Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

The doorbell chimed. Siddharth sighed as he extricated himself from the leather sofa. At the front door, he encountered the whirring of weed-whackers and the bearded postman, who was wearing his summer outfit — gray shorts and a light-blue short-sleeve shirt.

The postman said, “Summer break, kid?”

“Yup.”

“I’m gonna need a signature.” The postman held up a clipboard, then said, “You’re eighteen.” He winked. “Right?”

Siddharth forced himself to smile as he signed a pink form. “Thanks,” he said, accepting a small envelope from Walton Publishers. He returned to the family room, where a rap video was blaring, then picked up the remote control to mute it. The best thing about Ms. Farber was the fact that she had forced his father to get a real cable box, one with thirty new channels and an actual remote control. He turned on the Indian brass lamp that stood between the two leather sofas and held the envelope to the light. Mohan Lal had sent in his completed manuscript three weeks earlier, and Siddharth was curious about Walton’s reaction. A few words were clear— June 1992, Dear Dr. Arora— but before he could discern anything else, he felt her hand clutching his shoulder.

“What’s that you got there?” asked Ms. Farber. She was wearing an apron with red-and-white checks. It had once belonged to his mother.

“It’s for my dad.”

She snatched the envelope from his hands. “Sid, how do you like it when Dad goes into your room without asking?”

“Trust me, he likes me to sort the mail.”

“Honey, we’re all eager, but you need to learn to respect other people’s privacy.” She strode back to the kitchen, the letter sandwiched between her torso and the skin of her jiggly forearm.

He returned his attention to the television. A Nirvana video was on, so he unmuted it. Arjun had recently sent him a package from Michigan containing a Wolverines keychain and a Nirvana album. In the accompanying card, he wrote that today’s pop music was materialistic and superficial, but this group was reinventing old traditions. Marc disagreed — he said that Nirvana was a bunch of pussy-ass posers. As the video played, Ms. Farber’s words kept echoing in his head. How do you like it when Dad goes into your room without asking ? At some point over the past few weeks, she’d stopped using the word your before dad .

Since Richard III , Siddharth had counted that Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber had spent twenty-two nights in the same bed, usually at the Aroras’ home. Back in June, when school was winding down, Siddharth had forced himself to forget the fact that his father was now sleeping with Ms. Farber and enjoy the agreeable aspects of this new arrangement. He and Marc were able to stay up late talking in bed or flicking through a Playboy together, and in the mornings they brushed their teeth in unison. During the first days of summer, the boys had biked to the playground behind town hall, where they would meet up with other kids, including Luca Peroti. They’d ride down a bumpy, wooded path to a nearby convenience store, where they got candy, lottery tickets, and chewing tobacco. One afternoon, Siddharth and Marc met up with Dinetta Luciani and Liza Kim at a Post Road pool hall. While they played eight-ball, Liza kept touching Siddharth’s arm. He told himself that she was begging for a kiss, that next time he would make his move.

But now Marc was in Florida visiting his grandparents with his father and his father’s new girlfriend. When he got back, he would have football camp. A full year would have passed since he had gotten arrested, and his grounding would finally be over. Siddharth wasn’t sure whether Marc would hang out with him once he could do anything he wanted.

In the kitchen, Ms. Farber started the noisy blender, the television shimmering in the background. She was at it again, making another dish from her brand-new vegetarian cookbook. He hated to admit it, but she was getting better at cooking. Her meals were rarely delicious, but at least they were a break from Indian food. And he appreciated her concern for Mohan Lal’s diet. She made them use sea salt in their food — not table salt — because it would be better for his blood pressure.

“Siddharth!” she called. “Honey, I need you to taste something.”

“I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“It’ll only take a second. I promise.”

He lumbered to the kitchen and found her staring out the window with a goofy smile.

“Look over there,” she said, pointing at the backyard.

He saw two turkeys pecking at the ground underneath the maple. “So?”

“Aren’t they just beautiful?” She dipped a teaspoon in the blender and handed it to him.

He swallowed her green concoction, then coughed.

“What do you think?”

“It’s okay.”

“Just okay?”

He tasted another bite. “No, it’s good. Add a little salt maybe.”

She clapped to herself, then kissed him on the forehead.

He smiled and looked down, slightly embarrassed on her behalf.

As he repositioned himself in front of the television, he thought about the evening that lay ahead of him. The three of them would have dinner together and then maybe watch a movie. It didn’t actually sound all that bad. If Ms. Farber weren’t there, he and Mohan Lal might not exchange a single word over dinner. Or Mohan Lal would read all night, or babble to Barry Uncle about the BJP on the telephone. The truth was, even though there were many negative things about her — the most obvious one being that she was fucking his father — she brought many good things into their lives, at least when she wasn’t in a mood. Thanks to her, they went to the mall, the movies. One time, they had even gone to an art museum in downtown New Haven. At dinner, Ms. Farber asked him about his day, about the books he was reading. At dinner, they had conversations about the cruelty of the death penalty, or why it was important that abortion was legal. When the four of them had dinner together, he sometimes felt as if he had a real family again.

* * *

Mohan Lal got home around four and yelled for Siddharth to help him with the groceries.

“Five minutes,” said Siddharth.

“With you it’s always five minutes,” his father said, but he was smiling.

Mohan Lal walked through the family room cradling two paper bags brimming with hairy ears of corn. He had on new khaki shorts, with extra pockets on the side. He also had on new suede running sneakers and a pair of tan dress socks, which were pulled up way too high. He was wearing a collarless green T-shirt, and Siddharth wondered if he had ever seen his father leave the house in a T-shirt before. This one depicted a hotel in Martha’s Vineyard, a place that nobody in the Arora family had ever visited.

Siddharth went outside and stretched his arms. He’d been avoiding the outdoors lately, as all the freshly cut grass made his eyes itchy, but he was glad for a break from the sofa. A breeze sliced through the sticky air and cooled his skin. He looped some bloated plastic bags around his fingers and lugged them inside, then froze before entering the kitchen. His father and Ms. Farber were in front of the sink with their arms around each other. Her lips were near Mohan Lal’s ear. Siddharth couldn’t tell if she was kissing it, or just whispering.

He stepped toward them, dumping his bags on the table. “Did you give it to him?”

“Give me what?” asked Mohan Lal. He slackened his embrace, but his bulging belly remained pressed against her apron.

Ms. Farber playfully smacked herself on the head, then slid open a kitchen drawer. She pulled out the letter and handed it to Mohan Lal. He unsuccessfully attempted to open the envelope with his fingernails, then removed a letter opener from the bottom drawer of the family room bookcase. Years ago, Siddharth had used it as a toy; it resembled a samurai sword.