The man in the car gave him a couple of bucks, waved as he drove off. He put the windshield mop back in the squeegee bucket. No cars in sight. He looked at the clock hanging on the wall of the convenience store through the dust-streaked glass panels. It would be around noon in Louisville.
He called Tara from the payphone by the side of the building.
‘And who’s this?’ said a young female voice, none too friendly.
‘Tell her it’s Shantanu.’
Tara came on the line.
‘Shanthoo, hi, how are you?’ she said. ‘I was worried I wouldn’t get a chance to speak before I left. I leave tomorrow.’
Ah, sweet little Tara. The last connection, it seemed, to anything that could be called home. ‘Things have been hairy, Tara,’ he said, laughing after a fashion.
‘I know, I spoke to Babli, I’m so sorry about Aunty, it all seems to have happened so suddenly.’
He was silent. ‘Yeah, over before it even began.’
‘Kamala and I were talking about how we used to visit you all, as kids, how exciting it was, the train journey to Delhi … a long time ago now.’
‘How is Kamala? Somehow, we never seem to be in touch.’
‘Well, Kamala is Kamala,’ she said, laughing. ‘You know. So – are you thinking of coming home?’
‘No, man. I’m not even in LA any more, had to move north all of a sudden. Just got this job.’
Two cars drove up. A woman looked at him, then shook her head, got off and went to the fuel pump. The owner of the gas station, an Indian, came out, saw him on the phone, yelled, ‘Hey, fellow, there are customers here. Get off the goddamn phone!’ The man took the windshield mop to the woman’s car, smiled at her, glared at him. ‘What, you want me to do your job now?’
He saw the other car driving away. ‘Hey, Tara, it’s great to talk but I have to go,’ he said. ‘I’m at work, and Boss is getting antsy.’
‘But wait, wait, where are you? How can I get in touch? What should I tell Babli? Can I call you back?’ she said.
‘Gotta go, Tara. Take care of yourself. Safe journey.’ He hung up, collected the change that tumbled out.
Another car drew up.