Arranged Marriage: Stories by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni Page A

own cool, clean living room I would put on a Ravi Shankar record or maybe a Chopin nocturne, change into the blue silk kimono that Richard had given me, and curl up on my fawn buffed-leather sofa. As the soothing strains of sitar or piano washed over me, I would close my eyes and think of what we’d planned for that evening, Richard and I. And I would thank God for my life, which was as civilized, as much in control, as perfect , as a life could ever be.
    The boy changed all that.
    He was crouched under the stairwell when I found him, on my way out of the building for my regular 6 A.M. jog around the rose gardens with Richard. I would have missed him completely had he not coughed just as I reached the door. He had wedged himself into the far end of the dark triangular recess, so that all I saw at first was a small, huddled shape and the glint of terrified eyes. And thought, Wild animal . Later I would wonder how I must have appeared to him, a large, loud, bent-over figure in pink sweats with hair swinging wildly about her face, ordering him to come out of there right now , demanding where did you come from and how did you get past the security door . Only probably he didn’t understand a word.
    By the time I got him out, my Liz Claiborne suit was ruined, my cheek stung where he had scratched me, and my watch said 6:20. Richard , I thought with dismay, because he didn’t like to be kept waiting. Then the boy claimed my attention again.
    He looked about seven, though he could have been older. He was so thin it was hard to tell. His collarbones stuck out from under his filthy shirt, and in the hollow between them I could see a pulse beating frantically. Ragged black hair fell into eyes that stared at me unblinkingly. He didn’t seem to comprehend anything I said, not even when I switched to halting Spanish, and when I leaned forward, he flinched and flung up a thin brown arm to protect his face.
    What am I going to do with him, I wondered desperately. It was getting late. I’d already missed my morning jog, and if I didn’t get back to my apartment pretty soon, I wouldn’t have time for my sit-ups either. Then I had to wash my hair—there was a big meeting at the bank, and I was scheduled to make the opening presentation. I hadn’t figured out what kind of power-outfit to wear, either. I closed my eyes and hoped the boy would just disappear the way he had appeared, but when I opened them, he was there still, watching me warily.
    I unlocked my apartment door but didn’t enter right away. I was afraid of what I might find. Then I said to myself, How could it be any worse? I’d been late to work (a first). I’d run into the meeting room, out of breath, my unwashed hair fallinginto my eyes, my spreadsheets all out of order. My presentation had been second-rate at best (another first), and when Dan Luftner, Head of Loans, who’d been waiting for years to catch me out, asked me for an update on the monthly statements software the bank had purchased a while back, I’d been unable to give him an adequate answer. “Why, Meera,” he’d said, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise, “I thought you knew everything!” I smarted all morning at the memory of the triumph in his eyes, and when a customer asked a particularly stupid question, I snapped at him. “Are you feeling all right, Meera?” said my supervisor, who had overheard. “Maybe you should take the rest of the day off.” So here I was in the middle of the afternoon, with the mother of all headaches pounding its way across my skull.
    I’m going to spend the rest of the day in bed, I decided, with the curtains drawn, the phone off the hook, a handkerchief soaked in eau de cologne on my forehead, and strict instructions to the boy to not disturb me. When my headache gets better, I’m going to listen to the new Dvorak record which Richard gave me for Valentine’s day. Everything else—including calling Richard to explain why I hadn’t shown up—I’ll handle