Getting new mexico, p.20
Getting New Mexico, page 20
“She is spending quite a bit of time with our dear Mr. Schuyler. Nearly every evening.”
“I don’t know why you must always refer to the man as ‘dear.’” Mr. Chatterjee expelled as much smoke through his mouth, as through his nose. “I see nothing ‘dear’ about him. Are we assured he is not such a loose screw as his mother painted him to be?”
“I see no evidence of that,” Mrs. Chatterjee bridled. “He has been a faithful suitor, and you have seen the way he looks at her.”
“Yes.” Mr. Chatterjee spat tobacco from his mouth. “That is what bothers me.”
“Picky, picky! Hugh Leigh reports from dear Tom Jannssen how Mr. Schuyler does nothing but work at Sam’s Club, tend to his dogs, and prune his apple orchard. What more do you want?”
“‘Dear’ again.” Mr. Chatterjee lit another cigarette. “Is every man ‘dear’ to you, woman? Yes, the fellow works at Sam’s Club. On the dock. What future is that for our daughter?”
“You are ridiculous. That is not the end of the story, but only the beginning. Clementine is wealthy. Who will she leave her money to? Aaron will receive everything Harry left to her, as well. And, Mr. Smarty Pants, who do you suppose ends up with all of Hugh Leigh’s property?”
“I have it on the best authority Hugh is leaving the whole caboodle to MOMA.”
“Whose ‘best’ authority?”
“His own.” Mr. Chatterjee, following the puppy’s progress, choked on an inhale.
“Dammit, Yuthi! The fellow’s mutt has just dug another hole in my lawn!”
Schuyler and Ms. Chatterjee exchanged cell phone numbers so he wouldn’t need to climb the stairs to Human Resources so often. This futile subterfuge did little to disguise their growing intimacy from the staff at Sam’s Club. Janice Garcia felt no qualms about letting it be known to everyone that Ms. Chatterjee’s complexion glowed in a way it never had before Mr. Schuyler became a Sam’s Club associate. The dock crew were at it again, doing their best to make Schuyler’s workdays as miserable as possible.
“No one is gonna believe you could snag a chick like Chatterjee,” sniggered Mike Three Rivers. “You using date drugs?”
“How do you get it up, Viéjo?” Jesus jabbed at his ribs. “Your low pay? You must be goin’ broke buying Viagra, verdad? Insurance don’t pay for it!”
“Chatterjee gets a raw deal, old man.” Ernie Daniels shook his head. “Before long she’ll be pushing your wheelchair!”
These days, it was fortunate Schuyler existed in a world of heady experience. He paid no attention to the dock crew’s teasing. He recalled, instead, each sweet word whispered to him by his love, while they were together. Every moment of the day he relived his dinner conversations with Anita. They were, at last, on a first-name basis.
Even his taped responses to Clementine’s sinus reports took on another tone. Her latest tape for the week of October second began, “The autumn allergies have hit me hard. I’m using a neti pot and that helps some, but almost every hour I have copious amounts of stringy, thick white mucous. My nose is plugged up and my voice sounds strange, even to me. Stan thinks I should see an ENT man.”
Schuyler’s remarks by return tape were almost kind. “Hello, Mom, just hang in there. The neti pot is a fine solution for allergies. I know this because I asked the pharmacist in Pojoaque what was best. He said to me what I’ve said to you many times. ‘Better out than in.’ Keep blowing. You’re great! Aaron.”
He might be the happiest man on earth, although tormented by the dock crew’s teasing, and his work hours flitted by in a daze wherein he sometimes forgot to take lunch breaks, as well as morning and afternoon breaks, but Schuyler still made frequent use of the men’s room. There was no letup in the accursed IBS.
Despite his hurried jaunts to the restroom during dinner, their dates were magical. So much so that Anita and Schuyler were close to exhausting the list of Santa Fe restaurants, if such a thing were possible. Intimacy had progressed to the point where, after Schuyler kissed Chatterjee good night on their second date, they now kissed before dinner, during dinner, and long after dinner while secluded in her car with the heater going full blast.
