"Don't get so worked up." He swerved into the left lane. They heard a loud honk. "Hey, cool it," he said to the other driver.

Was this how everyone drove in New Jersey?

As soon as they stepped into the white interior of the mall, with the familiar stores around her, she felt calmer. "There's a coffee place down this way," she said. Her white beaded low-heeled sandals clicked smartly along the hard marble floor. She felt the eyes of other shoppers watching her. She and Viraj were already presenting a stylish image together. She had chosen to wear the pale saffron salvar kameez with a white clutch purse because they seemed summery. They pa.s.sed upscale home furnishings, chic women's clothes, and adorable children's outfits. Each window held a picture of a happy and harmonious life. She always loved the feeling of knowing she could afford to buy almost anything she wanted. Not that she was a spendthrift. Sometimes she walked out of the mall without buying anything at all. Just looking, and knowing she could buy, was sometimes enough. As the wife of Viraj, her spending power would only increase.

"Not bad." Viraj surveyed the scene and nodded. "You've got some pretty decent stores out here."

The cafe was under a high dome of skylights, near a splashing fountain that made enough noise such that Rasika didn't feel the need to talk. As they stood in line she wondered if she should offer to pay for her coffee. Then she heard a burst of trumpets. Viraj pulled his cell phone from his pocket and glanced at the display screen. "I gotta take this," he said. She watched in disbelief as he stepped away from her. She smiled faintly, just in case anyone was watching. Could he be getting calls about work on a Sat.u.r.day? And if it wasn't about work, what was possibly more important than being with his future wife?

She reached the counter, and Viraj was still out in the hallway. She stepped out of line and stood straight and tall at the entrance of the cafe, trying not to draw his or anyone's attention to herself. She wasn't going to be a nag.

Eventually he flipped his phone closed. When he saw her, he threw his arms in the air theatrically. "I thought you were holding our place in line!"

"I didn't know what you wanted to order," she said.

He shrugged. "Whatever. Come on."

When they sat down with their drinks (he had insisted on paying), she got ready to break out her question on the U.S. Open so they could have some light conversation before moving on to more serious topics, like the honeymoon destination.

Before she could speak, he said, "I'm impressed with your area. I really am." He peered at his cup, twisting it a quarter turn this way, and another quarter turn back. "But not impressed enough to move here. I know you prefer to stay in Ohio, but it's not going to work for me. I'm doing really well with my company, and you'll like New Jersey. Lots of Indian stuff, if you're into that-saris, jewelry, anything you want. There's nothing you can't get in New Jersey." He twisted his cup again and settled into his seat.

Rasika gripped her warm cup and sipped. Her hazelnut latte was too hot, and she felt a heavy pain in her chest. She closed her eyes and waited for the pain to pa.s.s. So, she would be moving to New Jersey. It would be okay. She could get a job there. She'd find new friends. And besides, soon she'd be busy running the household and having children.

"I've already bought a house," Viraj said. "I wanted to get married before doing a lot of decorating. I know that's what ladies enjoy. You have good taste. I can see that." He tilted his head back as he examined her outfit, and then patted her arm approvingly.

Rasika rubbed the raw, burned spot on her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She looked past Viraj and recognized a handsome Indian man in the walkway.

She stood up, knowing this was the wrong thing to do. "Abhay!" she called.

Abhay turned. "Hey, Rasika." He walked over and nodded at Viraj, who gave him a cold look.

"You got your hair cut," Rasika said. "Your ponytail's gone. And your clothes . . ." Abhay wore a purple b.u.t.ton-down shirt with a subtle pattern of dark stripes.

"I'm a working stiff now," he said. "My first week temping, they let me get away with T-shirts. Now I gotta fit in with the crowd. Mom sent me to the mall to get some work clothes." He opened the giant white plastic bag he was carrying. "I'm hoping I can get away with some actual color, even in an office."

Rasika peeked in and saw a blue shirt, similar to the one he had on, and an olive green one with tiny flowers all over it. "Nice." She felt Viraj glaring at her.

"By the way," she said, "this is Viraj."

Abhay leaned over the table and held out a hand to Viraj, whose smile stiffened. He made no move to take Abhay's hand. He seemed to be grinding his teeth.

"Okay, well, I should go." Abhay held up his hand in a wave. "See you around."

"Bye," Rasika said. "Let's get together sometime." She was shocked at her own words, and as Abhay receded, she concentrated on her latte. Viraj was silent. After several seconds she stole a glance at him and saw his mouth contorting, as though he couldn't get the words out. She took a sip of coffee for something to do, but as soon as she swallowed, she felt it bubble up-the thing she was trying to keep hidden. It frothed and expanded until it burst, and she was laughing hysterically.

