If Today Be Sweet (23 page)

Luke looked confused. And appalled. “I'm sorry, ma'am. I thought I did, honest. That is, I told you I was a newspaper reporter. See, the way it works is, I never know if something's going to be a story until I run it past my editor.”

Her face softened as Tehmina saw that she had upset him. “Well, what's done is done.”

Susan stepped up. “Hello, I'm Susan Sethna, Tehmina's daughter-in-law,” she said coolly. “What can we do for you today?”

Luke straightened, as if he had heard the glass in Susan's voice. He assumed a formal, professional voice, different from the easy manner he had around Tehmina. “I'm here to do a follow-up piece on Miss Tammy, ma'am. Something along the lines of, y'know, a personality profile.”

“No more interviews,” Sorab interjected. “Listen, we're just regular people, you know? We don't like to be in the limelight. And this is such an unfortunate story anyway. We don't want it to seem like we're exploiting someone else's tragedy. Right, Mom?”

Tehmina nodded, though she wished Sorab had let her speak for herself. After all, Luke was here to interview her, not them. “Yes, I don't want any more publicity, please.”

The doorbell rang again, more persistent this time. “Listen,” Luke said urgently. “They're not going to go away. You may as well give them some reaction.” Seeing their stubborn expressions, he tried again. “This is a feel-good, human-interest story,” he
said. “My editor even put it on the national wire last night—that's when…that's so that any other newspaper in the country can pick it up. You have to understand—people need something to feel good about. Look at the rest of today's paper—it's all about the war and bombs going off and all that crap. And here's a woman who is not even an American who does what most of us wouldn't do. You know what I mean? Look,” he continued desperately, “a lot of good may come out of this story. You may convince someone else to do the right thing. It could inspire someone else—”

“Okay,” Sorab interrupted. “Let me do this. I need to call my best friend who's a lawyer and get his advice, okay?” He turned to face Luke. “You don't understand—this is not how we were planning on spending Christmas Day. I have to be back at work tomorrow, thanks to the whims of my lovely boss. So this is my only day off, okay? And I didn't plan on spending it talking to the media.” For a moment, Sorab looked teary, as if he was trying to fight off the self-pity that threatened to engulf him. Then he turned around abruptly to call Percy.

Tehmina was left alone facing Luke. She noticed the flecks of snow on his brown hair and her fingers itched to dust them off. She remembered how sweet the boy had been to her yesterday, how his warmth and kindness had balanced the stiff politeness of the two officers. Now she looked deeply into Luke Johnson's face and decided she liked him. There was something open and sincere and trustworthy about the boy's face. Also, he had known pain. She didn't know how she knew that, but she was sure of it. It was in his eyes. “Why did you come back today in such cold weather, sonny?” she said to him. “What more do you need to know about an old lady like myself?”

“Apparently, our newsroom phones have been ringing off the hook this morning, ma'am,” Luke said. “My editor called me at home this morning and told me to get the heck out here and talk to
you some more. Turns out our readers really want to help those two kids—and know more about you.”

“Now the two boys, I can understand. But why—”

“Mamma,” Sorab interjected. “Let me call Percy before you say anything else.”

Something about Sorab's tone—the way he insinuated Luke was not to be trusted and that she had to get permission from Percy before trusting her own instincts—infuriated her. Keep your chin up, Eva had said to her, and Tehmina found herself tilting her head back as she looked at her son. Her eyes were steady and unwavering as she took in his anxious face, the way in which his hands were gripping the phone. For the first time in a year she felt as if the natural order of things had been restored: she was the parent again and Sorab was the child. “Go ahead and call Percy. He can advise us about what to do about the rest of them out there. But this young man here, I'm going to talk to him.”

Ignoring the startled, hurt looks Sorab and Susan gave her, she led Luke Johnson into the kitchen.

T
ehmina decided to wear her blue sari with the embroidered border to Joe Canfield's home. After all, from everything Sorab had said, Joe was an important man. She had not seen Sorab this excited about a dinner invitation ever—his behavior reminded Tehmina of Cookie's excitement on Christmas Day.

