If Today Be Sweet (25 page)

Tehmina was touched. Maybe Grace was not as shallow as she seemed. “They're fine,” she said warmly. “They're staying with their aunt for now.”

“Reason I was asking…I had a superscintillating idea during the drive here. Bryan always says that's the way my brain works, never shuts off, even at night, don't you, baby? Drives the poor boy crazy at times. But anyway, I was thinking we should run a full-page ad in both local papers featuring you and maybe the two boys. And there'd be no copy, just ‘Canfield and Associates salutes Tehmina Sethna, mother of one of our employees.' Just a lot of white space, real tasteful.” She turned to Joe and Sorab. “What do you think?”

“Well, there would be legal issues surrounding the use of photos of the two kids.” Tehmina could tell Sorab was choosing his words with great care. “They are minors, after all. And with the mother in jail—”

“I think it's a terrible idea,” Joe said forcefully. “It's exploitative, it's
not
tasteful, it's downright tacky.”

“Joe,” Heather whispered, her face white. “Please.”

He ignored her. “In fact, I have to be honest with you, Grace. This really makes me doubt your judgment. It makes me wonder whether you understand the culture of our firm at all.”

Grace couldn't look more thunderstruck if Joe had punched her in the stomach, Tehmina thought, and felt a twinge of pity for the woman. But the next moment, she bounced back. “Okay,” she said lightly. “So you don't like the idea.”

But Joe was not done. “It's not just that the idea is bad. It's the thought process behind it that—”

“Joe.” Heather's voice was as sharp as a spear. “This is a dinner party. You can't talk shop to our guests all evening.”

With obvious effort, Joe stopped himself. There was a moment of awful, tense silence while they watched Joe wrestling for calm. “Okay, no more work talk,” he said, and turned to Tehmina. “Oh, by the way, I went online yesterday, researching the Parsis.” And, reading the startled expression on Tehmina's face, he continued, “Hey, I had to know everything about our celebrity guest. Anyway, I came across this beautiful story about when the Zoroastrians first came to India from Iran? How their chief matched his wits with the Hindu king? Do you know the story?”

Did she know the story? Every Parsi child who had ever drunk at her mother's breast knew the legend of how the small, tired group of Persians fleeing Islamic persecution in Iran had arrived in the small Indian town of Sanjan, seeking political refuge. The Hindu ruler, unable to make this group of Farsi-speaking foreigners understand
that he couldn't possibly accommodate any newcomers, had greeted them on the beach with a glass of milk filled to the brim. No vacancy, the full glass was supposed to symbolize. But the Zoroastrian head priest was a brilliant man. Removing a small quantity of sugar from their supplies, he dissolved the sugar in the glass, careful not to spill a drop of milk. This was his famous answer—the answer that became a source of pride and a blueprint for future generations: Like sugar in milk, our presence will sweeten the flavor of your life, without displacing you or causing you any trouble. And so they were allowed to stay and became the Parsis of India.

Without bothering to relate the story to Bryan or Grace, Joe continued to face Tehmina. “I thought of you when I read that story,” he said quietly. “That's what you've done, you know. Sweetened our lives with your presence. Just like your ancestors did in India.”

Tehmina blushed. “Thank you,” she said quietly, aware, without having to look up, that across the room her son was bursting with pride.

Grace looked from one to the other. “Hey, someone fill me in. What's the story?”

Joe looked bemused. “Oh, you don't need to know everything, Grace,” he said lightly. Eyeing her empty glass, he stood up. “I'm afraid I'm not being a very good host. Would you care for some more of my Trader Joe's special, my dear?”

“Sure.”

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough. Once, the conversation veered dangerously toward work, but Heather expertly steered it back to talk of movies and restaurants and books. Sorab told the story about Cookie giving his teacher grief over her misstatement about the lead pencils and they all laughed. “Well, I could've sworn they were made of lead, myself,” Bryan said, and Tehmina found herself liking this man, as robust and dumb as a piece of steak.

For dessert, Heather served cappuccino and fruit tarts that she had baked herself. Joe controlled himself for a few minutes and then broke down. “Ah, to hell with this. What's dessert without some chocolate?” He came back with a big bar of Lindt hazelnut chocolate. Heather rolled her eyes.

When it was time to leave, Joe signaled to Sorab to accompany him to the next room. “Come help me with the coats, would you?” They were gone for almost ten minutes. Tehmina could hear an occasional murmur from the library, but both men were speaking too softly for her to catch anything they were saying. She thought that Grace was straining to hear what they were saying, but Heather and Susan kept a constant stream of conversation going.

