She was Hindu and that was a problem. “Problem,” Mom said, not “dealbreaker” or “hiccup.” It wouldn’t end the relationship, nor would it interrupt. It was something that needed fixing.
Solomon was surprised. He planned to win over her parents, not his own. He attended church every Sunday with Mom, but it was like mowing the lawn. He practiced Christianity only because Mom liked the appearance of neatness. That was what the Bible-verse wall decor from Hobby Lobby and under-a-minute prayers before meals were. So when Solomon told Lakshmi on their first date, “I’m a bad Christian,” it was true.
Mom said, “You’ve always been in motion. You made me put a box over your crib. I doubt you’re settling down now, especially since you’ve kept her a secret. Have you had sex with her? I wouldn’t. Getting attached will make you compromise your beliefs.”
Solomon shrugged. He knew Mom was goading him into arguing, but he couldn’t be bothered. All of his anger was funneled at the guy who ratted on him.
“The flowers look nice.”
Mom beamed.
“They do, don’t they?”
Perched on the kitchen barstool, Mom rearranged the bouquet Solomon had bought at the grocery store. He had agonized over his choices—not because of the price; dates with Lakshmi were his only expense—before settling on tiger lilies: bright, open, and exotic. Mom tied them with a blue ribbon, the “complementary color.” He scooped them off the bar, kissed her forehead, and snatched his car keys.
She said, “Luxme must be—”
“Lakshmi,” Solomon corrected.
He disliked her name. Lakshmi, the Hindu goddess of fortune, sounded too Indian. Just like how Solomon, the Hebrew king whose wives turned his heart to their gods, was too ironic.
“Lakshmi,” she repeated, “must be really ugly. That’s why you lied to me.”
When Solomon started dating Lakshmi three months ago, he aimed for Mom never to find out. He feared that she would turn Lakshmi into one of her stories.
Mom was a storyteller. She was a storyteller the day her husband left without saying why, the night her father got killed in a stickup, and when those girls playing tag wouldn’t let her join “just because.” In place of explanations, she put stories. Stories that concealed what she didn’t like. Stories that told her she understood what couldn’t be understood. Stories, like the Garden of Eden, that began at the beginning and went on forever.
Solomon didn’t know what to say to Mom, so he didn’t say anything. He headed out the door to his ‘78 Chevrolet truck. The paint job was scratched, the leather seats were ripped, and, since he worked as a driver, its poor gas mileage was inconvenient. Yet he reminded his friends the ‘78 was his father’s, and he wouldn’t trade in a classic to save a hundred bucks a month. But that wasn’t true. Solomon didn’t care about his father, whose absence since toddlerhood was more factual than felt, or whatever “classic” meant. The truth was he didn’t know what it was to sell a truck and buy a new car, and he didn’t want to learn.
Solomon had half an hour before when he promised to pick up Lakshmi, so he took a detour. His truck prowled to the house with white, Grecian pillars.
Gideon opened the front door. Though it was August, he wore a sweater and corduroy pants. His childhood home was the Arctic Circle without the sound of penguins or wind. It never felt right to speak above a whisper here, so Solomon didn’t: “You had no right.”
“Would a Mountain Dew make you less mad?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Gideon went to the twenty-four pack sitting by the refrigerator, grabbed a Mountain Dew, and tossed it to Solomon. In high school, these were favorites. But as Solomon took a sip, the taste was flat and unremarkable—like Gideon himself. Solomon tried to remember what was interesting about him, what they might’ve talked about before Gideon left town, but they never had much to say to one another. Their two-man, unnamed band made enough noise. Solomon played guitar; Gideon, drums.
They went up to Gideon’s bedroom. This was where they had accepted scholarships from the same music school, chosen an apartment near campus, and registered for the same classes. People warned Solomon about what proximity does to friends, but he’d thought, what do they know? Friendship survived despite not agreeing on a band name, despite Gideon’s parents banishing their playing, “that racket,” to the garage, and despite the fact that when the first semester came around, Solomon just couldn’t go.
Solomon watched Gideon load a U-Haul and drive away, sensing that it wasn’t laziness, homesickness, or even the insecurity of a career in music that made him stay, but love: a tiny, basic love of familiarity. Familiarity was his singular love until he met Lakshmi in May.
After Lakshmi kissed him, Solomon didn’t think before texting Gideon all about her. Maybe he should’ve. If he had thought, he would’ve realized Gideon wouldn’t be happy for him.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Gideon said.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Whether you believe me or not doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Solomon stared at him.
