Born Confused (43 page)

—It’s all about the love, he grinned.

Love? Now he loved her?

—I can’t believe you said that, she whispered.

—Well, that’s what the best moments in anything are about, right? he said, folding his napkin into ever-decreasing fractions.—DJing, for example—there is a moment when two becomes one: You are playing the music and then suddenly it’s playing you. Every-one’s moving more, and you’re grooving more, the sweat is on their skin and it’s on yours, their mouths are open singing and it could be your voice, and it builds…and it builds…and when it happens for you it happens for them—the roof comes down, the floor dissolves, you find the wings you forgot you had. The room is flying with nightclub angels and you can’t tell whether the music is outside or in.

He was beginning a tune on one of the decks. And this is going to sound crazy, but while he was talking I felt the bass between my legs, within my trebled chest, and I wanted to listen to what was playing inside him.

—It’s almost like when you and someone. Well, match in other ways, said Karsh, ducking into the headphones.—And you can make a big room out of a small moment.

Gwyn actually let out an audible moan of delight. Then he seemed to feel shy and looked away.

—You must be really good at that, too, she said, giving him her arrow-to-the-deer eyes nonetheless.—You know.
Matching
in that way.

—Like I said, it’s all about the chemistry, he said, suddenly beguiled by his record bag.—It takes two to be one.

I thought about my darkening room, all those different strands of color coming together and fusing to create one image. Even the mistakes were beautiful.

—Show ‘em how you do it, Karsh, Gwyn said now.

And a moment later, as if on cue, everyone was chanting in unison:

—Karsh is in the house!

He hit the decks. Of course it mattered not he’d brought nothing along; by now Gwyn’s collection was a total dupe of his, so he could really make himself at the home, as my dad would say.

A mere moment after he started spinning his irresistible rhythms, the sweat was indeed flying, even in this small space. People I never thought I’d see dance were dancing: Tony Mahoney began to jump straight up and down, right on out the room, and Franklyn Thomas Porter the Fourth was doing some kind of Twist type thing; even the now double-bottled Maria Theresa Montana rose to her toes and did a surprisingly splendid pas de bourrée. But it wasn’t long before the latter two were twirling a kind of three-way mating ballet around the one-man fast-speed planetary orbit that was Tree. They were soon involved in a triangular tango all their own and it was fairly unclear to me what that dynamic was all about. I wound up caught in their little vortex, momentarily turning it to a parallelogram before halfheartedly shrugging out of it and into the hallway.

The music was so voluminous at this point I barely heard the bell ring; at first I thought it was all just in the mix. But the chime eventually tolled off beat and made itself known, and I went to the door, following close on Gwyn’s tracks. Maybe it was Kavita; I certainly hoped so.

But it was far from the fact. A familiar now flocculent face was out on the porch.

—Trick or treat?

—Always a treat to see you, said Gwyn.—Come on in, Jules. What impeccable timing.

She winked at me. Impeccable timing? What was she doing? Why had she invited him?

—I would never want to be late putting the Joy into Joysey, he smiled, stepping in. I took two steps back as he did.

—Hey, he said to me.

—Hey, I mumbled.

—You two
certainly
remember each other, said Gwyn loud and clear for all to hear as we reentered the living room.—Everyone, this is Julian.

—Julian, said Karsh. He turned to me and raised his eyebrows.
—Julian
Julian? Well, this is a pleasure.

He didn’t say it like it really was.

—Man, Gwyn—you’ve got a DJ and everything, cried the newly goateed one.—That is too cool.

—That’s right. That’s my Karsh, you know, the one I told you about, said Gwyn proudly.—As you can see, I’ve moved up to NYU honors. But I guess you’ve got to start at zero sometimes—speaking of which, who’s Dylan I mean how’s Dylan doing these days?

—He’s…he’s cool. I think he’d like to see you again sometime.

—Well, you tell him if he wants to see me he should keep an eye on
Flash!
magazine, which hits stands later this summer.

—You’re kidding!

—My modeling career has kick-started, Mr. Rothschild, she said, mock-fluffing her coiled-up hair.—And my DJ career, as well. And now I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got to get with the jams.

