Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

“There are grains of truth in every story,” said Mohan Lal.

Ms. Farber sighed. “Well, I wish I could say I was surprised.”

They were getting closer to South Haven, passing through endless streets of old Victorian homes. Siddharth knew that this neighborhood was bad, and yet some of the houses were large and pretty, if a little run-down. He hadn’t realized poor people could live in such nice houses. Mohan Lal slowed down near Saint Rafael’s Hospital, pointing out an old brick building where he’d once had a third-floor apartment.

“You mean you lived there with your wife?” asked Ms. Farber.

Siddharth gritted his teeth. When he had visited her office in school, they sometimes spoke about his mother — but it didn’t seem right anymore.

“That was in my bachelor days,” said Mohan Lal.

“There’s just so much I don’t know about you. I mean, you were born in Pakistan? I should know that.”

“It was India then,” said Mohan Lal.

“Well, I should know that too.”

Marc leaned forward. “Mom, you’re ignorant. I still love you though.”

She placed a hand on Mohan Lal’s thigh. “Mo, why did he call you a refugee?”

“Nothing is to be achieved by dwelling on such things. Aren’t you the one always telling us to be more mindful of the present?”

She started fiddling with her hair. “But I also say that if you’ve experienced something traumatic, you need to tell that story. You need to talk about it.”

“Well, I could say the same thing to you.”

They were back on familiar suburban turf. Siddharth gazed at the ancient Yale Bowl, then the pastoral reservoirs of South Haven. He found himself agreeing with Ms. Farber. His father needed to talk more. About his feelings. His past. Siddharth’s mother used to say the same thing.

“Marc’s grandfather,” said Ms. Farber, “he was in the war too.”

“Yes, I know,” said Mohan Lal.

“Did I ever tell you how he met my mother?”

“Which war?” interrupted Siddharth.

“The Second World War,” said Mohan Lal. “Boys, who fought in World War II?”

“ We did,” answered Siddharth.

“And on the other side?” asked Mohan Lal.

“The Russians,” said Siddharth.

“You’re retarded,” said Marc. “It was us against Hitler — the Nazis and the Japs.”

“You’re the ’tard,” said Siddharth. “The Russians are the freaking enemy.”

“Oh well,” Ms. Farber sighed, “I guess no one wants to hear my story.”

“I do.” Siddharth reached between the front seats to turn down the volume even more.

* * *

“My parents met in London,” she explained. “It was 1945.”

“Your mother was a Britisher?” said Mohan Lal

“She was born in Germany, but her parents were from Russia. And when the war started, they shipped her off to England. Can you believe it? She was fourteen years old.”

“Too bad her parents didn’t go too,” said Marc. “Then Hitler wouldn’t have gassed ’em.”

“Marc!” snapped Ms. Farber. “Not another word.”

They took a right toward Woodford, and Ms. Farber continued narrating her mother’s story. After arriving in England, she’d studied to become a nurse and got a job in a place called Croydon, and in the hospital there she came upon an American soldier who was totally unconscious. “He’d literally just gotten in from the African front. He was a driver there, and the other troops called him Lucky.”

“Lucky?” said Marc. “That’s not what I heard.”

Ms. Farber shot him a look. Marc drew a finger across his lips to indicate that he was shutting up, then nudged Siddharth and gave her the middle finger behind her seat.

“He was very lucky,” Ms. Farber went on. “Men sitting right next to him got shot. The truck right in front of him would get destroyed by a landmine, but somehow — somehow — he always made it through without a scratch.” She paused to tie back her hair. “But when he was two weeks away from discharge, they put him on a plane out of Egypt. Halfway through the flight, he came down with this crazy fever. They diagnosed him with malaria once he got to London. When he finally came to, he couldn’t hear anything, but the first face he saw was my mother’s. For some reason, Mom felt something special for him. There was something about his voice. She started bringing him soup from home — she had a room in a boardinghouse — and she gave him sponge baths. She read him books all the time, even when she was off duty.”

“What books?” asked Marc.

“Marc, what did I tell you?”

“Jeez, shoot me for caring.”

“Do these little details really matter, Marc? She read him Kipling — your grandfather loved Rudyard Kipling. Can I move on?. . So when Dad was strong enough to fly, he went home to New Jersey and wrote the nurse every single week. Then it became every day. Eventually, he proposed to her in one of these letters.”

“And she said yes?” asked Siddharth. He wished his own family had done such interesting things. He wished they’d lived in such interesting places. But the Aroras were boring.

“No, but she did get on a boat and come to America. She moved in with some friends in Brooklyn, other Jews. Mom and Dad dated for two years until she had no choice but to marry him.”

“Immigration?” asked Mohan Lal.

“Nope,” said Ms. Farber, laughing. “She was pregnant with my big brother.”

Mohan Lal held out his hand to her. “You should write this all down and publish it.”

She grazed his hand but then started fixing her hair again. “You’ll love this, Mo. One time, my father actually got to drive Eisenhower.”

“Really?” Mohan turned right onto Ms. Farber’s street. “Ike’s driver — his main driver — was a woman. Kay. They were lovers.” He took a left into her driveway and parked underneath the hoop.

The engine idled, and nobody said anything. Siddharth felt cozy and warm and wished they could just stay right there in the driveway, but Marc shattered the cozy silence: “Listen, story time was great, but I’ve got to excuse myself — unless you want me to take a dump in the backseat.” He stepped out of the van and let himself into the house through the garage.

Ms. Farber took a long, deep breath. “Mohan, this has been. . Really good. I was thinking. .” She let out a breathy laugh. “No, forget it.”

“What? What is it?” Mohan Lal shut off the motor.

“No, it’s all a little too raw still.”

“Please, Rachel.” He held out his hand.

She didn’t touch it. “Not now. It’s not the right time.”

Siddharth shrunk in his seat, worried that she was referring to him, then Mohan Lal restarted the engine.

Ms. Farber reached for his wrist and took another deep breath. “Okay, I’m done holding things back.” She paused before continuing. “Mohan, I want you to come inside. You can have some coffee and go home, and that’ll be okay. But you could also stay till tomorrow. That would be fine too. . What am I talking about? It would be more than fine. I would love it if you both spent the night.”

Mohan Lal started rubbing his neck. He stared into the rearview mirror with raised eyebrows, and Siddharth met his eyes. These people are fucking crazy , he thought. It was almost as if they were waiting for him to decide. Well, he was done. He didn’t care anymore. He had seen what happened when he got in the way. They could do all the screwing they wanted.

He hopped out of the car and jogged toward the house. Marc was in the family room watching Saturday Night Live . Siddharth sat down beside him, sinking into the plush leather sofa. He laughed hard, forgetting all about the adults and their love life for a little while.