He clapped hard in her ear, startling her out of her trance.
And that was basically it for Maya and Bart. There was one other encounter, a few days into October, a snapshot of late-night stupidity in the front seat of Bart’s plumbing truck in the lot behind the shop while Rohan was doing his nightly bank drop-off. Maya’s sari got caught on a door latch and ended up with a small tear and a grease stain that would never fully come out, and Bart had clearly been drinking beer, and their sex felt awkward and ugly, more like an invasive trip to the doctor than a sensual tryst, and that marked the end of the affair, if these two encounters could even qualify as such.
Months passed. Maya’s misery remained. When she realized she was pregnant she went into a panic and did everything she could to seduce Rohan, to try to blur the calendar in his mind, but her hair was growing slowly and he was adamant about their abstinence.
—When you stop looking like a boy, he reminded her.
Maya didn’t go to the doctor, didn’t tell a soul.
Mrs. Patel’s eyes widened at the sound of a car splashing through the alley behind the shop. She appeared relieved when it moved on.
“Rohan will be here soon.”
She scooted out of the booth and grabbed her keys from her sweater pocket.
“I want to know what happened with Joey,” Lydia said.
“If you know Joey, you know the rest. I went away. I had a baby. I gave him up. I came back. Now, please. I have to finish.”
Mrs. Patel was clearly upset. She fiddled through her key ring but never singled one out.
“Will you exit out the back, please?” she said. “I can’t have Rohan driving up and seeing you through the windows. I don’t need the anguish, Lydia. Out of nowhere you come in here, digging through our lives. Please. Just leave.”
Lydia was feeling fogged by the confrontation and saddened by Mrs. Patel’s predicament. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something, an elusive fragment that she couldn’t pin down. She wasn’t sure what else to do, so she followed Mrs. Patel past the empty display cases and coffeepots and through the kitchen’s swinging door. Only half of the lights in the kitchen were on. She remembered its stainless steel counters, its stacks of silver bowls, its walls of white tile, but it seemed far more dingy now, and everything was filmed with grease. Marching solemnly behind Mrs. Patel, she was bothered by how this visit had turned out and was thinking she should probably call— On the counter next to the deep fryer sat an assortment of cleaning supplies.
Lydia stopped walking. Mrs. Patel stopped as well.
“Lydia. Please. He’ll be here.”
Just near a mound of rags, Mr. Patel had left one of his frayed hairnets, a squirt bottle of degreaser and another of vinegar, a wire scrub brush, and the pair of wadded latex gloves he always used to clean the fryer’s racks and frame.
Lydia’s memories rolled over each other like pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope.
She could picture Mr. O’Toole’s name, typed inside a tiny box and tucked into a file downtown: Bartholomew Edward O’Toole. Joey’s father. Mrs. Patel’s lover.
—i know.
She could picture Mr. Patel in the slush outside a little while ago, walking in front of his headlights with a window scraper in his grip.
—i know.
She could see the Hammerman’s hand, slapping off the light switch.
—i know.
His hairy wrist tucked into a white latex glove.
—i know.
His white latex glove gripping a hammer.
“I know,” she said, barely audible.
“There isn’t time for this, Lydia. This way.”
“I know what your husband did.”
“Lydia.”
Her thoughts came so fast and with such force it was hard to contain them with her voice. She heard herself begging. “Tell me!” She clung to the edge of the counter to stop herself from falling. “Tell me!” Mrs. Patel went pale and covered her mouth with her gauzy hand. “Tell me now, or I’ll get Raj and you can tell him!”
At three months along, Maya had begun to wear looser clothing and had found ways to hide her nausea, but she still hadn’t told a soul about her pregnancy—not Bart O’Toole, and certainly not her husband. But that would change one evening in January, just at the start of the biggest cold snap of the season. The stock show was going on over at the Coliseum, and there were more pickup trucks than usual carving through the snow on Colfax, and even more drunk cowboys waiting for the bus in sheepskin jackets. It was long after dark and the three Patels were at Gas ’n Donuts hours after closing because the BBQ Depot down the block had had a surprise visit that morning from a food inspector. Rohan was concerned that they would be inspected next.
As Maya scrubbed every surface and double-checked expiration dates in the pantry and fridges, Rohan lowered himself into the crawl space to make sure that the pipes that Bart O’Toole had replaced a few months before were holding up against the cold. Raj had been very gloomy lately, upset by Carol’s pushy takeover of his best friend, and tonight was especially bad because Lydia and Carol were having a sleepover and hadn’t invited him. Maya grew so tired of the complaining that she made Raj go out and clean up the trash around the dumpsters in the alley. As he stepped out the back door, Maya could see snow tumbling through the lamplights, and when she turned around Rohan was emerging from the crawl space hatch, holding two items in his hands. In his left, the cold cup of coffee Bart had screwed into the earth, untouched these past three months. In his right, the hammer that Bart, in his horny haste, had accidentally left in the crawl space.
As Rohan straightened out and stared at her with icy silence, Maya realized that she was cupping her belly, as if to protect the life growing inside. Rohan clearly suspected that Bart had been there, in that dark and quiet place, without him, which meant that Maya had been there, in that dark and quiet place, with Bart. Maybe because of this, the words poured out of her before she could stop them.
—I’m pregnant.
Rohan looked confused for a minute, just as he did when he was puzzling over the columns of digits in his account binders. He seemed bigger than usual, wider through the shoulders. He pointed toward the bump of her belly with the hammer in his hand.
—Are you sure? he said.
—Fairly. Yes.
Rohan looked at the small initials scratched into the base of the hammer: BEO.
—Mr. O’Toole?
—Yes. Three months. About.
—Bart O’Toole?
—I’ve been planning on telling you. I was thinking I could take Raj somewhere for a while, until— —Take Raj?
—Just for a while. I was thinking—
—And go away? No.
For months Maya had been anticipating this conversation and she’d always envisioned it as being more chaotic—more dangerous—but Rohan was so calm and cold, it was as if he was storing up his energy. It felt strange to wish he was more upset.
—How many times? he said. With you and him.