Julian’s mouth dropped open as she joined Karsh behind the decks. Karsh glanced up momentarily, his eyes flicking from me to Julian and back, but his face remained expressionless.

—Now she’s a
DJ
? Julian whispered incredulous into my ear. His goatee tickled my lobe.

—You name it, I said. Karsh looked away. Gwyn looked at him. And Julian began to look around.

—Is there anything to nosh on here? he asked.—I haven’t eaten in at least a couple of hours.

Now when they leaned their heads in together to share the headphones it hurt like my head had hit a wall.

—You should definitely try the chicken, I said.

After a while, Shailly took over the tables, the beats swigging lushly down to her loungey electronica. Karsh and Gwyn stepped off the decks to the dance floor. The beat sank still further, to a scuba breath. And then they were slow dancing, Gwyn bringing her hands to the nape of his neck.

Seamless—like something that has never been broken. Like two bodies must be when it’s the superglue of superlove. There was something to put on the market, I thought, watching the two move: superglue of love for all cracks, crevices, and fractures to the human heart.

One of Gwyn’s braids began to slip out of its mollusk loop, a dyed platinum snail uncurling lazily then swinging merrily off the side of her head, revealing a gold root. How interracially her blond braids mingled with his raven waves. They could definitely get a grant for that. They’d be perfect in London; she would pick up the accent in no time. I couldn’t believe that he was moving, and how well the two were grooving, and that it mattered so much.

I missed them both already.

I stayed as long as I could. But tonight this crowded living room was the loneliest place in the world. I figured I’d sneak out the back and avoid an epic farewell. But just as I got there, Julian exited the bathroom and placed a (hopefully well scrubbed) hand on my arm.

—Hey, Dimple, he said.—Hold up. Can I talk to you a sec, alone?

Was I ever going to be able to leave this place? I pointed to my ears and waited.

—Listen, I’ve been rethinking things, he said.—And I just want to say I’m sorry about my behavior. You know, the way I acted that night.

The timing was off, but I supposed the intention was on.

—I don’t know what gets into me sometimes when I’m around Dylan, he went on.—In any case, I’m not around him much these days. We’ve sort of decided not to work together anymore. And I think it’s for the better. But I just wanted to say, well. If you’re free sometime, I’d like to make it up to you. We could hit Chimi’s and, you know, hang out.

Here it was. The moment I had been waiting for. How was it possible that only a few weeks ago, I’d been so ready to let my head (and public opinion) convince me of what my heart, I realized now, hadn’t been feeling at all? And tonight my heart was like a skinned fruit, out there and open and so ripe that if no one tasted it soon it would go rotten. But there was only one person it was meant for.

And here they were. His chestnut eyes millimeters from mine. How was it conceivable that up until so recently I’d been ready to just forget the humiliation and run back towards them? If his eyes had been millimeters from mine then, it would have been so easy to keep on closing my own, drift into his arms.

But it wasn’t so easy now. My eyes were wide open.

And I could see Karsh watching me. He was standing in the cor
ridor. Maybe he just wanted to use the bathroom. Or maybe he wanted me to say goodbye or something. And I was about to when I saw a rakhi’d arm bo-peep around his waist, pulling him back to the other side of that doorway, to what might as well have been the other side of the sea.

—Apology accepted, Julian, I said, coming to.—But to tell you the truth, I’m not really interested in—

But there was no need to repay an eye for an eye and make the whole world unkind.

—It’s just, my mind’s on something else these days, I said gently.

—Got you, he said, trying a smile.

—Goodbye, then, I said, unlatching the door.—I hope you find what you’re looking for.

I exited by the back door, but there was no chance of my stripping the wealth of that house. Its treasure was securely inside, discovering the other one who lived there.

I waded through the uncut grass. The moon was out, and the windows of the playhouse let off a little glimmer. I moved closer; it had been so long since we’d been here, and I felt for a moment I might stumble upon ourselves inside, two little girls having a tea party in the world before boys arrived and men left.