Christmas. Only four days had passed since then, but it was as if a lifetime had gone by. What a crazy country this was. Instead of fretting about the two boys living with their aunt and uncle, instead of worrying about Tara, who, despite all her sins, was a mother and was undoubtedly missing her children—instead of those appropriate responses, it was as if all of Rosemont Heights was busy singing her praises. And not just Rosemont Heights. She had received letters from as far away as Oregon and Florida. God knows how someone in Oregon had heard of her, much less secured her address. And the mayor of Rosemont Heights had herself phoned Tehmina to offer her congratulations. Congratulations for what? Tehmina had almost said. But she was beginning to suspect the answer—in America,
being a celebrity was a celebration in itself; something to be congratulated for.

“Oh, Mamma, relax.” Sorab had laughed when she told him about the mayor's phone call. Sorab had been in an unusually good mood in the days since Christmas. “Enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame.” Tehmina had stared at him quizzically and Sorab had to explain what the American expression meant and who Andy Warhol was.

But even Sorab had been shaken by what had happened yesterday. She and Susan had gone to Kmart to return some gifts. Susan was at the returns counter while Tehmina wandered aimlessly through the store. As she ran her hands through the coats on the rack, a strange man who wore horn-rimmed glasses under his bald, egglike head had approached her. “You the lady in the papers, right?” he said. “The Christmas Angel?”

Tehmina had blushed, unsure of what to say. But the man helped her out. “God bless you, lady.”

“Thank you,” Tehmina said, ready to continue on her way. But the man blocked her path. “It's folks like you fulfilling the prophecy.”

Tehmina stared at him. “Excuse me?” she said.

“Yes, ma'am, the end of the world is coming for sure,” the man said. “You a Christian?” he asked suddenly.

“No, I'm a Parsi. A Zoroastrian? Originally from Persia?”

“Never heard of it,” the man said. “But no matter. Jesus Christ can save your soul from eternal damnation, if you'll let Him. Will you pray with me?” And to Tehmina's utter mortification, the stranger took her hand and bowed his head in prayer.

“I'm not…that is, excuse me,” she said, trying to pull her hand from his and frantically looking around for Susan. And as if Susan had heard her silent cry for help, her daughter-in-law materialized behind her.

“What the hell?”

“Susan. I'm glad you're here,” a flustered Tehmina said. But the praying man drowned out her voice. “If you don't mind, ma'am,” he hissed at Susan. “Can't you see we're engaged in the business of the Lord? And no cussing before the holy circle.”

“Listen, mister, I don't know who you are, but if you don't let go of my mother right this minute, I'm going to call the store security.” Even as she said those words, Susan was looking around.

Despite her fear and embarrassment, Susan's words penetrated Tehmina's heart. Susan had called her her mother. Not her mother-in-law. Her mother. The joy that she felt at that realization gave her courage to pull her hand out of the man's manic grip. “Come on, let's go,” she muttered to Susan, but the man followed them, brushing past the winter coats and the sweaters.

“It's the Lord you're running away from, not me,” he said. “Your souls will fry like bacon in an eternal hell if you don't embrace Christ as your personal savior.”

“Is this man bothering you, ladies?” It was a tall, slender African-American man with short dark hair in the men's sweaters section. And then, without waiting for an answer, “Listen, buster. I'm the manager of the store. If you don't leave in five seconds, I'm calling the police.”

The man looked as if he was going to argue, but he suddenly fell silent, reminding Tehmina of how a balloon deflated when someone let the air out of it. Without another word, he left, all the time muttering to himself.

“Thank you so much, Mr.—?” Susan looked for his name tag.

The man laughed. “Actually, the name's Peter. But I'm not the manager, just a customer. Sometimes you have to lie to God's messengers.” He winked at them and both women laughed.

“Well, thank you so much, anyway,” Susan said, and Tehmina nodded.