She turned away from Viraj and covered her mouth with her hands. She felt her face getting red and her whole body was shaking. She had to remember to close her mouth and swallow, so she wouldn't drool. It was completely inappropriate; everyone was probably staring at her. She pressed her palms to her belly and took a deep breath. On the exhale, it started again.

"I'm so sorry!" she squeaked.

He stood up. "Let's get out of here."

She stood up, too, and trailed behind him, helpless with giggling. By the time they got into the car, she had managed to calm down enough to keep a straight face. During the silent drive home, she tried not to think of how Viraj had looked after Abhay left, but of course she couldn't help it, and every time she did she felt hysterics coming on again. She dug her fingernails into her palm and that way managed to keep it down to a smile.

As soon as they were in the house, she fled upstairs and locked herself in her bedroom. She could hear what was going on downstairs-Viraj's loud insistence that they leave right away, and Amma's high-pitched worrying tones. She felt free behind her bedroom door, taking off her fancy clothes and jewelry. She put on her oldest, softest pair of jeans and her rattiest T-shirt. She stood in front of her dresser mirror and carefully wiped off every trace of makeup. The front door closed, her mother's footsteps ascended, and she steeled herself for the worst. She unlocked the door just before her mother turned the handle and came in.

She sat on her bed looking up contritely as Amma loomed over her. "What happened?"

"I'm sorry, Amma."

"He was very angry. What did you do?"

Rasika looked down at her feet, and then gazed around the room, as though looking for the answer to her mother's question.

"If you keep throwing away opportunities like this, you will never get properly married. Everyone in India has been scouring the planet for you. We have looked at so many pictures and biodata, and finally you agreed to meet this boy. Now we will have to start the whole process again. Your father is very upset. He can't even sit still. He is downstairs, pacing the floor."

Rasika felt terrible about increasing Appa's stress. She couldn't explain her actions. Viraj was everything she was looking for, everything her parents were trying to provide for her. Except . . .

"He wanted me to live in New Jersey," she mumbled. "I want to stay here."

"And for that you have ruined everything?" her mother screeched. "I came across the ocean with my husband. Did I cry to stay at home with my mother? A woman must follow her husband."

Rasika hated to hear her calm and cultured mother get frantic like this. "I'm sorry, Amma." She stood up and put her arms around her mother, nestling her head in her mother's neck.

Amma pushed her away. "You must grow up, Rasika." She sat down on the bed. Rasika sat beside her, draping her arms around her mother and resting her head on her mother's shoulder.

"Other Indian mothers want their children to live at home." Amma patted Rasika's hand. "All the other youngsters run away as soon as they can, to New York, Chicago, San Francisco. Abhay ran away to that crazy farm. Pramod has all of a sudden decided he wants to join the Peace Corps. Can you imagine? We are not sending him to medical school so he can go rot in some African country. But, you are staying at home. You are a good girl. I think maybe . . . I don't want to say you should leave. The girls in India stay at home, too, but when it is time to get married, they know they must follow their husbands. You cannot stay with us forever."

"I know," Rasika murmured. She wished she had better control over herself. What had made her stand up and call to Abhay? That's what started it all.

Amma pushed Rasika aside and stood up. "I don't know what we should do now. Your birthday is coming so soon. Maybe we should consider Subhash after all."

"What?"

"I never told you before, but Deepti Auntie mentioned a few months ago that Subhash would like to marry you."

"But-he's related to me!"

"Second-cousin marriage is acceptable, but your Appa thinks we should not marry you to such a close relative. Now since nothing else is working out, maybe we should reconsider. He is a good boy."

"Amma. I can't marry him. He's just so awkward. Did you know he's even changing his name to 'Sam,' so he can attract more American customers?"

"When did you find out about that?"

"The other day, I-" Rasika stopped. She didn't want to tell her mother about seeing Subhash when she'd been with Abhay.

"Many Indians change their names," Amma said. "He will still be 'Subhash' within the family. He will do very well for himself, I am sure. He is a hard worker, and very conscientious and polite. Maybe we should get your horoscopes matched, just in case."

Rasika started to panic. She pulled on her mother's arm, as she used to do when she was a child. "Amma, I can't marry him!" Rasika imagined a lifetime of trying to get Subhash to lose weight, floss his teeth, wear the right clothes, and acquire some social graces.

Amma shook off Rasika's grip. "I have been wanting to go through personal connections, but maybe we should consider these Internet sites. I will ask Pramod to look into this." Amma bustled into the hallway. "Pramod!" She started downstairs, shouting all the way. "Pramod! Come here. I have something for you to do."