After they walked out of the big front door, the Sethnas stood in the Canfields' driveway talking to Grace and Bryan for a minute. Then, Susan shivered. “Time to take this one home,” Sorab said, putting his arm around his wife.

Sorab waited until Byran had pulled out of the driveway and then slowly backed out himself. He let out a huge laugh, one that was equal parts relief and joy. “Well, that was some evening, wasn't it?” he said, and when they agreed, he laughed some more. “Well, ladies, this may be awfully premature of me—excuse me, awfulfantastically premature of me—but there may be a promotion in my future.” Hearing their sharp intake of breath, he continued, “That's right. Seems like business is not doing as well as it ought to be. And Joe seems ready to set adrift the amazing, unsinkable Grace Butler.”

Sorab whistled all the way home.

S
till in bed and glancing at the alarm clock, Tehmina was shocked to see that it was nine o'clock. Thank God Susan had dropped Cookie off on a playdate earlier this morning. She would hate to have her grandson see his slovenly grandmother still in bed, unable to command her eyes open this morning. She had woken up briefly a few hours ago to use the bathroom and had yawned her good-byes to the children at that time. Sorab had looked at her curiously, but if he was surprised or hurt by the fact that she padded her way back to her bedroom instead of into the kitchen as she normally did, he didn't comment on it.

She was tired, Tehmina realized. Too much was happening too fast. The fan letters, the call from the mayor, the knowing smiles from perfect strangers, the good-natured ribbing from the women in Eva's card club, the solicitous attention paid to her by Joe and Heather Canfield, even the cautious, attentive way in which Sorab was treating her, it was all overwhelming. And instead of feeling pride or joy, Tehmina wanted to cry. All this attention was making
her feel terribly alone, was making her miss her Rustom more than ever. Now more than ever she needed Rustom's solid, no-nonsense, affable presence. With just the right sharp, insightful, dartlike words, Rustom would puncture this recent bubble of celebrity and admiration that had engulfed her.

And she was worried about the boys. Other than the card from Jerome, she had not heard from them. She wanted to know how Joshy was, whether the bruises on his face were healing. She wanted to know how Jerome was, whether the bruises on his heart were healing. Were the boys missing their mother? How could they not? She still remembered the look on Percy's young face when his mother had passed away. But of course, that was different. Shirin had been a wonderful, loving mother and wife. But surely children missed their mothers regardless of what sins they committed against them? Was being with Antonio any kind of consolation? Other than an occasional hello and wave, she remembered very little about Antonio's wife from when they had lived next door to the Sethnas. For all of Antonio's joviality and friendliness, he and his wife had pretty much kept to themselves. Now Tehmina wondered: What if Tara's half sister was like Tara—cruel, abusive, violent? What if, God forbid, she smelled of alcohol in the morning, like Tara did? What if—thanks to her interference—the boys had descended from the frying pan into the fire? Was someone supervising Antonio's wife, making sure the boys were not being ill treated? Would the police be checking on them? She decided to call Percy and find out about this. Percy was a lawyer, surely he would know. Also, she realized with a start, Percy was one person whose behavior around her had not changed since the newspaper article ran. Percy's gaze when he looked at her was not starstruck or awed or amused or admiring. Rather, Percy's steady look said that what she had done for the two boys was exactly what he would've ex
pected her to do. That he was not surprised by what she had done. In some ways, Percy knew her better than Sorab did, she thought.

Yes, she would call Percy and see if he could check on the two boys. But not yet, she thought with a yawn. First, she was going to sleep a little longer. Tomorrow, Sorab and Susan were throwing their annual New Year's Eve party and she knew she'd be spending the day in the kitchen. She needed to rest today, to let sleep iron the fatigue out of her bones. She'd call Percy after she got up.

 

When the doorbell rang, the sound of it got mangled in the dream she was having about hacking her way through a green forest where large plantain leaves were blocking her path. At first she thought the doorbell was the screeching of the forest birds overhead and then slowly the sound disentangled itself from her dream and with a groan of recognition she turned onto her side and rolled out of bed. It's the UPS man, she thought. For the past few weeks, Christmas gifts from out-of-town relatives and friends had been delivered to the door. Tehmina had gotten used to signing for the boxes.

Smoothening her hair with her right hand, blinking the sleep out of her eyes, miserably aware of her musty-smelling body and her sour, unwashed mouth, Tehmina opened the front door. And blinked. Instead of a young man in a brown UPS uniform, there stood Tara. A very angry-looking Tara.

