The Story Hour (15 page)

I give him bag of garlic. “Please to chop these in little-little piece. I will start to fry onion.”

In the restaurant, the husband like to cook alone. At home, he not enter our kitchen. It is nice to have the company while cooking. And Sudhir babu so nice. He put on more Hindi songs and often he sing along. Sometime he ask me what film this or that song from, but when he see I need to think, he being quiet. He help me understand the oven buttons and how to use food processor. When kitchen begin to get hot from cooking, he get me big glass of ice water and put slice of lime in it. He taste my gravy with his finger and say it is the best, better than his mother's food, even. In his own house, in his own kitchen, he treat me like I am mistress and he taking order from me.

T
HE PARTY WAS
a success. Everyone had a great time, and the last guest didn't leave until after eleven-thirty. The wine flowed freely, the conversation easily, and Lakshmi's cooking was a hit. People went back for second and third helpings; even Brent Wolfstein, the patrician, silver-headed chair of Sudhir's department, cleaned his plate with his fingers, while Lakshmi beamed and urged him to eat more. Lakshmi herself was a revelation—an hour before the first guest arrived, she slipped into a red and gold outfit, and later, she waited on the guests as if she were the hostess of the party. She explained the ingredients of individual dishes, regaled small clusters of guests with stories about her mother's cooking, advised people on what spices to stock their kitchen with. Maggie marveled at the transformation—there was not a trace of the sullen, depressed woman from a few months ago. She had the feeling that she was witnessing the real Lakshmi: the Lakshmi who had existed in India, before her unfortunate marriage to a man who didn't care about her, before her exile to a strange and foreign country.

Now they were driving her back home, and Maggie was worried. Lakshmi had insisted on staying to clean up after the party and it was well past midnight and they had at least a ten-minute drive ahead of them. Maggie had a feeling that Lakshmi's husband would not be happy about his wife returning home at this late hour, and she dreaded facing his hostile, glowering face. She had enough on her mind—the fact that she was meeting Peter while Sudhir was in town, the fact that she had a conference paper due next week, and . . .

And. What was nagging at her? This slightly dyspeptic, deflated feeling was more than the normal letdown that she experienced after a festivity. So what was it? What explained this melancholy as she sat in the backseat, listening to Sudhir and Lakshmi talking quietly in the front? She remembered feeling happy when Brent had whispered, “I'm sure Sudhir has told you that I'm urging him to apply for my position. I think he'd be a shoo-in, Maggie. Make sure he applies.” She remembered the almost maternal pride that had surged through her when she'd overheard Nasreen Chopra, whose husband taught in the physics department, ask Lakshmi whether she was available to cater a party for her next month. And her growing delight as two other guests had asked Lakshmi for her phone number.

In a flash, Maggie remembered: Lakshmi bending at the waist, holding a tray of lamb kebabs before a seated Gina Adams. Gina had popped one in her mouth, her eyes widening with delight. “Gosh, these are incredible,” she'd said to Lakshmi. “We've been to India several times, but I've never tasted food like this.” A smiling Maggie had walked up behind Lakshmi, and Gina turned toward her. “This woman is a find,” she said. “How on earth did you get this lucky? How did you get her to cook this delicious food for you?”

Before Maggie could respond, Lakshmi had shrugged and said, “Why not I cook for her? Maggie my best friend.”

Gina had nodded and smiled uncertainly, as had several of the other women within earshot. Perhaps it was the uncertainty in Gina's smile, the older woman's confusion at Lakshmi's easy blurring of class lines, that made Maggie say, “Well, we're not really . . . That is, we're just trying to help her.”

Lakshmi had half-turned, gazed at her for a moment, and then hurried away into the kitchen. Maggie lingered in the living room, chitchatting with her guests, willing Lakshmi to come back out with fresh hors d'oeuvres. After a few minutes, she excused herself and strolled into the kitchen. Lakshmi was sitting on a stool, sipping a glass of water, and staring out the window. “Hey,” Maggie said gently. “Are you resting? You must be so tired.”

Lakshmi shook her head curtly, staring at the table. “I okay.”

“Listen,” Maggie said. “What happened—”

Lakshmi rose. “I goes now, Maggie,” she said. “I will take the bus back. Everything is ready. You just please to put out to serve guests.”