Rasika closed the door and crawled under the sheets. She didn't want to think about anything right now. Her bed was one of her favorite places in the world. Since she'd been earning her own money, she'd dispensed with her mother's polyester-blend sheets and used only Egyptian cotton in the summer, and thick flannel in the winter. She also had a goose down duvet. The air-conditioning made her want to get really warm in bed. She allowed her mind to drift pleasantly. She didn't find it difficult to think of nothing, and never had trouble going to sleep.

Chapter 4.

So many different m.u.f.fled sounds: the metallic whirr of the X-ray machine, the high-pitched whine of a tooth drill, the low murmur of the telephone. It was Monday morning, and Abhay was at a dentists' office-his first day of temping for a receptionist on maternity leave. The office was decorated in beige and gray, and smelled like an astringent mixure of dentist-office chemicals. Abhay sat at one end of a long gray counter, with the customer window in front of him. The office manager, Daloris, sat next to him.

"She wasn't due for three more weeks," Daloris was saying. "We were planning to have the person come in the day before and get trained. But she went into labor last night, so we'll have to do the best we can."

"He looks smart," Shavonne said. She was in charge of billing and sat down the counter from him, in front of the billing window. She smiled at him, and when he glanced back, she looked away. She had smooth dark brown skin, and her hair was done in an intricate braided maze. She wore a skirt that just grazed her knees when she sat.

Daloris cleared her throat. "Here's the list for today." She opened a large appointment calendar. "When patients come in, have them sign here." She reached through his window and patted a clipboard on the high counter.

As Abhay listened, he thought about the sad state of his life. How could Daloris and Shavonne be so cheerful, working here day after day? Shavonne had decorated her section of the counter with framed photos of two s.h.a.ggy cats, a digital clock in the shape of an apple, and a giant mug with a cartoon hippo on it, which held pens. Wasn't it strange how women in all dentists' and doctors' offices had similar things on their desks? Did they learn this at school or something? In order to work in a dentist's office, you must develop a liking for tasteless, useless items with which to decorate your work s.p.a.ce.

"When you get a chance," Daloris was saying, "you'll need to make reminder calls for upcoming appointments. If you don't get to it today, don't worry about it. Shavonne and I can help."

On the counter near him was a large vase filled with red roses. One of the dentists bought flowers every morning, and the receptionist (he, in this case) was to hand one to every woman patient as she left the office. Abhay objected silently to this s.e.xism. What about the men? Surely they could also use some floral cheer after enduring a visit to the dentist.

Daloris went back to her office. Abhay began asking people to sign in. Between patients, he picked up the phone and made a few reminder calls. Fortunately, no one answered, but he felt ridiculous leaving his message: "This is the office of Doctors Harley, Tan, and Remerovsky, calling to remind you of your dentist appointment on Wednesday at nine-fifteen. If you are unable to make this appointment, please call us at your earliest convenience." Who cared? So if someone missed an appointment, they might get a cavity, or maybe some gingivitis. The whole thing was just so unimportant.

A patient appeared at Shavonne's window, a young white man in a business suit. As she ran his credit card through the machine, the man probed thoughtfully around his mouth with his tongue. When he walked past Abhay's window, Abhay tugged a rose from the vase and stood up. "Would you like a flower?" he called.

The man stopped. Abhay was sure he'd refuse, thereby confirming Abhay's opinion that most men in American society had cut themselves off from natural beauty. Not that this rose was particularly natural. It had probably been grown in a greenhouse and fed a diet of chemicals.

The man held out a pink hand. "Sure."

Shavonne leaped up, reached across Abhay, pulled open a drawer, and withdrew a paper towel, which she handed to the man to wrap around his dripping stem.

"It's for the women." Shavonne giggled after the man walked out clutching his rose. She leaned in front of Abhay again, lifted a pile of paper towels out of the drawer, and set them beside the vase.

"Men like flowers, too," Abhay said. Maybe things were changing, and even conventional young men were willing to embrace at least some of their femininity.

"He'll just give it to his girlfriend or his a.s.sistant." Shavonne sat back down at her section of the counter. "If you hand them out to everyone, you'll run out before the end of the day."

The frilly V-neck of Shavonne's blouse suggested what was underneath. She also wore a silver-colored cross with a lifelike figure of Jesus attached to it. He never understood why people wore jewelry depicting a tortured man.

"It doesn't seem fair that only the women get roses," he said.

She c.o.c.ked her head at him dramatically. "You're not gay. Are you?"

He shook his head.

"Good." She looked at him suggestively. He glanced away. Why was it he was never particularly interested in the women who liked him? Shavonne was certainly cute, and she was shorter than him, too.

The morning wore on, occasionally enlivened by banter with Shavonne. At lunchtime he ate his sandwich, chips, and apple in the tiny employee kitchen. From his backpack he tugged out a stack of career books, opened one of them to a random page, and read about an exercise called "cl.u.s.tering your interests." The words swam on the page, and he thought about Rasika. She couldn't be interested in him. But why had she called out to him at the mall on Sat.u.r.day? Why had she suggested they get together again? And in front of that stuffed shirt she was supposed to marry. Probably she was trying to give the guy a hint, and he, Abhay, happened to be convenient. She must not have meant anything by it.

