by Rishi Reddi
Ram felt his mouth go dry. His heart beat loudly in his ears.
“That means either he’s lying, or there’s a gun around that got taken or lost. You want to save your friend’s life, you might see if someone knows something about that.”
“Sheriff,” Ram said. He had to close his eyes. When he opened them, the sheriff was still staring at him, assessing.
“You and your friends make yourself scarce. I don’t want to hear no more from you tonight.”
But the Punjabis did not leave. They sat on their roost near the generator long after the sheriff went inside the jailhouse. Surely the sheriff knew they were out there and let them stay.
35
THE MEXICAN BOY HAD BEEN RIGHT. THE LETTUCE FIELD HAD AN EVIL spirit. Ram sat in view of the Moriyama house on a crate under a mesquite. The spot had always been a place of rest. Clive had died on the other corner of the field, far away. He had not ventured there—since. Perhaps he never would.
The Mexicans’ camp had been cleared. He wondered when they had come. The field was half-harvested and plants were beginning to wilt. Already he could smell the acrid scent of lettuce spoiled in the heat.
The future was a blank wall beyond which he could not see. The money that he had dreamed about would not arrive. He wanted to go back to Punjab, to the wife and son waiting for him, to return to the life he should have had. He had saved Karak’s life at the jailhouse, though he had not been able to save the men in Hambelton. He could not help Karak any more now.
Across the unbroken view of the field, he saw Jivan walking toward him. Ram watched his progress, crossing the furrows in the broken earth. When he reached Ram, he pulled up another crate and sat down.
“What did the sheriff ask you yesterday?” Jivan asked.
“When?”
“When the Anglos had left. When he spoke to you privately.” Ram was surprised that Jivan remembered. For the first time, he did not want Jivan’s opinion. But he could not lie.
“He asked why Karak says that Clive had a gun.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I don’t know.”
Jivan looked at him. Ram felt his own weakness. It was Karak’s life they were talking about.
“She must tell, Ram.”
“She is just a village girl. No one will believe her.” But he knew Jivan sensed the real reason. He could not hurt her. He thought of how she had fought off the man who approached her after her husband died. He remembered her despair when she told that story.
“They will hang him,” Jivan said.
“They will be cruel to her.” He did not know whether he meant the Anglos in the courtroom, or the Mexicans in the barrio.
“Why should they be cruel to her? You cannot allow yourself to be misguided. His life is worth more than that.”
Ram felt a stab of anger. Jivan, of all people, knew best the unwritten rules of the Valley. Karak and Jivan and Ram were aliens, and they would never be equal to the Anglo men. But Adela was a Mexican, and just a woman. She counted for nothing at all.
“He killed a man, bhai-ji.”
“It was not without reason. For that, he deserves to die? Have you no loyalty?” Jivan’s voice was hard.
That is not what Ram meant. “He has ruined me,” Ram said. But that was not what he meant either.
36
KARAK’S ARRAIGNMENT WAS IN THE SAME COURTHOUSE WHERE THE Singhs had come for Karak and Rosa’s wedding years ago. In the intervening years they had come to file for Karak’s bankruptcy, for Jivan’s purchase of land. But in Ram’s mind it was full of ill will, the place where Karak had been classified as brown and Rosa as white, where they couldn’t marry.
With Malik Khan’s money, they had retained the attorney, Clarence Simms. Karak’s case was written up in the newspapers, gossiped about at dinner tables and social clubs all over the Valley, and Simms was eager to represent Karak Singh. But funds were short. They had visited Jasper Davis at the bank, and he had used the Model T as collateral and lent them some more. In these two days, they had not heard from Amarjeet.
As Jivan and Ram reached the top of the courthouse steps, Ram saw four Anglo men loitering outside. “Goin’ in there to get the hangman’s noose, boys?” one of them said, in a voice that slithered. “You gonna need it.”
Jivan was walking ahead of him and Ram turned to look at the man, but said nothing. He felt a presence from behind, the heat of a body against his back.
“What’s the matter, towelhead?” another voice said. “If the law don’t get your friend, you know we will. Get him tonight, as a matter of fact.” Ram swiveled to find the source of the voice. A broad-brimmed hat, a sunburned face, familiar from town streets. The man smirked and winked. The first Anglo wedged his body between Jivan and the door and would not let Jivan pass. A young man harassing an old one. Ram stepped forward, past Jivan, and pushed the young man out of the way.
Perhaps Jivan was off balance already; when Ram spun around, Jivan lay on the ground, the second Anglo looking down at him, laughing. Jivan had landed on his back and side. He pushed himself up on his elbow. Onlookers yelled from the street. A policeman was approaching. Ram did not want a scene. He stooped to help Jivan up and they rushed inside.
A crowd was milling at the door of the courtroom in which Karak would be formally charged. When Jivan and Ram pushed themselves to the front, the crowd jeered. The bailiff asked, “You are family?” Ram nodded. He let them pass.
