Part 10 (1/2)

”Why not?” He was still looking up at her, and he seemed bewildered.

”For one thing, I'm not looking for a safe life.”

His eyebrows knitted. He didn't seem to know what to say to this. She surprised herself by what she had said. She glanced around the room for a way to escape this conversation. ”My parents are looking for a boy for me, and my marriage should be fixed quite soon.”

”If you-if nothing works out for you, then-my offer still stands.”

”Thank you, Subhash.” Rasika didn't know what else to say to him. She fixed her eyes at a point across the room, smiled, and waved at an imaginary friend. ”Excuse me.” She made her way to the knot of women around Amisha Menon, and spent the rest of the reception with them, admiring Amisha's clothes, her accomplishments, and her job. In this way she managed to stay out of the way of Subhash, Abhay, Kanchan Uncle, and her mother.

At the end of the reception, while guests were milling around Amisha and her husband to congratulate them one last time, several girls took up a position near the doorway with baskets of favors. Rasika remained with Amisha until she saw both Abhay's family and Subhash's family leave. Mita Auntie and Kanchan Uncle were still talking to her parents. It appeared that the families would be walking out together.

Rasika drew near her mother, and away from Kanchan Uncle, as she walked toward the door. On the sidewalk in front of the party hall, in the darkness lit by car headlights and streetlights, she felt someone brush past her and press a piece of paper into her hand. As she glanced up, she saw Kanchan Uncle walking away from her. She crushed the paper in her fist and kept it hidden during the car ride home.

When she was safe in her bedroom, sitting on her bed in her Indian finery, she smoothed out the paper and read a time, 6 P.M., and a room number. Nothing else.

Chapter 7.

Raindrops pelted her winds.h.i.+eld as Rasika drove to work the next morning. She flipped on her wipers. The sky was a heavy gray around her, and the familiar scenery outside dripped and smeared through her windows.

When she was growing up, all the Indian uncles-who weren't really her uncles, just her parents' friends-were men to be looked up to, intelligent men who'd graduated at the tops of their cla.s.ses and who were thus able to attend graduate school or get medical training in the United States, and find jobs. Every once in a while, she'd hear a story about some uncle, not a close friend, who left his wife for someone else, or who verbally abused his children. Kanchan Uncle was within their own circle of friends. True, he'd moved away. Still, the idea of who he really was, what he had proposed . . . she felt dizzy and sick to her stomach, as though she had spun too fast in an amus.e.m.e.nt park ride.

Her office reflected the outside gloom. The windows and white walls all looked gray. As she stowed her purse in one of her drawers, her phone trilled. She didn't recognize the caller ID number on the display, so she let it go to voice mail.

The phone stopped. She realized she'd been holding her breath and let it out. Her heart was fluttering in her throat, and she still felt sick. She sat at her desk and opened a folder full of information about McMillan and a.s.sociates, a real estate development firm they were scheduled to meet with that afternoon. Kanchan Uncle would go back to Chicago tomorrow, and the whole thing would blow over. She flipped through the glossy brochures. The company was in the business of developing ”a lifestyle of service, luxury, and convenience.” She liked the photos: upscale brick apartment buildings with lots of windows. If she didn't live with her parents, she'd like to live in a building like that. She didn't pay much attention to the printouts of the financial data. Her role would be to charm the folks at McMillan and a.s.sociates into using her company's financial services.

The rain continued. She couldn't concentrate on work. She wandered into the kitchen for some coffee. Estelle, the grandmotherly receptionist, was rinsing out the coffeepot in the sink. She asked, ”Did you get your message, honey?”

”No.” Rasika decided not to wait for the coffee. She flipped the lever of the water dispenser, and water glugged into her mug.

”It sounded important.” Estelle ripped open a package of coffee. Her upper-arm fat jiggled. ”I put him through to your voice mail.”

At her desk, she picked up the phone receiver and pushed the voice mail b.u.t.ton. ”Rasika,” she heard, in a slow, cultured Indian accent. ”Kanchan here. I have found out where you work. I am expecting you here at six. You will not want to disappoint me.”

All morning Rasika told herself she could ignore Kanchan Uncle without any repercussions. And she wasn't going to meet Abhay at the Fox and Hound either. She'd go straight home and stay out of trouble.

At lunchtime she darted out in her car, picked up a salad and a cup of soup from a nearby restaurant, and ate at her desk. What if Kanchan Uncle spread scandalous stories about her, and what if her father became ill, or had a heart attack, as a result?

Late in the afternoon, after she'd a.s.sured the men of McMillan and a.s.sociates that her company would provide excellent service, she decided she'd better meet Kanchan Uncle for a short while. She'd be charming and chat with him, maybe have a drink, and pacify him enough to smooth things over. That's all he wanted-to spend a little time with a beautiful woman, since he was saddled for life with dumpy Mita Auntie. She was reading far more into this than was warranted.

