Read Online Queen of Dreams by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
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I didn’t really believe it would happen. Nor did I quite believe Marco’s description of the manager-as-robot-woman. But I appreciated the fact that he had lied in an attempt to make me feel better.
T he only thing that takes me out of my miserable self is the painting I’m doing of the eucalyptus grove. It’s still not completed, but I’m determined to have it ready for the show. I stay up late, working on it until my eyes turn bleary and the colors get muddied from reworking the strokes. I’ve sketched in the man I saw at the grove practicing Tai Chi. I’m pleased with my decision, though so far he’s only a blur of white against the greens. When I glance at the painting edgewise, craftily, he seems to be moving. But something’s still out of balance—only I can’t figure out what. The not-knowing lodges inside me, irritating as a mango fiber caught between two teeth.
Sunday night, when I’ve given up hope, the bell rings. A long peal, then two short ones—Jona’s signature. I rush to the door, ready to tell Sonny exactly what I think of his behavior. But Jona’s the only one standing there, gap-toothed and grinning and grimy with dirt. Even as I stare, Sonny’s Viper disappears around the corner with a roar loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood.
“How could he just leave you on the doorstep!” I fume. “What if I hadn’t been home?”
“Sonny and me saw your shadow against the curtains,” Jona says, her tangled hair spilling out around her face. “You were painting, we could tell.” She wrinkles her nose and gives me a crooked smile that’s so like Sonny’s that for a moment it leaves me speechless. “Are you angry?”
I manage to shake my head as I reach for her. She suffers a hug, then squirms away. “What’s there to eat? I’m starving.”
I knew you wouldn’t feed her right, I say triumphantly in my head to Sonny-the-irresponsible as I carry armloads of food to the dining table.
“Mmmm,” she says, “peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, tortilla chips with hot salsa, oranges, cookie-dough ice cream! Mom, you’re the best.”
“Just this once,” I say in my strict-mother voice, but I can’t suppress my smile. You’re the best! I like that! “Didn’t your dad give you any dinner?”
“Actually, he did. We stopped at this really neat Italian restaurant just before we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. Sonny said it was one of his favorite places to eat. They have foot-long French-bread pizzas with so much cheese that it just drips over the side. I ate four pieces. Really, Mom, it was the best!”
So much for my unique bestness. Trying not to feel let down, I ask, “What’s this Sonny business? What happened to Dad ?”
“Sonny says I’m all grown up now, and we’re friends more than father and daughter, so I can call him by his name,” she says, maneuvering a dangerously wobbly spoonful of ice cream into her mouth.
I want to tell her to wash her hands, take off her muddy shoes, take smaller mouthfuls, and not listen to her father’s subversive ideas. Using supreme self-control I manage to stay silent.
She goes through an entire box of Cheez-Its in record time, inhales two glasses of milk, and then turns to the easel. “Mom! You’ve started a new painting.”
“What do you think?” My heart speeds up absurdly as she cocks her head and stares at it. Jona has a surprisingly acute eye for a six-year-old, and she’s often given me good advice.
“I like it,” she says, finally, and then, “It’s different from all your other stuff.”
“How?” I ask, intrigued. “Is it because it’s set here in Berkeley?”
Jona shakes her head. “Nope, that’s not it.” She gives a huge yawn. “Tell you tomorrow. Hey, Mom, can I sleep with you tonight?”
“Not until you take a shower,” I say, attempting sternness. “You’ve probably got ticks.” But she’s already curled up in my bed, her eyelashes dark against mud-streaked cheeks. And I didn’t even
T he only thing that takes me out of my miserable self is the painting I’m doing of the eucalyptus grove. It’s still not completed, but I’m determined to have it ready for the show. I stay up late, working on it until my eyes turn bleary and the colors get muddied from reworking the strokes. I’ve sketched in the man I saw at the grove practicing Tai Chi. I’m pleased with my decision, though so far he’s only a blur of white against the greens. When I glance at the painting edgewise, craftily, he seems to be moving. But something’s still out of balance—only I can’t figure out what. The not-knowing lodges inside me, irritating as a mango fiber caught between two teeth.
Sunday night, when I’ve given up hope, the bell rings. A long peal, then two short ones—Jona’s signature. I rush to the door, ready to tell Sonny exactly what I think of his behavior. But Jona’s the only one standing there, gap-toothed and grinning and grimy with dirt. Even as I stare, Sonny’s Viper disappears around the corner with a roar loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood.
“How could he just leave you on the doorstep!” I fume. “What if I hadn’t been home?”
“Sonny and me saw your shadow against the curtains,” Jona says, her tangled hair spilling out around her face. “You were painting, we could tell.” She wrinkles her nose and gives me a crooked smile that’s so like Sonny’s that for a moment it leaves me speechless. “Are you angry?”
I manage to shake my head as I reach for her. She suffers a hug, then squirms away. “What’s there to eat? I’m starving.”
I knew you wouldn’t feed her right, I say triumphantly in my head to Sonny-the-irresponsible as I carry armloads of food to the dining table.
“Mmmm,” she says, “peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, tortilla chips with hot salsa, oranges, cookie-dough ice cream! Mom, you’re the best.”
“Just this once,” I say in my strict-mother voice, but I can’t suppress my smile. You’re the best! I like that! “Didn’t your dad give you any dinner?”
“Actually, he did. We stopped at this really neat Italian restaurant just before we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. Sonny said it was one of his favorite places to eat. They have foot-long French-bread pizzas with so much cheese that it just drips over the side. I ate four pieces. Really, Mom, it was the best!”
So much for my unique bestness. Trying not to feel let down, I ask, “What’s this Sonny business? What happened to Dad ?”
“Sonny says I’m all grown up now, and we’re friends more than father and daughter, so I can call him by his name,” she says, maneuvering a dangerously wobbly spoonful of ice cream into her mouth.
I want to tell her to wash her hands, take off her muddy shoes, take smaller mouthfuls, and not listen to her father’s subversive ideas. Using supreme self-control I manage to stay silent.
She goes through an entire box of Cheez-Its in record time, inhales two glasses of milk, and then turns to the easel. “Mom! You’ve started a new painting.”
“What do you think?” My heart speeds up absurdly as she cocks her head and stares at it. Jona has a surprisingly acute eye for a six-year-old, and she’s often given me good advice.
“I like it,” she says, finally, and then, “It’s different from all your other stuff.”
“How?” I ask, intrigued. “Is it because it’s set here in Berkeley?”
Jona shakes her head. “Nope, that’s not it.” She gives a huge yawn. “Tell you tomorrow. Hey, Mom, can I sleep with you tonight?”
“Not until you take a shower,” I say, attempting sternness. “You’ve probably got ticks.” But she’s already curled up in my bed, her eyelashes dark against mud-streaked cheeks. And I didn’t even
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