Authors: Catherine McKenzie
“Are you eating?” he says eventually.
“I’m sorry?”
“Have you had lunch?”
I look at the bubbly pot of goodness behind him. My stomach rumbles. “I could eat.”
His eyes narrow, but he nods. I take a seat at the counter, placing my notepad on the worn Formica. He busies himself at the stove, not bothering to ask what I want. I watch him cut a piece of dough and form it into a recognizable shape—naan bread. I sense someone at my elbow. Mrs. Singh has come up behind me on cat feet. She slips onto the chair next to me. She says nothing, just smiles a shy smile.
When the naan has been placed into the oven, Mr. Singh turns to me with his arms folded across his chest. “That bakes quickly. It has to be watched.”
I take this as tacit permission to start asking questions right quick. “Yes, okay. So, you and Mrs. Singh, you had a . . . planned marriage?”
Mrs. Singh raises her hand to cover her mouth.
“Yes, that’s right,” Mr. Singh says.
“And do you mind telling me why you chose to marry this way?”
“I was too busy to look for a wife,” he says without even the hint of a smile.
Nice.
“And you, Mrs. Singh?”
She looks surprised that I’m addressing her directly. “I also want husband,” she says haltingly. “I ask my parents, and they agreed. It is normal, normal way.”
Mr. Singh grunts and turns to the oven. A blast of heat escapes as he opens the door, lifting out the golden naan with a large, flattened wooden spoon. He dips a ladle into the bubbling pot and removes a generous serving into a round copper dish. He sets it down in front of me, and I know immediately that it’s going to be hot, spicy hot, too spicy to eat.
“Why are you writing this article?” he asks.
“Oh. Um, well, it’s something that’s always interested me, the way different cultures treat marriage . . .”
“But you are not married?” Mrs. Singh sighs softly.
I feel like sighing too. “No.”
“You going to eat that?” Mr. Singh asks.
“Of course. It looks delicious.” I pick up my spoon and swirl it through the reddish-brown sauce. My nose starts to twitch. I’m going to sneeze any minute now, any second now . . .
I bring my hand up too late and let out a full-body sneeze that has enough force to spray what I can now confirm is an extremely hot vindaloo up onto the Plexiglas screen between Mr. Singh and me. I reach for a napkin, gasping, my skin tingling.
“Bless you,” Mrs. Singh says as she covers her smile.
I
feel so discouraged after meeting the Singhs that I almost don’t go to my last appointment. But then I think about the uncertainty in William’s eyes when I asked him for this job, and the doors it could open for me, and I suck it up.
Ashi Sharma, speaking to me on condition of anonymity, lives with her husband and two children in a two-bedroom walk-up not far from my apartment. When she opens the door, the first thing that strikes me is her beauty. She has almond-colored skin, light brown eyes, and thick black hair that falls past her shoulders in waves. She’s wearing a loose pair of jeans and a T-shirt with a baby handprint on the shoulder. The baby in question is sitting fat and happy on her hip.
We settle onto a toy-filled couch in the sunny living room while her three-year-old runs loud circles from us to the dining room to the kitchen and back again. I ask her a few preliminary questions, and she fills me in on her background. She was born in Mumbai into an upper-middle-class family. When she was twenty-two, she did a master’s degree at Oxford in English literature. She even had a serious boyfriend there, a Canadian Ph.D. student. But when it came time to marry, she chose the traditional path her parents encouraged. I ask her why.
“You know, there are days when I ask myself that question,” she says in her soft voice, her accent a flawless British. “Even though I grew up with parents whose marriage was arranged, I always thought that was the old way of doing things. But I realized as I grew up that we’re too quick to reject the old ways sometimes. We confuse information with wisdom. And were my friends who married for love happier than my parents? It didn’t seem like it. It seemed to me that they were often lazy about their relationships. They didn’t work at them. And when that heady falling-in-love sensation went away, they were disappointed.”
“When did you meet your husband?”
