Free Good Indian Girls: Stories by Ranbir Singh Sidhu

clicks back. “Mom?”
    “The sperm, Anu, Hari’s sperm.”
    “I’ve got to go. It’s Hari’s mother.”
    “But I’m your mother.”
    “She’s Hari’s mother.”
    “I’m Hari’s mother.”
    “She’s my mother.”
    “I’ll call you later. Don’t forget, Hari’s sperm.”
    “Hello? Hold on, I’ll get Hari.”
    She lowers the phone and places a hand over the mouthpiece. “Your mom,” she calls. He appears from the kitchen, holding a whisky, and makes a puking motion, then strangles himself with one hand and feints a fall to the floor.
    “I think he must be in the bathroom. I’ll tell him to call you.”
    “What time is it there?”
    “Oh, just past eight.”
    “It’s five o’clock here. The sun is out. It’s raining.”
    “It’s setting here.”
    “Nothing like California. You don’t know what you’re missing.”
    “Maybe one day.”
    “What are you doing? A party?”
    “No, nothing special. Dinner, maybe a movie later. We’re boring people these days.”
    “No, not yet. You don’t have children yet. Then you’ll be boring.”
    “I know.”
    “Well . . .?”
    “What?” She looks across at Hari and rolls her eyes. He is standing in the kitchen doorway, grinning, places the drink on the counter, and mimes a full blast from a machine gun, mouth silently screaming, “Rat-a-tat-a-tat-tat!”
    “What is it you two get up to? Just dinner, just a movie? Hari’s father is waiting, I am waiting. We’re in California and we’re waiting. Everyone is waiting.”
    “Yes, yes. The whole world is waiting. Look, Mom, I’ll have Hari call you when he’s down.”
    “Oh no, don’t trouble him, not on his birthday. Tell him I telephoned. He’ll be happy to hear his mother telephoned.”
    “Homicide?” she says after she places the phone down, the magazine open on the table before her.
    He sings. “Psycho killer, qu’est-ce que c’est?”
    “Bedroom,” she says. “Now.”
    Hari’s cell phone rings.
    “Leave it,” she says.
    “I can’t,” he says. “It’s Jack.”
    “Just one thing,” Jack says. “A word of advice.”
    Anu walks into the kitchen and finds the joint. She climbs up onto the counter, still holding the rubber penis, and places it in her mouth. Hari watches her. He can see the staples, they are everywhere, lines of them along each fold, each twist of the sari. The whole thing is a mess, nothing like how a sari should look. Each time she moves, a new line of staples catches the light. There must be hundreds of them.
    “Sure,” Hari says.
    “Change your name. Shorten it,” Jack says.
    “This is about Hawthorne?”
    “This is personal. Think of it as a birthday bonus.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “My name is Jack. Understand? One word, one syllable. That’s American. Your name is Harry. Two syllables. Good men died to be free of that second syllable.”
    “I’m Indian, Jack. Hari is an Indian name.”
    “Chinese, European, same difference. We’re talking American. We’re speaking to each other in a country where no one gives a damn about that second syllable. Bob, Bill, Mike, John, Fred, Art, Jake, Zack. These are American names. I want you to choose one.”
    “Now?”
    “When you feel like it. There’s no pressure. Myself, I see you as Dick. Jack and Dick. Dick and Jack. With a name like that, we might be partners one day.”
    “Are you making an offer?”
    “This is an opening. This is a potential first step. I like what you’re doing with Hawthorne.”
    “Thanks.”
    “I’ll call you later.”
    “Dick,” Hari says. “What do you think of Dick?”
    “I love it,” Anu says, pulling the rubber penis out of her mouth.
    “I’m flying,” Hari says. “I’m on the moon.”
    His shirt is off and both his wrists are handcuffed to the bed frame. The handcuffs are padded with felt. Anu is working on tying his legs when the doorbell rings.
    “Fuck,” she says.
    “Ignore it.”
    “No. I’ll see. It might be someone.”
    She rises,