CHAPTER 6

White fog rolled up and over Richmond Hill. Not yet dispersed by daylight, it encompassed Claire and Floozie at her feet. “Don’t wander away, now,” Claire thought but didn’t say. She didn’t have to. With this animal, you only had to think something and she felt what you meant, telepathically. What with the kids in school all week, she and Floozie spent all sorts of time together now. Claire had taken pity on the always bedraggled little dog and trimmed her snarly coat with a cuticle scissors. Floozie had stood painstakingly still for the entire process.

Unfortunately, the early rays of actual sunshine weren’t catching right for photography. It was only a vapor, pouring through, but it wasn’t hitting the house quite the way she had hoped. She loved this high-speed black-and-white. You could do all sorts of things with it, and never have to bother with artificial light. She tapped her toe impatiently. This particular house had always interested her. It was one of those Italianate Victorians, all hooded windows and brackets under eaves, then broken suddenly by the generous, curvaceous sweep of a balcony, a tower, a terrace. She had pushed the film so it would develop grainy, still sharp but almost muted. That and the fog would be perfect.

There was talk of this area becoming protected by the Historical Association. It would be a terrible shame if they let these beautiful old homes be so radically destroyed by uncaring landlords interested in utilizing the great spaces; adding on illegal apartments, garish extensions, closing off majestic wraparound front porches and turning them into vast waiting rooms, extra bedrooms, windowless, Formica-paneled dens. This one was still intact architecturally, but simply white. She tried to imagine it in the traditional colors of Victoriana; God, there were so many combinations. The best renovation with color she had seen was in San Francisco, where they jazzed up the pediments with six and seven subtle tones at once.

It was awfully chilly up here on the hill. She shivered again and pulled her jacket tighter around her. It was Carmela’s jacket, fashionable but last year’s. Carmela had left it flung across a chair at her house when she’d borrowed Claire’s old navy-blue pea jacket to go with some Marlene Dietrich thing she was affecting. Claire’s jacket was so old it was right in step. And warm, she reflected sorrowfully. Not like this darn piece of floppy melodrama.

She searched the pockets, not expecting much, hoping without hope for a pair of gloves. There was a piece of paper in there, crumpled, which she opened up and read. “Because there was a peacock and a social rodent,” it began in Carmela’s tight script, “there were spider webs, but not where you could see them, touch them. They were in the arms of Ephesus, they jangled small change in their pockets. They were stale-bread eyes wide open. They were waiting for the thunder. Wash them down like silk kimono, chewed-up eye with spittle on it.”

Uch. Yuch. That was Carmela, all right. All talent, no taste. Why did she write about horrible things like that?

Claire hadn’t hesitated to read Carmela’s note, never thought of herself as prying, even half believed it was written somehow for her. Why else had she left it there for her to find? Freud Schmoid, Johnny would say. Still …

“Tell you what,” she told the dog, “how ’bout I buy you breakfast?” Terrific idea, agreed the dog, hopping in. On food they both agreed. It calmed and cured most any situation. Luckily, Floozie was so small she fit inconspicuously inside Claire’s roomy film bag, she’d just stuff the film into the camera bag and off they’d go. “Just don’t budge,” Claire advised her. “Americans are not as permissive about dogs in restaurants as Europeans are, you know.” No, Floozie hadn’t known that, but it was useful information. You never knew where you found yourself in life. She jumped back out of the bag for a last sniff around.

Pancakes, that was what Floozie had in mind. Claire was thinking more along the lines of poached eggs on English muffins, juice, and good strong coffee. This school business wasn’t such a bad idea. Zinnie was dropping the lot of them off this morning, so Claire could get her head start on the light. She didn’t envy Zinnie, getting herself ready for work and the kids dressed as well. Especially Anthony. He was a real toughie when it came to getting ready, stalling and running and hiding under the table. But she also knew that kids tended not to behave as badly towards people who weren’t their mother. Anyway, Zinnie would make it good and clear that she’d just leave him behind if he didn’t get a move on. Claire wasn’t going to worry about it. This was, if she wasn’t mistaken, the first morning she’d actually had completely off since Anthony was born. Usually, she’d race back to make them all breakfast. Yes it was, it was true. She relished the very idea of going “out” to breakfast on her own. Let’s see, she planned, I’ll buy a newspaper and sit there and read it like an actual grown-up person, like a working girl, like a single. I will finish my entire meal without looking up once, without running to “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, come quick” just to discover a shiny new toy advertised on the tube, without going to kiss someone’s boo-boo, without running to break up a ninja battle under my dining room table, without jumping up to compose a Swamiji’s tiffin, no matter how well loved the swami. She could go to Jahn’s, the old turn-of-the-century ice cream parlor on Hillside and Myrtle, romantic and dark with real Tiffany lamps and Impressionist paintings by Papa Jahn himself. Good electric coffee there. Or Salerno’s. Or she could hike across the Interboro to Freddy’s place. Delicious cappuccino. Naw. They’d recognize her and not let her pay. She was really in the mood to chow down, and she didn’t want anyone throwing it back in her face, mouthing off what a greedy horse she was, what an absolute pig. She also didn’t feel like chitchatting with the help, which she would feel obliged to do. No, the hell with that. So where? Ah. She knew just the place.

