“I had a big lunch,” said Siddharth. He was waiting for his father to ask him a question about school — about where his classroom was, or which was his lunch table. As soon as his father asked him a question, he would tell him everything.
Mohan Lal chose an empty table, far away from the other people, from the wooden podium that had been set up on the other side of room. Siddharth scanned the cafeteria. He felt stupid when he didn’t see any other students. Thankfully, his teacher Miss Kleinberg was also missing. He spotted Mr. Grillo, the mustached school principal. He was wearing a three-piece suit, as usual. Larry, the old janitor, was hunched over a broom and chewing on one of his fat cigars. He always had a cigar in his mouth but never actually lit them. All the other parents were chatting. They seemed to know each other, and they seemed to be having fun. Siddharth wished his father knew how to make small talk with the other parents. Most of them were women, but there were a few men, dressed in jeans and sweatshirts. Mohan Lal had on a cardigan sweater over a ribbed turtleneck. He looked like a dinosaur compared to these other guys.
Mohan Lal tapped him on the shoulder.
“What?” said Siddharth. His voice was harsh, but he was actually relieved. It was happening. His father was finally asking him about school.
“Where is that woman?” asked Mohan Lal.
“Which woman?”
“That shrink lady — that psychologist.”
“You mean Ms. Farber? Why would Ms. Farber be here, Dad? This is for parents — parents and teachers.”
Mohan Lal shrugged. “She should be here. She was the one who told me I should come.”
“You talked to Ms. Farber? When did you talk to Ms. Farber?”
A woman with black hair went up to the podium and said, “Excuse me, everybody. I think it’s time we get started.”
He poked his father in the arm. “Dad, you talked to Ms. Farber? When did you talk to Ms. Farber?”
Mohan Lal widened his eyes and put a finger to his lips.
Siddharth shook his head and stared up at the pockmarks in the tiled ceiling. He felt like an asshole. He felt like his father had betrayed him.
* * *
“Welcome, everybody,” said the black-haired woman at the podium. She was wearing a jean jacket. Her curly hair rose upward, not down. She tapped on the microphone, then started speaking. “Most of you know me already. I’m Joe Antonelli, David’s mom. And Joey’s. And Ricky’s. Mindy’s too.” Everyone let out a snicker, and Mohan Lal laughed as well. Siddharth was glad. At least his father could laugh when he was supposed to.
Mrs. Antonelli thanked John Faruci for the coffee and donuts. “Let me tell you,” she said. “Faruci’s is the only place in town where my mother would have bought her groceries.” She asked everyone to hold off on refreshments until they adjourned, and Mohan Lal took the remaining half of his donut in a single bite, using the collar of his turtleneck to wipe his mouth. Siddharth put a hand to his forehead and peered down. He hoped that no one had noticed his father scarfing his food. He hoped that nobody here knew about his visits to Ms. Farber. He didn’t mind visiting her in the “retard room,” as Luca Peroti called it. He didn’t mind, as long as it was private.
Mrs. Antonelli stared right in their direction. “I’m pleased to see we have a newcomer tonight. Welcome.” She flashed a wide smile. “What’s your name, sir?”
Siddharth swallowed.
“Greetings, ma’am,” said Mohan Lal. “My son is a new student here. I’m Dr. Arora.”
“We’re so glad you could join us,” she said. “Ah, and I see you’ve brought your boy.”
Siddharth shrunk in his seat.
Mrs. Antonelli thanked everyone for last week’s baked ziti dinner, then provided the results of December’s canned food drive. Everyone clapped, and a man in a checkered shirt and baseball cap stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Siddharth recognized him. He was Eddie Benson’s father. Siddharth turned to his own dad, who was sipping coffee and staring into space. Why did he bother coming if he wasn’t even going to pay attention?
Mrs. Antonelli cleared her throat. She said that with so many positive things going on, it was easy to ignore the harsher side of life. “I’m sure you all know what I’m referring to. Our boys are making such big sacrifices out in the Persian Gulf. And here we are, living the good life in South Haven. I find myself sitting on the sofa, staring at the television, and wondering what I can do. How can I make a difference?”
Mohan Lal leaned forward. Crap, thought Siddharth.
Mrs. Antonelli said she wanted to make a motion to use three hundred dollars of PTA funds to buy each Deer Run student a yellow ribbon. The students could fasten these ribbons to their mailboxes in order to show support for Desert Storm.
Mohan Lal’s eyes were now glued to the podium. Please don’t, thought Siddharth.
A woman with blond bangs raised her hand. She said that Mrs. Antonelli always had such wonderful ideas. The man with the checkered shirt and baseball cap — Eddie Benson’s father — was in agreement. “We’re all watching it from the couch,” he said, “but these kids — they’re actually putting their lives on the line for our freedom. Heck, I wish we could do something more — something bigger.”
Siddharth noticed his father begin to smile. He nudged Mohan Lal. He wanted to grab him and get out of there. A large woman with glasses stood up and said that the money could be better spent on an extra set of encyclopedias, or color monitors for the computers.
Mrs. Antonelli said, “We’re kinda short on time here, Laurie. Let’s table the encyclopedias until next time.”
It was then that Mohan Lal raised his hand. “Excuse me, Miss Joe?”
A vein in Siddharth’s neck started pulsing.
Mrs. Antonelli turned toward him, her eyebrows curved like the wings of a seagull. “Yes?”
“I hope you don’t mind, but I would like to add my two cents.”
Siddharth bit the inside of his cheek.
Mrs. Antonelli flashed her fake wide smile. “Absolutely. We would love it if you shared.”
Mohan Lal handed his empty coffee cup to Siddharth, then stood up. “Good evening, ladies and gentleman. I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to share a few small thoughts.” He cleared his throat. “You all seem like such intelligent people. This is why it is all the more urgent for us to really think this through. Before taking action, we must think this through and ask difficult questions.” Mohan Lal grinned as he spoke, which infuriated Siddharth. His father was always moping, always fighting off tears. His voice would even crack when he said goodnight. And now he was smiling. Now? Here?
Mohan Lal kept on going: “Everyone here is an educated person, so you won’t mind if I ask you a hard question. Is this war in the Gulf truly just? Is this a war we should be actually be fighting? Because if we buy these ribbons, we are making a statement about this war.”
Siddharth dug his fingers into the back of his father’s brown trousers.
Mrs. Antonelli interrupted Mohan Lal. “Dr. . Arora, right? Dr. Arora, I don’t think I know what you mean. We are making a statement.” Her voice was now sharper.
Mohan Lal continued smiling and said, “Let’s review our history, ladies and gentleman. Who gave Saddam his weapons? Who gave him his money? We did. We did these things because it served our interests. Folks, I am a firm believer in the use of force. But if we support this war, what message are we sending to the world? What message are we sending our children?”