hare rama, hare krishna
O
n Fridays my mother made chicken curry for my father and me. Later, she cooked only for me. The curry was still there; my f ather was not. He’d moved, not to Cleveland or Indianapolis, but to a one-story h ouse on Devonshire Drive. Often, and with no relevant provocation, my mother brought up his other woman, referring to her as “that lady.” That lady performed black magic. That lady ruined our lives. That lady w on’t get a dime of his money—just you wait and see. That lady was ten years younger than my mother. At twenty-seven, she wasn’t much of a “lady” at all. Her name was Lisa. She was my father’s secretary. I remember the first time I met her, when I was eleven years old. She was lank, and blond, with glass-colored eyes. Her skin was translucent. She wore chic clothes, far more expensive than anything my mother owned—this in spite of the fact that my father was an ophthalmologist, that we lived in one of the largest homes in our town. My mother was simple—her copper skin without makeup, her dark hair in a braid. When she saw Lisa standing in our foyer that bright summer afternoon, painted and coiffed like a doll, she
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