If Today Be Sweet (7 page)

“Fuck the stock options.” Susan's voice was loud enough that the elderly couple sitting at the table to their right turned to look at them. The older man shot a look at Sorab that was equal parts sympathy and bemusement. “Goddammit, Sorab, who are you turning into? God, I remember a time when you would've handled ten Grace Butlers with the flick of your wrist. I mean, you've never even had to hunt for a job, hon. Just spread the word that you're looking and they'll come to you. What the hell do you care about some piddly-assed stock options?”

“They're not piddly-assed,” he mumbled automatically. “And I'm not as young as I once was, Susan. And we now have Cookie to think of.”

“I
am
thinking of Cookie. And what Cookie deserves is a father who is happy at his job, who carries himself with his head held high. That's what Cookie needs, not a goddamn college fund. And as for not being as young, what are you? A hundred and four? Fifty-four? You're thirty-eight years old, for Christ's sake. Your father went mountain climbing in Argentina when he was in his fifties.”

“My father was a king,” Sorab said. “I'm not in his league, I'm afraid.”

“Bullshit. You're every bit the man your father was. I know it and let me tell you something—your father knew it, too. He was so proud of you. Do you know what he once told me? That you were the most honorable man he knew.”

Sorab stared at the mural on the wall behind Susan, not daring to speak. God damn these tears. He could feel Susan's eyes on him as he struggled to pull himself together. “Thank you,” he said at last. “I…thank you for telling me.”

Susan nodded. “He was proud of you, you know that.” She waited until his lower lip had stopped trembling. “Hon, listen. I know you're under a lot of pressure. But don't let Grace or anyone make you doubt yourself.” She smiled. “Remember, I had a hundred and one suitors and I chose you. Doesn't that tell you how terrific you are?”

They were on familiar ground now. “And of course, they were attracted to your extreme modesty and humility.” He grinned.

“And my outrageous good looks. Let's not forget the good looks.”

He looked her in the eye. “Darling, I never forget the good looks.” He let his eyes fall suggestively on her breasts.

Susan burst out laughing. “Stop, you creep. You're embarrassing me.”

Sorab signaled to the waiter for two more margaritas. Turning to her, he said, “I'd like to embarrass you good and proper. In bed, tonight.”

She groaned. “God deliver us from the Parsis and their awful sense of humor.”

“Sweetheart, there are some things that I never joke about.” He was smiling deeply.

“That's the other thing. If Mamma decides to stay with us, I definitely want us to move into a bigger house. Let's look for one with a mother-in-law suite, okay? It's hard to, you know, make love, knowing she's in the next room.”

“Honey, my mother has forgotten what sex feels like, much less what it sounds like. If she ever hears us, she probably thinks we're using the weight machine, or something.”

“Don't kid yourself. Your father was a passionate, red-blooded man. And I've seen pictures of your mom in her youth. She was quite a looker. I'm sure they had a great sex life.”

Sorab shuddered. “Stop it. I don't want to go there. Some things are too awful to contemplate.”

“Chickenshit.” Susan laughed. “Why is it that everyone has such a hard time imagining their parents in bed?”

“Well, can you? Can you see your mom and dad, you know, doing it?”

“Only after I've had two margaritas,” Susan said, taking another sip.

Sorab tossed back his head and laughed, so that for a moment he looked ten years younger. This is what I love about Susan, he thought—the sharpness, the wit, the humor. He reached over and squeezed her hand. “I love you. You know that?”

She squeezed back. “I do know that. Though sometimes I wonder if you know how much I love you.”

They were smiling at each other when the waiter came to clear
their plates. Shoo, Sorab thought. Vamoose. Disappear. Instead, the waiter asked, “Dessert?”

“An order of fried coconut ice cream,” Sorab said. “Two spoons.” That was the other great thing about being married. Some things, some traditions, you just knew.

“Suse,” Sorab said. “I'll talk to Mamma, okay? About deciding what her plans are? Though, actually, I spoke to Percy today and he said he'd talk to her also, at Homi's party. So you don't worry about it. I know you have enough on your plate, just getting through Christmas.”

“Last Christmas Rustom daddy was still alive,” Susan said softly. “It all feels wrong this year.”

