Her legs trembled. She wished she had worn a longer skirt today. This one just reached her knees. She pulled her jacket close around her. The elevator door slid open, and she strode down the thick carpeting. She'd considered asking him to meet her downstairs for a drink but thought it would be better if no one saw them together. She'd just chat with him up here for a short while, and then go home. It would be fine.

She knocked. The door opened immediately.

"Welcome," he whispered. He wore a long silk robe.

She didn't move. "I can't stay long." She clutched her purse to her chest. "My mother is expecting me home."

"Come in."

She thought about turning and running toward the elevator, but he took her by the hand and pulled her in. His touch was damp, and she wiped the back of her hand on her jacket. The door shut with a loud click. She was standing in the living area of a suite. She was aware of a dimly lit bedroom opening to her left.

"Make yourself comfortable." He ushered her to a sofa at the far end of the room. She sat on the edge of a cus.h.i.+on and studied the window, looking for an escape route. The curtains were closed. They were on the twelfth floor.

He handed her a gla.s.s of red wine. She set it on the table. Uncle sat down with his own gla.s.s of wine, and the silk robe flapped open, revealing white and black chest hairs. "Why don't you put your purse down and relax?"

She heard her phone ringing in her purse, and she clutched it tighter to her chest. It was probably her mother. What if Amma found out about this? She might think this was all Rasika's fault for agreeing to meet a man in his hotel room.

"Uncle." She stood up. "I really can't stay. I just came to talk to you for a minute." She took a step back.

He put his gla.s.s on the table carefully, and stood. Even though she was wearing heels, he was several inches taller than she was. He put his hand on her purse. She clutched it even tighter. He lowered his hand. "Come on." His voice was low and rumbly. "Relax. You don't have to worry about anything. We'll have a little fun, and then I'll go away. You'll never hear from me again. And your secret"- he looked pointedly at her-"will be completely safe."

Rasika turned and moved toward the door. Two hands gripped her shoulders. Without thinking, she screamed and kicked back at his legs with her heel. She rushed for the door and pulled the handle. It stopped. The safety latch was in place. Uncle was clenching her arm. She kicked him again, and he turned her and shoved her against the door. She aimed her nails at his eyes. He grabbed her wrist, dragged her into the bedroom, and pushed her down onto the bed.

"If you cooperated, I would not have to do this." His face was hard, his voice steely.

She couldn't believe what was happening. This scene was not supposed to be part of her life. She screamed and flailed at him with her nails and heels. His hands pressed down on her shoulders, and his knee was on her stomach. He had thrown her purse somewhere, and his damp hands were clutching at her blouse, trying to rip it open.

Suddenly, there was banging at the door. "What's going on in there?" someone shouted.

Kanchan put his hand over her mouth while she continued trying to kick him. The banging persisted. He leaped up and disappeared into the bathroom. She ran to the door, fumbled for the lock, and opened it to see a large black man in the gray jacket and cap of a bellhop. Rasika reached for him. "Get me out of here!" she screamed.

The bellman helped her find her purse. "Would you like to call the police, ma'am?" he asked.

"No." Rasika smoothed her hair and skirt with a shaking hand. "Thank you. I just need to go home."

Downstairs the bellhop called for her car, and Rasika hurried out to it. She was surprised she was able to drive home so competently-that she even remembered how to drive. She felt like she was in a flat movie background and would soon burst through to the other side, to her real life.

At home, her parents were finis.h.i.+ng dinner. The air-conditioning chilled her.

"Come and eat, Rasika," Amma said. "Balu Uncle and Deepti Auntie are here. And Subhash. They are waiting to see you."

"I'm not hungry."

"Rasika, just sit with us then," Deepti Auntie called to her. "We never see you."

"I have a headache." She put her fingertips to her temples and hurried past the dining table. She could feel Subhash's eyes on her.

In her room, she took off her work clothes and lay in bed, waiting for the s.h.i.+vering to stop. She wished someone were there to comfort her, yet she knew she couldn't talk about this with anyone.

Then she thought of Abhay waiting for her at the Fox and Hound. He would never behave like Kanchan Uncle. He was a really good guy. Of course she couldn't marry him, but that didn't matter now. She just wanted to see him. She'd call him tomorrow and tell him everything. He'd comfort her.

On Monday evening Abhay stood outside the Fox and Hound in a drizzle of rain, waiting for Rasika. There was a disgusting splotch of something-pizza? dried vomit?-on the sidewalk, and he tried not to look at it. At six-fifteen, when Rasika still hadn't appeared, he went into the restaurant, found a pay phone, and called her cell phone. No answer. He decided to walk home. The rain wasn't too heavy, and he didn't mind getting a little wet. He had to forget about Rasika. He had to admit she wasn't interested in him. He needed to leave this tired town.

He entered his house in a black mood.

"Come and eat, Abhay," his mother called from the kitchen.

"Yeah, OK." He walked to his bedroom to dry off and change his clothes.

In the kitchen, his father and sister were in their usual places at the table. They always ate in the kitchen, Mom sitting nearest the stove, Seema next to her, Abhay near the back door, and his father next to him. These were the seats they had occupied as far back as Abhay could remember. When he returned home after a year away, it was apparent no one had thought to change anything.

Abhay took his usual seat and asked, "How is everyone?" Since he'd moved back, he'd been waging a one-man war against the usual silence at the dinner table.

His father grunted. His mother set a jar of spicy pickles on the table and said, "Seema, bring some ice water for Daddy."

Mom settled into her seat and began serving Dad first: a soft wheat roti, a steaming mound of white rice, ladlefuls of spinach dal and sweet-and-sour radish gojju, a spoonful of cuc.u.mber and coconut salad, a pile of crispy white sandige. She never served leftovers. Dad had always insisted on a fresh meal every evening.

