As Sweet as Honey (23 page)

She braised the vegetables, seasoning them with only salt and pepper, a counterpoint to the rice and saag. Maybe they could serve small glasses of mango lassi to start, but they’d have to use paper cups. So they’ll use paper cups—the pleasure is in the content, not the container, Grandmother would say. She wondered if she should have invited a friend or two of Simon’s, the ones from his university days who hid half their words, so she could never follow the whole of the conversation, or the ones from work. Next year, perhaps.

Meterling turned the rice onto a platter to season with lemon and spice. Turmeric would turn it light yellow; she’d keep plain rice on hand as well, and maybe she ought to do a coconut rice as well—there was shredded coconut in the freezer. People tended not to take big portions at parties, but still, she wanted enough. She was careful to keep aside portions for herself that were bland, according to Dr. Shakur’s instructions, and she reminded herself, no wine.

If Archer had to materialize, now would be the time, but the apartment was quiet, and she told herself, she would not be spooked.

Susan. She was far from the point of going shopping with Susan, the things women must do together in this country (well, their tastes would be different), but sometimes, Susan stole out of the office to share a sandwich with her and Oscar
in Hyde Park. She even baby-sat one night so Simon and she could see a movie. They had returned, hardly able to watch the film, to find Susan holding a fast-asleep Oscar in her lap, listening to Bach. Susan had looked after them, he and Archer, Simon told Meterling; in the way, perhaps, she, Meterling, had looked after Nalani. Motherless daughters. Meterling had asked Susan to bring a dessert to complement the tea cake she bought at the bakery yesterday. Would Susan bring Tom? She had, last time she was over, giddy in a short white dress and long gold hoops. He was—an investment banker? An equities trader? Something with computers?

She’d need another curry—the takeaway, then. The dal! She’d forgotten the dal. Quickly, she found the saucepan and got to work.

Auntie Pa would be astonished that she had cooked the entire meal herself. Well, with Simon’s help. Where was he anyway? She hoped he’d remembered to feed the baby. Sitting down, finished at last, she realized how tired she was. She would draw a hot bath while it was still quiet. It was five o’clock, and dinner was at seven. She looked at the bookcases, bulging with books. She wanted a good novel to read slowly at night, something to sustain her, since she had finished the one she had been reading. When Oscar used to sleep in fits and starts those first weeks before adjusting, they thought, to the English weather, they’d read to one another from a copy of
Middlemarch
Uncle Darshan had presented them.

Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, she took down a book. She hardly had any time to read. Oscar now slept through the night, though the doctor said the pattern might change again. She’d place the book on the nightstand at least, so she could begin after the party. It slipped a little from her hand—was she
that tired?—and a postcard came fluttering out. It had a picture of the Eiffel Tower with “Paris” written across it in fin-de-siècle script. She turned it over. It was addressed to Archer. The script was a hasty scrawl. “Darling! Join me! I am lonely for your arms! Mouxx.” There was a large heart underneath the message.

She felt a jolt. Of course he had had a life before her, how could he not, but the postcard felt predatory, claiming “I was here first, he was mine before you.” Was she French? Mouxx? Was that really a name? Was it Mou, with two kisses? She slipped the book,
“A Study in Scarlet” & Other Stories
, back, but on second thought, took the postcard out to dispose of it later, and carried the book to the bedroom. More importantly, she thought, did Archer go by hovercraft to Paris to this Mouxx’s, an overnight bag in his hand? Was he already fat then, and was she tiny like a mouse? Did he lie on top of her, gathering her to him? Meterling’s anger, sudden, strong, surprised her. She had never before felt such rage against Archer, leaving her, leaving Mouxx, alone, lonely. Her anger ached. What if Simon hadn’t felt the need to come to Pi? What if he had just accepted her silence, written a letter, withdrawn? No more questions. It was the Festival of Lights. A new start.

As she filled the tub with very hot water, throwing Epsom salts in, she noticed how full the Boston fern had become. They had a tiny window in the bathroom that was three-quarters covered by a gnarled wisteria, which let in a little light, but the plant must thrive on the steam. Mouxx. What
did
that mean? A mouth pursed up for a kiss? She suddenly pictured a waggling bottom, a—what were they called?—a feather boa—and thought, I’m jealous of a ghost. She lowered herself into the tub, relishing the heat. Her skin seemed to melt into the water. Twenty minutes would be all she needed.

