Ted A. Adams
55 West Street
Medford, MA 02155


The Amreekan

Dr. Kumar wept on the davenport when his wife explained their daughter was seeing an Amreekan. "Since August," she said.

"Three months?" he asked.

"Eight."

He called his baby cousin in Delhi. "What did you expect papa?" she asked.

His wife's sister called to hear if it was true; was he a doctor? He was an Amreekan.

And then their daughter wanted to bring him home to meet them. They drove up in his car, a Honda. He was tall and wide and his shirt was untucked and he wore dirty tennis shoes that he refused to take off, probably because of his foot odor. And he said, "nicetameetya" and squeezed the doctor's hand, no doubt to demonstrate his Amreekan strength. And the doctor listened as his daughter spoke of the Amreekan and he nodded. And he thought of what to say to him but couldn't recall if his name was Todd or Tom or Tim. And when the Amreekan got up to use the toilet, Dr. Kumar told his daughter how he felt it was a terrible mistake, how she should proceed cautiously, and how he felt betrayed. She touched her father's wrist. And before the Amreekan flushed, the doctor and his daughter embraced on the davenport.

Mrs. Kumar came in from the kitchen where she had been hiding, heating rotis with ghee. She carried a glass of water for the Amreekan. She knew he didn't know.

In three weeks it will be arranged. Hindustani.

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