Yet she'd seemed so happy to see him.

Even if she were interested, he ought to stay away from her. She probably voted Republican. Or worse, maybe she didn't bother to vote at all.

By Wednesday, Abhay felt like his brain would collapse from emptiness. He couldn't keep temping. During his lunch break he wandered around the building, looking for a pay phone. He finally found one near the bathroom at the gas station next door to the office. He called his temp agency supervisor and told her this would be his last week with the agency, because he'd found another job. "What will you be doing?" she asked, surprised. He said, "Uh. It involves, uh, books." Which was true. He planned to do a lot of reading in the coming weeks.

He put in another fifty cents and, before he could change his mind, called directory a.s.sistance, asked for Ohio West Bank's commercial loan office, and was connected. When the recorded voice said, "To use the company directory, spell the last name of the person you wish to reach," he spelled out Subramanian and was connected to Rasika's voice mail. He listened to her message-her voice seemed so distant and businesslike-heard the beep, and hung up. Then he felt cowardly, deposited yet another fifty cents, called again, and said into her voice mail, in what he hoped was a casual, cool voice, "Rasika. It's Abhay. Just wanted to catch up with you. Maybe we can get together on Friday. Give me a call." He left his parents' phone number.

He went back to the dentists' office, ate his lunch, and felt elated. Two more days of this, and he'd be free! The money he'd already earned could last him for weeks-months, even-depending on how careful he was. Of course, he didn't want to live at his parents' house for months. Would Rasika return his call? He tried to pretend he didn't care much one way or the other. He tried to pretend he was only calling her because he was newly back in town, and ought to reconnect with the few old acquaintances who were still here.

That evening he walked around the house and checked on Seema, his mother, and his father. No one was tying up the phone, and still it didn't ring.

Finally he felt so restless that he called up an old high school friend, Christopher Haldorson. He knew Chris's number by heart because Chris still lived with his parents. Abhay had been avoiding him-Chris hadn't progressed much since high school-but after all, Abhay himself was now living with his parents.

Chris invited him over. On the way, Abhay walked past their old high school. He stopped at the driveway and looked at the sprawling brick building set back on the lawn. The school was silent and still, now that it was summer. He remembered, as a senior, longing to get away from the school, and here he was again, living within a mile of it.

Chris's parents lived in a 1950s neighborhood of modest one-story houses. From the outside, Abhay could see the blue flickering light of the large-screen TV through the living room picture window. He knocked on the back door, as usual, and Chris let him into the kitchen, which was brightly lit and spotless.

"Adios!" Chris slapped him on the back. "How goes it?"

Abhay was startled to hear his high school nickname again. In ninth grade some kids noticed that his name, correctly p.r.o.nounced "uh-bye," sounded like "good-bye," and started calling him "Adios." Apparently because he could pa.s.s for Hispanic, most kids thought this nickname was appropriate or hilarious or both, and it stuck.

Chris looked the same-tall, with dull tan hair-except that he'd gained some weight. As they headed down the hallway to Chris's room, they pa.s.sed the dark living room, where Chris's parents were watching Wheel of Fortune.

"Mom, Dad, Adios is here," Chris called.

Mrs. Haldorson padded over in her fluffy bedroom slippers, with Mr. Haldorson behind her, leaning on a cane. She wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. "Great to see you, honey." She turned him so he faced the lighted kitchen, and looked at him. "You haven't changed," she declared. "He's the same, isn't he, Steve?" she said to her husband.

Mr. Haldorson shifted his cane to his left hand and held out his right hand. "Good to see you," he said. He was a shorter, older version of Chris, and Abhay was startled by his apparent ill health. Mr. Haldorson had for years coached the baseball team at the high school.

Chris's room was even more crammed with stuff than it had been in high school. His double bed took up most of the floor s.p.a.ce, but around it were stacks of cardboard boxes. In one corner was a desk with a computer. The desk was clean except for an upright rack of file folders. On a bookshelf next to the bed were displayed a variety of porcelain figurines-horses, dogs, cats, dancing ladies, praying children, a fat chef next to a wine barrel-all clean and free of dust. Abhay hadn't known that Chris collected figurines.

"What's with the boxes?" Abhay asked. "You moving out?"

"I sell stuff on eBay." He tossed his thick bangs out of his eyes, just as he used to do in high school.

"You make money that way?"

"Yeah. It's not bad. It's something we can do as a family."

"So your parents are involved, too?"

"Dad's on disability now. He's had a couple of strokes."