Rani Patel In Full Effect Read online

  BUTTERFLIES HIGH ON COKE

  Either the Gujarati men I know have trouble understanding English or they’re complete narcissists.

  There’s no other way to explain why Gautam uncle, a successful banker in Alabama and my dad’s former best friend, is on the phone asking me to reconsider letting Dad and Wendy move into our house.

  I’m fairly certain this is how it went down. It started with Dad.

  I told him, “I’m not going to fix things this time!”

  Dad heard that as, “I’ll come around. Keep asking me until you get your way, Dad.”

  Then Mom told Dad, “Get out now, Pradip.”

  Dad heard that as, “I’m mad, but I’ll cool off. Just in case, Pradip, why don’t you ask Gautam to help convince Rani? That way, you’ll be sure to be back in the house in no time.”

  Funny thing is Dad’s been estranged from Gautam uncle for years. Dad said something about being disgusted by Gautam uncle’s banking success. “Gautam’s become so greedy, bigoted, and egotistical,” my dad told me.

  That’s all out the window now that Dad needs help.

  And I’m sure Gautam uncle thinks he’s the big man who’ll swoop in and save the day. With his words of “reason,” he’ll rescue Mom and me from the depths and restore us to sanity, self-respect, and common sense. How gracious of you, uncle dearest.

  I listen to Gautam uncle rattle on in Gujarati about how my dad misses us. That he really wants us all, including Wendy, to be one joint happy family.

  Yawn.

  He pauses for a breath and I jump in. In my somewhat broken Gujarati, I say, “But, Gautam uncle, Mom doesn’t want to live in the house with Dad and his lover.” Seems pretty straightforward.

  He rebuts. “Your Mom doesn’t mean that. Doesn’t matter because your Dad has a right to live in the house. Your Mom isn’t allowed to keep him out.”

  Wow. In three dismissive sentences, the level of woman-hate by these Gujju men is loud and clear. Showy even. Like the kaju barfi my mom neatly arranged on the stainless steel thali in July. She’d made it for my dad’s birthday because it’s his favorite Indian sweet. With artistic meticulousness, she’d even decorated the diamond-shaped delicacies with edible gold and silver foil. We never got to sing him happy birthday because he didn’t come home until after Mom and I had gone to sleep. Dad didn’t mention a word about the barfi to Mom the next day, even though we’d left it on the kitchen counter with a card.

  “Besides, Rani betta, raja had more than one wife.”

  I realize two things about Dad and Gautam uncle. And perhaps about the entire male-dominated Gujju culture that raised them. More like brainwashed them.

  They don’t take a woman’s words seriously.

  They can do anything they want, but a woman can’t.

  And I thought the creepy, old, okole-grabbing tourist guy was a misogynist. As it turns out, maybe he was more of a straight-up jerk under the influence. My dad and Gautam uncle are sober and scheming. And a bunch of other S words. Sly. Sneaky. Slick. Selfish.

  Right about now, I’m thinking that’s worse.

  To my chagrin, Gautam uncle keeps talking. “And betta, don’t worry so much about studying. Forget being a doctor. Your Dad and I are looking for a nice Chha Gaam boy for you. Better to get married when you are young. Not like these American women.”

  Over my cold, dead body.

  There’s no way you’re arranging my marriage to some hairy Indian boy who only wants a nokrani. And for the record, I’m never getting married. You think I want to end up like my mom? No way! I’m heading straight to the state of Independence. Maybe if a guy actually likes me, someday I’ll have a boyfriend. And move from Singleville to I-Got-A-Man-ville. But, marriage. Nope. Not ever. Also, I most definitely will be a physician, thank you very much.

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “Gautam uncle, I have to go. Customers just walked into the store. I’m the only one here.” Slight exaggeration. Really only one customer: Mark. But any excuse to end this call.

  Not listening to me, he continues with his spirit-crushing lecture. “Money’s not a problem. I’ll pay you $10,000 for each baby you have. Even more if it’s a boy. You need to have lots of babies. We need more Hindus in this world, right? Too many blacks and Muslims.”