“Hey, no problem, no problem.” He turned toward Tehmina and
his look was serious. “I just want you to know, ma'am, that we're not all nuts in this country. Like, I'm a Christian myself, but I don't believe in converting people in the middle of Kmart.” They all laughed again. “Though if I may say this—that was a pretty neat thing you did, rescuing those two boys. I—I just want you to know that. I have two young boys myself and I can't imagine—” He shuddered.

Tehmina liked this chocolate-colored man so much she wanted to invite him for dinner. “Thank you very much,” she said. She knew her words were inadequate, but she hoped he knew that his words meant more to her than the call from the mayor.

“You're welcome,” he said lightly, and then, with a nod of his head, he walked away.

“There are so many good people in the world.” Tehmina sighed, watching his retreating form.

“Yeah, and there are so many nut jobs, too,” Susan replied. “You have to be really careful, Mom, especially now that you're famous.” Susan chuckled at the last word.

How did Susan do this, she wondered, making her feel guilty about something she had nothing to do with? Was it her fault that a crazy man had approached her at Kmart and decided to score extra points in heaven by converting her? But then she remembered her picture in the paper and how she'd broken her promise to Susan. Also, the memory of Susan referring to her as her mother was still fresh and perfumed in Tehmina's mind. “Sorry,” she said, taking Susan's hand. “All my life I've been like this—attracting all the loonies to me. God knows why.”

Susan squeezed her hand. “Because they all know a soft touch when they spot one.” She smiled. And as if that wasn't enough to make Tehmina choke, “Your goodness just radiates out of you, Mamma. Everybody sees it.”

Now Tehmina was really embarrassed. “What nonsense you speak.”

“Nonsense? Heck, you think I don't notice? If I go to the store by myself or even with Sorab, nobody gives me a second look. But if I'm in line with you, even the surliest of cashiers are suddenly laughing and chatting with me. Same thing when we used to go for walks at Greendale Park last fall, remember? Perfect strangers would be beaming at us.”

“It's because they see the way you and Sorab take care of me,” Tehmina said. “People like to see that—like to see love in a family.”

“I know. And our family has plenty of that, thank God.”

Tehmina was suddently struck by a thought: Susan was becoming more like all of them, she realized. More emotional, more sentimental, more—well, more Parsi. Less American. Less white. It was as if Sorab's influence on her was finally showing. She suppressed a boastful thought: that it was her influence, her devotion to her son, her open displays of affection toward Cookie, that were changing Susan, were making her less brittle, more pliable.

When did this start happening? she asked herself. Just a week or so ago she was complaining to Eva about Susan, was acutely aware of the thinness of her smile, the brittleness in her voice and laughter. And then she realized—it was the article. The article and her ensuing celebrity had eased the tension at home.

Now, getting ready for Joe Canfield's party, Tehmina wondered whether to put on the diamond earrings that Rustom had gotten made for her fortieth birthday. She didn't want to look too ostentatious. She knew that here in America, even rich women wore costume jewelry—and didn't even try to hide the fact. Whereas in India, even the poorest of slum women would own at least some gold and that, too, twenty-four-karat. In America, you couldn't even buy twenty-four-karat gold. She remembered the time Sorab had informed her of this. Her immediate thought had been, then how can they claim to be the richest country in the world? She picked up the diamond earrings and held them to her ear. They twinkled like the lights on
the Christmas tree in the living room. Tehmina decided she would wear them. After all, Joe Canfield had made it clear that the party was in her honor. And all the man knew of her was that horrible picture in the paper—although Luke had redeemed himself with a nicer picture in the follow-up story he wrote the next day. Still, Tehmina knew how much first impressions counted and she wanted to make sure that she impressed Sorab's boss. Anything she could do to further her son's career, she would do. Already, Joe Canfield had invited Sorab to play racquetball with him earlier in the week—something he had done only once before, soon after he'd hired Sorab.

