Good Indian Girls: Stories (8 page)

Hari lights the joint and takes a puff.

“Tell me, Harry. You don’t have kids?”

“You don’t know?”

“I know. I want to hear it from you.”

“No, Jack, no kids.”

“What does that mean?”

“Jack?”

“What does it mean not to have kids?”

“It’s quiet. That’s what it means. It’s quiet and I get to fuck my wife on my birthday.”

“That’s why I was calling. I wanted to wish you a happy birthday. I almost forgot. It’s amazing. I think I am losing my way.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you have a copy of
Cosmo?
If not, then
Marie Claire
. One of those.”

“The magazines?”

“Wives subscribe. It’s a basic principle.”

Anu does, he knows, and as he turns to search the shelf below the side table, he is stopped by what he sees resting before the framed photograph of Anu’s mother. It is a penis. Nothing more and nothing less. It is dark, flaccid, sitting atop a pair of balls. He reaches out a finger and pokes it. It feels soft, just like his.

He pulls the stack of magazines out from the lower shelf and sorts through them on his lap.

“Harry? Do you have the magazine?”

“Hold on, I’ve got a situation.”

“What kind of situation are we talking?”

“Nothing for you to worry about. I have
Cosmo
here.”

“Good. Page 158. I need you to turn to page 158.”

As he turns the pages, he lays the rubber penis on his knee and stares at it, the dark, ribbed flesh, the curl of the shaft, the uncircumcised foreskin. It’s not hard like a dildo. It’s soft and it looks like the real thing, except the base is cleanly sliced and MADE IN INDIA stamped into it. It shivers when he moves his knee, it rocks back and forth when he raises and lowers it. It is almost alive and he has to fight an impulse to reach out and stroke it.

“There’s an ad,” Hari says, “and an article about that actress from Idaho.”

“Put your face in the ad.”

“The perfume ad.”

“Yes. Put your face in it. Close your eyes. Then open the flap and breathe in. Inhale. I want you to inhale deeply before you open your eyes.”

The perfume is called Homicide.

“I smell it.”

“Good. Now open your eyes.”

Hari sees a naked woman, maybe sixteen, full, long blonde hair, eyes shut, a look of ecstasy on her face. He takes another toke.

“She’s fuckable,” Hari says. “Uber fuckable.”

“She is Willomena von Stettin-Coburg, original euro-trash royalty.”

“Nice. What are we talking about, Jack?”

“Your birthday present. We have a company discount. One grand. For one grand she will give you a blow job. She doesn’t fuck. No one. I’ve looked into it.”

“Jesus.”

“It’s one hell of a blowjob. Top-notch production values, five-piece band, singer, professional lighting. The full-on razzmatazz. You’ll never look back. She’ll change your life, you’ll be a spoiled man.”

“She is good?”

“Better. Have Peggy set you up. I’ll call you later.”

She lies snaking across the perfumed fold, on her side, head thrown back, breasts vivid, even a shadow of pubic hair visible. Hari thinks about her mouth, her mouth around his dick.

He hears Anu let out a cry.

“Honey?”

There is a long silence and he returns his attention to the woman in the magazine.

“Honey?” he calls again.

“Nothing,” she says from somewhere in the house. “I hate India.”

“What is it?” He lifts the penis to his face. He holds it in the palm of his hand, level with his eyes, and shakes it, watching it wobble. A molded jelly dessert, he thinks.

“They don’t teach you how to wear one!”

“Wear what?” He brings the penis to his mouth, holds it up against his lips, slides his tongue along the rubber foreskin. How do women do it?

“Hold on.”

He stands and fits the rubber penis into his open fly and walks to the bedroom door. With every step it shivers like the real thing.

“Honey?” he knocks.

“Soon.”

He waits, a hand idly playing with his second cock.

Anu appears in the half-light of the hall.

“Get on your knees,” he orders softly.

“What?”

“Get on your knees and suck my dick.”

She is dressed in a silver and blue sari, awkwardly, nothing right about it but he can’t say what fails, what is wrong. Before he can look closely, she is on her knees, her mouth around the rubber cock.

She pulls back, the penis in her mouth, and lets it fall. “Oh god,” she cries, drops with her back against the wall. “Oh god.” She looks up, laughing, at Hari. “I hate you. I thought it was . . .”

“Yes,” he says, getting down on his knees. She is beautiful in the half-light of the hall, in the disordered sari, the surprised grin on her face.

“Kiss me,” he says.

“Later.”

“What’s going on?”

“I had to staple it. Staple it everywhere.” She is almost in tears. “Look at me. I’m a disaster. I don’t know how, I don’t know anything. I’m supposed to be an Indian woman. This is what I’m going to teach my daughter. God, I hate myself. I can’t do anything. Not anything.”

“Here,” handing her the joint.

She takes a long toke, hands it back, and picks up the rubber penis. “I couldn’t resist. I saw it there today and I had to. You understand?”

“I’m flying,” Hari says. “That’s all. I’m flying.”

“You are. I want to know. Tell me everything.”

“I don’t know what it means. I can’t feel my arms.”

“Yes?”

“No, I mean, I feel my arms. It’s like.”

“Yes?”

“I feel my arms for the first time. It’s like I never felt my arms before. These are my arms. I feel them.”

“That’s wild.”

“They’re so there. On my body. Like they’re real. Like they’re real and they’re real at the same time. Like I think they’re there and there they are. They are there.”

“You have arms.”

“I have arms.”

The telephone rings. The landline. He jumps but she stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll get it,” Anu says, taking short, unsteady steps, her legs caught in the tightly wound sari. She looks Japanese, a geisha in a kimono, gingerly carrying the rubber penis.

