Staring at Marc, Siddharth now saw his father for the selfish man he was. He liked to talk but not listen. He was only nice to people who were nice to him. Siddharth had always thought that Mohan Lal had become friends with Ms. Farber to make things easier for his son. But maybe he was only in it for himself — for the sex. This thought made him actually shudder.
Marc poured him some more booze. “I didn’t think you were that stupid, Sidney. Look, at least somebody’s getting some.”
Siddharth couldn’t calm his frenzied nerves. “Yo, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, but I do. Our parents are doing it, Siddharth. They’re having sex. They’ve done it at my house, and tonight they’re gonna do it here — right in your father’s bed. Maybe they’ll even make us a little brother.”
Siddharth’s stomach began to lurch. He gave Marc a shove.
Marc laughed. “Are you serious? Try doing that again.”
Siddharth froze for a second. He wanted to kick his friend in the balls or bite his face off, but instead he ran toward the bathroom and locked himself inside. With his back against the door, he took some deep breaths. The breathing failed to settle his stomach; it failed to still his mind. He wondered if he was drunk — if he might puke. His body felt hot, so he cupped some water into his mouth. Doing so only exacerbated his nausea.
He wondered what they did together. Was it regular sex? Or the stuff he had seen in the movies? Had Ms. Farber sucked his father’s dick? Had Mohan Lal stuck his penis between her tits? Licked her pussy? The man suddenly seemed like a stranger, a sex addict who would do anything for a naked body. Betray his wife. Betray his kids. But it wasn’t his fault. Mohan Lal was sad and confused, and Ms. Farber was a slut. She was the one who had led him in this disgusting direction.
Siddharth began to burp up a mixture of garlic and gin. He felt himself starting to shiver. He walked over to the toilet bowl and raised the lid. When he opened his mouth, nothing came out, so he shoved his index finger toward his tonsils and gagged. An acidic liquid singed his larynx but then retreated. He poured the rest of his drink into the toilet bowl and flushed.
When he got out of the bathroom, Marc was on the love seat thumbing through one of Mohan Lal’s books. “Yo, you done with your little hissy fit?”
“Shut up,” said Siddharth. “I’m not feeling good. I think I ate something bad at school.”
Marc waved Mohan Lal’s book in the air. “Funny shit. It’s like all sci-fi — like Total Recall or something.”
Siddharth snatched the book out of his hands and examined the cover. It was called Am I a Hindu? He had never seen it before.
“You know what my dad says?” said Marc. He put a stick of gum in his mouth and handed one to Siddharth. “He says Hindus and Jews, they only got two things in common: they’re both really bad tippers — and they hate the Arabs, and the Arabs hate them too.”
Siddharth threw the book on the table and suggested they watch a movie. He recommended Planet of the Apes, but Marc said it was too old. After some back and forth, they eventually opted for Back to School. Marc was laughing out loud the whole time, but Siddharth’s mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t believe his father was fucking Ms. Farber. He couldn’t believe the man had already forgotten about his dead wife. Dead, dead — when you’re dead, you’re dead. Siddharth’s brain burned with these words. He could feel a big, heavy sob building in his body. Dead was dead. You weren’t reincarnated, and you didn’t go to heaven. Arjun had pretty much said the same thing. Siddharth imagined the flames licking at his mother’s body. They had cremated her and left him with nothing — not even a strand of hair or a gravestone where he could say hello.
A key rattled in the front door.
Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber walked in, though they remained in the entrance hall. Marc didn’t seem to notice, but Siddharth peered at the adults from the darkened family room. Ms. Farber removed her coat and hung it up in the closet. She was saying something about being individuals — about not having to like the same things.
“It is not a question of liking,” said Mohan Lal. He loosened his tie and stuffed it into his blazer pocket. “Aren’t you the one always telling people to be more open?”
“Listen, it’s just not for me,” she said, grasping Mohan Lal’s lapels. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t be for you.”
Mohan Lal stepped away from her. “What? So I’m a fool? My judgment can’t be trusted?”
Ms. Farber tied her hair into a bun. “Look, we just went over this. Paying thousands of dollars to learn how to be happy — it just doesn’t seem right. For Christ’s sake, normally you’re the skeptic. You’re the one who would call it consumeristic.”
Siddharth noticed that her boots made her look almost as tall as Mohan Lal. These boots were tall, black, and leather. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining her naked, wearing nothing else besides them. Did she keep them on while they were screwing? He shook his head to rid it of this perverted image.
Mohan Lal stepped into the family room. “As if you’re one who should talk of consumerism,” he muttered.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She then noticed the boys behind her. “Why are you guys sitting in the dark?”
Marc brought a finger to his lips and shushed her.
She kissed him on the forehead. Her curls appeared eerily orange in the light cast by the television. Siddharth hoped she wouldn’t kiss him but then cursed her in his mind when she didn’t. Mohan Lal turned off the VCR and put on CNN, then seated himself beside Siddharth. Marc clicked his tongue. Ms. Farber sat down next to her son.
“What about dinner?” she suggested. “One of my famous stews maybe?”
“There are leftovers in the fridge,” said Mohan Lal.
“But what about your news?” said Ms. Farber. “We should celebrate.”
“Celebrating would be premature.”
Siddharth grasped his father’s knee. “Dad, I don’t feel so good.”
“What’s wrong?” Mohan Lal’s eyes were fixed on the television.
“My stomach hurts.”
Mohan Lal didn’t respond.
“Dad, I vomited.”
“What?” Mohan Lal grabbed his wrist. “Yes, you’re warm.”
Siddharth caught Marc smirking out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t care though.
Ms. Farber stood up and placed her fingers on Siddharth’s forehead. “How about I make him some soup?”
“I just wanna go to bed,” said Siddharth. “If I eat, I’m definitely gonna puke again.”
Mohan Lal said he would boil some fennel water that Siddharth could drink in his bedroom. He took him by the hand and began to lead him away.
“Mohan. .” said Ms. Farber.
“What?”
“Mohan, hang on a sec.” She sounded annoyed.
“What is it?” said Mohan Lal.
“Everybody else needs to eat, right? Why don’t I go ahead and make something for the rest of us?”
Don’t you get it? thought Siddharth. He doesn’t want your fucking food.
Mohan Lal glanced down, and when he raised his head, his eyes were wide with anger. “Tonight’s not the night, Rachel.”
She placed a hand on her hip. “What do you mean?”
“What I mean is, my son is unwell.”
“Are you saying we should leave? Because if that’s what you mean, just say so.”