I wiped a patch clear off one pane and was startled to see a face looking back at me—a sad smile and huge eyes, gazing opaquely as if through a block of ice. Through the layer of dust on the inside I could just make out another face, and then another. I would have been afraid, but then realized in a heartbeat what they were: the Nativity statues from all those Christmases ago, from the first time I’d ever met Gwyn.

When I got home I nearly stumbled on something tumbled by the bushes near the bottom step. I bent down to have a look: Karsh’s shoes. So he’d never picked them up that day, just gone along his chappaled way. I considered weeding them out of the bleeding hearts and dropping them off, but heading back to Gwyn’s seemed like a backwards step in more ways than one. I figured if he really wanted them, he’d come looking.

Inside, my parents were in the family room, my father slumped morosely below the Boatmobile, my mother, phone clenched in hand, pacing and waving her arms around and muttering in Marathi.

—Hey, guys, I said.—Did Kavita call? She never showed up at the party.

—Yes, she called, my mom answered.—In tears, weeping so hard I am hardly able to understand a word coming out of her mouth.

—Weeping? What happened?

My mother turned to me and shook both her hands over her head like an angry restaurateur at the guy who dropped the pizza.

—The bitch dumped her.

—Uh…who?

—Sabina Patel Schmatel. For that Upma Loompa character.

So that’s why Kavita had been out of touch.

—That Sabina, my mother now proclaimed to the dangling sailboats and my astoundment.—I never did completely trust that girl. There is something…pointy…about her face. She is re
minding me of a fox. And she never let Kavita get a full sentence in. As if what
she
is having to say is so important that no one should be allowed to interrupt the flow of her
genius
mind. Hello—

She pronounced it
Halo,
and her Indian accent was coming on full force.

—The badmash saali couldn’t even do a proper surya namaskar! And henna? Heh! I was only being polite—any nonarthritic monkey can paint like she paints, and with these temporary tattoo kits I am seeing everywhere, it has never been so easy.

—And the sitar? added my father.—Who is giving a hoot? It only takes three chords to play all the Beatles songs anyways.

—And she is never looking me in the eye.

I felt my mouth unhinge in amazement.

—How dare a Vaishya like her mess with a Kshatriya like us, my mother declared, puffing her chest. She seemed to be including my Vaishya Gujarati sire in this honorary title—and me, a mutted mix. I suppose the dowry deal was she took on his name and he got to take on a little of her caste through marriage.

And my mother’s warrior lineage had never been more apparent. Before my eyes our family room prepared for battle: The peacocks on her dress turned to a formidable army capable of transforming itself in an incantory breath into a god or two to be reckoned with, her gesturing hands stringing up an invisible but potent bow and arrow.

—You knew…about Kavita and Sabina?

—Ha
lo,
as you say, Dimple! Even the blind could see this. Our chhokri wears her heart on her sleeve and always has. Plus, that Sabina was having one of those wallet chains that day—this contraption hooking to the belt? And her nails were very short—but not
bitten.

My mother, supersleuth.

—Besides, the story of love between women in India is nothing
new, she added, shrugging.—It is an age-old saga. But love between women in New Jersey? This is taking a little getting used to.

—Please be sparing me the details. The simple fact of it is enough, said my father.

—Dad, you knew, too?

—Your mother told me though I did not believe her for a long time.

—Would I be lying to you? sighed my mother, exasperatedly tossing the telephone down on the coffee table.—I am a child of Harish Chandra.

—And what do you think of it all? I asked carefully.

My father stood and paced now, shaking his head despondently.

—I told her exactly what I think, he said.—She is needing a saras chhokri, a
nice
Indian girl.

—Yes, said my mother.—None of these hanky-panky Western Heston girls. And what is wrong with our dikree? Heh? Who is this Sabz Blabz bitcheswallah thinking she is? Kavita needs someone like herself—a person with heart, soul, pep!

—Sabina has pep, I said.—Maybe a little too much, I guess.

—Not pep! PEP! P-E-P—Potential Earning Power.

Her accent was on to the max now, like a sprinkler turned all the way up. The T’s clacked, tongue rollicking farther back to tap the roof of the mouth, the R’s took up their own space (urr-en-ing for earning) and went a poquitito Spanish, the W’s mysteriously lowerlipped into V’s, V’s to W’s.