“Hello, Mom,” she says.

“What time is it over there?”

“What?”

“The time. What time where you are?”

“The same time as you.”

“Oh.” Her mother lets out a laugh. “I was talking to India. I got confused.”

“I’m busy, Mom. Is there something?”

“Nothing. Well, yes, something.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. Maybe another time.”

“Okay. It’s Hari’s birthday. Do you want to say hello?”

“No, you tell him happy birthday.”

“I will.”

“Wait. Just one thing. Where does he carry his cell phone?”

“What?”

“Where does he keep it? In his jacket pocket or his trouser pocket?”

“I don’t know. Why do you want to know?”

“I’m worried. You’ve been married for four years, and nothing. No baby.”

“Yes, Mom, we’re waiting. We’re taking precautions. When the time’s right. We’ve talked, I’ve told you this.”

“Tell him to be careful. Not to keep his phone in his pants. I read today it damages the male sperm. The radioactivity. It makes monster children.”

“Mom? Hold on.”

“What?”

“Another call.” She clicks on the other line. “Hello?”

“Anu? Is that you, Anu?”

“Mom? Hold on, I’m on the other line.” She clicks back. “Mom?”

“The sperm, Anu, Hari’s sperm.”

“I’ve got to go. It’s Hari’s mother.”

“But I’m your mother.”

“She’s Hari’s mother.”

“I’m Hari’s mother.”

“She’s my mother.”

“I’ll call you later. Don’t forget, Hari’s sperm.”

“Hello? Hold on, I’ll get Hari.”

She lowers the phone and places a hand over the mouthpiece. “Your mom,” she calls. He appears from the kitchen, holding a whisky, and makes a puking motion, then strangles himself with one hand and feints a fall to the floor.

“I think he must be in the bathroom. I’ll tell him to call you.”

“What time is it there?”

“Oh, just past eight.”

“It’s five o’clock here. The sun is out. It’s raining.”

“It’s setting here.”

“Nothing like California. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Maybe one day.”

“What are you doing? A party?”

“No, nothing special. Dinner, maybe a movie later. We’re boring people these days.”

“No, not yet. You don’t have children yet. Then you’ll be boring.”

“I know.”

“Well . . .?”

“What?” She looks across at Hari and rolls her eyes. He is standing in the kitchen doorway, grinning, places the drink on the counter, and mimes a full blast from a machine gun, mouth silently screaming, “Rat-a-tat-a-tat-tat!”

“What is it you two get up to? Just dinner, just a movie? Hari’s father is waiting, I am waiting. We’re in California and we’re waiting. Everyone is waiting.”

“Yes, yes. The whole world is waiting. Look, Mom, I’ll have Hari call you when he’s down.”

“Oh no, don’t trouble him, not on his birthday. Tell him I telephoned. He’ll be happy to hear his mother telephoned.”

“Homicide?” she says after she places the phone down, the magazine open on the table before her.

He sings. “Psycho killer, qu’est-ce que c’est?”

“Bedroom,” she says. “Now.”

Hari’s cell phone rings.

“Leave it,” she says.

“I can’t,” he says. “It’s Jack.”

“Just one thing,” Jack says. “A word of advice.”

Anu walks into the kitchen and finds the joint. She climbs up onto the counter, still holding the rubber penis, and places it in her mouth. Hari watches her. He can see the staples, they are everywhere, lines of them along each fold, each twist of the sari. The whole thing is a mess, nothing like how a sari should look. Each time she moves, a new line of staples catches the light. There must be hundreds of them.

“Sure,” Hari says.

“Change your name. Shorten it,” Jack says.

“This is about Hawthorne?”

“This is personal. Think of it as a birthday bonus.”

“What do you mean?”

“My name is Jack. Understand? One word, one syllable. That’s American. Your name is Harry. Two syllables. Good men died to be free of that second syllable.”

“I’m Indian, Jack. Hari is an Indian name.”

“Chinese, European, same difference. We’re talking American. We’re speaking to each other in a country where no one gives a damn about that second syllable. Bob, Bill, Mike, John, Fred, Art, Jake, Zack. These are American names. I want you to choose one.”

“Now?”

“When you feel like it. There’s no pressure. Myself, I see you as Dick. Jack and Dick. Dick and Jack. With a name like that, we might be partners one day.”

“Are you making an offer?”

“This is an opening. This is a potential first step. I like what you’re doing with Hawthorne.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll call you later.”

“Dick,” Hari says. “What do you think of Dick?”

“I love it,” Anu says, pulling the rubber penis out of her mouth.

“I’m flying,” Hari says. “I’m on the moon.”

His shirt is off and both his wrists are handcuffed to the bed frame. The handcuffs are padded with felt. Anu is working on tying his legs when the doorbell rings.

“Fuck,” she says.

“Ignore it.”

“No. I’ll see. It might be someone.”

She rises, confused. He watches her disappear in a constricted rustle of silk and staple.

“Mrs. Kastenbaum,” she says, realizing she is talking loud, trying to hide how stoned she is.

Mrs. Kastenbaum stands in the doorway, a short, plump woman with white hair, holding a potted plant.

“It’s a money plant,” she says. “I thought. It brings you money.”

“That’s kind, that’s very kind. Thank you. How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“Hari’s birthday.”

“Oh my goodness, no. What a coincidence. Is he okay? Did he make it home without a problem? I’m terrified just thinking about it. I’m still shaking.”

“Did something happen?”

“Nerve gas. They released nerve gas, I’m sure of it.”