The Abundance: A Novel Page 14

  She nods and looks down. “Did Ronak get on the phone, too?”

  I shake my head. “He was at work.”

  From here we go on to talk of other things. How Ronak works such long hours, how Mala’s call schedule is going to get lighter now that they are adding a partner. The chopping is done, so we move to the gas range. Things have gotten going when she skips back to an earlier point in the conversation.

  “Does she call often?”

  “Amber? Very often. She’s very conscientious, always checking up on me.”

  Mala nods at this. I realize that what I thought was curiosity and chitchat is really Mala investigating a rival, territorial. As if there could ever be our kind of closeness (a quarrelsome closeness though it sometimes has been) between me and Ronak’s American wife. “How often does she call? Every day?”

  “Not every day.”

  “And Ronak?”

  “You’re the only one who calls me every day.”

  “About Amber, you know, it’s not like she’s working. Why isn’t she here more?”

  I do not wish to defend Amber—at this point, I can tell it will annoy Mala if I do—but I feel I should point the facts out, at least. “The boys have school. And she wouldn’t want to take them away from Ronak. He would miss them. They come as a family when they come.”

  “I would be here way more if I had the time, kids and all.”

  “I know that. But Amber isn’t my own daughter like you. You can’t hold her to the same standard. It’s a long drive with three children.”

  “It’d be a long drive with two. I mean, it’s not like she works and has that on top of everything.”

  “Are you angry with her?”

  Her movements have gotten wider and more decisive over the course of our conversation. It’s in the way she dumps the diced green peppers into a hot pan, then grabs the handle and shakes their sizzle; in the way her elbows come out when forcing my clove jar open. Just as I ask Mala if she’s angry, she touches a hot surface. She says “shit” twice under her breath, shaking her hand. She sucks her thumb.

  “Cold water,” I say nervously, “cold water!”

  “Relax, Mom. It’s nothing.”

  “Put it under cold water.”

  She goes to the faucet. I hurry behind her, trying to see the burn. The worry makes my voice a little too loud. My next words come out more aggressively than I mean them.

  “Do you see what happened? You can’t cook while you are angry like that. You will always do something to yourself.”

  “What makes you think I was angry?”

  “Let me see. Let me see.”

  “I wasn’t angry.”

  I turn the pink, raw burn to the light. By reflex, I make a few quick, muted clicks with my tongue; she pulls back her hand, and I realize it might seem a tsk-tsk about her conduct and not pity for her pain.

  “Let me get the ice pack.”

  We are soon sitting knees to knees, her hand in my hands, a towel between the icepack and her skin. I press and lift.

  “I wasn’t angry,” she says.

  The phone rings. We look at it on the table. She reaches over with her good hand. “It’s Ronak.” She brings the phone to her ear. “What’s up?”

  I can faintly hear his voice. “Mom there?”

  “Yeah. She’s right here. What’s going on?”

  “Are they there yet?”

  “Who?”

  “The guys I sent. They should be there. I just got off the phone with them.”

  “What guys?”

  I hear a noise outside. It’s either on our driveway or on the street just beyond the house. I leave Mala’s hand on the ice pack and towel and investigate through the blinds. The sound was the slam of the ramp from a landscaper’s truck.

  “He sent someone to mow the lawn?” I ask incredulously.

  Mala holds out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

  I put it to my ear. “What is this, Ronak?”

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Who are these landscapers?”

  “You know how we’d been talking about coming over this weekend, when Mala and family were over? I was kind of sorry it fell through. I mean, I felt bad—I felt really bad, saying I’d come and then backing out, so I thought, what would Mom want?”

  “Ronak, you know you don’t have to get me anything.”

  Mala is eyeing the pair of landscapers busying themselves on the flatbed. Another pickup truck has parked behind them.

  “I wanted to, Mom. I knew you weren’t getting to garden this year. I’m having these guys do the whole front yard and backyard. And your garden.”

  My mouth drops open.

  Mala looks at me. “What did he say?”

  I am still listening to Ronak. “They’re doing flowers, mulch, everything. And there’s some really nice stuff they’re going to do out front, too. I’ve gone over everything with them, but if you have something specific you want, go ahead and tell them. This is going to look nice.”

