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Authors: Anjali Banerjee
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voice comes on the line. “Dunbar Limousine.”
“Is this Mr. Dunbar?” Of course it is. No mistaking that voice.
“That’s me. Can I help you?”
“This is Lakshmi, from the sari shop. Remember me? You fixed our sink?” My voice trembles oddly.
“Hey, Lakshmi, what can I do for you?” I hear a radio or television in the background, people cheering on a sports channel. “Did you find out who lost the ring?”
“No, not yet! Um, I’d like to hire you, actually. If you have a little free time with all the driving you’re doing for Asha Rao.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I want to surprise a friend. I want you to drive her in style—her and me, actually—to a very special event.”
Nine
“T his small golden kurta will be perfect for your baby girl!” I tell a new mother the next day at work. She’s holding a pudgy, rosy-cheeked toddler on her hip. Cotton-puffs of pure bliss float from the child as she plays with her mother’s long braid.
“For Diwali celebration, it’s not too bright? Not too heavy?” The mother runs the fabric between her fingers.
“Very soft, perfect for a baby’s skin,” I say. “And not too bright for Diwali.” The Indian festival of lights, to celebrate the New Year, is always a spectacular winter event, complete with parties, dances, and recitals.
Ma comes at me in a breathless jog. “Asha just called. You must take the fabric samples to her on the set today. She hasn’t time to come to the shop. They’re filming in a house in Queen Anne. Have you gathered the fabrics? She wants only silk!”
“I had all kinds of fabric ready,” I say.
“Only silk.”
The baby giggles, pulling her mother’s hair.
“I’ll have to take your car,” I say. “I walked again today.”
“No need. Asha’s sending a car.” Ma glances at her watch. “Work quickly.”
“She’s sending a car?” I glance down at my brown, frumpy shirt, at my baggy jeans.
“It’s already on the way.”
“Here, Ma. Can you help with this Diwali costume?” I hand her the golden kurta.
“Oh, what a lovely child!” Ma exclaims.
I duck away, tuck back a few strands of stray hair. I don’t even have time to apply lipstick. I have time only to stuff a variety of fabric samples into a large, flat briefcase before Nick strides in wearing a dark gray suit over an open-collared white shirt, his longish blond hair slicked back and damp, as if he’s just washed it. The knowing spirals away, deflating like an unlucky balloon.
All eyes turn—maybe the customers expect Asha Rao, but then I realize it’s not Asha they’re looking at but Nick. Is he the one stealing the knowing ? Even the baby gives him a dimply, toothless smile.
“Lakshmi, are you ready to go?” Ma asks in an anxious voice.
“The car’s right outside,” Nick says in a smooth, professional tone.
I stuff the last of the fabrics into the briefcase, grab my jacket, and follow him out to the car. He drove a white limousine today, not black, and he opens the passenger-side door for me.
“I’m sitting beside you?” I ask.
“Easier to talk,” he says.
I hesitate, then slide into the front seat next to him. I put the briefcase on the seat between us, and yet Nick’s presence takes up the whole car.
He reaches over to pull the shoulder belt across my lap, his arm barely brushing my breast, and in that instant, time stops. Then he clicks the seat belt into place, sits back in the driver’s seat, and pulls smoothly into the road.
“So you keeping the big pickup a secret from your friend Pooka?” he asks.
“Pooja,” I say. “I don’t want her to know, so don’t say anything.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Thanks so much for doing this—and for giving me a discount.”
“Hey—I don’t do this just for the money.” He switches on the radio and whistles softly to “I Can See Clearly Now.” He has perfect pitch.
“I never learned to whistle,” I say. Where did that come from?
“I’ve heard
“Is this Mr. Dunbar?” Of course it is. No mistaking that voice.
“That’s me. Can I help you?”
“This is Lakshmi, from the sari shop. Remember me? You fixed our sink?” My voice trembles oddly.
“Hey, Lakshmi, what can I do for you?” I hear a radio or television in the background, people cheering on a sports channel. “Did you find out who lost the ring?”
“No, not yet! Um, I’d like to hire you, actually. If you have a little free time with all the driving you’re doing for Asha Rao.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I want to surprise a friend. I want you to drive her in style—her and me, actually—to a very special event.”
Nine
“T his small golden kurta will be perfect for your baby girl!” I tell a new mother the next day at work. She’s holding a pudgy, rosy-cheeked toddler on her hip. Cotton-puffs of pure bliss float from the child as she plays with her mother’s long braid.
“For Diwali celebration, it’s not too bright? Not too heavy?” The mother runs the fabric between her fingers.
“Very soft, perfect for a baby’s skin,” I say. “And not too bright for Diwali.” The Indian festival of lights, to celebrate the New Year, is always a spectacular winter event, complete with parties, dances, and recitals.
Ma comes at me in a breathless jog. “Asha just called. You must take the fabric samples to her on the set today. She hasn’t time to come to the shop. They’re filming in a house in Queen Anne. Have you gathered the fabrics? She wants only silk!”
“I had all kinds of fabric ready,” I say.
“Only silk.”
The baby giggles, pulling her mother’s hair.
“I’ll have to take your car,” I say. “I walked again today.”
“No need. Asha’s sending a car.” Ma glances at her watch. “Work quickly.”
“She’s sending a car?” I glance down at my brown, frumpy shirt, at my baggy jeans.
“It’s already on the way.”
“Here, Ma. Can you help with this Diwali costume?” I hand her the golden kurta.
“Oh, what a lovely child!” Ma exclaims.
I duck away, tuck back a few strands of stray hair. I don’t even have time to apply lipstick. I have time only to stuff a variety of fabric samples into a large, flat briefcase before Nick strides in wearing a dark gray suit over an open-collared white shirt, his longish blond hair slicked back and damp, as if he’s just washed it. The knowing spirals away, deflating like an unlucky balloon.
All eyes turn—maybe the customers expect Asha Rao, but then I realize it’s not Asha they’re looking at but Nick. Is he the one stealing the knowing ? Even the baby gives him a dimply, toothless smile.
“Lakshmi, are you ready to go?” Ma asks in an anxious voice.
“The car’s right outside,” Nick says in a smooth, professional tone.
I stuff the last of the fabrics into the briefcase, grab my jacket, and follow him out to the car. He drove a white limousine today, not black, and he opens the passenger-side door for me.
“I’m sitting beside you?” I ask.
“Easier to talk,” he says.
I hesitate, then slide into the front seat next to him. I put the briefcase on the seat between us, and yet Nick’s presence takes up the whole car.
He reaches over to pull the shoulder belt across my lap, his arm barely brushing my breast, and in that instant, time stops. Then he clicks the seat belt into place, sits back in the driver’s seat, and pulls smoothly into the road.
“So you keeping the big pickup a secret from your friend Pooka?” he asks.
“Pooja,” I say. “I don’t want her to know, so don’t say anything.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Thanks so much for doing this—and for giving me a discount.”
“Hey—I don’t do this just for the money.” He switches on the radio and whistles softly to “I Can See Clearly Now.” He has perfect pitch.
“I never learned to whistle,” I say. Where did that come from?
“I’ve heard
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