“Listen,” she said before Tehmina could say a word. “I just want to tell you, you-all got me all wrong. And you had no business interfering in my business. Them—those are my babies, not yours. I carried them in my belly for nine months, not you. And you think you can just come by and, and—” Tehmina noticed that Tara was so angry she was shaking, her knees knocking against each other. A slight spittle formed on the right side of her mouth.

Tehmina was wide-awake now and fearful. But the fear was affecting her much as sleep had a minute ago, grabbing her limbs, making her movements dull and slow. “I—I don't know what to say,” she began.

Tara's eyes were spiteful. “No, you say nothin' and just listen to me, you old bitch,” she said. “I'm telling you, you just stay out of my business. I'm going to get my babies back, no matter what I got to do. If you-all think I'm going to leave them with my holier-than-thou sister, you-all got another thought coming. And next time you interfere with me, I won't be standing here talkin' calmly. The next time—”

“The next time you will do
what
?” The roar that came from inside of Tehmina was so loud she had to fight a moment's urge to see if someone—someone much bigger and braver than her—was standing right behind her. Her mouth felt hot, as if she had a fever. The gall of this acne-faced woman. She was threatening her, treating her like she had treated her poor sons. She, Tehmina Sethna, who had graduated with the highest marks from Calcutta University's best college. She, the daughter of a cultured, dignified father who had been the personal physician of Calcutta's mayor. She, the daughter of a mother who had been one of the finest cellists in the city. She, the wife of a man who had never so much as raised his eyebrow at her, let alone his voice. And here she was, being threatened by this ugly girl with the face of a hen. Anger made her voice even louder. “What will you do next time, Tara? Beat me? Hurt me, like you did those two innocent boys? Make my lip swell up and bleed, like you did Joshy's?”

Tara looked as surprised as Tehmina felt. “You, you…listen, you keep your voice down, y'hear?” she spluttered.

“For what? To protect you from your shame? A grown woman hitting a little boy? And that, too, a mother?” Tehmina groped for the right words, her mind racing to express the disgust and outrage
that she felt for the woman in front of her. She was no longer frightened of Tara. Her anger had liberated her, so that she was now frightened
for
Tara, frightened of what she would do to this stupid, lazy, unkempt woman standing before her. She stared at Tara, wanting to find the right words, wanting to fire them like bullets into Tara's empty heart. But no words came close to expressing the revulsion she was feeling. “Shame on you,” she cried at last. And then, “Thuu, thuu,” she dry-spat on the ground in front of her, her face screwed up in disgust.

Tara's eyes widened. “What the hell are you doing, you crazy bitch?”

Tehmina looked straight into Tara's eyes. “I am saying that you are not worthy of the title of mother. I am saying you—”

Suddenly Tara was crying, her thin white face pinched as a raisin. “You don't know what I've been through. You—it's easy for people like you, with your fuckin' fancy cars and everything. I've seen how you dote on that grandson of yours. Well, my own mother was hardly there for me, you understand? I've been on my own since I was sixteen years old. And my dad, that old drunken geezer, he, he would've whored me to the highest bidder. You don't know what I've seen, lady, so you shut your—”

“Enough.” Tehmina held her hands to her ears. She felt as if she was watching one of those horrible American television shows that came on in the afternoon on which people aired all their dirty linen in public. “This is none of my business, Tara, what you do.”

“Is this girl here bothering you, miss?” An old man with a stoop was making his way up the brick walkway in front of their house. In his hand, he held a long-handled snow shovel. “Because if she is, I can take care of her for you,” he added as he tapped the shovel lightly against the brick. With a start, Tehmina realized it was old man Henderson from across the street. Her heart sank. Another neighborhood scene involving her. That's all that she needed.

Tara whirled around to face Henderson. “Go away,” she said. “Shoo, you old codger. Jeez, what a fucked-up neighborhood this is. A bunch of geriatric busybodies spying on each other.”

Henderson stood his ground. “She bothering you?” he asked again, ignoring Tara.

Tehmina noticed that the man's eyes were tearing, probably from the cold. She drew herself to her full height and threw Tara a contemptuous look. “Nothing that I can't handle. Thank you for your help, just the same, Mr. Henderson.”

Without another word, the old man nodded and walked away. Watching his retreating back, Tehmina was almost sorry to see him go and have to face the thin, tear-streaked face in front of her. “Tara,” she said quietly, “I think you should leave now before someone calls the police.” And then, because she could not help herself, “You're still young, my dear. Try to get your life in order. God has blessed you with two beautiful children. Don't turn your back on that gift.”