  I sit down with excitement and pleasure and above all a thrill: he thought about me. Ronak was thinking about me. I cover the phone and tell Mala breathlessly, “He’s hired these men to plant my garden!” I speak into the phone again. “Ronak, how much will this all cost?”

  “Please, Mom. Let this be my gift, okay?”

  Mala is smiling and shaking her head. The coarse landscapers walk past our window in work boots and denim. One of them has a shovel on his shoulder. The others, in the driveway, are off-loading mulch.

  “Ronak,” I say, “I want to pay for part of this.”

  “This is an early Mother’s Day present. Think of it like that.”

  “Let me have the phone,” Mala says, grinning. Her hand is out. I give her the phone.

  “Was this Amber’s idea? Fess up.”

  “Look, can’t I do something nice for once?”

  “You know, while you’re in this generous mood, I wouldn’t mind a pool back home in St. Louis.”

  “Ha ha. Sorry, Sis, piggybank’s empty.”

  “Run out of retirees to swindle?”

  “Now Mala, you leave my retirees out of this. They’re making sound investments on sound advice.”

  “Seriously, this is pretty amazing, Ronak. There’s, like, an army out here.”

  “I told them I wanted everything done as quickly as possible. They shouldn’t be there more than two days.”

  “You know this isn’t a trade-off for getting your butt out here, right?”

  “I know that, Mala. Jesus.”

  “Just checking.”

  “She happy?”

  Pause. “Yeah. Ecstatic’s more like it. She’s watching them at the window right now. Palms on the glass, like a little kid.”

  “Good.”

  “You’re still coming out here to see her.”

  “I know. Next month. This month wasn’t good. I tried. It just wasn’t happening.”

  “Next month. We’re coordinating.”

  “Right. Next month.”

  * * *

  Amber’s parents moved to Pittsburgh late in life, after Don’s company went under and he had to find another job. Their relatives were still in the Ohio area. So one Memorial Day weekend, when Don’s brother Dave was hosting the family get-together, we were invited to their place outside Circleville.

  This was early, right after Ronak and Amber had their first son, when Ronak was more willing to travel. By the time their third was born, he declared traveling with three kids, and all their paraphernalia, “more pain than it’s worth.” Abhi and I were a couple, and he expected us to visit his house in New York more often than he brought the family to us. The ratio ended up being our three visits to his one. This ratio did not apply to Amber’s parents—he went with her to Pittsburgh every Christmas and every Memorial Day weekend, both very important holidays in her family.

  That year, it had seemed appropriate to invite us, what with the grandchildren so close, but I suspect Ronak himself wasn
’t behind the invitation. He called to say we didn’t have to go if we didn’t want to, that he would make sure they “swung up” to our house for a day, but I told him I had already said yes. Abhi spent the long drive sulking. He wished I hadn’t accepted. He claimed they hadn’t expected us to say yes, but I said Dottie had phoned me personally, how could I say no? If they had sent the invitation through Ronak, I could have made an excuse. But to lie to her face?

  “You were on the phone,” said Abhi, shaking his head. “It wasn’t to her face.”

  “I can’t just lie to her like that, not outright. You saw the caller ID. Next time, you take the phone.”

  He fell silent and sulked for a few more exits, thinking, maybe, of some problem he was leaving unsolved in his air-conditioned study. He was only twelve months from finishing the proof that would put him in the news; he must have been able to see some outline of it. I do remember his constant impatience back then, his reversions to the temper of our early years.

  The temperature, when we got to the cookout at 6 PM (far later than the time we were told), was still well over ninety degrees. The sun burned over the trees. We had to park on gravel among aging Buicks and Chryslers and a muddy pickup truck. We stayed inside, savoring the last of the cool air while the smell of sunscreen filled our car.