Maggie felt a rising desperation. “Lakshmi,” she said. “You can't leave in the middle of the party.” She put her hand lightly on the younger woman's wrist. “I'm sorry. I said something stupid . . . I know I hurt your feelings. I know you . . .” She shook her head and started again. “I'm a doctor. Do you understand? I'm not supposed to be friends with my patients. Not for my sake but for yours,” even as she asked herself, Is that really the reason why? “But you know what? You were right. You are my friend. And I'm sorry that I denied it.”

Lakshmi looked at her, and Maggie saw that her nose was bright red. “I not angry with you, Maggie,” she said. “I have eyes. I see. I know your friends have important job, go to the college. I know I's nothing . . .”

“Don't say that. Please.”

“. . . that I can't be friends with people like you.”

“Listen,” Maggie said fervently. “My mother had a high school education. My father didn't finish sixth grade. And yet they were two of the smartest people I knew. Okay? So don't tell me—”

“Honey?” Sudhir came into the kitchen, a Heineken in his hand. “What are you doing? Aren't there any more appetizers coming?” He looked from one woman to the other, suddenly aware of the tense atmosphere. “Is everything all right?”

There was a second's silence, and then Lakshmi smiled. “Everything fine, Sudhir babu,” she said. “You go. I bring food out in ten second.” She hurried toward the oven and pulled out a tray.

Sudhir threw Maggie a quizzical look before leaving the kitchen. She waited until he was out of earshot and then walked toward Lakshmi. “Thank you,” she said.

“Mention not.” Lakshmi gave her a slight push. “You go out, also, na, Maggie. I take care of everything.”

Maggie had left, not knowing how much Lakshmi understood or whether she was still insulted. She had hoped to have a chance to resume the conversation after their guests left, but Lakshmi had rushed around, anxious to clean up the kitchen and go home. Maggie had been much too tired to force the issue, and the moment had passed.

Now, in the car, she could only hope that Lakshmi had forgotten the earlier rudeness. Maggie closed her eyes and heard the steady murmur of Sudhir and Lakshmi's voices. Sudhir was laughing softly at something Lakshmi was saying, and the sound of it filled Maggie with pleasure. She knew enough from her visits to Calcutta that in India, Sudhir would not talk to someone from Lakshmi's station in life as easily as he was doing right now. So much would divide them in India: language, region, class, caste, education. Here in America, all the differences paled under the imperative of their brown skin. And the tenuous links they shared—a love for Hindi film music, a passion for Indian cooking—carried so much more weight here than they would back home.

Stop it, Maggie scolded herself. You're overthinking things. And what's with this sudden color consciousness? (A snapshot of Peter's white, strangely vulnerable-looking bare back flashed before her eyes, but she blinked and the image disappeared.) Sudhir likes Lakshmi. It's as simple as that. He is amused by her. He recognizes her goodness, her innocence. Also, he feels sorry for her. That's it. In any case, I'm glad that my husband likes my friend.

Friend. How easy it was to think of Lakshmi as a friend. But claiming her as one in front of her guests, why, that had proved to be a different matter, hadn't it? Both of her parents would've disapproved of the way she'd rebuffed Lakshmi a few hours ago. Though her mother had been light-skinned enough to pass, the very idea was anathema to her. Instead, she had married Wallace Seacole, the darkest-skinned man she knew. For years, Hilda worked at a small paper factory where she was active in the union and her coworkers were blacks and other dark-skinned immigrants. Hilda felt a natural affinity between herself and them, even when the new immigrants initially saw her as nothing but a small, invisible black woman. Once they got to know her, they recognized her formidable intelligence, her energetic, relentless devotion to the union, her scathing humor, her matter-of-fact compassion and generosity, and they loved her. At home, Hilda never said a bad word about whites as a race—although she had a lot to say about individual bosses and policemen and grocers—but her loyalties were clear. She threw in her lot with the darker races, not because they were morally better or smarter or kinder than whites, but simply because they were oppressed. In sports, in politics, in war, her loyalty was always with the underdogs—the Red Sox over the Yankees, the Vietnamese over the Americans, even African dictators over their colonial masters. She remained silent only on the question of the Israelis versus the Palestinians; she would shake her head at the absurdity of two oppressed peoples fighting each other.

