Free And Laughter Fell From the Sky by Jyotsna Sreenivasan Page A

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 assistance, 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 pronounced “uh-bye,” sounded like “good-bye,” and started calling him “Adios.” Apparently because he could pass 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 passed the dark living room, where Chris’s parents were