listening to her end of the conversation I quickly realize the one thing more difficult than deciphering a conversation through her thick accent is trying to decipher one half of her conversation, but I gather from what I am able to pick up that he is not able to meet her here anytime soon.
I wait for an opportunity to interrupt, rather than let her conclude her conversation. “Kalini, I can give you a ride home.”
Her eyes widen as she pauses her conversation with her husband. “Would it not be too much of a burden?”
“Absolutely not. I insist.”
Her eyes light up. “She finishes up her conversation on the phone with her husband but switches to Hindi for the last few exchanges.”
I make my purchases and lead Kalini out to my car, hurrying to avoid getting doused by the continuing downpour. By the time I set my groceries in the back seat and climb in, Kalini is already situated in the passenger seat.
I glance over and smile, water running down from my doused head. “Okay, where to?”
Kalini smiles back awkwardly, but gestures in the direction that I should drive. She directs me as we drive about four miles north of the mini mart. We arrive at her apartment complex, a small gathering of buildings nestled against the backdrop of a small creek lined with tall oaks. The complex has capitalized on the local topography and aptly taken the name Oak Creek Apartments. She directs me through the maze of interconnecting small parking lots until we reach her building.
The rain continues to pour. I grab a small dry umbrella tucked under the driver’s seat I hadn’t the forethought to carry into work earlier this morning. “Hold tight. Let me come around with the umbrella.”
I climb out into the rain, quickly spreading open the small umbrella. It is doing little to keep the sheets of rain off my lower half as I continue around the car to escort Kalini to her apartment door. She climbs out and we quickly make our way to the covered breezeway, protected from the driving rain.
Figuring this is close enough I pause, wavering just a bit, but give her a distinct nod. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow at work.”
“Oh, please. I would like you to meet my husband. He would be very upset if he were not able to thank you for helping me.”
Reluctantly I smile and nod. “Sure.”
I close the umbrella and shake off the excess water. I’m not one for awkward exchanges and I feel another one coming very soon. She leads me up two flights of steps to her apartment door where she jingles her keys against the door until she successfully unlocks it and pushes it open. I wait patiently behind outside, hoping at any minute she will turn and retract the invitation, stating that perhaps another time would be better for me to visit. Instead she turns and sheepishly smiles, motioning for me to enter.
Again I nod and lean my wet umbrella against the wall outside wiping my feet on their plush doormat before entering. The apartment is small and sparsely furnished, but candles seem to play a big part in the decor. The main living area features a worn down sofa on one wall with a torch lamp next to it. The room has a fireplace in the corner with a mantle, bare except for a single pillar candle sitting on one end. In the kitchen Kalini’s husband, Prashant, stands over a crockpot, stirring the contents. Surprisingly the aroma does not carry the strong odor I associate with that of the leftovers often reheated in the break room microwaves. At least not at first, but now, there it is. Unlike Pavlov’s dog, I feel a sudden urge to pee.
Prashant raps the spoon on the top edge of the crock pot and sets it down on the counter, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel on his way around the breakfast bar to greet me. He speaks with surprising clarity. “I am so glad to finally meet you Mr. Corning. Kalini has told me so much about you. It was so kind of you to give her a ride home this evening in this terrible weather.”
I smile and take Prashant’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you Mr. Patel, and please call me John.” As I shake his hand I notice the table has three place settings.
“And you must call me Prashant. Please, come sit. You must have some food.”
Kalini has moved past me into the kitchen and has begun dishing out the contents of the crockpot onto plates.
I have been setup. “Oh, no. I really need to get home. My wife is expecting me.”
Kalini’s shoulders drop in the middle of serving up a generous portion on the extra plate. “Oh.”
She sets the ladle back down in the juices of the crock pot. In her eyes I see an enormous disappointment that I don’t understand. She has invited me numerous times before and I have always politely declined. It is beyond me why it is so important to her to share her cuisine, her culture. I look at Prashant. The disappointment is clearly visible in his body language as well. Is it possible that I am leveling an insult towards these kind and generous people that surpasses the off color remarks I have made at the office? Somehow it feels that way. For a moment I stand there caught in between my rampant desire to bolt out the door, efficiently bidding them well and a nice evening, and the realization that I simply can’t do that to Kalini and her husband.
“You know… let me call home. I bet she hasn’t started dinner yet. I’m sure she won’t mind.”
It’s like I just hit the switch on the Christmas tree at the Rockefeller center, both faces light up with an exuberance I’ve rarely seen in my own children on Christmas morning. Kalini’s smile is so broad she becomes self-conscious of it, trying to downplay the significance of me accepting their invitation by forcing her lips closed across her broad toothy grin. But her eyes remain lit. All this time refusing her hospitality, it held an underlying meaning to Kalini that I truly could not grasp until this moment. Suddenly I feel myself becoming wrapped up in the emotion of my hostess and feel tears welling up in my own eyes, but it could just as easily be from the strong odor of curry pouring out of the kitchen.
Though I am struck with terror facing the daunting task ahead, to consume a plate of noxious food without batting an eye or throwing up on my hosts, I am somehow caught up in the significance of the moment, the breaking of bread with a couple who has travelled so far in their lives to gather with me tonight at this meager table.
Oh God, please let there be some bread.
Other stories available online by Hickory Cole:
Photographic
Amnesia
The Equation
The Death of Emily Pritchett
The Offer
Replica
Orange
Frank Simmons
Road Trip
Alone
And be sure to look for my debut novel, Little
When Juni Little stumbles upon details that could explain a series of mysterious animal mutilations around his small home town, he tries to convince the local sheriff that the threat cannot be ignored, meanwhile the list of people he trusts begins to dwindle as those closest to him fall prey to those fighting to keep the secret of the beast buried along with anyone who gets too close to the truth.
To find the latest news and a complete list of all Hickory Cole works and where you can find them online visit my website, www.hickorycolebooks.com.
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