This was how they'd been raised, she and Odell, though, of course, Mama had died while still young. Maggie hardly remembered the years when Mama lay wasting away in bed. Now, if she ever dared to allow herself to think of those awful years, all she could conjure up was a figure in bed that started out as a woman and ended up as a ghost. Of a frail voice that would call “Hello, darlin' ” when she came home from school. Of a bony hand that would reach out to stroke her hair, of curious gray eyes that would search her face like a searchlight, looking, looking, for something, until it would seem to Maggie that the most important thing in the world was that her mother find whatever she was hunting for in her daughter's face, that what she saw reflected there should please her. And then the dry lips would thin into something that Maggie presumed was a smile. If a ghost could smile.

In the car, Maggie blinked back the tears that formed in her eyes. She leaned forward in the seat and lightly tapped Lakshmi on the left shoulder. She turned around immediately. “Hah, Maggie?” she said, her voice eager and strong despite the long day and the late hour.

Lakshmi's voice was so devoid of malice, so trusting, that the tears returned to Maggie's eyes. She had obviously been forgiven for the earlier slight, and it surprised her, how relieved she felt. “Listen,” she said. “I've been thinking. You had all these people asking you to cater for them. I bet some of them will also need a housecleaner. You should . . .”

“You think so, Maggie?” Lakshmi's voice had a breathless tone that made Maggie laugh. She's so young, she thought. She often forgot that Lakshmi was only in her early thirties. With a whole life ahead of her.

“I do. But here's what I'm thinking. You're gonna need to learn to drive, Lakshmi. It will make your life so much easier if you can drive.”

There was an abrupt silence. She noticed that Sudhir was looking at her in the rearview mirror, but it was too dark to see the expression on his face. Then Lakshmi said, “I's ascare to do the driving.”

“Nonsense. Sudhir can teach you. He's a great driver.”

Both of them spoke at once: “My husband, he not allow gents to teach me driving.” “Ahem. Ah, Maggie, I don't think that's a good idea for me to teach Lakshmi. If someone were to see us . . .”

Good God, Maggie thought. I'm not asking you guys to have sex with each other. What's the big deal, for heaven's sake? However, she knew better than to say that aloud. She knew she was testing Adit Patil's patience by whisking away his wife like this. She had to respect that Lakshmi knew her own circumstances better than Maggie ever could. “Okay,” she said, sighing. “It was just an idea.”

She began turning her head to look out the window again when she heard Lakshmi say, “But Maggie, you can teach me to do the driving. We can do the there-py in the car instead of the house, no?”

She was about to refuse when Hilda Seacole spoke to her: This solidarity business I used to talk about ain't just—what do you youngsters call it?—theoretical. It means putting your body, your physical self, on the line, baby girl. Even when—especially when—it ain't convenient.

But Mama . . . Maggie started to argue, but Hilda had vanished. What was left was a vibration in the air, a certain expectation, as if Hilda were scanning her baby girl's face, waiting to see what kind of a human being she and Wally had raised. Maggie looked around for a way out, tried to think of something that would let her out of the hole she'd dug for herself. But Hilda Seacole had pulled up the rope after her.

“Yeah, okay,” she said reluctantly. “I guess we can give it a try.”

She lifted her head to see Sudhir looking at her in the rearview mirror. This time there was no mistaking what he was thinking. He was laughing at her.

L
AKSHMI CLIMBED INTO
the driver's seat of the parked car and then swung her feet so they were hanging out the door. Bending slightly, she removed first one shoe, then the other, pivoted, and threw them in the backseat. She put her bare foot against the gas pedal, so that the car emitted a low growl. Maggie felt like growling herself. “What're you doing?” she asked.

“My uncle is truck driver,” Lakshmi said. “He always say wearing the shoes not good for driving. Maybe this is reason why I is not driving good.”

No, the reason you are not driving good is because you're an absolute imbecile when it comes to things mechanical. The uncharitable thought crossed Maggie's mind before she suppressed it. Stop, she chided herself. Everybody sucks when they learn to drive. Remember how bad you were when you first started? Thank God Odell had the patience of a saint.