  I feel sick to my stomach. The casualness of his enmity towards anyone who’s not a Gujarati male makes me want to vomit. I can’t believe he thinks I completely agree with him. I picture him in a white robe with a blood-red Hindu svastika on the left chest, a tall, pointy white hat, and a face-covering white cloth mask with eyeholes. That freaks me out big time.

  “Bye, Gautam uncle,” I say. I drop the phone onto the receiver like it’s covered with a horrible virus. A couple of seconds later, the phone rings again. I know it’s him, so I ignore it.

  “You look like you just saw a ghost,” Marks says, hoisting a 12- pack of Bud Light onto the counter. I can tell he stepped out of the shower a few minutes ago because he smells like a warm spring day. He smiles at me. His eyes sparkle like the dime-size sapphire earrings I once saw Lalita ba wearing. His black t-shirt hugs his strapping torso like I wish I could. My mind flashes to the slide show of the French sculptor we learned about today in art class: Auguste Rodin. Before I know it, I’m picturing Mark and me strolling through the streets of Paris. Suddenly he’s a walking sculpture in the Musée Rodin.

  He sits down and I envision myself on his lap. My left arm is around his neck and his right hand is on my hip. Hold up! We’re naked! He leans in. We give Rodin’s The Kiss a run for the money.

  I smile and forget about Gautam uncle’s asinine comments.

  Don’t stare.

  “I wish it was a ghost,” I say, aligning my glasses with both hands. “No, it was my dad’s crazy friend on the phone trying to turn me into a woman-hating racist.”

  “Ooh. Sounds like my dad.” He laughs. “May I have a pack of Salem Lights, please.” I’m in a daze, my eyes following his hand as he runs it through his sunny hair.

  Down, butterflies, down!

  I grab his cigarettes from the display case, wishing there was a neon sign over my head that read, “How about some Rani with those Salem lights?” Might as well throw in a bunch of flashing arrows pointing at me. That would make things easier. Maybe then he’d stay a little longer and talk to me. I ask myself if there’s anything I can do to make that happen. What would Beverley Joliet do?

  “Flirt, Rani,” the gorgeous 28-year-old Beverly whispers into my ear.

  At least that’s what I imagine she’d advise. Besides, that’s how Beverly got Juan in that steamy romance novel South of the Border Passion. Yes, one can learn a tremendous amount about love and courtship by reading romance novels. My mom has a stash of at least a hundred. I mean a woman’s got needs and I’m pretty sure Dad wasn’t attending to hers. So Mom got her action through books. Some nights she stays up into the wee hours of the morning reading.

  I sneak her books into my room and feast on every delicious word, each sentence like a bite of warm, syrupy, rose-essence gulab jamun. Especially the descriptions of making out. Those sections are worth rereading. And making out is usually preceded by flirting.

  I better flirt like crazy with Mark! I lift up the left corner of my glasses and take a deep breath.

  Here goes.

  “You know smoking and drinking will kill you,” I say coyly, half smiling. I lean forward with my elbows on the counter and balance my chin on my interlaced fingers.

  “I guess you’re partially to blame since you’re my dealer.” He flashes me a devilish grin.

  He’s flirting back!

  “Yeah, I guess I’m your dealer. Must be my bad girl side.” I raise an eyebrow and give him a subtle smile. Full on Beastie Boys She’s Crafty style.

  He grins and looks at me in this sexy ass way. Oh boy. Chicken skin to da max. Then he says, “Why don’t you come hang out on the porch for awhile. Keep this customer happy so I’ll keep buying.”

  It�
��s working! High five, Beverly! I owe you!

  The butterflies in my stomach fly around like they’re high on coke. Well, what I’ve heard a coke high is like. Amped up. Euphoric beyond measure. I follow him onto the porch and we both sit on the same bench. The sunset adds to the amorous vibe.

  The setting sun over the ocean paints the sky a deep orange. And they lived happily ever after.

  If only.

  Mark cracks open one of the ice cold beers and offers it to me. That’s when I get a load of a nickel-size, dark reddish-brown spot on his hand. It looks like a burn. And I’m surprised by the thinness of his outstretched arm. I can even see some veins popping out. His arms are usually filled out by all his muscles and taut, smooth skin. I don’t say anything about that because I’m kinda in a tizzy. Instead I say, “Can’t drink on the job,” hoping I sound nonchalant. Can he tell I’ve never had a beer?