Sorab leaned back in his chair. “I know. I also don't know what to do about…I keep wondering if I should give Mamma a present from Dad this year or whether that will only make things worse. He bought her something each Christmas, you know? God knows how the tradition started, given that we're Parsis and all. But you know what Dad was like—any excuse to have a party or give a gift.”

“Let me think about it. If I come across something that I think she'll like, I'll pick it up for her, okay?”

“Thanks. I haven't even bought her something from me, yet. I know we have the shawl from both of us. But I want to get her a small something from me. You know how sentimental she is. Maybe I'll just pick up a photo frame and put in a picture of the four of us.”

“That's part of the problem. If she's going back to India in February, I don't want to buy her heavy things. If she's staying, it doesn't matter.”

“I know. Percy's going to impress all this on her when he talks to her.”

They ate their ice cream in a companionable silence. “Well, as much as I'd like to sit here all night, I guess we should get back to
that little boy of ours,” Susan said finally. “I hope he didn't give Mom a hard time about going to bed.”

“I'm so friggin' stuffed that if they'd just grease the floor, I could slide out of here.” He got up to help Susan with her dark blue coat.

“Next year, you're going back to watching your cholesterol,” Susan said as they stepped out into the frosty December night. The unseasonably warm day they'd had earlier in the week already felt like a distant memory.

“Next year,” Sorab repeated as he opened Susan's car door for her. “Hard to imagine a whole year has gone by.” He thought of his father's death, how he had been in a plane six hours after getting the news of Rustom's heart attack, the mad drive from the airport to Breach Candy Hospital. Rustom was still alive when he got there, as if he'd used every ounce of his formidable willpower to stay alive to see his only son one last time. “Take care of Tehmina,” the old man had whispered.

“You don't have to tell me that, Daddy. You know I will. Now, rest quietly,” Sorab replied. It was their last conversation.

“Hon.” Susan rolled down her car window and looked up to where Sorab was standing. “Next year will be better, I promise. Just…just trust me, okay? Everything will work out fine.”

He waited until she pulled her car out of its space before walking toward his own vehicle. Good old Susan, he thought. Good old American optimism. That's why he'd come to this country, to bask in the warm glow of its can-do spirit, its optimism, its blithe shrugging off of the past and history. And for a long time it had infected him, so that he had felt golden, untouchable, transcendent. But his father's death had made him realize that fate was stronger than faith, that even America could not protect him from life's tricks and detours. And now, for the first time, under Grace Butler's tinsel presence, even the American Dream was beginning to lose its sheen, to look a bit tarnished. All of America was now beginning to feel like
a reality show, a Hollywood production. It was no longer enough, it seemed, for its citizens to be Joe Blow or Sorab Sethna. Now everybody had to be Tina Brown or Tom Cruise or Steve Jobs. Everything was cutting edge. Everyone needed an extreme makeover. Everything was now available 24/7; everybody was wired and Blue-toothed; everyone was an American Idol. It was no longer enough to live your life; now you had to be a Survivor.

Sorab stood in the large parking lot, watching the flecks of snow dance in the golden halo of the streetlights. The cold wind whipping his face felt punishing but liberating. Maybe it will be a white Christmas, after all, he thought. Earlier this week, he'd had his doubts. And maybe next year
would
be better, as Susan had promised. Nobody else had made him that promise—not the politicians, not the newspaper writers, not the nihilistic rock and rollers, not the pretty, jaded Hollywood stars. Not even his mother, steeped in that brew of pessimism, fatalism, and superstition that made up the Indian character, could ever make him that bold a promise. Only Susan could—and had—made him that promise.

So Sorab got in his car and made his way home to that promise.

T
his boy is as slippery as an open bottle of olive oil, Tehmina thought. And I'm too old to run after him like this.

“Cavas,” she panted. “Stop this nataak, please. It's way past your bedtime. Your mummy-daddy will make mincemeat out of me when they get home and find that you're not asleep.”

Cavas danced a jig just out of Tehmina's reach. “My name is not Cavas,” he sang. “It's Cookie. And don't use Gujarati words when you talk to me. I'm an American boy and I only understand English.”

