In Its Right Place
She was Hindu and that was an issue. "Issue," 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 had planned to win over her parents, not his own. Sure, he attended church every Sunday with Mom, but it was like mowing the lawn. He did it because Mom liked tidiness. Tidiness 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, "Keep her a secret from me, fine, just don't have sex with her. 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'd ratted on him.
"The flowers look nice."
Mom beamed.
"They do, don't they?"
Next to the island in the kitchen, 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." Solomon scooped them off the island, 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 ugly. That is why you hid her away."
When Solomon went on dates with Lakshmi, he lied to Mom, saying he had picked up an extra shift or was going to get his guitar re-strung. Because he feared that Mom 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 house 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 carried on forever.
Solomon didn't know what to say to Mom, so he didn't say anything. He headed out to his '86 Chevy truck. The paint job was scratched, the cloth seats were ripped, and, since he worked as a driver, its poor gas mileage was inconvenient. Yet he had told Gideon that he cherished the truck because it had been his father's. But that wasn't true. Solomon didn't care about his father, whose absence since toddlerhood was more factual than felt. The truth was Solomon didn't know what it meant 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.
He parked in the driveway behind the black and white Ford Police Interceptor stripped of its police markings. Gideon had bought it cheap from the Texas Surplus store. Gideon liked the tinted windows, the deer guard, and the way other drivers slowed down, mistaking for a moment that Gideon was someone in power.
Solomon left the bouquet of tiger lilies in the truck. Gideon pulled the garage door open. Behind him was a magnet-covered refrigerator, three bicycles, and a drum kit.
Gideon said, "Heard your truck coming."
Solomon said, "You had no right to tell my mom about Lakshmi."
"Would a Mountain Dew make you less mad?"
"Sure. Thanks."
Gideon got a Mountain Dew from the twenty-four pack sitting by the refrigerator 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 said much to one another. Their two-man, unnamed band made enough noise. Solomon played guitar; Gideon, drums.
Solomon and Gideon 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 disagreement on a band name, Gideon's parents banishing their playing, "that racket," to this garage, and Solomon bailing before the first semester.
Solomon watched Gideon load a U-Haul and leave, sensing that it wasn't laziness, homesickness, or 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 about her. If he had thought, he might've realized Gideon would be upset.
Gideon leaned against the refrigerator. Solomon stood on the line separating the driveway and the garage.
"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."
Solomon stared at him.
Gideon said, "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."
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. Still, 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. Their friendship was a constant in the equation of Solomon's life, and Solomon would've hated to rework the numbers. He hoped having a girlfriend would make Gideon love someone else, someone who wanted him.
It hadn't.
Gideon said to his hands, "You wanted to tell your mom about Lakshmi, yeah? You said you did. But it's been three 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.
"Lakshmi's waiting for me."
Gideon looked up.
"Your mom didn't make you break up with her?"
"No."
Gideon opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Solomon punched his shoulder.
"Look, man, let's just agree to move on."
This was Friday afternoon, the end of a fifty-hour workweek. Solomon got to know Houston well as a pizza delivery driver: the neighborhoods, outlet malls, and graffiti. He slowed down when passing new tags to appreciate them. After he and Gideon stopped talking, Solomon pretended 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 up. If he perfected Van Halen's "Spanish Fly," for example, he wouldn't have to be a whole person anymore but fragments from which he could pick out the best and trash all others. But this became unimportant when someone eclipsed 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. Lakshmi was smiling, careless. Solomon felt blessed just because a beautiful girl was speaking to him. He figured 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 had graduated that year and was onboarding 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 the bouquet 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 had stolen 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 forever, but enough time to get a feel for it."
"I'd rather be a dog."
She laughed.
"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.
Solomon dropped Lakshmi off. He washed the stains out of Mom's pillows with the garden hose. Only as he took off his boots did he realize he was 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 won her soul. Winning her soul meant Solomon wouldn't have to learn about Dharma, Diwali, or other words he couldn't pronounce on sight.
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 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 she hadn't asked if he wanted to. Was Lakshmi ashamed because 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.
The church was all peeling, white paint and oaken rafters. A hundred people made up the congregation. Attendance was timely. At 9:30 a.m., Solomon and Mom sat down two pews behind Gideon's family, who didn't look up.
The caffeinated pastor climbed to the pulpit. No instruments shared his stage because of some scripture, and that was too bad. Solomon would've liked someone to play guitar. Or drums. It was raining. The rooftop rumbled and the thunder sounded as if God was answering Solomon, "How's that for music, son?"
The pastor pointed to the ceiling.
He shouted, "It starts raining as soon as I get up here. Satan doesn't want this message being heard, but I aim to be louder than him."
The congregation laughed. Solomon laughed, too, because the pastor attributed to Satan what Solomon attributed to God. And that was funny because if it wasn't funny, it was sad.
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. The war doesn't stop if you pretend it's not happening."
Solomon let his mind escape to Lakshmi. Her nose ring. Her 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 lacy, 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, Solomon sat in his truck. The windshield wipers sloshed rain left and right. He could ignore Mom's rage-baiting, Gideon's feelings, and the pastor's sermons every day except for today. Today, the pastor asked him to choose: God or Lakshmi. Solomon's answer disturbed him. The answer was "I don't know."
Half an hour later, Mom banged on the window. Solomon opened the door.
He began, "Sorry, I—"
"I'm driving. 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, which made the raindrops glow red, 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 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, Mom. Did Gideon say something? Whatever he said, it was a lie."
"Then I'll add it to the list. You lied about not caring when your dad left, about wanting to become a musician, and about what you did to my goddamn pillows."
Gideon's betrayal hurt, but that didn't make Solomon open the door. What made him open the door was that Mom only believed what she told herself. Whatever Solomon might've said wouldn't've mattered.
The light turned green. Mom stepped on the gas. Solomon jumped out of the truck. The asphalt of the intersection broke the skin on his hands and knees. Mom screamed. Tires screamed. Solomon got up and ran.
When he reached Lakshmi's house, Solomon was soaked. He didn't want a bouquet he had to rearrange and tie up. He wanted Lakshmi as she was. He didn't want Christmas stockings or Easter eggs that he trashed when the season was over. He wanted Lakshmi for life.
But his current life wasn't right for her. Solomon had to reapply to music school, talk things over with Gideon, and convince Mom he was serious.
Lakshmi 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.