“He was here and I was at home, so we corresponded before we met face-to-face, but I suppose we met two days before the wedding. Maybe three?”
“What was that like?”
She shifts her baby in her arms. “In a word: awkward.”
“I can imagine.”
“Yes, but you know, that changed very quickly. We had so much in common, you see. That’s the real benefit of using a broker like Mrs. Gupta. She ensures that everything is right. Caste, religion, values. It is not just ‘Oh, we have a girl for you, Mr. Sharma, very pretty girl.’ ” She says this last part with the stereotypical accent of a street peddler, hunching over. “A good marriage broker looks at hundreds of possible mates. If it’s left to the individual, it depends so much more on chance.”
I scratch out some notes. “So it’s all about similar backgrounds?”
“No, I don’t think so. That’s part of it, but . . . from almost the first email I received from my husband, I felt this connection—one I’d never felt before. The same things made us laugh, made us angry. I’d find myself looking forward to his emails, and after a few weeks we were zipping messages back and forth for hours sometimes. He just . . . understood me. Do you know what I mean?”
A chill goes down my spine. Because I don’t know what she means, but I want to.
I want to.
You Are Cleared for Takeoff
A
week later I’m drafting away furiously. My article is due in two hours. The floor around my desk is littered with crumpled-up papers, and I have a shoulder injury from too many basket tosses. My phone rings.
“Yello.”
“Is this Anne Blythe?” The voice is cold and formal.
“It is.”
“This is Karen from Blythe and Company.”
My lungs constrict. “Yes?”
“Will you please hold for Ms. Cooper?”
I count twenty beats of my heart until she comes on the line.
“Good day, Ms. Blythe. I’m calling to let you know your test results.”
“You can tell me the results over the phone? Isn’t that a breach of protocol or something?”
“We aren’t a doctor’s office, Ms. Blythe.”
The Fashion Nazi pops her curious, overly made-up face above the fabric wall that divides us. I turn my back to her and cup my hand over the phone. “Oh, right, sure . . . so, can I, I mean, am I . . .”
“Your results were positive. You can go on to the next step, if you wish.”
My results were positive? Oh, right, that’s a good thing in this instance. I think. Yikes.
I feel like my chest is going to explode.
“Great. So, um, what happens next?”
“I have an opening tomorrow to discuss that, if you’d like. And, there’s the matter of the next payment.”
“Yes, of course. That’s twenty-five hundred, right?” I almost gulp as I whisper this figure.
“That’s correct. Would you be free tomorrow at eleven?”
I agree and we hang up. My hand rests on the phone, immobile.
Oh my God. I passed the test. I’m ready, or I’m not crazy, or at least not crazy enough to get myself disqualified from this crazy process. And if I pay 2,500 more of my hard-earned dollars, I can find out if there’s a perfect man out there for me.
“Results for what?” the Fashion Nazi asks in her nasally twang, popping up again. The ever-changing rainbow of her hair has settled this month on Matchbox-car red. “Are you sick?”
I look up at her slowly and give her my innocent face. “Not yet.”
Her overplucked eyebrows rise in disappointment. “Oh.”
She slides out of view and I resume my internal freak-out. Because if I want to continue the process, I have one small problem. Scratch that. I have one
big
problem. I pull out my checkbook and take a look at my current balance. That’s what I thought. I have a grand total of forty-two hundred dollars. And I need that money for rent and utilities and food. I look down at the final draft I’m working on. If I can do this right, if I get the features column, I might be able to swing the next payment. If I really, really want to.
I know suddenly that I do. But where the hell am I going to come up with the rest? I can charge food and other expenses on my credit card for the next couple of months, but seven thousand more dollars are not going to magically appear in my bank account. I’m also pretty sure—nearly certain, in fact—that bank loans are not available to buy husbands.