  Outside, Amber’s relatives seemed impervious to the sun. Her uncle had grown rich because he owned a plant that “rendered” chickens. Render, Abhi told me, was a way of saying kill. I could not stop myself from imagining the factory: a high-ceilinged warehouse, full of hundreds of calm, clucking chickens; then a hole in the floor would start to roar, a vacuum with a shredder inside it, and the birds would startle aloft like snow inside a paperweight …

  Here, in the empty part of the state between Columbus and Cincinnati, Amber’s uncle owned a large amount of land. This was his pond. Dave had sawed and sanded his own picnic benches out of raw planks. A dozen or so young nephews and nieces were taking turns on the family Jet Ski. The ones who were waiting did not stick to the shade, running about barefoot with giant green and orange squirt guns. One boy got ambushed as he dunked the gun’s water barrel in the pond. He jiggled and raged as he screwed it back into place and took off for vengeance. Everyone’s skin had changed color: some went pink, others gold. The boys were obese and buzzcut with sagging boy breasts. I could trace them to their fathers in sleeveless shirts, guffawing on the picnic benches, the upper arm fat flattened against their sides. Abhi and I felt we were approaching a stranger’s party until we saw Ronak, green beer bottle in hand, chatting with Amber’s brother and manning the grill. Systematically he turned four reddish patties over to air the browned meat and black bars. Then he set the spatula aside for the tongs. A small girl was holding out her Styrofoam plate for a hot dog.

  One of the women watching the Jet Ski, a small child shirtless on her hip, separated herself and hurried up to us. “Mom and Dad! Thanks for coming out here!”

  Some of the relatives turned to us. Don and Dottie approached from farther off. Ronak turned at the grill and waved. Amber, Dottie, and Don, after the usual hugs and pleasantries, walked us over to Ronak, introducing us to two elderly aunts on the way. Ronak pushed the patties around a little and came over to hug us.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked. “I made sure we got veggie patties, Mom.”

  The quicker we ate, the quicker we could leave. “Sure, Ronak. That would be good.”

  “Hey, Chuckie. Get me those Boca patties.”

  Amber’s cousin pulled a red cardboard box from the orange Igloo. Ice cubes and Heineken cans shifted aside as his forearm rose dripping. Chuckie pinched the limp cardboard with distaste.

  “Had to keep ’em cool somehow,” said Amber. “But don’t worry, they’re individually wrapped.”

  “Sure.” I felt odd speaking there. Everyone seemed to be happy to see us, at least those who knew us, but I still felt out of place.

  “Dad? What are you up for?”

  “Veggie burger is fine.”

  “You sure? You want to save room for the chicken? It’s up next.”

  “Veggie burger is fine,” said Abhi stiffly. He indulged in meat sometimes, but he didn’t like to do it in front of me. He feared I would judge him. I think Ronak knew this but in his excitement had forgotten. He had also forgotten, for example, that we did not like to see him drink beer.

  Chuckie took an interest when Ronak made room for the Boca patties on the grill where he had been cooking beef. They were pale brown and partly thawed.

  “What are they made of?” Chuckie asked, looking right at Abhi.

  “Soya,” said Abhi.

  “What?”

  “Soya, soya.”

  “Soy beans,” Ronak translated.

  Chuckie took another look and crinkled his tiny nose. “Beans?”

  “You want to try one, Chuckie?” Amber demanded sternly. “They’re pretty good.”

  “No way I’m eating that.”

  “Crinkle your nose again and you will. I’ll see to it.”

  Chuckie hurried off.

  “Isn’t she great?” Ronak grinned.

  “Chuckie needs manners, always has. I’m gonna have a talk with his ma.”

  “No, Amber, that isn’t necessary, please.” I feared that we would be the cause of discord in their family. I had not seen this no-nonsense side of Amber before, and I was a little taken aback. Just then Don brought over his brother Dave.

  “So you’re Roan’s mom and dad! Welcome! Grab some food!”

  “Mom, Dad, this is my uncle Dave.”

  “I’m the one they named your grandkid for!” After a long silence, he pointed back and forth, “Dave—Dev. Dave—Dev. Yeah?”

  He was intentionally pronouncing them the same way. Abhi smiled and laughed. I took the cue and did so, too, noiselessly. Now what?

  “How was the drive down?”

  Abhi did the answering. “Two hours or so.”

  “Great day for a cookout, eh?”

  “Yes, yes.” Abhi, reminded of the heat, wiped sweat and sunscreen off his forehead with his thin forearm. The arm hair lay matted, swept toward his wrist.