“C’mon, Floozie, hop up in my bag—oh, never mind, you can use the exercise, I suppose. Just stay by my feet so you don’t go into the street.” Claire looked up suddenly and noticed the beautiful lines of the funeral parlor across the street. Funny, she’d never looked at it quite like this, architecturally. It was what? Free Classic? Miraculously, it hadn’t been destroyed in the renovation. For no other reason, probably, than it was big enough as it was. What the heck. She snapped it quickly and went on her way. Leaves fell in a shower with another gust of wind. So many fell at once it gave new, if redundant, meaning to the term “fall.” It really did remind you why you loved this time of year. Everything covered with ivy had turned bright red, the same cheerful red of the maples, at least one on every street. They hiked along, she and Floozie did.

Floozie looked this way and that. She started to run into the street. “Wait!” Claire cried but it was too late; the car whizzing up Park Lane South seemed to come out of nowhere. Claire covered her eyes. It was her fault, her fault. Her heart came to an absolute and morose stop. It was over. The car just kept right on going. She went to retrieve the squashed body before someone else ran her over again, and the dog stood up. “Rap!” she barked angrily, “Rap! Rap!”

It wasn’t possible. She was alive. Claire scooped her up and ran up the embankment like she had the dog on a plate. She didn’t know where she was running, but she kept going. She only stopped running when she realized her camera was banging a hole in her side. Annoyed, the dog jumped down. Claire fell to the grass. She probed the dog’s trembling body everywhere, jabbing and petting. “I can’t believe it,” she finally concluded. “They ran right over you and didn’t touch you. Thank God.”

“I’m all right,” the dog thought. “Not a scratch.”

“I’ll never be so foolish again,” Claire sobbed. “Don’t ever think I don’t love you. I do.” She smothered her face in the dog’s little belly.

“That’s better.” The dog stretched and yawned. They made their way to the Railroad Café without Claire much realizing where she was going, she was just headed in that direction, so that’s where they found themselves. It was pretty much European enough not to make much of a lap dog, or at least nobody said anything, for Claire made no move to hide little Floozie, who had lived after all. They took a window seat and looked out over the old-fashioned Long Island Railroad station. It was only now starting to fill up with commuters, early risers on their harried way to the city, everybody in a hurry at this hour, shooting worried glances at the enormous, plain-faced clock. One from the old days, that one.

The sun had broken through. There was a chipped, white-painted fence along the yard and delicate vines grew up it, cockleshells with purple morning glory. Claire was glad she’d chosen this spot after all. There were newspapers kept on wooden poles, like back in Munich. Outside, there was a pillared rain pagoda under which nobody stood. A blue-shadowed house in the crowded bright sunshine of the station. There were all sorts of people here. Israelis, Lebanese, Germans, Poles, Indians. Even a couple hometowners. Claire snuggled happily into her skin and Floozie into her. I’m done for now, Claire thought, but didn’t care. Telemann was on the radio. And so they sat there, doing nothing. Silently, Claire prayed that the teacher in the pre-K, the woman to whom she had entrusted her only child, would love her little fellow, her curly-dark-haired, chubby-wristed, overheated, red-cheeked boy, and be kind to him when her patience would wear thin. And whose patience wouldn’t wear thin with fourteen pre-schoolers all morning long?

