Free In the Kingdom of Men by Kim Barnes Page B

shoulder, an arm. I mixed the peaches with sugar and a little flour before spreading the fruit in the baking dish, dotting it with butter, lemon juice, and a dash of cinnamon. Yash unrolled the dough from his rolling pin as easily as laying a baby’s blanket. We began at opposite corners, finger-thumb fluting the edges, his calm intent something I felt with the appreciation of a child, hot afternoons, my mother making pies as I napped, my bed an old quilt spread in the coolest corner of the kitchen.
    “Tell me about your family,” I said.
    Yash took a paring knife and slit pretty petals in the crust, added a border of tendrils and vines. “My family is Punjabi with a tradition of military service.” One eyebrow arched up. “We are, after all, a martial race, according to our lords and commanders.”
    “What about a wife?” I asked.
    He didn’t answer but gave a slight nod, then pinched a piece of dough. When he held it out to me, I drew back.
    “That will give me worms,” I said.
    “What?” Yash looked shocked.
    “That’s what my grandmother always told me.”
    He popped the bit into his mouth, looked at me slyly. “There are no worms in my dough,” he said, “but perhaps the same cannot be said of your peaches.” I caught the hint of a smile.
    Yash was lowering the dish into the oven when the knock came so hard that I jumped, but he seemed hardly to notice. “One moment,” he called, but I beat him to the door and looked down to see a legless Bedouin garbed in pinned-up trousers and a faded tunic, riding atop a little wooden platform with wheels, balancing an enormous basket on his head.
    “Is-salaam ‘alaykum!”
he cried.
    Yash appeared behind me, wiping his hands. “No,” he said,and turned to me. “I apologize,
memsahib
. I have no idea how the beggar found his way past the gate.”
    I gave him a sharp look before addressing the peddler. “And upon you peace,” I said to the man, who smiled broadly, two black teeth stubbing his gums. He presented the basket, fanning the flies, and I saw that it was full of glistening pink shrimp. I knelt and ran my fingers through the briny casings, cupped two hands full, then watched as the man spread a newspaper and cleaned the shrimp on the spot before handing me the tidy package, smiling his painful smile. He looked parched to me, his mouth puckered and dusty.
    “Would you like a drink?” I asked. “Water?”
    Yash left and returned with a few riyals and a glass, which I handed to the peddler. He drank in one long swallow before thanking me repeatedly and rolling his way down the street.
    “The Muslim won’t eat them himself, but he’s happy to sell them to us infidels.” Yash dumped the shrimp into a colander.
    “That water was warm,” I said. I was remembering the two taps in the kitchen—remembering, too, the separate drinking fountains in Shawnee, one for blacks, one for whites.
    “You do not give a Bedouin sweet water to drink. It is a taste he is not used to.” Yash stirred the shrimp with his fingers. “It is the way of every American home.”
    “Not this one,” I said.
    He looked at me quickly, then away. “Of course,
memsahib
.”
    I scrunched my shoulders. “Could you just call me Gin?”
    He considered for a moment. “Perhaps Mrs. Gin,” he said, and I smiled.
    “We can make shrimp cocktail,” I said, but Yash pulled back as though I had uttered a shocking profanity.
    “If you will allow me,” he said delicately, and I hesitated before abandoning my station and wandering through the house as though there were something I had lost.
    When Yash finally called me to the table, my mouth was watering, my hunger whetted by the delicious smells wafting from the kitchen. He served me the shrimp sautéed in butter, spiced with ginger and garlic, and I ate them every one. The air conditioner kicked on, and I shivered in the cooler air. While Yash was making tea, I pulled back the curtain, louvered the blind’s slats. I could feel his