If Today Be Sweet (8 page)

She had offended her own sense of maternal loyalty with this last thought. That's not fair, she argued with herself. It's Percy's job that forces him to have to deal with the outside world. Whereas my Sorab—working for a large advertising and consulting agency—his job is by definition limited to the concerns of his clients. Why should he worry about immigration and such? And it's not as if he's not generous. Tehmina knew that Sorab had written a check for $500 when the tsunami hit. And when she was in Bombay, Sorab was forever telling her to let him know if there were any deserving cases that needed help. Four years ago, he and Susan and the other local Parsis had arranged for Dina Madan's infant daughter to come to the Cleveland Clinic for the heart surgery that had saved her life. Dina had even brought little Malika to Rustom's funeral and had the child shake hands with Sorab. “Here's the man who saved your life, deekra,” she'd said to the little girl. “He is a great man, just as his daddy was.”

“Granna, are you going to lie down with me or not?” Cookie's plaintive voice brought her back into the present. She looked at the sweet face, so much like Sorab's despite the fair skin and light brown hair. If I had not met Rustom, you would not have been born, she marveled, and despite its banality, she felt her heart warm at the thought.

“You can call me Cavas, if you like,” Cookie repeated. “But just for tonight.” She forced herself to look sufficiently impressed by his magnanimous offer. “All right, Cavas,” she said, getting under the covers with him. “I'll lie with you for a few minutes. But no talking, you hear? Good night.”

They were silent for a second. Then Cookie said, “Did you know my mom when she was little?”

“No, Cookie, of course not. She lived here in America, whereas we—we lived in India.”

The boy looked lost in thought for a minute. Then he shrugged. “I thought so.”

“What made you think that?”

He shrugged again and Tehmina had to be satisfied with that. “Do you remember Bombay at all?” she asked. She knew that she was risking Cavas being fully awake again, but she couldn't help herself. Getting Cavas to acknowledge his love for India was like a pimple she kept prodding at with her fingernail. How foolish you are, she scolded herself. The boy was only three when he came to India. Of course he doesn't remember.

“I remember Grandpa,” the boy replied. “He took me to his office one day. There was a big picture of me and Mom and Dad on his wall.”

Tehmina blinked her tears away. That photograph now sat on top of her TV in her apartment in Bombay. She decided against telling Cookie that.

“Grandpa was
fun,
” Cookie said. Tehmina knew immediately what the child was too kind to say—
and you're not
. Did she imagine the hint of accusation she heard in his voice?

She sighed. “Everybody loved Grandpa. I did, too. Still do.”

Cavas must have heard something in her voice because he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I love you, Granna,” he said in that singsong voice he used when petting a puppy or talking to children
younger than he was. “And you're so much nicer than that stupid old babysitter. Nighty night.” He curled into a ball and pressed himself tight against Tehmina.

“Good night, little kitten,” Tehmina whispered, kissing the top of his head. But it was
her
heart that was purring.

S
now.

It had been snowing all night long, with a quiet, ruthless efficiency. Dense cotton balls floated and landed upon the skeleton trees, bestowing upon them a jaw-dropping beauty. The beauty was so acute, so startling, that the motorists returning from last-minute trips to the malls, who slid and swerved off the road, were unsure whether to blame the wet, slick roads or the distracting magnificence of those snow-covered trees. Or perhaps it was the sight of the countless, dizzying pebbles of white, exploding like fireworks before their windshields, and making their eyes wide with dazzle and fatigue.

Sorab lay awake in bed, glad to be home. His head was a little woozy from the two margaritas he had consumed earlier in the evening. Susan's gentle snoring, which usually irritated him, filled him with a soft, mellow peace tonight, so that he felt as if her familiar breathing was a kind of prayer, a reward. I'm home with my family,
he thought to himself, and as always, the words filled him with wonder.

In the golden light of the street lamp that cast a beam into their bedroom, Susan's hair shone like satin on the pillow. He looked at her familiar, thin face—the long, straight nose, the narrow lips, the high cheekbones, the arched eyebrows. Even after all these years, Susan's simple Midwestern beauty still affected him. He looked away from her to see flecks of snow, thick and white as dandruff, coming down outside his window. He shivered and the next second his thoughts went back to those shapeless, formless lines of the street people who lined the pavements of Bombay, sleeping on the hard sidewalks through all kinds of weather. Tugging on his down comforter so that it covered his ears—he had learned during his very first winter in Ohio that covering his ears was the key to staying warm in this hard, cold country—he thought of the faded, fraying cotton sheets that the homeless in Bombay used to cover their thin, shivering bodies. What a life he'd had. First, to be born middle class in India. That alone was like winning the friggin' lottery. And then, to have come to the U.S. To America, the place that had dominated his dreams since he was at least twelve years old. Of course, in those days America had meant what to him? Probably no more than Levi's jeans, Wrigley's chewing gum, Coca-Cola, Archie comic books, and rock and roll. Above all, rock and roll. It was the music that had seduced him, that had planted the seed in him, had led him out of his perfectly happy, complacent, normal life in Bombay, to seek a new challenge, a new horizon, a new home. Others may have seen America as the land of milk and honey. He saw it as the home of rock and roll. The boy whose father had worshipped classical music was ready to order Beethoven to roll over and tell Tchaikovsky the news.