Maybe Gil would lend it to me? No, that’s a terrible idea. The last time I borrowed money from him, he set up a payment schedule and called me every month to remind me the payment was due. We almost weren’t speaking by the end, and I vowed to live on the street before I ever asked him for money again. Besides, if I ask him for it, I’ll have to tell him what it’s for, and I don’t want to do that. I can’t.
I catch sight of the time on my computer screen. Shit. If I’m going to have a chance to do any of it, I have to finish this thing right quick.
I pick up my pen and write the last few paragraphs, feeling that flowy feeling I get when all is right in the writing world, as if the words are just there to be discovered. I’m pretty sure the article will pass muster with William. And if that happens, maybe I
will
get the features column. And didn’t Ms. Cooper say it could take six months to find a match? So, maybe I can pay the $2,500 now and save up enough to pay for the next part. It’s time I learned how to save, anyway.
I stack the pages of my article in front of me and start typing it into the computer. When I get to the end of a line, I mutter to myself, “
Clackety-clack, ding!
”
W
hen I show up for my appointment the next day, Ms. Cooper is as taciturn as ever. It’s a bright, sunny day. The sky is immaculate and endless. The cold sun streaming in through the windows makes her office feel harsher and less forgiving than usual, if that’s possible.
“So I’m not nuts?”
“No, Ms. Blythe. Did you expect to be?”
I’m not sure why my IQ drops twenty points every time I walk into this office, but it’s starting to piss me off.
“Of course not, it’s just— ”
“You must be a little nuts to be here in the first place?”
“You said it, not me.”
“Do you think what you’re doing is crazy?”
“You have to admit, it’s kind of unusual.”
“Well, yes, it is, Ms. Blythe. But sometimes the unusual gets results.”
“Right.”
“Arranged marriage was the norm for centuries. Romantic love is a modern notion.”
“That’s what the pamphlet said.”
And my article. Mmm. Wonder what she’s going to think of that? Oh well, too late now.
Her lips approach a smile. “Have you brought the next payment?”
I take out the check I wrote earlier and hand it to her. She tucks it into a buff-colored file with my name printed on the side.
Blythe, Anne.
Desperately seeking husband. As I watch her hands, I notice she isn’t wearing a wedding band. How could I not have noticed that? Isn’t being married a prerequisite to work here?
“Are my test results in there?”
“They are.”
“May I see them?”
A trace of disdain crosses her face. “Tell me, Ms. Blythe, do you have an advanced degree in psychology?”
There she goes again. By the time she’s done with me, my IQ will be down to moron level, and I won’t even be able to tie my shoes.
“No.”
“Then I see no reason to show you your test results.”
“I don’t understand. Are you trying to discourage me from moving ahead?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You aren’t being very friendly.”
“I’m not here to be your friend, Ms. Blythe. I’m here to find you a husband.”
“I know that. But you’re asking me to take a big leap of faith. I would’ve thought you’d be more . . . I don’t know, advertorial or jingoistic.”
Take that, lady. I didn’t read the dictionary as a child for nothing!
She isn’t impressed. “I’m not here to sell you anything or anyone, Ms. Blythe, or to convince you to do something you don’t want to do. You came to us. You asked me to help you find what you couldn’t find yourself. If you don’t want to use our services, that’s your choice. If you do, you’ve passed the test and can proceed. The decision is yours.”
“I want to proceed,” I say, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice.
She gives me a tight smile. “Fine. Now, as I explained to you previously, it can take up to six months to find a match. We’ll call you when we do. However, your therapy sessions will start now. You can make your first appointment with the receptionist. Do you have any other questions?”
“No, that’s fine, thank you.” I stand up. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”
I
show up to my first therapy appointment a week later, feeling extremely nervous.
My therapist’s office is in the same building as Blythe & Company, one floor down. The atmosphere, though, is entirely different. Where Blythe & Company is all glass and steel and antiseptic, Dr. Szwick’s office looks like a family room in a house that’s too busy to care about keeping things tidy. That description applies to Dr. Szwick too. His brown hair and overgrown beard are two weeks past a good trim, and his striped shirt looks like it might’ve been ironed the last time he wore it. But his hazel eyes are kind. They crinkle with intelligence and something more, something I can’t quite place.
