The Story Hour by Thrity Umrigar Page B

Lakshmi got in the Subaru, Maggie remembered what Lakshmi had said to her in the hospital when she’d tried to explain the concept of therapy. Oh, Lakshmi had said, I thought we were trying to build a friendship. Or words to that effect.
    Maggie glanced at the woman riding next to her. Maybe friendship was the best therapy she could offer Lakshmi, she thought.

13
    M AGGIE SHOOK WITH laughter as she watched Sudhir take yet another helping of the food Lakshmi had brought. Poor man, she thought, look how deprived he is, stuck with an American wife whose culinary talents don’t stretch beyond an occasional pot roast.
    â€œWow,” Sudhir said again. “This is superb. Just superb.” He licked the back of his fork before setting it down. “If that girl ever needs a job as a chef, we’re hiring her.”
    This was the second time that Sudhir had referred to Lakshmi as “girl.” Maggie knew it was some vestige of the Indian class system, that automatic, unconscious calculation made by middle-class Indians: A peasant woman like Lakshmi, who spoke poor English and worked in an ethnic grocery store, was automatically an inferior, just slightly higher in status than the maids who worked in their homes in India. Even Sudhir, who was so easygoing and indifferent to these matters—at NYU, he had cheerfully interacted with classmates of different races, nationalities, class backgrounds, even majors—was apparently not above referring to the woman whose food he had just enjoyed as “girl.”
    â€œWhat?” said Sudhir, ever attuned to the slightest shift in her mood.
    â€œNothing. It’s just that Lakshmi is in her thirties. She’s hardly a girl.”
    Sudhir eyed her quizzically. “Yah, so?” He began picking up their dirty dishes. “The more important issue is, did this girl-woman pack us some dessert?”
    She pretended to throw a fork at him. “You’re hopeless. A pig.” She leaned back and patted his belly as he brushed past her on his way to the sink. “You better keep an eye on that little potbelly of yours, honey.”
    â€œRubbish.” Sudhir grinned. He set the dishes on the counter and walked up behind Maggie and rubbed her shoulders. “Besides, the great thing about being an old married man is that I no longer have to worry about these things, right?”
    Maggie laughed. “You? Not worry about your weight? You’re worse than any woman I know.” She turned around and pulled him down to give him a quick peck. “Luckily for you, you’re married to the world’s worst cook. If you’d married someone like Lakshmi, you’d be in deep trouble.”
    â€œI married the woman I was meant to marry,” Sudhir said, and Maggie felt his words tear at her heart. How could she have risked this to be with Peter? Already, she felt as if she were emerging from some drunken stupor, had come to her senses from an hour of bewitchment. It was the most reckless thing she had ever done, sleeping with Peter Weiss, and thankfully, it was over. She would have the rest of her life to figure out what had made her do it.
    â€œAe. You still haven’t answered me. Did this dream-patient of yours bring us any dessert?”
    â€œIncorrigible, that’s what you are,” Maggie scolded as she opened the fridge and pulled out a small glass bowl. “Here. I don’t know what these are. Looks like the usual Indian enough-milk-and-sugar-to-put-you-in-a-diabetic-coma concoction.”
    â€œSounds yummy. Especially when you word it like that. You want some?”
    â€œI’ll pass. I’m gonna finish my wine in the living room.”
    â€œOkay. Be right there.”
    Sudhir followed her into the living room a few minutes later, sat down next to her on the couch, and immediately took possession of the remote. Ignoring Maggie’s halfhearted “Hey,” he flipped through the channels, finally