40

F
orty-five minutes later, Simon came in with Oscar as Meterling wrapped a towel around herself, after pulling out the bath plug. Her dark skin glistened. Her hair in a turban, she greeted her family in the living room, Simon undoing Oscar’s buttons.

“Look at his rosy cheeks! Simon, where have you been all this time?”

“We ate pie. While you have been luxuriating in a bubbly tub …”

“Pie! We have—”

“Dinner, I know. Look, I brought flowers.”

She exclaimed over the tulips, bent to give them both kisses, and rushed to dress Oscar in his new kurta. She wondered if the material was soft enough. If he fussed, she’d change him, she promised herself, feeling a little guilty. He gave her a smile, and pumped his arms. She kissed his toes—her
baby
. Simon put away the stroller and put the kettle on. He told her about running into Estelle as Meterling tied her petticoat. The bell rang as she was arranging the pleats on her sari. Simon’s parents. Quickly, she brushed her hair and joined them as they surrounded Oscar with their attention.

“I thought I’d bring a little extra food, darling, just in case,” said Nora, thrusting a grocery bag in Simon’s hands, even as she reached for Oscar.

“But you didn’t have to—”

“Just some salads, that’s all. Potato and curried cream, and deviled eggs on endive.”

Meterling took the food to the table, and unpacked the pretty glass bowls. What was endive? She hoped it was not non-veg. Nora never quite believed she was capable of feeding Simon, just as she was not convinced Simon was truly vegetarian. She had even provided serving spoons. The door rang again, and it was Dr. Morgan—Kavita—and her partner, Lisa. Meterling was surprised both that her partner was a woman and that she was the receptionist from the office, the one who’d shown surprise at her height.

Simon bundled everyone’s coats to the bedroom while Meterling served tiny glasses of pineapple juice. They awkwardly sat in the living room, eyes glued on Oscar, until conversation slowly began to build.

“So, are you girls roommates?” Nora asked Kavita and Lisa.

“Well, we’re partners, really.”

“Partners in crime, eh?” asked John.

“Partners as in common law.”

“Ah.”

Everyone drank a little more pineapple juice.

“Well, I definitely approve,” said Nora, brightly.

“It’s not a matter of approval—” began Lisa.

“The weather has been awful, lately,” said John, to no one in particular, and Kavita hastily agreed.

Kavita and Lisa had been together eight years, and yes, they lived together almost from the beginning, in North London, near Camden Town. No, they had bought the property a while back, with help from Kavita’s parents. Simon’s mother wondered if her son and his wife might do the same, while his father said no, it’s too late for that, now, they’d have to try farther out, unless they wanted a fixer-upper.

“A fixer-upper?”

“DIY. Hammers, nails, plumbing.”

Simon seemed to be excited by the idea, but his father said he ought to just take over Archer’s old flat, instead of renting it out.

“Your family will start growing, and you’ll need the space,” he said.

“But they want to make new memories, John.”

“How can you make new memories? A memory has to be old by its very nature. In any case, you can take over the old home, and Nora and I will get a little pied-à-terre in the city. What do you say, dear, we can trip the light fantastic?”

“How is your family, my dear? The young couple that wed?”

Nalani, she told them, wrote often.

“She is happy with the boy.”

“Didn’t she love someone else?” asked Simon.

“What? Tell us the story,” asked Nora.

“No story. She had a schoolgirl crush on a boy in her class. Well, maybe more than a crush.”

“Their horoscopes didn’t match,” said Simon.

Meterling glared at him. Now she would have to explain horoscopes and matches.

“It’s difficult for some young women to say no to their family’s wishes,” said Kavita.

“Some? You mean most,” said Lisa.

“Well, yes, most. They’re raised to follow their family’s wishes, not risk love marriages.”

“Your parents didn’t object, Dr. Morgan?”

“Call me Kavita. Well, they were upset for a while. Lisa and I as a couple are illegal in my country, you know. But I had done all the other so-called right things—went through medical school, had a job, and lived abroad.”

“Didn’t they want you to return after the degree?”

“Yes, to look at prospective boys, but I stalled them until I finally told them.”