“Fine. It’s what I’ve always told you. You have to get used to pursuing your intentions as soon as they come. The bolder the desire, the more impossible it seems when the moment is lost. You’ll doubt yourself, hate yourself, and wake up one day to realize you never acted at all.”
Solomon had to stop him. Gideon was going to say what hadn’t been said but his parents suspected and condemned. Gideon was going to say what Solomon knew but pretended not to. Gideon was going to say that he loved Solomon. Not as a friend, not as a brother in Christ.
Or maybe he wasn’t going to say that. Solomon had guessed wrong before, misinterpreting a shaky voice or trembling lip, but he couldn’t take that chance.
Solomon interrupted, “I prefer your lectures on music theory.”
Gideon sighed like he did when he lost the rhythm. Good, Solomon thought. During their first live show, Solomon had learned Gideon hated to be embarrassed, and Solomon didn’t want to embarrass him again—this time by rejecting him. Solomon hoped having a girlfriend would make Gideon love someone else, someone who wanted him. But it hadn’t.
Gideon said, “You wanted to tell your mom about Lakshmi, yeah? You said you did. But it’s been months and you haven’t. It took me getting away from you, but I understand now. You’re not a serious person, Solomon.”
“Name one serious person who’s happy. You can’t. I aim to be happy, and I was happy before you broke my trust.”
“That makes two of us.”
Solomon scoffed.
“Look, man, Lakshmi’s waiting for me.”
“She didn’t make you break up with her?”
“No.”
Gideon blinked. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Solomon said, “Let’s just agree to move on.”
He punched Gideon’s shoulder. It was that friendly punch, as if they were teammates, that sent Gideon down, deep down into a dark hole where he promised himself revenge.
This was Friday afternoon, the end of a fifty-hour workweek. Solomon got to know Houston well as a pizza delivery driver: its neighborhoods, outlet malls, and graffiti. He slowed down when passing new tags to appreciate them. After Gideon stopped calling, it was comforting to Solomon to pretend he was in conversation with those spray-painted words. He talked back by way of a black, six-string Washburn. Another thing his father left behind. Guess he had been in a hurry.
Solomon had practiced guitar at the park, leaning against a tree. It felt more genuine that way, like he was a cowboy on the open range. “Shredding” was a good word for playing guitar because music tore you apart. If he could just perfect Van Halen’s “Spanish Fly,” he wouldn’t have to be a whole person anymore but fragments of himself from which he could pick out the best and trash all others. But this became unimportant when someone blocked out the sun.
“Do you play any other songs? We’re sick of listening to you butcher this one.”
On their picnic blanket, her friends giggled. One of them snapped a picture with her phone. Lakshmi was smiling, careless. Solomon thought he was blessed just to hear her voice. Anything more would corrupt. But when she kissed him underneath that same tree, he was holy.
That was three months ago.
Solomon pulled into the high school. The cheerleaders did their summertime practice on the football field. The ex-captain, who graduated that year but returned to onboard the new captain, spotted his truck, broke formation, and ran to him. They collided like two splotches of paint. The orange and black petals of tiger lilies scattered.
“You’re early,” Lakshmi said.
“Get in.”
Solomon and Lakshmi drove out of the city, parked in an open field, and got in the truck bed. Solomon arranged the decorative pillows he stole from Mom. Lakshmi rested her head on his chest. He imagined her doing this with someone else before she immigrated from India. He welcomed jealousy, that green energy, because he was tired of people he felt almost nothing for. Her face shone with moonlight.
“If I could, I would like to become a star,” Lakshmi confessed. “Not for a long time, but just enough to get a feel for it.”
“I’d rather be a dog.”
She laughed.
“No, I’m serious. I wouldn’t have to worry about paperwork or politics. I’d look forward to going on walks, playing fetch, and eating dog food. Stop laughing; fast food’s basically the same thing. The point is, someone else would have it all planned out for me.”
“I had a dog back in India. Her name was Marshmallow. Might’ve been a poodle or something, but she was defenseless. Some strays got into our backyard, and there was a fight. I didn’t see her die, just the blood on my dad’s hands.”
Solomon was offended, but he didn’t know why. Lakshmi would start on the pre-med track this upcoming fall. Besides, she was a woman, a person. Of course she knew about blood and death. Yet he was offended. But he forgot his offense when he lost his virginity to her.
Solomon dropped Lakshmi off. He washed the stains out of Mom’s pillows with the garden hose. Only as he knocked the dust off his boots did he realize that he had been offended because Lakshmi wasn’t innocent. No, not innocent. He wanted her to be ignorant. If she was ignorant, then it wasn’t her fault for believing in idols. God had an understanding, wrinkly face that invited you to have a beer. He’d give Lakshmi a freebie until Solomon saved her soul. They’d marry in the Western way, with a pastor. Solomon would pay for all the Bible-verse wall decor she wanted. He’d drive the kids to school, sports, and out, out, out on the Texan highways. He’d take birthdays way too seriously... just like Mom did.