“Arre wah. Your daddy is an Indian, so you are half-Indian, also. Never forget that, deekra.”

The grin on Cavas's face turned into a frown. “No, I'm not,” he said, stomping his foot. “Indians are old and they speak funny. Mommy says I'm an all-American boy.”

Too late Tehmina saw that the line of conversation was inciting her grandson. She needed to calm him down before the boy threw a full-blown tantrum. “Listen, Cavas—I mean, Cookie,” she said
in her most appeasing voice. “If you come to bed in the next two minutes, you know what I'll do? I'll let you eat a Cadbury's éclair. Would you like that?”

Cookie gazed at her thoughtfully. “Will you also read me a story?”

“Of course. What about the Akbar and Birbal book I got you last year?”

“No. That's a boring book. I want you to read
Even Steven
.”

He's just a seven-year-old boy, Tehmina told herself. Remember what Sorab said the other day—he's just going through a stage where he has to pretend to hate everything that isn't the norm. “He's just trying to fit in with his friends, Mamma,” Sorab had said. “Kids at this age are very conscious about fitting in. So don't take it personally, achcha?”

And yet, Tehmina had to admit that Cavas's disdain for everything Indian felt like a rejection of her. Just last year, when his grandfather was still alive, Cavas seemed enthralled by Rustom's stories about Akbar the King and his wily minister, Birbal. He even listened intently when Rustom told him who Omar Khayyám was. But then, everything is different this year, she reminded herself. Why should poor Cavas be immune to the changes that have entered all our lives since Rustom's death?

Tehmina pulled herself together. “One, two, three,” she counted. “If you're not in bed by the time I count seven, no chocolate for you.”

“Okay, okay,” Cavas squealed as he tore across the room and jumped under the covers. “Now, where's my chocolate?”

As Tehmina dug into the pocket of her dress for the small treat, she felt a hot rush of guilt. Susan, she knew, would be shocked if she found out that Tehmina was bribing her son into bed with a piece of candy. Especially after he'd brushed his teeth.

She went into the bathroom and got a glass of water. “Now gargle
properly after you finish your treat,” she said. She hoped that Cavas knew better than to mention the chocolate to his parents. She wanted to tell him to let this be their little secret, but her pride stopped her.

“Are you going to read to me?” Cavas asked from under the covers. But he was yawning even as he asked and Tehmina knew he would not last till the end of the story.

She hated herself for asking but despite herself, she said, “Don't you like the Akbar and Birbal storybook anymore? Last year, you loved that book.”

“I only like it when Rustom nana reads it to me,” Cavas said, and Tehmina's heart wobbled at his words.

“He was a good reader, eh, deekra?” she said, caressing the boy's hair. “Your nana really loved you. He picked out that book special-special for you.”

“Granna,” Cavas said. “How come Nana can't read to me anymore?”

Tehmina stared at her grandson, unsure of what to say. Sorab had rushed to Bombay immediately after Rustom had had his heart attack, leaving Cavas and Susan at home. What had Susan told him to explain his father's abrupt departure? What had Sorab explained to the boy after his return? “Nana's in heaven,” she said at last. “He now reads to the angels, instead of to you. But every night when you say your prayers and get into bed, he looks down and kisses you good night.”

Cavas nodded. “I know. Dad says Nana is keeping watch on our house when we're asleep. One time, during a thunderstorm I was scared and stuff, but Dad said the thunder was only Nana laughing at a joke that God told.”

Tehmina smiled. “Your grandpa had a laugh like thunder,” she said. “Anu, our neighbor in Bombay, always used to say that Rustom could raise the dead with his big laugh.”

The boy scrunched his face. “Why do you always talk about
Bombay? Here we're trying so hard to make you feel at home, Granna, but you just keep talking about Bombay and stuff.”

Tehmina stared at her grandson in horror. For a minute, it had seemed as if the boy was channeling his mother. Cavas's voice had that same starched, tight-lipped quality that Susan's did whenever she was frustrated with her mother-in-law. Also the same self-righteous outrage and put-out feeling.