“At first, her parents pretended they hadn’t heard. I told Kavi it wasn’t that important.”

“But I wanted them to know. Maybe I wanted, like all good Indian girls, their blessings.”

“You must have received them, if they helped you buy a house.”

“That was my father. He came around sooner than my mother.”

Susan interrupted the conversation, arriving at the door with gaily wrapped champagne and a plush toy for the baby. Simon met and quickly embraced her.

“How is it going?”

“There’s been only one palpable hit so far,” he said in a low voice. “And you should try to go in unarmed, for once.”

Susan made a face, and moved past him, and presented the bottle and toy to Meterling. She also brought along a copy of Neela Chandrashekar’s latest book of poetry, which she’d book-marked to a poem called “Birth Channel,” underneath which was printed “Dedicated to my brave Meterling.”

“I found it at Blackwell’s,” said Susan. “I was looking for Blake, but I pulled this out, paged through it, and imagine my surprise. This is you, isn’t it?”

Meterling had never had a poem dedicated to her before and was flustered and pleased. The poem spoke of passage and water and rebirth. Simon said he wasn’t quite sure what the poem meant; Susan said his reaction was certainly psychological, since to her, the poem was very clear and actually quite moving. Surprisingly, Kavita knew the poet’s work, having found some of her books in a shop in Madurai.

“And to think you know her! She seems very mysterious, very passionate,” the doctor remarked.

“I don’t read much poetry, or fiction, for that matter. Nora reads novels, but I like history,” said John, settling into his chair.

41

B
y the time drinks were poured, Oscar looked ready to sleep. This was the tricky part, because she would need a good half-hour to feed him and put him to bed. She never got used to the idea of nursing in front of her in-laws, even though Susan had friends, she said, who seemed to delight in the show. Maybe they were just tired of making it seem so mysterious. She shut the bedroom door. Oscar’s wispy head grew heavy with sleep as she eased his mouth away, and put him in his crib. She wondered if she should just put him in his bouncy in the living room, but knew Nora or John would wander in and check on him, if not Simon or Susan. This was her family, after all, who even if they might question her at times, would forgive Oscar everything. He looked peaceful; his eyes closed with baby swollenness, his hair just a little damp. She could not imagine life without him, she thought, bending to give him another kiss.

John forgot the punch line of the joke midway through telling it, but seemed not at all embarrassed. Even Dr.—Kavita—and Lisa laughed at his delight. Seated at dinner—not a buffet after all—she was glad she had made raita the night before. There
was her labor before her, in large and small dishes: the lentils, the rice, the two kinds of vegetables, the raita, and the parathas that Susan and Simon must have made—no! It was Kavita and Lisa, it turned out, to her chagrin.

“We had so much fun in the kitchen—please don’t mind!”

“I hadn’t made parathas in years” said Kavita, adding apologetically that she got hers from Sainsbury’s.

“These are out of this world,” Susan added hastily, forestalling any more blushes on Meterling’s part.

Nora’s salads were good as well, as it turned out—she had known that Nora was a good cook, a fact that always had intimidated and slightly irritated her, but now she was grateful her salads and eggs were on the table. Everyone dug in. Later, there was quite a bit of lemon rice left in its bowl, though, and she wondered if she had added enough salt. Only John filled his plate with it twice, while Nora remarked on his delicate stomach.

“Thank goodness Simon was a good eater,” she said. “I’d serve feasts for the three of them—back when even you liked to eat, Susan.”

Susan delicately forked some Brussels sprouts. Simon hid a smile.

“Don’t laugh, Simon. It’s true; I’d make Christmas dinners and cook for weeks. The pudding alone took a month, and when the children were little, we’d have lovely roasted goose and ham.”

“No vegetables,” said Simon, helping himself to more dal.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Simon, of course there were vegetables. I’d do a very nice swede-and-sweet-potato bake, and we had jellied beets, of course. Brussels sprouts as well, but none of you except Archer liked those. Archer loved my Brussels
sprouts, poor boy. We ate Christmas dinner together, our two families, but I did most of the cooking. Those were wonderful times—you children so sweet in your dress clothes. No one really dresses up anymore, do they? And hardly ever was food spilled on the napkins. Well, the meals were tasty, if I say so myself. But this meal is just lovely, dear.”