She put on the diamond earrings. “Good decision, Tehmina,” she heard Rustom say. She spun around. There he was leaning against the wall, one hand in his right pocket. Looking more at home in his son's house than she had ever felt.

“Darling. How…how long have you been standing here?”

“Arre wah. My wife is all dolled up like a film actress and you think I'd miss a chance to admire her beauty?”

“Remember when you got me these earrings?” Tehmina's eyes filled with tears.

“I remember,” he said softly. “I remember everything.”

“I've missed you so much these past few days, janu. So much has happened since we last spoke.”

“I know,” he said. “I've been watching you.”

“But I need to—”

“Mamma,” Sorab said as he entered the room. “Are you almost ready?” Then, taking in the earrings and the sari, “Wow. You look like a queen.”

“Sorab…” Tehmina spun around, but Rustom was gone, the corner wall he had been leaning against looking bewilderingly empty.

“God, Mamma, what's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Tehmina jumped guiltily. “Nothing. You just startled me, that's all.”

“Sorry. Just wanted to bring up more of your fan mail. Some of these are from Hawaii and Arizona, even. Probably more people sending checks for the two boys. All made out to you, of course. I can't believe how trusting people are—what if you decided to cash these checks and keep the money for yourself?”

“Sorab.” Tehmina was shocked. “I would never do that.”

“Oh, relax, Mamma. I never said you would. I just said, how do these strangers know that you won't?”

“Beta, there has to be some trust in the world,” she said. “Otherwise, where would we all be?”

Sorab took a few steps and leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “I know. Right you are, O famous one. Now, are you ready?”

 

Joe and Heather Canfield lived in a big old house on Lake Erie. Faded Oriental rugs covered the rich hardwood floors, while dark abstract paintings hung from the walls. Tehmina took in the weathered leather furniture, the built-in bookcases, the old fireplace, the crown molding, and felt her body relax. This old house felt so much more—more
real
—than Sorab's carpeted, modern house and the Jasawala's freshly built palace. Why did Sorab and all his friends live in these new, soulless houses when there were houses like this available? she wondered. Joe Canfield's house felt broken-in, worn, and comfortable as an old shoe. There was something distinctive about it, something that bore the imprint of the owner and the weight of family history. Whereas, even though the Jasawalas had designed their home, it felt anonymous, interchangeable, like any person could come along and occupy that house. Was it a question of old money versus new money? Tehmina asked herself. Maybe because Joe Canfield was a rich man, he could afford to not replace
a carpet that was fraying or a couch that had a tear in it. What was that old Gujarati saying? Something to the effect of: If a poor man is caught eating peanuts, the world will say it's because he can't afford almonds. Whereas if a rich man is eating peanuts, people would say it's because he needs a break from eating almonds every day. So maybe immigrants such as the Jasawalas had to constantly prove their success to the world. That's what she liked about Joe's house, she realized—it had nothing to prove to anyone. It just stood in the same space it had occupied for God knows how many years, and if it was a little bent and if it was a little shabby, well, so be it.

Even though it was too dark to see the lake, and although the windows were shut, Tehmina could hear the distant waves pound against the rocks as they sat sipping wine in Joe and Heather's living room. The sound of the waves reminded her of the Arabian Sea and that in turn reminded her of her beloved Bombay. She felt an acute homesickness. Something about this house, with its high ceilings and crown molding was reminding her of her own Colaba apartment.

“So, Tammy, what news of the two boys?” Joe was saying to her.

She jumped and forced herself to stop listening to the waves and focus on the man before her. “They're with their aunt and uncle,” she said. “Actually, I got a card from them yesterday.” She glanced at Sorab and Susan in apology. “I…I forgot to tell you…I had bought them some Christmas gifts and they wrote to thank me for those.” She didn't tell them what Jerome had added at the bottom of the card.
I am sorry for calling you a bad name. Thank you for helping us.

All four of them burst out laughing. “And when did you give them their gifts, Tammy?” She could tell that Joe was enjoying himself, delighting in her quaintness, wanting some inside information that was not in the newspaper stories.