Schuyler found these marathons disturbing for two reasons. He had decided to ask Anita to marry him, but he had severe reservations about marriage without first having sex with one’s intended partner. These days, who did that?
The second reason was the physical agony he endured during these preliminaries that led nowhere. Daily, he considered asking Anita how she felt about premarital sex, but every time it came to the point of phrasing such a question, he chickened out. What did he know about this aspect of courtship customs in the Indian culture? If he asked her, might she reject him? Refuse all further contact with him? Might he never see her again?
He wasn’t willing to take the chance.
One Friday evening, the two having met outside the Happy Wonton Grill at 5:30 p.m., Chatterjee balked when Schuyler held the restaurant door open for her.
“Aaron, the plain truth is, I am becoming very tired of eating in restaurants. Each meal tastes the same to me. Boring. Another such dinner is not something I look forward to.”
“What do you want to do? See a movie? Have a bag of popcorn for dinner?”
“Here’s a thought. You’ve been saying you’d take me to meet Bella, the mother of Lotus. We can make popcorn in your kitchen.” She grew more enthusiastic. “Oh, please, Aaron. Let us do something different. Drive to Nambé. I have been wanting for so long to see the other puppies.”
“If you want to”—Schuyler shrugged, conscious of the mess and disorder at home—“but I don’t have any popcorn. There isn’t much to eat except instant oatmeal or frozen dinners.”
“Well then, we shall make a picnic with those, and enjoy them very much.”
Chatterjee followed behind Schuyler’s truck along the highway north, then made the turn onto County Road 503. It being late autumn, the route was no longer lush and green, the trees, bushes, and even weeds having discarded their summer foliage. Twilight had faded, and the road was dark as they turned into Schuyler’s driveway.
Even before they emerged from their vehicles, the howls issuing from the apple orchard were piercing. When Schuyler opened the orchard gate, a pack of dogs streaked out into the carport, dashed around in circles, then focused their attention on Chatterjee.
“Don’t worry. They won’t jump up,” Schuyler assured her. “But, you’re a novelty.”
Chatterjee was delighted with the dogs. They were silky black and white look-alikes, identical to Lotus, although larger in size.
“Enough, you hounds!” Schuyler fed the dogs, then led them away from the house and back to the apple orchard so they could pee and poop. After they charged into the fenced enclosure, he closed the gate behind them.
“Now, we’ll have some peace and quiet.” He ushered Chatterjee into the hallway. “I can show you the house.”
After a lengthy tour of all the rooms, Schuyler lit the oven, placed two frozen dinners inside, and made a show of tidying the cluttered countertop. Chatterjee again wandered through the sitting room.
“What a lovely place!” she called out. “A genuine adobe. This is true New Mexican architecture, not like our home in Santa Fe. That’s a tract house made to look like an adobe!”
Chatterjee trailed her hand over the stuccoed bancos on either side of the kiva fireplace, then gazed out toward the orchard through the old, distorted panes of the sitting room windows.
“Those dogs!” She laughed. “They’re so rough with each other.”
“Yeah, and it’s about time to bring them in.” Schuyler looked out the window from over Chatterjee’s head. “They’ll quiet down when I put them in the back bedroom. That’s where they sleep. Our dinners are just about ready. Does the house seem warm enough?”
“A bit cool, but that’s okay. While you tend to the dogs, do you mind if I look at your library?” She pulled a volume from the bookshelf.
“Be my guest.”
Schuyler had already decided to follow Anita back to Santa Fe after dinner, to be sure she had no driving mishaps. That would mean a late night for him, because he’d need to drive back to Nambé. What the hell. Tomorrow was Saturday and he could sleep in. Or, as late as the dogs would allow. Using Milk-Bones, he lured the pack into the house and shut them up in a bedroom near the back door. The frozen entrees should be fully warmed by now.
“Anita, the dinners are ready,” he called from the kitchen.
When she did not respond, he glanced through the archway into the sitting room. Huh. Anita was no longer examining the bookshelf, but the bathroom light was flickering. A dying bulb? She must be washing up for dinner. The night sky out here, away from the Santa Fe lights, was pitch-black. They should eat soon and, before too long, drive back to town.