He still remembered the look of hot envy on the faces of his college friends when he announced his admission at an American
college. “Fuck, man,” his friend Hanif had said. “America. Damn. That's better than—what?—than sleeping with Cindy Crawford.”

And indeed it had been. Better than sleeping with Cindy Crawford, better than fucking Juliette Binoche, better than attending a U2 concert, better than a cup of hot cocoa in front of a roaring fire. He had always thought he was ambitious, a dreamer, but his life had turned out to be more audacious and grander than even his dreams.

And as if being allowed into America was not gift enough, there were all these other gifts. A son, as perfect and pure as the moon. A wife who was sometimes prickly, yes, who smiled less often than he would like, yes, but who loved him and was fierce and loyal in that love. A career that, until the appearance of Grace Butler, had soared like a rocket. A home that was beautiful and comfortable and, most important, large enough that he could offer to share it with his mother.

His mother. A thin needle of worry was making its way into the fabric of contentment that Sorab had been weaving for himself. Mamma really needs to make up her mind, he thought, remembering his conversation with Susan at the restaurant. This not knowing is too hard on Susan. Two months will fly by and there's so much we need to do if she's going to stay—start the immigration paperwork, look for a bigger house, decide what to do with the house in Bombay. Besides, God, it would just be nice to know whether we're going to have another member here come spring. Susan and I both need the time to make the mental adjustment, dammit. Cookie, too, probably. I need to prepare him for the separation if she's going back, but how can I if I don't know what she's thinking? Mamma is so damn secretive. Was she always like this? Or has Daddy's passing away changed her? How come I don't know the answer to that? I'll have to ask Susan what she thinks. If I can bear to ask Susan any question regarding Mamma, that is. What's up with her these days, anyhow? This thin-lipped, schoolmarmish look that she gets on her face? Has
she always worn this look and I've just never seen it before? How come I don't know the answer to that? I'll have to ask Mamma.

He caught himself. You stupid son of a bitch; he laughed to himself. Trying to figure out the fairer sex. If you did, they'd give you the MacArthur genius grant. You're surrounded by secretive, manipulative women, isn't that a fact? If it's not your wife and mother, it's your lovely boss at work. Wait, make that your fantastical-fabulous-scrumptiously-divinely-delightful boss. Why settle for one adjective to describe her when you can use ten?

“Sorab, for crying out loud. What are you doing?” Susan asked sleepily.

“What?”

“Why are you tossing and turning in bed? Jesus, you're keeping me up, hon.”

“Sorry. I thought you were asleep.”

“'Sokay. Go back to sleep.”

He lay quiet and still for a few minutes. Then, “Hon? You still awake?”

“I am now.” Susan's voice was between a sigh and a hiss.

“It's snowing. I mean, it's really, really beautiful. You wanna come stand at the window and look at it with me?”

Susan groaned. “Oh, for God's sake, Sorab, you can't be serious. I just finally got warm.”

He sat in the dark, saying nothing. But he was listening, hard. What he was listening for, he wasn't sure. But he knew he'd know it if he heard it.

He was fighting back the disappointment that was forming at the back of his throat when Susan spoke. “Okay, come on. Just for a minute, okay? Jesus, I must be crazy.” As Susan threw back her covers, he felt as if she'd thrown back the gloom that was beginning to descend on him. His step was light as his feet hit the cold wooden floor.

They stood at the window watching the languid fall of the snow. Sorab put his arm around Susan. “This is like old times,” he said. “Remember, in college, how we used to wake up early and go to the river just to see the sunrise?”

Susan yawned. “Yes, dear. But that was like a hundred years ago, when we were young and pretty and—unemployed.”

He smiled. “Those were the days, huh? Unemployment sounds pretty damn great these days.”

Susan squeezed his hand. “Look at that maple tree in Ruby's yard. It's like a postcard. I'll bet you anything Mom will want to take a picture of it in the morning.” She leaned into him. “You were right, hon,” she murmured. “It really is a beautiful snowfall.”

“Worth waking up for?”

“Ask me in the morning.”

He kissed her head. “Well, seeing how you are wide awake and all, can I at least make it worth your while, darling?”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“Allow me to demonstrate.”

 

Snow is so different from rain, Tehmina thought. Rain in Bombay was like a heavy-footed, clumsy intruder, crashing and falling over the furniture, dropping the china, making its heavy, sweaty presence felt upon the hammered, beaten streets. But the snow here! Tehmina marveled at its stealth, its subterfuge, its light touch. Why, one could sleep through the night and not even know that it had snowed until morning.