Suddenly, Claire wanted to be home in her own kitchen. She could make herself pancakes, or even waffles. She remembered the old-fashioned waffle iron she’d found for three bucks at a yard sale. If she got home soon enough, she could make them all lunch. There was one heck of a raspberry bush still blooming in the yard. She laughed out loud, earning herself a couple of New York-style, world-weary but still wary looks from nearby tables. New Yorkers were so used to crazies they wouldn’t get up, they just wouldn’t make eye contact. Anyway, she laughed out loud, ignoring them. Who was she kidding, she was past the days of early-morning cafés with the workers. She had her own work to do. If she got home quickly enough, she could get some developing done in her makeshift lab down the cellar. She really would love to see how those houses turned out. She had an idea. Stefan and Carmela had given Anthony an expensive, beautiful set of watercolors last Christmas. She’d put it carefully away until he would appreciate it, and it had popped up when the family had moved. Something about coloring these houses in true combinations of subtle Victoriana intrigued her. If she gave herself some time, she might make some extra copies and give it a try. She’d originally given the paints to Dharma to distract her, and ever since, she’d had them on her mind. And she had four or five loads of laundry that ought to be done by now if she didn’t want the laundry room to overflow. Oh well. She threw the money down onto the table for her coffee and a tip. She wasn’t going to go and feel guilty; priorities had to be gotten straight here. Laundry could wait, couldn’t it, but the beauty of autumn in Richmond Hill could not. It wouldn’t have to, because she was here to screw it on straight, to record it as it was (or at least as she darn well saw it), wasn’t she? Then she could still be there for the kids when they got out of school. Wearily, but getting used, now, to Claire’s erratic mood swings, Floozie gave a philosophic hop into Claire’s big sack. After you’d been through what she had, your devotion wasn’t only grateful, it was ardent.

When they got back home, Johnny was just running out onto the street. “What are you doing up so early?” she greeted him. When he worked nights you seldom saw him before two. Never before noon.

He grabbed hold of her and whirled her around. “Oh, baby,” he laughed, “she’s running. We’ve got her running in the first race at Belmont!”

“Who? What?” Claire laughed along with him in bewilderment.

“Mail Call.”

“The horse?”

“Darlin’, it’s just a claiming race, but this is it. This could be it! If she wins this, if nobody claims her, next time she’d go on to an allowance race!”

Claire tried not to feel annoyed. She smiled her broadest smile. She didn’t like him to see that it hurt her, the fact that he had never found it exciting enough to lose a little sleep for herself or the baby. Fact was, she’d never seen him this excited about anything. She didn’t want to be petty. She wasn’t going to be. Cheerful camaraderie bubbled from her eyes.

“Good luck, darling,” she sang. “Have fun!”

“Hey! Why don’t you come? Anthony’s in school. I’m only staying for the first race anyway. I’d get you back right after lunch. Your mom will be here to get them lunch, won’t she? And Zinnie’s here after school.”

“Oh, gee, Johnny, I just don’t know. I was just going to call my mom and tell her not to bother to come. I thought I would stay home and work in the darkroom.”

Johnny squinted at her, trying to understand.

“Honey, this is our big chance.” He held onto her arms and his voice had something else to it. Pleading?

She was jealous. Jealous and resentful. She’d always thought if they had some big chance it would be something the two of them would have planned together. This was unfamiliar territory for her. She wanted to react the right way, the fair way, but she felt like it had been sprung on her. He read her face.

“What?” he said. “You don’t do one thing for work in four years and all of a sudden just because I’ve got something going here that I really care about, that could really pull us out of the hole, you suddenly decide ‘work’ is so important it can’t wait a couple of hours?”

“No, it’s not like that,” she said, but it was like that, she could hear the edge in her voice as well as he could. She was grudging and he was ready for her with the injured resentment that sprang readily up despite his surface of happiness. She never could just go easy into his trip. Spontaneously. It always had to be something they’d planned. She’d planned. For someone as wild and with as much action in her past as he had had, she was really predictable and sedentary. She knew it. But she also knew that although he’d used money he’d made on his own, gambling, it was still a lot of money they could have used for something sensible. The mortgage. New windows. A new roof. Anthony’s school. It was his, but she couldn’t help wishing he’d consulted her. He never knew when to stop. He always thought the next windfall would take them over the top. Over the hill to the poorhouse, more likely.

They looked unhappily at each other. The dog moved uncomfortably in her bag. Johnny turned to go. “I’ll be back by three then,” he said, polite. Truce. Not peace, but he had to get the hell away. They smiled at each other, but when their eyes met, both pairs were hurt.

