Free Quarantine: Stories by Rahul Mehta Page A

offended—not because he thought I was a prostitute, but because he thought I was only worth forty bucks—that when he went to the bathroom I stole the other hundred from his wallet and left.
    “I’m not sure about this,” Frank says.
    “Think about it,” I say. And I guess he thinks, because we don’t talk for the rest of the ride. We read and reread the subway ads in silence.
    O ne cold gray weekend last fall, Ellison and Rajiv paid for me and Frank to fly down and visit them. Frank and my brother are exactly the same age, and Frank was amazed how different Rajiv’s life was from his own: four-bedroom house, furniture from Ethan Allen, not the Salvation Army, no leaky faucets, no toilet handles you had to jiggle, no warped doors that didn’t close. The guest bedroom we slept in was pink and everything matched exactly—the comforter, the sheets, the pillow covers, even the lampshade and curtains—like they were all bought at the same store.
    The four of us took a road trip to see a bridge. Though it was overcast and had rained, the drive was beautiful. The leaves had begun to turn, and the raindrops magnified the colors. The slick bright leaves, sticking to the cars and roads, looked like patches on denim.
    The bridge was famous for being the longest or highest or oldest or something. At the designated photo spot, we asked a tourist to take a photo of the four of us. Later, when I examined the picture, I thought we all looked horrible, facing this way and that, not even smiling. I was convinced that we had smiled the second after the photo had been snapped. The tourist should have waited. What a shame. The bridge in the background was perfect, its smooth arch stark against the chaotic rocks of the gorge, the river below the color of gunmetal.
    The last night we were there, Ellison offered to cook dinner. Rajiv had made vegetarian lasagna the night before. She said she didn’t need any help, she wanted us to relax and spend time together. “It’s not often enough you two brothers get to see each other,” she said.
    Rajiv, Frank and I played Jenga in the living room, taking turns trying to move blocks from the center of the tower to the top without knocking it over. We played three rounds, and I lost all three. During the fourth round, I took a break and went into the kitchen for juice and asked Ellison what she was cooking.
    “Thai stir-fry,” she said. “Vegetables, noodles, and peanut sauce. I hope you like it.”
    “Oh,” I said, “I’m allergic to peanuts.”
    “Rajiv didn’t tell me you were allergic to peanuts,” she said.
    “It’s no big deal,” I said. “Since you haven’t added the sauce yet, I’ll have mine without.”
    “It won’t taste right,” she said. She went into the living room. “Rajiv, you didn’t tell me your brother’s allergic to peanuts.”
    “I didn’t know you were making peanuts,” Rajiv said, not looking up from the Jenga because he was in the middle of his turn.
    “Of course you knew,” she said. “I only ever buy these vegetables when I’m making this dish. You went shopping with me. You knew I was making it.”
    “One sec,” Rajiv said, still trying to place the block on top of the tower. “Let me finish my turn.”
    “Fuck your turn,” Ellison said, swinging her arm and knocking over the tower. The blocks crashed against the wooden table. Some fell on Rajiv. Ellison returned to the kitchen.
    I looked at my brother. He collected the blocks and started restacking them.
    I went into the kitchen, and Ellison was dumping not just the stir-fry but the whole wok into the garbage. She was crying. “Your brother knew I was making this tonight,” she said. “He deliberately wanted to make me look like an idiot in front of you and Frank.” She went into the bedroom and shut the door.
    In the living room, Rajiv and Frank had started another round of Jenga. Frank looked at me, his eyebrows raised. Rajiv was concentrating. He said, without looking away,