Chapter 23
Over the next two weeks, Emma-Jean’s friends focused on their preparations for the Spring Fling. They pored over fashion magazines at lunch and debated the merits of different hairstyles and nail polish hues. Kaitlin went to the doctor and had her wart removed. The slumber party was rescheduled for the weekend after the dance.
“And I have the best idea ever,” Colleen said. “We’ll do it at your house, Emma-Jean! That way your bird won’t be lonely.”
Emma-Jean agreed that it was an inspired solution, and she and Vikram had started working on a dinner menu that would go well with chocolate fondue.
She was pondering this and other pleasant matters on a warm Thursday afternoon when Vikram appeared at her door carrying a large box festooned with Indian postage stamps.
“It’s from my mother,” he said. “There is something in here for you.”
Vikram placed the box on Emma-Jean’s desk and took out a flat rectangular package wrapped in tissue. There was a short note taped to the top, written in Mrs. Adwani’s distinctive dancing Hindi lettering.
It took Emma-Jean just a few minutes to decipher the words.
Emma-Jean unwrapped the package and discovered a seemingly endless bolt of bright orange silk edged with delicate crystal beads.
“It’s very striking,” Emma-Jean said, holding the fabric to her cheek. It was as soft as Henri. “Though I am not going to a dance.”
“One day you will,” Vikram said.
Emma-Jean nodded. She carefully folded the silk and held it to her chest.
“What else is in the box?” she asked.
“It’s my cricket collection,” Vikram said.
For an instant Emma-Jean imagined the dazzling spectacle of dozens of crickets hopping out of the box, filling her bedroom with their symphony of chirps. But of course she realized that Vikram was not referring to the cricket of the etymological world, but rather that of the sporting world, the baseball-like game that had captivated him since he was a small boy.
He opened the flaps and stared inside with reverence, like a pirate peering into a chest of long-buried gold. Emma-Jean looked over his shoulder, admiring the array of items—dozens of neatly bundled stacks of player cards, felt caps, team photographs and pennants.
Vikram reached into the box and brought out a long and bulky object wrapped in many layers of newspaper. He carefully stripped away the paper to reveal a cricket bat that was battered and grass-stained and emblazoned with an illegible signature scrawled in black marker.
“Donald Bradman’s bat,” he whispered.
“Who was he?” Emma-Jean said.
Vikram looked at her with surprise. “He is one of the most famous men in the world,” Vikram said. “He was a cricket player, a legend.”
“Why did he give you his bat?”
Vikram seemed amused by this comment.
“He did not. My grandfather did. He gave it to me just before he died. It is worth a small fortune now. My mother sent it because I have finally decided to sell it. I am planning to take a major step in my life.”
A feeling of dread came over Emma-Jean. The weeks had passed with no mention of the job at Stanford University; Emma-Jean had been hopeful that her letter to Dr. Markt had been effective. But now it seemed that in fact Dr. Markt had not received her letter, or he had received it and not heeded Emma-Jean’s warning about Vikram’s precarious state of mind.
“I have not told a soul about this,” Vikram continued. “Not even your mother.”
Emma-Jean took a deep breath.
“I am aware of your plan,” she said.
“Really?” Vikram said with surprise.
“Yes I am,” Emma-Jean said. “And I must tell you that I am utterly against it.”
Vikram blinked, as though startled by a clap of thunder.
“I’m surprised to hear you say this,” Vikram said. “I expected—”
“You are not thinking clearly,” Emma-Jean explained. “You are madly in love with my mother. Your judgment has become clouded.”
“Clouded?”
“The plan is misguided,” Emma-Jean said. “To move to California. To teach at Stanford. I heard you speaking on the phone to Dr. Markt. I have already written to him. I have explained the situation. I had hoped—”
“You wrote to Dr. Markt?” Vikram interrupted.
Emma-Jean nodded.
“Well, that explains a few things,” he said, shaking his head.
And then Vikram did something quite peculiar. He began to chuckle. And it occurred to Emma-Jean that perhaps Vikram’s mental state was even more unbalanced than she had feared.
“Did you by any chance tell him I liked to cook with curry?”
“Yes,” Emma-Jean said.
Vikram’s laughter grew stronger until it seemed to fill the room around them and spill out the open window to echo through the streets.
Emma-Jean watched in alarm, wondering if she should call her mother at work.
Finally Vikram stopped laughing. He patted his chest and cleared his throat.
“Emma-Jean,” he said. “I am not moving to California. I have been invited to lead a seminar, over the summer. Your mother and I thought you could both join me for a couple of weeks. We were waiting to tell you, until we had it all planned. It was to be a surprise.”
Emma-Jean opened her mouth to respond, but somehow all of her words had disappeared. Perhaps they had been carried out the window by the force of Vikram’s laughter.
“I had wondered why Dr. Markt was so curious about my cooking . . . and about you.”
“Me?”
Vikram nodded. “He will be in Connecticut next week, visiting his mother. He asked if he could come here, for dinner. He specifically asked if you would be here. And he said something very peculiar . . . He said to let you know that he would wash his hands very well before dinner. He hung up before I could ask him what he meant by that.”
Vikram looked searchingly at Emma-Jean, and his expression grew stern.
“You should have spoken to me,” Vikram said quietly. “It is not a good idea to be writing letters to people you don’t know. Dr. Markt obviously has a good sense of humor, but you could have . . .”
But then his eyes softened. He picked up Emma-Jean’s hand and held it to his chest.
“We can discuss that another time. What I wanted to tell you has nothing to do with California or Stanford,” Vikram said. “I’m selling the bat because I plan to buy your mother a ring.”
Vikram held her hand tighter.
“Emma-Jean,” Vikram said. “I want to ask your mother to marry me.”