Claire let herself in with her key, let the dog in, and watched her scamper into the kitchen for a drink. Swamiji and Narayan were out somewhere; their mats were folded and still in the dining room. The whole house was still. Empty and still. Claire looked at the table from where Tree’s last letter had looked at her. It spoke to her like no reprimand she could make herself. She turned around and slammed the door shut. She ran down the path and caught Johnny in the street as he was turning the car around. He stopped short and rolled down the window.

“I was thinking,” she said, shrugging. “Maybe I want to make a little bet.”

“Get in here.” He clenched his teeth at her and pulled her hook, line, and sinker through the window.

When they got to the track it was already buzzing with activity. Relinquishing their car to a respectful fellow, they walked in the shiny, tall glass doors and entered into a world of clean mirrored surfaces and hot cigar smoke. They went through the owner’s turnstile and took the escalator up to the second floor. Johnny threw a penny clear across the room at the wishing well against the downstairs wall, and they raised eyebrows at each other when they saw it go right in. They even imagined they heard it hit the water with a sure plunk. There weren’t too many women here, Claire realized as she looked around. Matter of fact, there weren’t any. She had to walk double time to keep up with Johnny. He headed over to the big board suspended from the ceiling. This was quite a place, Belmont. There were boutiques up here, fast-food concessions, even an umbrella-shaded French café. The computerized board buzzed and changed, whizzed information on and then off again. A giant movie screen reran races from the previous wins of the horses running today. Johnny had forgotten her. She could see why. This was an entirely other world. Here men could come and be away from their reality. Claire knew their tarnished hearts held secret dreams, maybe-this-time feelings, a chance again at failing no one. This was all going to be okay. Johnny’s horse would certainly lose, and that would be the end of this fiasco. They had no business owning a racehorse. No business at all.

“Okay.” Johnny took her hand and she lurched after him. “Now we go downstairs to the owner’s circle.”

You could tell he said these words with tremendous satisfaction. Though he pretended this was all old hat, she could tell he was getting the greatest kick out of it. All sorts of guys were coming up to him to wish him good luck. He accepted their respect as his due, did Johnny. As he did her presence. He ignored her, but she knew that he knew she was there. She affected a stance she considered wifely, yet still in the running. Shoulders back, spine straight, then one saucy angle of her slender right knee. Were she alone she suspected she would still warrant a couple of motivated once-overs. To test this premise, she left Johnny standing and gazing at the board and headed across the great football field of a hall for the distant ladies’ room. Yes, away from her husband, her child, her whole life, she could still pick up grungy wolf leers. Sadly, she admitted, this pleased her, and gave her some perverse intergalactic relevance. She returned to her husband revitalized, a new woman. It was so silly, but there it was. These men looked like a bunch of lowlifes to Claire, but then her standards had been honed and jaded by the plasticine world of advertising and the weariness of overseas. She hardly glanced. And so she missed the sharp, indulgent silhouette of Mr. Kinkaid beside the observation fence.

Outside, sumptuous trees and bushes surrounded the paddock. They walked through a turnstile where a fellow stamped their hands for identification and then they headed down the mucky horse path to the prestigious, picturesque owner’s circle. Here were the fellows with the suits and ties, the big owners: they wore navy-blue jackets, maroon ties, and flannel trousers. Here were the broads. Two to a customer. Flashy, high-spirited women in makeup and big earrings, their hair pulled back in imitation of the wives of these guys they’d overseen at some luncheon, somewhere, once. Or in photographs on their sugar daddy’s desk one day he was ravenous enough to let her up past his disapproving, respectable secretary. These owner fellows’ wives didn’t usually come to the weeklies. One demure young woman and her children went to sit genteelly under the tree on the white wrought-iron bench over the wide circle of grass. Her blond little girl ran in the shady periphery of the generous landmark, the hundred-and-sixty-year-old white pine tree. Her velvet sash streamed regally to and fro behind her.

The women stood and preened as the crowd took their places behind the fence on the observation stairs. Each owner went over to stand by his horse as the trainers brought them out. Then the jockeys arrived. Well. A shiver of anticipation fluttered through the crowd when out they came in their flippy colors, these miniature men in exactly the right place. They were magical, full of expertise and athlete’s grace. There was something almost mystical about them, delicate and sure, riding their great, nervous steeds. They warranted respect, there was no denying that. Suddenly, Johnny’s horse Mail Call was walked into the stall, and the trainer and the groom got her dressed. Her colors were powder blue and cream. She was number seven, this glorious beast. Claire’s excited heart beat more quickly.