Weeks passed. Her questions kept coming.
Mom asked, “How dark is she?”
Solomon didn’t know what she wanted to hear. Would the woman who told him for twenty years to play outside be pleased with “tanned, a sun-glow”? Or would she rather “passes for white”?
When he repeated the question, Lakshmi laughed.
“Take your mom to a hardware store and point me out among the floorboards.”
Mom asked, “Would she marry you just for citizenship?”
“Absolutely,” Lakshmi told him. “After I make you sign a prenup.”
Mom asked, “When do I get to meet her?”
“I don’t know, Solomon,” Lakshmi said. “When do I get to meet her?”
Her entitled tone wasn’t fair. Solomon hadn’t met her parents yet and hadn’t been asked if he wanted to. Was Lakshmi more ashamed that he wasn’t pursuing higher education or because he was white?
On Sunday morning, Mom made Solomon wear a suit. There was spite in her request, but he ignored it.
They drove to church.
Their church was all peeling, white paint and oaken rafters. A hundred people made up the congregation. Attendance was loyal and timely. At 9:30 a.m., the coffee-buzzed, red-tie-wearing pastor went up to preach. No instruments shared his stage because of some scripture, and that was too bad. Solomon would’ve liked someone to play guitar. Or drums.
Solomon and Mom sat down two pews behind Gideon’s family, which didn’t wave or even look up.
The pastor said, “Our world isn’t a world of neutrality. You’re either for Him or against Him. Every action, every thought is claimed territory. A battle doesn’t stop if you pretend it's not happening.”
Solomon let his mind whoosh away to Lakshmi. A nose ring. A forehead mole.
“People’ll often ask me, ‘Why, when I put my faith in Jesus, do things get worse?’ I think that’s sometimes because you weren’t a threat to the Enemy before.”
Her underwear was sheer, with a bra that unhooked in the front.
“More often, I think your life was always bad. You just refused to notice.”
Solomon shuffled past Mom, not facing her, and out of the church.
In the parking lot, he leaned against his truck. Had the pastor planned the sermon, or did he piss people off by accident? Once he had that thought, Solomon felt guilty. He wanted to believe it formed independently so that he couldn’t blame Lakshmi, but she was making him question everything. She was turning him into his mother.
Half an hour later, Mom joined him.
He began, “Sorry, I—”
“Give me your keys.”
Solomon handed them over. Mom got in the driver’s seat, and he got in the passenger’s seat. By the second stoplight, Mom was crying.
“I dream about the stockings I’ll hang for my grandchildren at Christmas. Which Easter baskets, filled with what eggs and candy, I’ll give to them. I want to be a good grandma because I want to be a good mom. Maybe I’m overbearing, and maybe I ask insensitive questions, but I
never made you feel guilty for staying home. I never was for one second disappointed in you or ashamed of you. I wanted to believe I had created a safe, beautiful home—that you would tell me the truth. Instead, you made up a Hindu girlfriend to hide what you and Gideon are.”
Solomon choked.
“Jesus Christ. Did Gideon tell you that? Whatever he said, it was a lie.”
“Then I’ll add it to the list. You lied about not caring when your father left. You lied about wanting to become a musician. You lied about what you did to my goddamn pillows.”
Gideon’s betrayal hurt, but that didn’t make Solomon open the truck door. What made him open the truck door was that Mom only believed what she told herself. Whatever Solomon might’ve said wouldn’t’ve mattered.
When the light turned green and as Mom stepped on the gas, Solomon jumped out of the truck. The asphalt of the intersection hit hard. The skin on his hands and knees broke. Mom screamed. Tires screamed. Solomon got up and ran.
When he reached Lakshmi’s house, Solomon was gasping. He didn’t want a decoration that he hid in the attic when guests came around. He didn’t want a bouquet to rearrange and tie up. He wanted Lakshmi.
But he couldn’t have her with the way things were. He had to reapply to music school, knock sense into Gideon, and convince Mom he was capable of making the right choice. He needed more time.
She opened the door. In her eyes was clarity.
“You wore a suit to break up with me?”
“For me, this is a big occasion. Don’t I look handsome?”
They laughed a little.
“Lakshmi,” he whispered, feeling the way his lips and tongue sounded out the name. “Can we try again in a few years?”
“Waiting won’t make you brave.”
She didn’t believe in him, and he couldn’t blame her.