Before We Visit the Goddess by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

inconsiderate. He accused me of not caring about what was important to him. I took to covering the raccoon with a pillowcase when Robert was out of the house. He took to checking on it, first thing, when he returned. Without a word, he’d ball up the pillowcase and throw it with vicious accuracy into our dirty-laundry basket. I’d rescue it surreptitiously so I could use it again. It was like a vaudeville show, except not funny.
    But today I don’t want to fight. I’m going to be at the Mehtas’ starting tomorrow, Thursday evening until Sunday night, and I want to repair matters before leaving. I pick up a bottle of ouzo and rent a DVD of Total Recall , the original one with Schwarzenegger. It must be telepathy, because when I enter the apartment, Robert has made moussaka. We eat sitting cross-legged on the couch, replaying favorite scenes, refilling glasses. Robert laughs when I describe the Mehtas. But when I tell him that I got the job, he frowns.
    â€œVictor’s throwing a barbecue party Saturday,” he says. “I wanted to introduce you to the guys.”
    I’m flattered—and surprised. It looks like our relationship has just been bumped up several notches.
    â€œI can’t believe you’re abandoning me the entire long weekend for some old woman.”
    â€œNot just any old woman. An Indian woman. She could be my grandma. Maybe she’ll teach me some great Indian dishes that I can cook for you—”
    Robert looks skeptical, so I offer to make it up to him the only way I know, in bed.

    When I arrive, the Mehtas are standing at the door attired for adventure: he in a Hawaiian shirt, she in a sundress. Of the mother there is no sign. He hands me the house key and a sheet with phone numbers: the family doctor, the hospital, and Mr. Mehta’s brother, who lives in Poughkeepsie. In case of an emergency, they are to be contacted in that order. At the bottom, in tiny digits, is Mr. Mehta’s cell number. It won’t work once they set sail, Mrs. Mehta informs me happily. She leans toward me.
    â€œBe careful,” she whispers. “She can be tricky.”
    Watching them hurry to their car, I think they make an unlikely pair. Then she reaches out and puts her arm around his waist, even though she has to bend a little. He opens the car door for her and tenderly tucks in her dress.
    What do I know about love, anyway?

    I discover Mrs. Mehta, a tiny woman in a widow’s white sari, crumpled in a heap on the kitchen floor, her glasses askew. My stomach cramps. I’m halfway to the phone to call the Mehtas when I remember the warning and swing around. Sure enough, I catch a glint under her closed lids. She’s watching me. I’d love to empty a pitcher of ice water over her and watch her gasp and sputter and not be able to complain. But I am not that kind of person, so I say, “I’m not going to call your son and force him to cancel his vacation, if that’s what you’re aiming at. However, I’ll be happy to call an ambulance. You can spend the weekend in the hospital, getting poked and prodded and having your blood drawn.”
    For a long moment, she lies there. Then, just as I’m thinking maybe she did have a stroke, she sits up and announces that she would like dinner.
    I assemble the feast that the younger Mrs. Mehta left for us: garbanzo beans glistening in a dark gravy, green pepper curry, rice, yogurt, mango pickle, sliced cucumbers, burfi for dessert.
    She casts a jaundiced eye over the offerings. “Where are my chapatis?”
    â€œChapatis?” I look in the refrigerator, but there’s only a ball of dough inside a Tupperware container.
    She speaks slowly, as though to an imbecile. “She makes them hot-hot, when I sit to eat.”
    â€œThat’s not going to happen. Unless you want to make them yourself.”
    â€œYou’re the maid. You should be making them.”
    I take a deep breath. “I