“Johnny! She’s magnificent!”

The horse’s ears perked forward to catch Claire’s admiring words. Her flanks quivered with that fine-tuned nervousness that separates thoroughbred racehorses from any other living creature in the world.

“Ah, she likes you, lassie,” Wiggins said to her. He was the horse’s half owner as well as her trainer, and he rubbed the chestnut’s beautiful hind soothingly. An awful lot of his dreams lay on this pound of luscious horseflesh here.

“You know how to talk to a lady, Mrs. Benedetto,” he said. “She feels that, y’know.”

“Claire. Please call me Claire.”

“Fine, fine, here comes Michael, our jockey.” He introduced Claire to the quick-eyed man who was to ride Mail Call. Claire liked him immediately.

“He just happens to be the best damn jockey in the country,” Johnny boasted as they walked shyly into the owner’s circle and the horses rode around to give everybody in the paddock a good look at them.

“How did you get him, then?” Claire asked.

Offended, Johnny made a face. “Hey. What do I look like?”

“No,” Claire rushed to assure him, “I mean, how did we get so lucky? He’s so, I don’t know, magical.”

Johnny smiled happily. “Yeah. Well, to tell you the truth,” he admitted, “he kinda owed a favor.”

“Gee. He’s wonderful.”

“Yeah. They don’t come any better.”

“And your horse, Johnny—”

“Our horse, toots.”

They smiled at each other and walked the gracious owner’s walk behind the rainbow-colored pack, down the tunnel to the track. This was really quite something. She was so glad she hadn’t missed this, given it up for petty and small silly stuff. This here, as Johnny would say, was big time. He had already warned her that there are no cameras at the track. It was bad luck, they said. Plenty of cultures believed the soul of the subject was stolen a little every time he or she was photographed. Claire had worked with enough deeply emotionally wrought models to accept this as a possibility. She didn’t mind not having her camera at all. As a matter of fact, she rather enjoyed not having it. This was indeed another world, and she could see how Johnny could get so wrapped up in it. A crisp wind blew them along and the sky was a cheerful cool blue.

They went upstairs to the windows to place their bets. Uniformed guards let them out the windowed walls to the owner’s boxes.

“Hiya, Johnny.” The guard smacked him on the back familiarly.

“Hey, Al, what’s up?”

They made their way down through the rows of green boxes.

“Johnny.” Claire pulled his sleeve and pointed out the wire suspended across the track. “Is this the finish line?”

“Yeah.”

“Couldn’t we go down there?”

“Hell. This here’s the owner’s box. Don’t you want to see the race from up here? Feel the prestige?”

Claire looked out across the bleachers. Far away across the racetrack the horses were being lined up at the start. She looked longingly down at the wire so close to the track.

Johnny watched her face. “C’mon,” he said. “You wanna smell the horses, right?”

Without her answering, they flew back out past the guard, down the chrome escalator, across the opened bridge to down in front. The steward climbed to his perch and signaled the race to begin.

Claire and Johnny stood right there at the wire. His knuckles were white against his program.

“It’s just a race, Johnny.” She leaned against him. “It doesn’t indicate your destiny, you know.”

If he heard her, he didn’t let on. To a gambler, the moment is truth.

“And they’re off!” came the cry.

“Where is she? Where is she?” Claire called out to no one. On the board, the numbers came up. In first place, four. Second place, two; third place, six; fourth place, five. Then it changed. First place, six; second place, four; third place, five; fourth place, one. Two was out. Where was Mail Call? “And it’s Cherry Pie on the rail. Magdalaina in the front and they did the first quarter in twenty-three and four. They’re in the back stretch, they’re turning for home.”