  “Right.” He takes a big swig. “Ahh. Glad it’s Friday. And payday.”

  “You do realize that this is the extent of my Friday soiree, hanging out on the front porch of the store with a customer.” I let out a loud, dramatic sigh.

  “A customer?! Ouch! That hurts,” Mark teases, holding his closed fist to his heart. “I thought I was more than a customer. More like a friend.”

  Friend?

  I’m giddy. “Yeah, I guess so,” I say.

  “By the way, Rani, how are things with your dad?”

  “Lousy.” I shake my head. The sheer joy of having Mark’s attention motivates me to talk. Things I would never tell anyone start coming out of my mouth. I can’t shut myself up.

  “It’s like a soap opera. Days of Pradip’s Life. He wants Wendy to move in with us. Can you believe that? He actually thought we’d be ok with that.”

  “I’m guessing your mom’s not down with it.”

  “Thankfully she’s not into polygamy.” I kick off my slippers and lift my feet onto the bench, hugging my bare knees. “She kicked him out. She straight-up told him he’s not welcome near us.”

  “Go, Meera.” He finishes off his beer and lets out a silent burp. Then he opens another can. “How are you doing?”

  “I don’t know. I keep trying to figure out how to fix everything.” I hug my knees tighter. “Dad’s gone and Mom still won’t talk to me.” I exhale loudly. “I feel kinda lonely.” A wave of sadness pulls me under. “I know what you’re thinking, ‘Boo hoo, Rani. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You have it easy compared to most on the planet.’”

  I try to hold back the tears but I can’t. Like a faucet left slightly open, a few trickle down my cheek. “That’s what you’re thinking, right?”

  He puts his beer down and slides closer to me. With an almost tender tone, he says, “Hey, look at me.”

  That’s what Dad used to say.

  I turn my head to him and look into his eyes expectantly, biting my lower lip and holding my breath.

  “I get why this hurts.”

  The floodgates open and I sob. My head drifts down and ends up on his shoulder.

  “It’s ok,” he says, softly patting my bald head.

  After a minute I stop crying, but keep my head on his shoulder. “Thanks, Mark. For listening and not judging me.”

  “I’d never judge you. You my homie.” With his free hand, he grabs his beer and takes a big gulp.

  Really?

  The fog of depression lifts and infatuation takes over. I pat my eyes dry under my glasses, then push them up. Wish I had some tissue to blow my nose into. I end up snorting the snot back in. Loudly. Embarrassed, I try to get a grip. I sit up straight and face him, laying my hands flat on my thighs. I change the subject to lighten the mood. “So, you got a girlfriend?” I ask, with a bit more enthusiasm than I’d intended.

  He almost chokes and practically spews out the sip of beer in his mouth. “Wasn’t expecting that one.” Smiling, he says, “No girlfriend. Haven’t had one in over a year.”

  Hee hee!

  Tingling all over. Just like what Beverly felt. Casually I say, “That’s surprising. A hard-working looker like you. I wouldn’t think you’d be single for long.”

  “Well,” he pauses like he’s mulling it over. He fixes his eyes on me. “I’m talking to this one girl. She’s smart, beautiful, and funny. I’m definitely interested in her, but I don’t think she’ll go for an old guy like me.”

  Dropping that Molotov cocktail, he picks up his open beer and the rest of the 12-pack. “I gotta get some sleep. Haven’t slept good in a couple of nights.” And with that he walks down the porch steps. Unexpectedly he turns around. I jerk my eyes off his derriere and fiddle with my glasses, feigning spectacle malfunction.

  Grinning, he says, “See ya around, Rani.”

  “See ya, Mark.”

  Who’s he talking about? Could he be talking about me? No way, Rani! Shut up! You have no chance with a guy like that.

  The phone rings. I run inside and answer it. It’s Mom.

  “Rani, I need that big box of wine bottles. The restaurant’s really busy. Close up the store and come here,” she says, out of breath.

  I check the clock. It’s already 7:30 p.m. I shut down the store as fast as I can. Struggling with the heavy box of wine, I cross the street to the restaurant. Rambunctious customers are spilling out of the restaurant’s front door. I guess I didn’t notice them when I was caught up in mackin’ on Mark.