“Welcome, Ms. Blythe. Can I call you Anne?” He motions for me to sit in the large, squashy armchair facing his. It’s covered in chocolate-brown corduroy. I can see the faint impression of his last patient on the seat.
“Sure.” I perch on the edge of the armchair and keep my feet planted firmly on the ground. There are heavy curtains pulled over the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room is lit by the soft glow of several floor lamps. I assume it’s supposed to make the clients feel at ease, but it isn’t working on me. My heart is fluttering like a bird’s, and my clothes feel too tight.
“So, you’ve decided to use Blythe and Company’s services?” Dr. Szwick says as he sits down. He opens a black notebook in his lap and writes the date in the left-hand corner with a fountain pen.
“Yes.”
“Funny coincidence about the name.”
“True.”
“Do you think you’re ready for an arranged marriage?”
You tell me, buddy.
“I guess so.”
He gives me an indulgent look. “Now, Anne, I know this all feels very awkward, but you’re going to have to relax.”
“What do you mean?”
“Frankly, you’re being about as forthcoming as my teenagers when I ask them where they’re going and who they’re going to be with.”
“Sorry. I guess I’m just nervous.”
“I understand. Let’s try something. I want you to sit back so your feet don’t touch the ground. Come on, scootch back.” He waves his stubby hand to encourage me.
I reluctantly push myself back until my feet are dangling.
“That’s better. How does that make you feel?”
Five. Annoyed.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. It’s written all over your face. It makes you feel like a child. And you don’t like it, because children aren’t in control of what happens to them.”
Who
is
this guy?
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Good, that’s how it’s supposed to make you feel.”
“I thought . . .”
He leans forward. “Yes? Come on, Anne, tell me what you want to say.”
“I thought you were supposed to be making me feel comfortable.”
“Ah, yes. That’s what I implied a minute ago, isn’t it? When I asked if I could call you Anne.”
I nod.
“And now you’re confused?”
I nod again.
“I want you to trust me, Anne, but these sessions aren’t about making you comfortable. I want to make you aware of your surroundings and how you react to them so we can break down the patterns that led you to Blythe and Company. All right?”
“I guess so.”
“Mmm. We’ll have to work on that.” He writes something in his notebook. His handwriting is too spiky for me to read upside down. Not that I was trying to. He looks up. “Let’s start at the beginning. Why are you here?”
“Um . . . I’m here because I don’t know how to pick the right men.”
“And why do you think that is?”
I swing my feet like I used to do under the dinner table when I was small. “I don’t know. All of my relationships have ended badly, and all the men I’ve been with have been kind of the same. Physically the same, I mean, and I guess I’m the same with them . . .”
“Go on. How are you the same?”
“I . . . I guess I focus on what they look like rather than what they are like.”
“Why do you think you do that?”
Would I be here if I knew the answer to that question?
“I’m not sure.”
“Come on, Anne. Tell me what your instinctual answer is, just the first thing that pops into your head.”
“Because I’m shallow and superficial.”
He frowns. “No, I don’t think that’s it. I think there’s something else operating here.”
But that was my instinctual answer.
“I think you do it,” he continues, “because you believe love is supposed to be easy.”
“I do?”
“Yes. You don’t want to
work
to fall in love, you want to
be
in love. Like in a fairy tale.”
Seriously, who is this guy?
“How can you possibly know that about me? I only met you a few minutes ago.”
“Does it seem inaccurate to you?”
“I don’t know. You might be right. But why do you think that?”
He smiles. The edges of his beard creep toward his eyes. “I’ve been reading all about you, Anne.”
“You mean my file? Am I that transparent?”
“Not at all. I’ve simply been doing this a long time, and it’s a pattern I’ve seen before.”
“So I’m the same as everyone else?”
“Would that bother you?”