When Claire’s heart had already given up and Johnny’s face had frozen into congenial, resigned, heartbroken good sportedness, from way in the back came the words—the sweetest words to any hopeful’s heart—“and it’s Mail Call on the outside.” Then, wonder of wonders, there she was on the board. She was fourth. Thank God. Claire caught her breath. It was one thing to lose. It was another to lose like a bum. At least they were on the board once, only wait a minute, she was over the hump and she was up now in line with the six and the four. She could hear Johnny screaming, loud. “Come on seven! Come on seven!” They were all in a row. It was the six, the four, and the seven. “Come on, seven!” That was her voice shouting, she realized. She could feel the surge of men pressing up around her to the wire. They were coming down the stretch. Everyone around her was shouting orders over this way and that. She could see the blue and cream of Mail Call and the blood pounded in her ears. She was screaming. Her arm was up in the air and she was on that horse’s back. “Come on seven!” She was sure that horse could hear her. She was up on the fence. There was hollering everywhere. “They’re at the eight pole,” shouted the loudspeaker. The horses were up neck and neck. It was seven. She could feel the front legs of the horse flying over the track. “And it’s seven,” the loudspeaker cracked and rolled overhead. It was wild. She was hugging some fellow and Johnny was hugging some fellow. Then everything turned to a blur. It happened so fast. Johnny was dragging her over the fence to go stand in the winner’s circle for a picture. Claire stood there between Johnny and Tony, dazed and bedraggled and laughing. Mail Call, ears up and sweating and snorting, basked in the glory and the jockey’s caresses of praise. Johnny, upside-down with glee, put both palms to his head and gave thanks, holy Christ, to the ghost of his mother in heaven. Big Canadian geese flew in formation, like birds in a movie, right over their heads.

Johnny tooled the car into the drive with a generous sweep. One hand expertly maneuvered the wheel and the other rested on the leather behind Claire’s head. Here they were. Owners of not just a home, but what would be, when they got finished with it, the veritable seat of charm. They were parents, and both of them simultaneously shook heads fondly at the thought of their own precious child. And now, wonder of wonders, they were owners of a racehorse. And this racehorse had won. The future stretched before them in one golden, assured ray of light. They sighed together. Butter would not melt in their mouths. For once and at long last, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Perhaps they would buy more horses. Johnny obviously had the knack. One day they might buy some property out on the North Fork and, hell, breed and raise them. Johnny pulled the key out of the ignition and the car backfired. His brows knit imperceptibly together. One shutter, Claire noticed, hung embarrassingly shanty-like from their palace. They clicked their tongues in consecutive annoyance but smiled affectionately across at each other nonetheless. This was a day to remember. This, they both realized, was the day that their luck had changed. This was it. Their struggles were over.

“They’re home!” came a whoop from inside. Floozie tore through the newly installed doggy door, a convenient flap Johnny had put right in the door for her. She headed for Claire, who couldn’t help feeling singled out and special. And as teensy as Floozie was, she took such astonishing helicopter leaps that all you had to do was extend your elbow and there she was, perched in your crook. Anthony slammed out the back door barefoot. “Mommy, Daddy, guess what?”

“Where are your shoes?”

Anthony stopped, looked suddenly thoughtful, placed the tips of his fingers together and addressed his parents. “It is disrespectful to wear shoes in the home.”

“Sheesh,” Johnny said.

“Very true.” Claire put Floozie down, picked Anthony up and held him to her. “What a clever big fellow you are to know that! Although, that theory usually works out better when the ceilings are not twelve feet high and there’s something besides bare parquet on the floor.” She put him down gently, then looked at Johnny. “Wouldn’t it be great if we won enough money to buy a really excellent rug? Like a Hindu Kush. Or a Mazar-i-Sharif.” Her eyes glowed, imagining. “Meanwhile,” she looked around, “we’ve got bupkis.”

“Not to worry.” Anthony gave his head a rubbery wiggle, in exact imitation of Swamiji at his wisest. “It is in this way that an idea becomes a thought, a thought becomes a, becomes, uh—” “A word,” supplied Swamiji, padding to the door with a pile of folded towels in his arms. He put the tower of towels away one by one in the open linen closet across from the pantry, smoothing the neatly cornered top towel fondly. “… A word becomes an act.” “And,” Anthony finished, “an act becomes a habit.”

Claire and Johnny exchanged astonished looks. Neither of them had ever been able to convey the shortest memorized message to Anthony.

“How did you do that?” Johnny sat down at the kitchen table.

“Quite simple, really,” Swamiji confided. “I imitated the colorful, hyperactive information-center methods of the television adverts.” He held his breath for a moment and pulled the air into his face. Bright red, he now jutted his arms to and fro his little brown frame in a strobelike repetition. In a loud TV advertising voice, with a flat, nasal, Midwestern accent, Swamiji proceeded to campaign for a toy that not only demolished, destroyed, devastated, and dumped toxic waste upon its enemy, but exploded and put itself back together as well.

