Before We Visit the Goddess by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni Page B

out with purchases before they’ve paid for them. But before I can jump to her defense, Mrs. Mehta says, “What makes you think I haven’t come to buy?” Houdini-like, she pulls out of her sari-blouse a small cloth purse and extracts from it several twenty-dollar bills, which she waves at Mr. Lawry. “Not that it looks like you have anything I want.” She strides haughtily toward the bed linens. Mr. Lawry glares after her and sentences me to scrubbing the floor.
    Mrs. Mehta reappears after a couple of hours. She has sifted through mountains of chaff to discover a fine pair of black pants, a sporty aqua knit top, and a barely used leather tote that I wouldn’t have minded finding myself. When she goes inside the fitting room, everyone gives up the pretense of working and waits.
    The Western clothes suit Mrs. Mehta surprisingly well. Along with the frumpy cotton sari, she seems to have shed several years. She takes small, self-conscious steps. I realize that she has never worn pants before. She sees me watching and flashes me a terribly guilty look. I can tell she’s on the verge of retreating to the fitting room and changing back into her old clothes.
    I clap loudly and whistle. Blanca joins me. Keysha cheers. A shy, girlish smile breaks out on Mrs. Mehta’s face.
    After that, there’s no stopping her. She finds a leopard-print skirt, jeans, a sweater, an embroidered peasant blouse, and a pair of capris, all of which she throws down with an air of triumph on the checkout counter. Mr. Lawry is so taken aback that he charges her the yellow tag price even though none of the articles are on sale.
    By now a surprisingly large number of customers crowd the store. Has someone been spreading the news? Mrs. Mehta points them to the corners where she discovered her treasures. “There’s a gorgeous bedspread on the left, by the wedding dresses,” she calls after a bearded man who looks as though he hasn’t been acquainted with a shower in the recent past. When he shuffles back with the bedspread and two pairs of shoes, Mr. Lawry promotes me to cashier. Mrs. Mehta has taken off her glasses. “They were for reading only,” she confides with a grin as she slings the tote over an insouciant shoulder.
    I pull her into a corner and warn her not to use up all her money.
    â€œBut I haven’t had so much fun since I came to America,” she says. “Everyone here is so real . Even that Mr. Lawry—he is all bark, no bite. I told him he can call me Sonu. It’s my pet name, what my parents used.
    â€œBesides,” she adds, “what should I be saving for?”
    She looks at me inquiringly, and I see it’s a genuine question, one to which I have no answer.

    During my break, I phone Robert to inform him of the developments.
    He laughs, a sound that’s like a sliver of ice on a parched tongue. “A hip Indian grandma! Maybe you should bring her to Victor’s.” He adds, quietly, “I miss you.”
    My heart balloons in my chest. I miss him, too, more than I expected.
    When I invite her to Victor’s party, Mrs. Mehta’s face scrunches in apology. “Oh, dear. Mr. Lawry just hired me for tomorrow. And you, too, because I said I wouldn’t come otherwise. He says he hasn’t had such good sales since Christmas. Plus, tomorrow Blanca is giving me a haircut.”
    â€œA haircut! What—”
    I’m interrupted by Mr. Lawry, who waves as we leave. “Bye, Miz So-noo. Don’t forget our lunch date.”
    Things are spiraling out of control. “A lunch date?” I say, once we’re in the car. “Are you crazy? I can’t let you go off alone with him. He’s—he’s—” I rummage my mind for details that will shock her into canceling. “He’s an alcoholic. He cheats his customers. He—”
    In reply Mrs. Mehta touches my eyebrow ring, the one I bought after my father