“Anita?” He walked into the bathroom but found it empty. No Anita. She might have walked outside into the smaller courtyard, so he headed in the direction of that door.
“Well, Aaron, it’s about time.”
Schuyler turned on his heel. Anita’s voice had issued from his darkened bedroom wherein, deep within the shadows, her form was dimly defined.
Anita was sitting in his bed. Nude. At least, nude from the waist up. Holy shit. She held the sheet up so it covered her breasts.
“What are you doing?” he asked. The light might be low but he could see how voluptuous she was, how flawless her golden skin. Did she want what he hoped she wanted?
“What does it look like I’m doing? Are you always such a simpleton?” She laughed. “If I waited for you to make a move, we’d both be as old and gray as my parents.”
“But—are you sure?” God, she was gorgeous.
“Don’t be a dunce.” She laughed again. “Of course I’m sure.”
“I—wanted to ask you. Was afraid I’d breach some ancient Vedic code of premarital ethics.” Schuyler made no attempt to veil his relief. “Never see you again. How did I know?”
“I know you want to ask me to marry you.” Anita reached out toward him. “But how can you do that in this day and age, when we don’t know if we’ll be—compatible.”
“I’ll make sure we’re compatible,” he murmured as he kissed her. “I love you, Anita.”
“Well, yes, I know that.” She began unbuttoning his shirt. “I have known that for a very long time.”
“Will you marry me?” He kissed her again, and slid his hand along her throat, over her shoulder, and under the protective sheet.
“Probably.”
“You witch!” He laughed, urging her head onto a pillow. “Just a simple yes or no is good enough.”
“I haven’t yet seen the ring you’re offering me,” she whispered, running her fingers through the curls at his temples. “That could make or break the deal.”
“And I suppose I must ask your father for your hand?”
“Not only that, but you must pay a bride price.”
“No way,” Schuyler shook his head. “It’s the other way around. I know that much about Indian culture. If your father doesn’t provide you with a sizable dowry, all bargains are off. I won’t take you off his hands. You’ll be a ruined woman.”
“I knew that would be the case.” Anita sighed. “It’s not me you want, but my father’s hard-earned cash. Good luck squeezing the money out of him.”
CHAPTER 22
Perspectives
“My daughter did not come home last night?” Mr. Chatterjee took a deep drag on his first cigarette of the day. It didn’t taste quite right. He thought he might switch to cigars.
“You’re right, she did not.” Mrs. Chatterjee’s smile was smug. “And, don’t you dare say a wrong word to Anita when she arrives home.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” her husband answered in an injured tone. “You never give me the benefit of the doubt.”
“And when have you deserved that?” Mrs. Chatterjee countered. “You will probably receive a visit from dear Mr. Schuyler today. Be sure to wear your best kurta. And when he asks for Anita’s hand in marriage, be sure you say yes.”
“What else am I going to say, woman? He has compromised my daughter.”
“Oh, you are shameless.” She snapped a dish towel at her husband. “To speak in such a way about our only child.”
“I want to get her off my hands.” He glanced out the kitchen window. “She’ll take the damn dog with her and I’ll be rid of that mutt. What are we having for breakfast?”
“I have to feed Lotus, first.” Mrs. Chatterjee tucked a stray lock of hair into her bun. “You—go empty all your ashtrays, then scoop up the dog poop in the yard.”
“Why do I always have to pick up the poop?”
“Because you do not know how to cook, wash, or sew. You only know how to smoke.”
“At least I do that well.”
“Get out of my kitchen. I must make a call to Clementine and break the news.”
“Why can’t you let that fellow phone his mother?”
“I said, out of my kitchen. Now.”
By the time Schuyler woke up on Saturday morning, Anita was no longer in bed, but had risen, showered, and thrown out the burnt frozen dinners he’d left in the oven.
Wearing only his shorts, he stumbled into the kitchen to apologize.
“I know it’s pitiful. I’ll buy more food. We’ll have breakfast at the Mockingbird.”
“Fair enough,” agreed Anita. “But you can’t eat every meal in a restaurant. That is not nourishing.”