After work she drove through the rain to the Renaissance Hotel. Her heart was beating in her throat. She kept reminding herself, ”Don't worry. It's not what you think. He's an Indian uncle, after all. Indian uncles never do bad things.” She gave her keys to the valet parking guy and ducked into the lobby. The glare of the lights hurt her eyes, and the noises-clicking of heels and rumbling of suitcase wheels on the hard floor-seemed too loud. A man in a gray jacket mopped rainwater off the floor. As the elevator car zoomed upward her heart plummeted. Her legs trembled. She wished she had worn a longer skirt today. This one just reached her knees. She pulled her jacket close around her. The elevator door slid open, and she strode down the thick carpeting. She'd considered asking him to meet her downstairs for a drink but thought it would be better if no one saw them together. She'd just chat with him up here for a short while, and then go home. It would be fine.

She knocked. The door opened immediately.

”Welcome,” he whispered. He wore a long silk robe.

She didn't move. ”I can't stay long.” She clutched her purse to her chest. ”My mother is expecting me home.”

”Come in.”

She thought about turning and running toward the elevator, but he took her by the hand and pulled her in. His touch was damp, and she wiped the back of her hand on her jacket. The door shut with a loud click. She was standing in the living area of a suite. She was aware of a dimly lit bedroom opening to her left.

”Make yourself comfortable.” He ushered her to a sofa at the far end of the room. She sat on the edge of a cus.h.i.+on and studied the window, looking for an escape route. The curtains were closed. They were on the twelfth floor.

He handed her a gla.s.s of red wine. She set it on the table. Uncle sat down with his own gla.s.s of wine, and the silk robe flapped open, revealing white and black chest hairs. ”Why don't you put your purse down and relax?”

She heard her phone ringing in her purse, and she clutched it tighter to her chest. It was probably her mother. What if Amma found out about this? She might think this was all Rasika's fault for agreeing to meet a man in his hotel room.

”Uncle.” She stood up. ”I really can't stay. I just came to talk to you for a minute.” She took a step back.

He put his gla.s.s on the table carefully, and stood. Even though she was wearing heels, he was several inches taller than she was. He put his hand on her purse. She clutched it even tighter. He lowered his hand. ”Come on.” His voice was low and rumbly. ”Relax. You don't have to worry about anything. We'll have a little fun, and then I'll go away. You'll never hear from me again. And your secret”- he looked pointedly at her-”will be completely safe.”

Rasika turned and moved toward the door. Two hands gripped her shoulders. Without thinking, she screamed and kicked back at his legs with her heel. She rushed for the door and pulled the handle. It stopped. The safety latch was in place. Uncle was clenching her arm. She kicked him again, and he turned her and shoved her against the door. She aimed her nails at his eyes. He grabbed her wrist, dragged her into the bedroom, and pushed her down onto the bed.

”If you cooperated, I would not have to do this.” His face was hard, his voice steely.

She couldn't believe what was happening. This scene was not supposed to be part of her life. She screamed and flailed at him with her nails and heels. His hands pressed down on her shoulders, and his knee was on her stomach. He had thrown her purse somewhere, and his damp hands were clutching at her blouse, trying to rip it open.

Suddenly, there was banging at the door. ”What's going on in there?” someone shouted.

Kanchan put his hand over her mouth while she continued trying to kick him. The banging persisted. He leaped up and disappeared into the bathroom. She ran to the door, fumbled for the lock, and opened it to see a large black man in the gray jacket and cap of a bellhop. Rasika reached for him. ”Get me out of here!” she screamed.

The bellman helped her find her purse. ”Would you like to call the police, ma'am?” he asked.

”No.” Rasika smoothed her hair and skirt with a shaking hand. ”Thank you. I just need to go home.”

Downstairs the bellhop called for her car, and Rasika hurried out to it. She was surprised she was able to drive home so competently-that she even remembered how to drive. She felt like she was in a flat movie background and would soon burst through to the other side, to her real life.

At home, her parents were finis.h.i.+ng dinner. The air-conditioning chilled her.

”Come and eat, Rasika,” Amma said. ”Balu Uncle and Deepti Auntie are here. And Subhash. They are waiting to see you.”

”I'm not hungry.”

”Rasika, just sit with us then,” Deepti Auntie called to her. ”We never see you.”

”I have a headache.” She put her fingertips to her temples and hurried past the dining table. She could feel Subhash's eyes on her.

In her room, she took off her work clothes and lay in bed, waiting for the s.h.i.+vering to stop. She wished someone were there to comfort her, yet she knew she couldn't talk about this with anyone.

Then she thought of Abhay waiting for her at the Fox and Hound. He would never behave like Kanchan Uncle. He was a really good guy. Of course she couldn't marry him, but that didn't matter now. She just wanted to see him. She'd call him tomorrow and tell him everything. He'd comfort her.

On Monday evening Abhay stood outside the Fox and Hound in a drizzle of rain, waiting for Rasika. There was a disgusting splotch of something-pizza? dried vomit?-on the sidewalk, and he tried not to look at it. At six-fifteen, when Rasika still hadn't appeared, he went into the restaurant, found a pay phone, and called her cell phone. No answer. He decided to walk home. The rain wasn't too heavy, and he didn't mind getting a little wet. He had to forget about Rasika. He had to admit she wasn't interested in him. He needed to leave this tired town.

He entered his house in a black mood.

”Come and eat, Abhay,” his mother called from the kitchen.