  Only Mom’s in the kitchen. Pots and pans boil and sizzle on all four burners of the gas stove. Partially plated entrees sit on the counters, their beds of cabbage patiently awaiting the Korean ribs. The thirty-cup rice cooker is open, half empty. Don’t need any more clues. Mom’s been cooking and serving.

  “Where’s Shawn?”

  “He didn’t show up,” Mom says.

  No Shawn. No Dad. I watch Mom load the rectangular stainless steel tray with three steaming dishes. This is like a microcosm of Mom’s entire life. She does all the work while Dad’s off doing whatever he wants.

  “Just do the cooking, Mom,” I say, grabbing the tray out of her hands, “I’ll wait on tables.”

  Nothing like three hours of serving drunk tourists non-stop to make time fly. Hungry customers occupy the five booths and eight bar stools all night. As soon as a booth or bar stool clears, it gets filled from the line of boisterous tourists outside on the porch. Most of them are already drinking because they’ve ordered liquor while they’re waiting. They sit before I have a chance to wipe down the tables. I try to smile and engage in their small talk about Moloka’i as I take their orders and serve their food and drinks. What’s the best beach on the island? The most beautiful hike? Is Kalaupapa worth it?

  Finally the last customer leaves. By the time Mom and I finish washing the dishes and cleaning the kitchen and dining area, we’re ready to collapse. Mom winces as she balances the last pot on the dish rack.

  “Your ankle?”

  “It still hurts.” She leans her weight against the sink.

  She looks drained. I want to give her a hug, but I can’t get myself to do it. I get her a glass of water instead.

  “I’m going to ask Auntie Maile’s niece and nephew if they can work at the store and over here. This is too much for us.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I swear I hear violins playing as I watch Mom limp down the stairs. She grips the hand railing as she takes one slow step down at a time. It’s like I’m watching a Leela Chitnis Bollywood film of the archetypal suffering, selfless Indian mother.

  I hate you, Dad.

  We make our way to the truck. I help her into the passenger side. I sneak a peek at her every few minutes, trying to think of something to say. She’s staring out the windshield into the dark night. She doesn’t move her head. I’m not even sure if she’s blinking her eyes. I sigh and grip the steering wheel as tight as I can, like I want to crush the life out of it. A hurricane of emotions builds—anger, sadness, confusion, irritation—and quiet tears storm down my cheeks. I want to tell her how much I care about her.
Love her. Know she’s miserable. Try to comfort her with my words.

  But I don’t have the strength for a monologue. I want some words from her. I want her to say something to me. Heck I’ll take anything.

  Throw me a bone here, Mom.

  I want to scream.

  I end up keeping my mouth shut and waiting out the swirling category-4 emotions.

  I accept that it’s going to be twenty-one miles of shared silence.

  I force my eyes to stop seeking connection with her and focus solely on the road ahead. But as soon as we pass Chevron, I can’t stop myself from looking in her direction. The heavy glow from the streetlamps spotlights her. That’s when I feel this ache in my gut. Because I see her pull her hand away—was she trying to touch me?—and turn back to stare out of the windshield. There are tears on her cheek. The ache in my gut turns to a searing panic in my chest.

  ATHEIST NIGHTMARES

  I’m flailing to escape. My grandfather’s arms encircle my child waist. He hauls me from the mobile stairway onto the Kenya Airways jet. I scream and reach for Mom. On the tarmac, Dad pulls Mom away. She screams and reaches for me. In an instant I’m a teenager, sleeping peacefully in my twin bed. Out of the blue a tall, older man, his face out of focus, appears in my room. There’s something familiar about him. He takes off one shoe, one sock at a time, arranging them carefully near the foot of the bed. He takes off his pants, neatly folds and lays them on top of his shoes. He takes off his boxers and drops them on the floor. He lifts the white comforter and slides into my bed. I wake up startled by his movement. He grabs my hands and holds them over my head. He climbs on top of me. I struggle trying to extricate myself. He grips my hands tighter with his right hand and moves his left hand under the comforter, pulling off my panties. That’s when I get a clear view of his face. It’s my dad.