“PerdÓn, señora,” he said, bending to pick them up, ashamed at being caught.

He hesitated. He formed the Spanish words in his mind. “I look for Karak Singh. He said he would be here.”

Rosa drew herself up. She answered in English, “He has gone to town.”

The English surprised him, then he understood the pride behind it. Padma would have done the same. “My excuses. I will come back later.” Karak should not have married her, but, really, what had she done wrong? The answer presented itself to him in a flash. She had had the arrogance to accept him, he thought to himself. How had this couple deserved that much freedom? Still, he backed away from her politely, half bowing, regretting his actions.

She hesitated, then her expression grew soft. “You must stay,” she said in Spanish. “He will come soon for his lunch. We can eat together.”

“I will return later.”

“Please—you must stay and eat.”

He was reminded of Padma’s first days in his uncle’s household, soon after they married. She had also been desperate as a new wife, trying to make a place for herself. Ram took off his hat, squeezing it without meaning to. Why should he be stern with Rosa?

“Fine, I will stay, señora,” he said in Spanish.

“Good—” She clapped her hands together.

“If you let me help you. I do help Kishen Kaur—”

“Oh no!”

“I am a good cook. I made so many meals for my work gang.”

She smiled at him. “Among Mexicans, men do not cook if a woman is near.”

He did not push further. He sat in the front room and she took the basket of onions to the back. He could hear her at the stove, stepping in and out of the back door, clattering the pans. Ram sat for a long time, feeling it would be rude to leave, but Karak did not return.

He got up and joined her in back, where she stood at the stove. She smiled, embarrassed. “Do you like it?” she said.

He looked at her with a question.

“We ordered it from the Sears catalog,” she said. He realized that she meant the stove. It was royal blue in color, made of gleaming steel. He had seen it delivered by wagon a week before.

She was flustered now and her face had flushed, but she did not stop working. She was adding water to cornmeal and kneading it with her hands. She was strong and worked quickly. Ram pulled up a wooden stool and sat and watched.

“In India, we do just the same. Our rotis.”

“Sí—Karak has told me. So many things, señor. They are the same. He has taught me to make roti, chicken curry.”