Tara raised her voice in a wail. “I've been tryin'. It's just so hard being a single parent. And them boys can be such devils, you have no idea. You just see them—”

Tehmina gripped the doorknob. “I will not listen to you speak poorly of your children. If they're bad, you're the one who has made them such. Good-bye, Tara. Please do not come here again.” Firmly, resolutely, she closed the door. And then latched it from the inside.

“Hey, lady, don't you slam the door in my face, goddammit,” she heard Tara yell from the other side. Then the sound of the doorbell ringing insistently. “Tara,” Tehmina said quietly from the other side. “If you're not gone in five seconds, I'm phoning the police.”

There was a final fuck-you. Then, as if a curtain had dropped, silence fell on the house. Tehmina waited, scarcely believing that Tara had left. But as the silence extended, Tehmina became aware of
the thudding of her heart and the weakness in her legs. Her stomach felt as if it had sour, months-old milk in it.

She went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea to calm her nerves. Engrossed in clipping the mint leaves and opening the fridge to get out the milk, she was surprised to hear the sound of pots and spoons banging on the kitchen counter. She was even more surprised to realize that she was the one doing the banging and that she was quietly, murderously angry. Furious. A body-trembling, mind-pul-sating furious. Her blood boiling like the water she was now pouring into the mug.

Damn that Tara. Damn her. How dare she show up at the front door like that, spewing her poison, bad-mouthing her children, insulting poor Mr. Henderson, and threatening her. The gall of the woman. Tehmina remembered now that Percy had suggested that they get a restraining order against Tara. But Sorab had balked. “Let's just wait and see what happens, bossie,” he'd demurred. “Chances are a few days in the lockup will set the woman straight.”

But her time in jail had made Tara even more spiteful. Tehmina forced herself to not remember what Tara had said about her mother and her drunken father. She did not want a thin thread of pity to fray from this tapestry of anger and outrage that she was weaving. She did not want to feel sorry for Tara; she would not allow herself to. A woman should not beat her children. Even in this jumble-tumble world, that much was an absolute. No exceptions. No exceptions. Still, an image arose in Tehmina's mind, that of Krishna and Parvati, the homeless couple who lived on the street across from her apartment building in Bombay. Krishna made his living washing cars and running errands for the middle-class residents of the building while Parvati worked odd jobs in their homes. But every night Krishna's patrons would hear the sounds of him beating his wife after he'd return from the bootlegger's joint. And every morning, they would hear the sound of the children wailing as Parvati slapped them and
cursed at her misfortune in begetting them. Rustom and Tehmina had intervened a few times, chastised both husband and wife for their respective violence, threatened not to use their services anymore if they continued in their ways, but to no avail. Krishna would cry and blame the alcohol for turning him into a demon; Parvati would beat her forehead with her open palm and blame her demonic husband for making her unleash her frustrations on her children. And yet, despite the daily violence, Tehmina had marveled at the intimate way in which this tiny family huddled together around a small stove for their evening meals, had witnessed Parvati laughing as she lovingly combed her daughter's long hair, had registered the panicked look in Krishna's eyes when Parvati had taken ill with typhoid fever. Reality was complicated; Tehmina knew that. India had taught her that lesson, over and over again.

So why this reluctance to see Tara in her whole, complicated self? Why this hardening of the heart, this self-righteous desire to not acknowledge the roots of Tara's poor behavior toward her children? Hadn't Tehmina seen it often in her volunteer work, how abuse stalked the generations, how it dripped its black poison from one empty vessel into another?

She did not know the answer to that first question. Perhaps it was because she had seen Joshy's swollen lip up close; seen how the little boy had winced when she had dabbed it with rubbing alcohol; seen how Jerome's eyes had become guarded and shuttered when he had lied about how his brother had sustained his bruises. Or, perhaps it was because this was America and Tara was an American and Tehmina simply expected more from the most powerful country in the world. Krishna and Parvati were poor, impoverished, illiterate, half starving. How could she blame Krishna for looking to the bottle as an antidote to his misery? How could she not understand why Parvati hit her children when the woman often pummeled her own chest out of remorse and frustration? But Tara. Born white in America.
Living in a good, middle-class home, even if it didn't belong to her. Able to afford a car, even if the muffler didn't work. Able to send her children to school for free. Able to go into a grocery store and spend less of her income on food than people in any other country. All this and it wasn't enough? If someone like Tara couldn't be happy, what chance did people in the rest of the world have?