The boy was simply parroting his mother's words, Tehmina knew. But suddenly all the things she couldn't say to her daughter-in-law, all the hot shame and unease that Susan's suffering presence elicited in her, she now directed toward the boy. “Because Bombay's my home, you understand?” she said, not trying to keep the fierceness out of her voice. “Just like this is your home. I've spent all my life there. And while others may only see a dirty, filthy city where the buses break down and the electricity doesn't work, the true Bombayite sees past all that, sees the city's big, generous heart. And that's what most people can't see.”

Cavas's lower lip was trembling. “Then go back to your stinkin' city,” he yelled. “See if I care. And,” he added deliberately, “I won't miss you at all. I'll just go visit with Grandma Olsen instead.”

Watching Cavas's outraged, teary face, watching his tiny, heaving chest, Tehmina felt her own chest fill with love and remorse. The boy is caught up in my indecision, she realized. Children need stability and the poor boy doesn't know where I'll be two months from now. Why do adults think children are oblivious to the family dramas that are enacted in their presence?

“Cavas—I mean, Cookie,” she said. “Just because I love Bombay doesn't mean I don't love you. In fact, I love you so very much that I can—” She stopped, unsure of how to proceed, of whether to let the little boy lying beside her see the raw, jagged edges of her own heart. It had been so long since she had raised Sorab that she had forgotten how to act before a young child. And Cookie was so much
more mercurial, so much more outspoken and emotional than Sorab had ever been. Her son had been a good, proper Indian boy, whereas her grandson was so—what was the word?—so
American.
Yes, that was the best word to describe Cavas. She never felt as excruciatingly, painfully Indian as she did when she was around Cavas. Rustom, on the other hand, had simply taken his grandson on his own terms. How effortlessly Rustom had adapted to life in America—mowing the lawn with Cavas trailing along, planting a vegetable garden alongside Susan, going grocery shopping with Tehmina and casually filling the cart with products from the overflowing shelves as if he'd done that his whole life. Why, Rustom even drove in America—a source of great pride to his son. Drove on the right side of the road despite the fact that he'd driven on the “wrong” side (as Susan would say) all his years in India. And to Tehmina's utter amazement, Rustom never so much as veered into the wrong lane.

She felt Cavas's eyes on her and realized with a start that the boy was waiting for her to finish her sentence. “I love you so much that you are part of my own liver,” immediately realizing from Cavas's disgusted expression that translating the sentiment from Gujarati to English was a mistake.

“Ewww,” the boy squealed. “That's gross, Granna.”

She bent and nuzzled him with her chin. “I love you so much that I can give you a million, billion kisses and still give you a few more.”

“That's nothing,” Cavas said promptly. “Dad gives me a zillion, trillion kisses every night.” A cagey look came upon his face. “You know what you can do for me to show your love?”

“What?” Tehmina asked, knowing she was walking into a trap. She felt helpless in her love for this little boy with his red lips and long, dark eyelashes.

“You can lie down with me until I fall asleep.” He smiled his most guileless smile. “And,” he added, cupping his mouth to her ear, “if you do that, I'll even let you call me Cavas.”

How well she knew that seductive look. It seemed like a week ago when Sorab had smiled the same smile—the time she smelled a whiff of cigarette smoke on him when he came home from school, and knew immediately that he had been smoking, the time he had begged her to let him attend an overnight picnic with his college friends, admitting upon her prodding that there would be girls present, the time Rustom had driven by Flora Fountain and had almost run off the road when he'd spotted his only son taking part in a student protest against Bombay University. Rustom had come home and paced the balcony until he had spotted his son's slender figure enter the apartment building at seven that evening. “How was your day, sonny?” he had asked casually, though Tehmina had heard the dangerous edge in his voice. “How was college?”

“Oh, fine,” Sorab said with a yawn. “Just the usual stuff. But I'm tired today.”

“Never knew accounting and marketing could be so exhausting,” Rustom replied, and this time, there was no mistaking his tone.

Sorab looked up sharply. “I—well, you know how hard—”

“What I do know is that I cannot drive through Fountain without seeing my only child acting like a common mawali on the streets of Bombay,” Rustom said quietly, ignoring the pacifying look Tehmina threw his way. “What I also know is that my son lies to his parents.”