Everyone stared at him with glazed-over eyes.

“You must admit,” Swamiji relinquished his beet color and returned to his more characteristic brown. “The sentiments which I’ve conveyed to him are admirable.”

“Maybe I could get you down to the precinct in Brooklyn province.” Johnny wiggled his head, too. “We could put you to work on the perps.”

Misunderstanding Johnny’s sarcasm, Swamiji basked in his words. “I would be honored.” His head bobbed back, to and fro.

“And Ma,” Anthony was out of breath with excitement, “you should see what he can do with his stomach!”

Claire remembered very well Swamiji’s uncanny yogic practices.

“And you know what, Dad? Dad, listen!” He tugged on Johnny’s sleeve. “He can disappear! Really!”

“He can? Boy, now, I’ll really have to bring him down to meet the undercovers. They could always use a couple of pointers like that, eh?”

“A mere illusion caused by disillusion,” Swamiji admitted humbly.

“Where’s Zinnie?” Claire asked him.

“Ah. Narayan has taken her to the new-moon ceremony at the home of Ragu Panchyli. A goodly woman who works with a green card at the Key Food. She cash registers the money,” he added, impressed, adding: “Sit down. I have prepared your supper.”

Claire looked with trepidation at Johnny. He had set himself comfortably in and flicked the blue cloth napkin, which Swamiji had so nicely washed and ironed, onto his lap. Apparently, all this was less jarring for him than she had anticipated. And why not? He no doubt thought such service was his due: a chef de cuisine and manservant to go with his successful new career as bon vivant horseman.

“Where are Michaelaen and Dharma?” she asked.

“Oh, they’re practicing full lotus,” Anthony supplied.

“In front of the television,” Swamiji said.

“Except the television’s not on.” Anthony watched his parents’ reactions with dazzled eyes. “Mom,” he said and sat down at his place without even being asked—“can I bring Swamiji to pre-K? Like to show my teacher?”

“We’ll see, we’ll see,” Swamiji answered for her, and went humming to the stove. He returned with an iron wok full of simmering spicy vegetable biryani and a side dish of tandoori. He held this tantalizingly underneath Johnny’s nose.

“Smells great.” Johnny clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “So, who wants to hear our news? Anybody interested in whose horse came in first at Belmont this afternoon?”

Michaelaen and Dharma entered just then, both of them uncharacteristically subdued. They quietly took seats at the table and listened while Johnny told of his and Claire’s adventure at the track. Swamiji interrupted him once to ask everyone to close their eyes for a moment and give thanks to the one true God. This, to Claire’s astonishment, they did.

Look at this, Claire marveled, watching Vegetable Enemy Number One Johnny tear into the aromatic piazi, which was no more than glorified onion with chick peas. Her child, Mr. Don’t-give-me-anything-but-macaroni-and-butter-or-Froot-Loops, sat contentedly munching nourishing kobi alu motor. Dharma ate. Michaelaen scarfed down everything in sight, even the spicy alu bengan, a mixture of eggplant and potatoes, two things he had always loudly proclaimed to detest.

Claire offered to fetch something, anything, but it was all done, thank you very much; she should relax. And so she did, a guest in her own kitchen, eating with relish and planning a luxurious afternoon developing film in the lab. The radio was on, and it was playing something delightfully Vivaldi. Floozie, contentedly kaput beside her curry dish, picked her head up and gave a slight growl. Claire looked out the window and noticed the top of Mr. Kinkaid’s head skulking hurriedly away. He must have peeked in and seen Swamiji. She smiled to herself. Some days were indeed better than others.

She gave a great languid stretch and thought fleetingly of good Sister Rosaria from back in grammar school, who had warned, “When things are going too good, that’s when I always know I’d better watch out.” Claire shrugged and took a great mouthful of delectable piazi, then Claire looked into Dharma’s drowsy eyes. The child looked back, and somewhere nearby the inelegant boip-boip-boip-boip of a new car alarm butted in.

“Ah, yes,” Swamiji put down his spoon. “And your sister Carmela telephoned just before you came in.”

“Oh?”

He rolled his eyeballs up inside his head to remember. “You must call her back at once. Mrs. um, Dixon has escaped from Deauville.”