Abhay was an adult before he realized his father was different from other Indian men. The stereotypical man from India was awkward and physically weak, although perhaps a genius in technical matters. His father, on the other hand, was commanding. He was tall, with a full head of pure white hair (it had turned white quite early in his life). His accent was more British than Indian. His movements were slow and deliberate. He picked up his water gla.s.s majestically and swept his eyes over the rest of them at the table.

"Chutney pudi you want?" Mom raised the jar of spice powder. She was much shorter than Dad, with a thin, girlish face and hesitant movements.

Dad drank slowly, put his gla.s.s down, and tore off a piece of roti. His nonanswer was taken as a "no," as it was meant to be. Mom pushed the rice container closer to Seema, who preferred to serve herself.

"So, Seema." Abhay looked at his skeletal sister mixing her rice with hot pickle. "In a few weeks you're starting the honors program at Kent State."

She seemed to flinch a little, as though the words had nicked her face.

"What're you going to study? Any more thoughts since we talked the other day?"

"Chemical engineering," she mumbled.

"Really. And how did you decide on that?"

"You can make fifty thousand dollars right out of college."

"Ah." He watched her swallowing and almost felt the burning pepper of the pickle make its way down her throat.

"She has done her research," Dad said. "She will do very well. She can go into biochemical engineering if she wants, and even on to medical school. It is a versatile degree."

"Abhay is also doing research," Mom put in. "He will be studying-what is it, Abhay? Environmental something. Good field it is supposed to be."

Abhay had recently mentioned to his mother that more and more colleges were offering an environmental science major, and Mom had leaped to the conclusion that he was going into this field.

"A good field according to whom?" Dad asked.

No one bothered to answer this, since it wasn't a question but a way of ending the discussion.

"Seema is the only one here with a head on her shoulders," Dad said. "Your mother is wasting her time and money on those games. And you, Abhay, are wasting your time chasing after an illusion. Universities should not be allowed to offer majors that lead to nothing. The administrators do not care. As long as they can convince people to pay for the cla.s.ses, they will offer anything. It is nothing to them if the music majors will be working as cas.h.i.+ers afterward."

Abhay bit into a sandige and was startled by its loud crunch.

"If I were an American father I would say, get out. Go support yourself." Dad crushed a sandige and mixed bits of it into his rice. He finished chewing and swallowing before starting another sentence. "That is what the Americans do. But we Indians do not abandon our children. If you come home after your degree, without any job, and you want to live here, then this is your home. That is what we believe. I have tried to raise you with good sense. I do not know where I failed."

Abhay remembered what his mother had said about Dad getting angry when he felt worried. "Dad." Abhay's voice cracked. He cleared his throat and took a sip of water. "Dad, I really appreciate everything you've done for me." He s.h.i.+fted sideways so he could see his father better.

Dad grunted.

"Right now I'm exploring my options, and I'm glad to be able to stay here," Abhay continued.

"The time for exploring is past," Dad said. "You explored all during college, and came up with nothing."

"Did you always know what you wanted to do, Dad?" Abhay asked.

Dad mixed his rice and spinach dal so vigorously that his elbow knocked Abhay in the arm. "My father told me to study physics. According to him, that was the best way to pa.s.s the Indian Civil Service exam and get a good government job."

"What does physics have to do with civil service?"

"Nothing. But somehow, studying physics allowed people to pa.s.s the exam. At that time, those kind of government jobs were the highest paying, with complete job security."

"Did you take the exam?" Abhay had never heard this part of his father's story.

Dad finished chewing a large mouthful, and took a long drink of water. "I applied for further studies in this country, and never went back to take the exam. I am sure I would have been a poor government servant."

"Did you ever have any doubts about what to study?" Abhay asked.

"In this country, they allow you too many choices." Dad waved his fork in the air, as though lecturing to a cla.s.s. "In India, you must decide what you want to do before entering college. There is nothing like 'general studies' there. You must decide, and apply, and then go wherever you get in. Here, there is too much freedom. You can complete your entire college degree and still not make any decision."

Abhay had heard this many times. Most Indians wanted their children to have the educational opportunities of the United States, but they were afraid of the freedom and choice. "Are you worried that I'll never decide, and you'll have to support me all your life?"

"I will support you as long as I can. Then I will die and you will have to support yourself. How, I do not know. In India, the son is supposed to support his mother, take care of his mother, when the father dies. How will you do that? What will happen to her?" Dad glared at Abhay.

Seema stood up and carried her plate to the sink, even though she hadn't finished her rice.

Mom looked from Seema to Abhay to Dad. Then she said, in a voice that sounded like she was choking, "I will take care of myself. Abhay should not worry." She glared at Dad. Abhay had never seen his mother glare at his father. "Always you criticize. Always you put down. It is not right. He is smart."

Dad was so surprised by this outburst that he stopped eating for a moment and just sat with his fork poised above his plate.

"Abhay never ask for money. Not once," Mom continued. "He works. All the time he works, and-"

"Enough," Dad growled. He picked up his water gla.s.s, then put it down without drinking. "I heard."

Mom bowed her head over her plate. Abhay saw a tear drop onto her rice. He wondered if silence at the dinner table was perhaps better than this.

The next morning was dry and overcast. Rasika left for work early, pulled into a gas station, and called Abhay at home. She didn't care if his parents found out she was contacting him. He had no cell phone, and she didn't know where he was working, so this was the only way to reach him. But he miraculously answered the phone himself.

"I'm sorry about last night," she said. "Something came up. I need to talk to you. Can you meet me tonight? Someplace private. Not that bar."

"I don't know," he said. "You stood me up."

"That's what I need to talk to you about."