“Can’t you at least say good morning?” He pulled a lopsided grin.
“Good morning, my love.” She drew his head down and kissed him on the cheek. “We must get going and not waste the day. You need to speak to my father.”
“Oh joy.” God, he hoped he wouldn’t screw this up. “You have to know I’m not looking forward to that.”
“Who would? I expect he will give you a bit of a hard time. He’ll see it as a game and want to be sure you understand he is the head of his household. Don’t compete with him.”
“Have you had other suitors besides your late husband?”
“None who mattered. And, by that I mean my father knows how much I care for you. He is delighted we met and have gotten on so well.”
“I’ve seen no proof of his delight, Anita.”
“Well, you know,” she sympathized, “my parents are longtime friends with Hugh, Harry, and your mother.”
“You people are always saying, ‘you know,’ and I know nothing of the sort. I am always in the dark until, each time, one of you chooses to enlighten me.”
“That”—Anita frowned—“was, perhaps, not kind of them. But according to your mother, you made the choice to cut yourself off from your wife and children. No one else did. Is that not true? You cut yourself off from Clementine and Harry. Isn’t that the reason why you didn’t know we’d all become friends?”
“What can I say?” was Schuyler’s futile rebuttal. “You’re right. I don’t have a leg to stand on. Yet, you won’t hear me say that I wish I could do it all over again because that isn’t true. I don’t wish that. Then I’d be a solid citizen, still married to Natalie, and would never have met you.”
“Oh dear.” Anita’s face betrayed her conflicting emotions. “It’s all so very complex.”
“You’re damn right it is,” Schuyler agreed. “Do I wish I’d done things differently? Been a better man and not such a friggin’ louse? Yes. But here’s the catch. I only wish that because it would make me more worthy of you, not because I still want to live the A-list life in New York.”
“Oh, let us not argue, Aaron,” Chatterjee pleaded.
“Well, it’s not pleasant to have my past thrown in my face.” Schuyler’s expression was dour. “I do that often enough to myself.”
“Ah, well—I see your point.” Anita’s face softened. She lowered herself onto a chair. Schuyler sat opposite and reached across the table for her hands.
“You told me Clementine came to visit Hugh and my uncle for the opera season. Right? That’s how you met my mother?”
“Harry and Hugh introduced her to us, and that was that. We loved her.”
“You’re a saint if you loved my mother.” Schuyler grimaced.
“I’m so glad you recognize me for what I am,” Anita answered in a mock serious tone. “Years before that, Uttam and Yuthi met Hugh and Harry at the opera. They shared a lot of laughs since Hugh and Harry knew what life in India was like. And, now, my dear, let’s not procrastinate. Shouldn’t we proceed with this wonderful day and get back to Santa Fe?”
“Yeah. Right.” Schuyler exhaled heavily as he rose from his chair. He kissed the top of her head. “Let me shower. Then I’ll be ready to go. But first, I do need to phone my mother.”
“Yes, yes, you must speak with her,” seconded Anita. “Just so you know, I expect my own mother has already spread the news.”
“What the fuck,” Schuyler muttered under his breath as he headed for the bathroom.
“What was that?” Anita had turned her attention to scouring the kitchen sink.
“Nothing,” Schuyler flung over his shoulder. Closing the bathroom door and pulling out his cell phone, he dialed Clementine’s Akron number.
“Mom!” he shouted, confused by the noise he heard in the background. “Are you okay?”
“Tip-top!” came her cheerful reply. “Sorry about the noise. I was replaying the tape I just recorded, to be sure it was accurate before I mailed it to you. Sinuses, you know.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“It goes in the mail tomorrow. You’ll be pleased with my progress.”
“Never mind that. This is important, Mom. I wanted to let you know I’m getting married.”
“Yes! Brilliant! I am very happy, and so is Stan,” she gushed. “Congratulations! It has all turned out quite well, hasn’t it? I was telling Stan earlier how I prayed to Winston and asked him if I should give you another chance. His reply was rather oblique, but I hope I understand his phraseology by now, and how he works his magic.”
