“Without you, though?”
“You don’t need me,” Meena said.
Mayor Callahan stood at the microphone on the bandstand. Behind him, the Nicolet Community Band sat quietly in their seats, shiny brass instruments catching the gleam of the sun.
“While this community has, over the last year, found itself in conflict and disagreement over an issue of modern science,” he began, “we are pleased to come together here today as friends and neighbors to unveil Heritage Village’s most recent addition and to honor our country’s forefathers, who, like I said, fought for an ideal they believed in.”
The Custom House stood ready for its unveiling, a red ribbon across the front door. A reproduction of the Liberty Bell had been erected on its lawn.
In front of the entrance to the new building, Mayor Callahan and Mrs. Schuster, the director of Heritage Village, posed for photographers from the Herald-Gleaner with a pair of shiny, oversized scissors. When they had gotten the shot they needed, Mayor Callahan cut the wide red ribbon and stepped aside to welcome the citizens of Nicolet inside, the community band striking up a wobbly, uncertain version of “America the Beautiful.”
Outside, beyond the wrought-iron gates of Heritage Village, the traffic hummed along Homestead Road, the growl of a plane’s engine cut through the warm spring air, and the visitors tried hard to ignore the specter of the Research Tower rising up in the distance.
CHAPTER 25. Manifest Destiny
FOR ABHIJAT, THERE HAD BEEN A SLOW UNDERSTANDING AND A gradual acceptance that this was where his career would come, gracefully and respectably, if not as memorably as he had hoped, to an end. And he had surprised himself by responding to this acceptance with relief.
At first, he hadn’t known what to call it, this strange feeling of lightness, of freedom that had come over him. It was as though he had set down a heavy and unwieldy burden he’d been carrying for years.
It did not leave him all at once — he thought often, still, of what might have been. Some days he wondered if it might still be possible, one of the great prizes. But he had begun to grow accustomed to this new sense of peace that had come over him, to understand that it was valuable.
Fading slowly into the background was the pressure to produce, to publish, to chase, always, after the new, and it was liberating. Instead, he found that he enjoyed his quiet office, enjoyed thinking and writing about the things that had always piqued his curiosity, enjoyed his colleagues and his family.
He had, one morning, surprised Sarala, joining her at the table where she was finishing her morning tea. “Do you know that in a few weeks we will have been married for seventeen years?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s right,” Sarala replied, looking up at him curiously. It was not like Abhijat to remember this sort of thing.
“We should—” Abhijat began tentatively, watching her face, attempting to decipher what it was that a husband was expected to do in this situation. “We should have—” He paused. (Yes, the look on his face said, I think this is right — proceed.) “—a cookout with friends?” His voice lifted at the end, as though attempting to protect himself by wrapping the suggestion in as much ambiguity as possible.
Meena, sitting across the table from her father, frowned, perplexed.
Abhijat looked at Sarala, who blinked and nodded slowly. “Sure. Yes,” she said, nodding again. “We could do that.”
Abhijat clapped his hands together. “Then it’s settled! I will begin the planning,” he announced, gathering his things from the table and bustling out the door to begin the day.
Abhijat had thrown himself into the idea of the cookout. He had prepared and sent invitations that read: “We invite you to join our family, the Mitals, to celebrate the seventeenth wedding anniversary of Sarala and Abhijat.” He’d invited Carol and Bob for Sarala, the Winchesters for Meena, and Dr. Cardiff for himself.
He’d made what Sarala was fairly certain was his first-ever trip to the hardware store and had come back with the trunk of their sedan tied open, bobbing up and down as he navigated the bump at the end of the driveway as slowly as possible. He had then (for the first time ever) knocked on the front door of Carol and Bob’s house and asked Bob if he might help Abhijat unload his purchase.
From out of the trunk came an enormous barbeque grill. Together, Bob and Abhijat rolled the grill behind the house and onto the patio, where Bob admired Abhijat’s selection. “The Performance Series. That’s a good model,” he said, nodding.
“Do you think?” Abhijat asked, though he was certain he’d made a wise purchase, having first consulted numerous back issues of Consumer Reports at the public library before making his selection.
The day of the barbeque was as sunny and warm as Abhijat could have hoped.
“Your seventeenth anniversary,” Rose said. “This is certainly a novel way to celebrate such an occasion.”
“Is it?” Abhijat asked, his head turned a little to the side as though taking this in. “We have not, in previous years, marked the occasion.”
Sarala made her way around the patio with a tray of lemonade, handing out glasses to each of their guests.
Lily stood near her parents.
“So are you packed and ready to go?” Meena asked her.
“Not yet,” Lily answered, though she seemed to be looking off somewhere behind Meena’s head as she spoke. Since Meena’s confession, their interactions had yet to return to normal, though Meena hoped they would soon.
“And how has your campaign been going, Mrs. Winchester?” Carol asked.
“How kind of you to ask,” Rose said, smiling and turning toward Carol and Bob. “We’re all very hopeful.”
“I imagine this business with the collider has been quite a coup,” Bob said, hands in his pockets, rocking back a little on his heels.
Carol gave him a look, but he was prevented from further pursuing that line of thought by Abhijat’s voice, which rang out through the small group of guests. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?”
Their heads turned to regard their host, who stood in front of the sliding-glass doors. Abhijat took a note card from his back pocket and, peering down at it, realized he had forgotten his reading glasses. He patted the pockets of his trousers and shirt as though hoping to discover them hiding there, but, finding this search unfruitful, had turned toward Rose.
“Mrs. Winchester, if I may,” he asked, indicating the glasses she wore on a chain around her neck.
“You’re certainly welcome to try,” she said, handing the reading glasses to him, “but the prescription…” She trailed off.
“Thank you,” Abhijat said, taking them from her. “I am most grateful.” He held them up in front of his face and again looked down at the note card in his hand. “Yes. Now, you must all please excuse me for wearing ladies’ glasses.”
He cleared his throat and began in earnest.
“Thank you all for being here today for our celebration. Seventeen years ago, this beautiful woman, Sarala, was joined with me in marriage. That day made me the happiest of men.”
As he spoke, Sarala looked up at her husband, holding Rose Winchester’s glasses before his eyes as he peered at his note card.
“I have,” he continued, “I must confess to all of you, not always been the easiest of men to be married to.” Abhijat’s small audience began to laugh, a strange mixture of discomfort at the truth of his statement and warmth at the idea that he’d been aware enough to realize it. “No. It is true,” he insisted. “This,” he gestured at Sarala, “is indeed a very patient lady.