Instead of getting flustered or defensive, Sorab threw his father a shy smile. “That's exactly why I didn't say anything, Daddy. I knew you wouldn't approve.”

Despite his anger, Sorab's lack of guile seemed to disarm his father. “So, you're admitting that you were on the streets instead of in college?” he said. Tehmina could hear the anger leaking out of his voice.

“Sure. But ask me why I was there, Daddy.” Without giving them
a chance to reply, Sorab continued. “We were protesting Bombay University's decision to rewrite the college curriculum. They want the whole country to be a fundamentalist Hindu nation—and they're rewriting the history books to glorify the Hindu majority. They're saying, if Pakistan can be an Islamic country, why can't India be a Hindustan? Can you imagine, Dad? These people don't believe in secularism—and they're brainwashing us with all their false mumbo jumbo. It's like the Muslims and the Parsis and the Catholics simply don't exist.”

“Yah, without us Parsis to build it, their Bombay would still be a bunch of islands floating around in the sea,” Rustom growled. Tehmina marveled at how effortlessly her son had managed to defuse his father's anger. As if he had sensed her relief, Rustom scowled at his son. “But that's no excuse to interrupt your education with all this nonsense,” he said. “Best to leave all this agitation and protest to the professional troublemakers.”

Sorab looked his father straight in the eye. “But, Daddy,” he said, “fighting for what you believe is part of my education, too. You are the one who taught me that.”

Remembering that incident, Tehmina felt a pang of remorse. What had happened to that quietly resolute boy? What had happened to his clear-eyed way of seeing the world? She had thought that going to America would broaden Sorab's horizons, would make him stand on the shoulders of his parents and see farther than they ever had. But instead, the opposite had happened. In some strange way, Sorab seemed to have shrunk and his world had narrowed. He seemed personally happier, yes, but—but maybe that was the whole problem. Living in this housing complex, where the layouts of many of the homes were identical and even the cars and the play swings in the backyards all looked the same, Sorab had traded a dull contentment for the intense passion of his boyhood. Tehmina didn't get
it—how could a boy who had grown up on the crowded, tumultuous streets of Bombay, who had jostled with the noisy crowds to catch a train to college, who had eaten pani puri and drunk sugarcane juice from roadside booths, who had witnessed the whole carnival of human experience—the millionaires, the lepers, the jewelry stores, the slum colonies—how could such a boy encase himself in a timid, clean, antiseptic world that was free from germs, bacteria, passion, human misery? Where even the straws were wrapped in plastic and people at gyms sprayed their seats each time they rose from a machine, as if human sweat was more dangerous than the chemicals they sprayed. (She knew, she had visited the gym in their housing colony.) And how did he expect his sixty-six-year-old mother to live in that world?

The worst part was, there was no reaching Sorab. He had disappeared, like a snail in a shell. Over dinner the day of the run-in with Tara, for instance, she had tried to tell her son about how their neighbor had left the two boys alone at home, how she and Susan had taken them in. If Susan hadn't been present, she might have confided in Sorab the fact that Susan had made it clear that she didn't want any more interactions with the family next door, and how it broke Tehmina's heart to think of those poor boys in that home. She may have even broached the subject of gathering up some of the books and toys Cookie had outgrown and presenting them to Josh and Jerome. But as it was, Sorab had listened for a few moments, nodded his head, rolled his eyes, and said, “Some people should never be parents in the first place. I'll be real glad when that woman moves out of Antonio's home.”

Tehmina suddenly thought of Percy, Sorab's best friend, whom she and Rustom had virtually raised after Percy's mother had died when he was a boy. Sorab and all the others in their group teased Percy for his multiple marriages and Tehmina herself was shocked
and saddened by how often the boy traded wives. But one thing about Percy, she now thought. America has not changed him the way it has the others. She had heard the outrage in Percy's voice when he had described an immigration case where a political refugee had run up against the cold heartlessness of the government. She had heard him discuss passionately the injustices that his clients faced as a result of laws put in place after the horror of 9/11. Somehow, Percy's world seemed larger and more real than Sorab's narrowly defined world of home, family, and office.