  “Y’all brought your swimsuits, didn’t you?”

  Abhi and I looked at each other, startled. “No, no we did not, I’m afraid.”

  “Don and I’re ’bout ready to kick the kids off that thing,” said Dave. He looked at me. “Y’ever been on a Jet Ski?”

  I shook my head.

  “Aw, God, you’re missing out!” He looked concerned; I feared he would make me. “It is fun.”

  “Hey, is there any corn left?” Ronak asked Amber. “Mom loves corn.”

  Dave overheard and turned his head, birdlike. His wild gray hair fell forward over his creased forehead. “We out a corn?”

  Dottie said in a low, discreet voice to him, “They don’t eat meat.”

  Amber took a few steps to check one of the tables and shook her head. “It’s all gone.”

  “Shoot,” said Ronak. He knelt by a cardboard box beside the grill. It was full of lightweight husk-strips, yellow-green and hairy with fibers. His hand rummaged inside the box. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that was the last of it.”

  “We should have saved you some,” Dottie said mournfully, touching my arm.

  Dave looked alarmed. “No problem, there’s more. I’ll get some. Hold on.”

  “It’s not needed,” I pleaded, raising my palms.

  “Just a few minutes in the truck.”

  “Really, it’s not needed.” But Dave was off, digging the keys from the back pocket of his shorts. I turned to Amber, then to Dottie, who sipped from a Coke can. I felt worse when the truck started and Dave pulled out.

  “He didn’t have to go,” I said.

  “It’s right up the road,” Dottie assured me. “Do you like it this hot?”

  “A little cooler.”

  “How’s Mala?”

  “She is doing her medical school.”

  “She must be
so busy.”

  “Very busy, all of the time.”

  “But you must be so proud of these children of yours.”

  “Yes. Very much so.”

  “I was just telling one of my girlfriends the other day, you should write a book.”

  Dev began to cry. I hurried to Amber’s side and put my hands out. She bobbed and sang, softly and in tune, “Momma’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.” She acted as though she hadn’t seen my offer; she was wearing sunglasses, so I could not see if she had. Dev did not stop. I touched her shoulder, and she gave him to me. He did not stop with me, though I rubbed his back clockwise, which had always worked with Ronak. Dottie drank from her Coke can again as Dev grew louder in my arms. Of course he did; we saw Ronak so rarely, the infant was hardly familiar with me. Dottie came and rubbed Dev’s downy head but did not offer to take him. “Someone’s had a long day!” she said. Ronak had once told me how Dottie was no help to Amber. Dottie, according to him, was a very lazy woman. Amber came back with a pacifier from one of the side pockets of her mommy bag. I wanted to be the one who calmed Dev, so I took it from her hand and guided it to his scream. The nub pressed the tense tongue until the tension gave. My fingertip lifted when the plastic began to pulse. I should not have relaxed. Dev spat it out. Amber and I both moved quickly to catch it, but it bounced off my hand and fell in the grass, and after that there was no using it.

  “I know what he needs,” said Amber. I gave Dev back and he went quiet. Dottie’s bland smile had not changed. Then Dev started crying again, which redeemed me. Amber carried him past the picnic tables to a private patch of green, grabbing a folded sheet from her bag as she passed it. She sat cross-legged with her back to everyone, leaned forward, and hid him under the sheet. Dev hushed and fed, small hand intrigued by the luminous white cloth. I watched her, alone with her child.

  Dave returned with the emergency ears of corn. They swung two from each hand, like rabbits. The high dust began to thin and shift behind his truck, which had its front wheels in the grass now and panted in place. Abhi and I apologized again, but Dave knelt and said, “No prob, no prob,” as he ripped the husks off the corn with a swift, concentrated violence. His arms were unexpectedly muscular, and his hands looked rough and dry as unsanded wood, and overlarge, too, as in those pictures of acromegaly in my old textbooks. I grew afraid. Was he angry at having to fetch the corn? I moved closer to Abhi. Dave stood up, laid the plastic-yellow uncooked ears in the space Ronak had made for them, and smiled at us. “There you go,” he said. “Won’t be ready same time as the burgers, though.”