Rain and snow. The perfect way to describe the difference between Bombay and America, Tehmina thought. One was loud, chaotic, tumultuous, and erratic. The other was calm, antiseptic, genteel, and polite. So ironic it is, she thought. In Bombay, where everything is dangerous, people live their lives bindaas, fearlessly, almost
thoughtlessly. Here, where there is no reason to fear anything, these people are afraid of life itself. How can they survive like this, watching and weighing everything? From terrorism to germs to the flu, these people were frightened by everything. A whole country going into a panic because there was a shortage of the flu vaccine. And sealing their pain pill bottles in such a tamper-proof way that no adult with arthritis could ever open one of them. Even their drinking straws came wrapped in plastic. Whereas, in Bombay, dear God, we breathed the foulest air and ate food at roadside stalls where they washed the plates in water as brown as mud. And look at me—a robust, hale and hearty sixty-six years old. Old Dr. Mehta always used to say, “If there's ever a plague or global catastrophe, Tehmi, I swear those Americans will die like flies. They have no immunity against anything. And us Indians, with our iron constitutions, we will rule the world.”

It was the same thing with seat belts. My God, how Sorab and Susan used to look at her when she'd refused to wear her seat belt during her first visit here. Like—like they were personally disappointed in her, the way you'd be in a relative who insisted on committing suicide before your very eyes.

Tehmina tossed in her bed, willing away the memory that was emerging. Last year, when they had vacationed in California, she and Susan had taken Cookie shopping while the two men stayed back at the hotel. Susan's hands were laden with gift bags and Tehmina was holding on to Cookie as they waited for the traffic signal to turn. They stood in a crowd of friendly, tanned, ice-cone-licking tourists, waiting on the sidewalk to cross the street. So much for land of the free, Tehmina thought to herself in amusement. Not a car in sight but still they all wait like sheep for the sign to tell them to Walk or Don't Walk. In Bombay, a thousand people would have crossed the street six times by now. Perhaps it was the thought that propelled her forward, but the next second an impatient Tehmina tugged at
her grandson's hand and began to cross the street. Behind her, she heard Susan gasp, “Mom!” but it was too late to stop. By the time they got to the other side, she knew she had done something wrong. Something uncivilized. Something—well, something—Bombayish. Something Indian. Something uncouth.

Despite the hot California sun, Susan's face was pale as she crossed the street and faced her mother-in-law. Tehmina noticed that her lower lip was trembling. “Beta, I'm sorry,” she began, but Susan didn't hear her. “I can't believe you did that, Mom,” she began. “I can't believe you exposed your only grandchild to that kind of danger.”

Danger? There had not been a car in sight. “Susan dear, the road was clear and—”

“That's not the point.” Now Tehmina noticed with wonder that there were tears in Susan's eyes. “The point is, you're teaching my son unhealthy habits. What happens if he tries darting across the street when he's at school? After all, we're not with him twenty-four hours a day. And what if a car had suddenly appeared from somewhere? You know how these people drive here, anyway.”

Tehmina felt a confusing array of emotions—outrage, shame, guilt, disbelief. People were watching them, their mouths puckered in disapproval. But disapproval of whom? Susan, for making a public scene over a trifle matter? Or at Tehmina, for being a stupid, dumb peasant who didn't know how to cross the street?

“I'm sorry,” she repeated. “I…I—what to do, dear? You know, we are so used to crossing the street like this in Bombay that I wasn't even thinking. You know the last thing I would do is hurt Cookie.”

At the mention of his name, Cookie began to cry. “Mom, stoppit,” he said. “Stop yelling at Granna.”

Susan pursed her lips. “Oh, shoot. Let's all just get out of this sun and go back to the hotel, shall we?” She looked down at her son and her face softened. “I'm not yelling at Granna, honey. It's just that
Mommy is upset because Granna scared her, okay? Tell you what. Let's go for a swim in the pool when we get back, all right?”

Susan tried to carry on a light conversation in the cab all the way home and Tehmina responded, happy to be distracted. Because otherwise the dark, heavy feeling of shame and sadness that was weighing on her would have to be acknowledged. It had been many years since someone had spoken to her, had scolded her, the way Susan had. And that, too, in public. There were no boundaries in this country, no divisions between the public and the private.

Late that night, when she and Rustom were lying in bed, she described the incident and her mortification to him. To her surprise, her voice cracked and her eyes were teary as she repeated Susan's chastising words. But she should've known better than to expect Rustom to side with her. So many times, she had noticed, Rustom stoutly spoke up for their daughter-in-law, even siding with her against his own son. It was Rustom's own way of putting the harmony and well-being of his son's family over all else, she knew. “Crazy old woman,” he now said gruffly. “Of course Susan was upset. What do you think this is, your run-down, beaten-up Mumbai? These people are used to discipline and good manners. And there you come, Mrs. Ghaati Bombayite herself, breaking all the traffic rules and corrupting our Cookie on top of it. And you expect Susan to just stand there and take it? It's a good thing she didn't push you into two lanes of traffic.”

“But that's the point. There was no traffic,” she began heatedly, but then she saw the gleam in his eye and she began to laugh. “How come you side with everybody in the world except your own wife?” she asked.

Rustom put his arms around her. “Because you are the strongest person I know. Other people need defending. But you—you are a pillar of strength. You don't need my protection.”