Inside the courtroom, it was calmer. Faces turned to greet them: Gugar Singh, Malik Khan, Harnam Singh. Ram’s throat constricted with emotion. Farther away from the aisle sat another man, wearing a neatly wrapped blue dastar. He rose to greet them. Only then did Ram recognize Amarjeet. Jivan clasped his nephew’s hands in both his own, tears welling in his eyes. “Chacha-ji!” Amarjeet whispered. His face had grown thin, even gaunt. He was young but not youthful.
Amarjeet sat between them. Reaching inside his suit jacket, Amarjeet brought out a small cloth bag, held it between slender fingers. He unwound a thick roll of bills. Jivan’s eyes grew wide. “Where did this come from?” he whispered.
“The granthi at the gurdwara telegrammed requests for support of Karak Singh. So many of our countrymen gave. Even from Vancouver and New York and Philadelphia.”
Ram stared at the money. Were there Hindustanees that far away who felt for Karak? Did they think Karak had done nothing wrong? He remembered Jivan’s accusation by the lettuce field. Perhaps Jivan was right; he was disloyal.
Clarence Simms entered the room and nodded at Jivan and Ram. His eyes swept over the other Hindustani men seated there. He was a slight man who rarely smiled. Ram did not understand why he was so respected. When they had visited him the previous day at his office, he would not look them in the eye. His voice was too soft. Ram wanted him to state an opinion about the murder, the weather, anything, but the man would not.
Simms settled himself at the table in front, next to the table where the district attorney sat.
The courtroom was full now: reporters from the Valley papers, men who led the American Legion, the Chamber of Commerce. The air was filled with their respectful murmur. In the far corner sat Clive’s wife and his in-laws. Kate Edgar was wearing a black dress, a black hat with a veil. She sat with her eyes lowered, meeting no one’s gaze.
It hit Ram fully, then. Clive Edgar was dead. There was a woman without a husband. There were children without a father—just as Ram had grown up, just as his son was growing up, far away. Karak Singh was responsible. How had he befriended a man who could do such an act? How could Ram hope for his release? Yet he did. He was loyal to Karak. The feeling came as a revelation.
The door to the side of the judge’s dais opened and Karak appeared, wearing handcuffs and led by the bailiff. The air grew charged. Bodies shifted and people craned their necks to see. Karak searched the crowd. His eyes locked on Ram. He had shaved and was wearing the pants and dress shirt that Ram had fetched for him, but his skin was gr
ay, his eyes sunken and dark. In the two days since Ram had seen him, deep lines had appeared around his eyes and mouth. What had the man experienced in those two days?
The bailiff removed his handcuffs, and Karak sat down at the table next to Simms, his back to Ram and Jivan and Amarjeet, facing the judge’s empty chair. They all rose when the judge entered. The courtroom was still as he settled himself in his chair, as he straightened his robes. His face conveyed no expression. As the charges were read, he addressed no one other than Clarence Simms and the district attorney.
Karak’s shoulders slumped, his head bent before the judge. He stood almost a head taller than his lawyer, but seemed the meeker man.
“How do you plead?” the judge asked, finally looking at Karak.
Ram heard Karak clear his throat. A familiar sound.
Clarence Simms cut in. His voice was stern and magnetic; not the same voice that Ram had heard in his office. It was a voice to which people listened, that knew command. “Not guilty, your honor. By reason of insanity.” A murmur rose from the audience.
“But I was not crazy, your honor,” Karak said. “I had a reason, I was damn mad—”
“Keep a civil tongue, Mr. Singh,” the judge said dryly.
Karak turned around to look at them, and Ram wished he had not. He saw despair in Karak’s face, humiliation. He was already a changed man. For a moment, Karak’s eyes rested on Amarjeet, as if only now recognizing him, realizing he was there.
“I’m setting the trial for June eighteenth,” the judge said. “Nine weeks.”
THEY KEPT HIM IN A CELL at the back of the courthouse, and the sheriff allowed him visitors, but only one at a time. In the waiting room, Jivan said that Ram should be the first.
Ram hesitated to go. He feared being alone with Karak now; the man’s misfortune was too great. But he followed the bailiff through a short, dark hallway, where three cells lined one side. Karak was in the middle. The other two were empty. He had changed back into the striped prison uniform. He was wearing shackles on his legs. They had finally vanquished him, Ram thought. Made him do the thing for which he could be legitimately punished. But Ram could not name who “they” were.
Ram brushed up against the bars of the cage. A small window near the ceiling allowed a ray of sunlight. Karak turned toward him and the chains on his legs rattled. Ram could feel their weight on his own ankles. How could Karak come forward when he was wearing those chains, even if they were long enough?
They stared at each other. Up close, Ram could see what he did not in the courtroom: the gray hollows under Karak’s eyes, the sagging muscles in his cheeks, the grief.
“I did it for both of us, you know that,” Karak said.
Ram was surprised by his bravado, the attempt at justification.
“Our treasure chest,” Karak said.
Despite himself, Ram said, “Yes, I know.”
“I was mad. Damn mad.”
Ram was silent. He did not want to hear those words again.
“They won’t quarrel with us Hindus anymore. Now they know we won’t tolerate it. Even if I hang.”
“They won’t dare quarrel with us, Karak,” Ram said, to mollify him. He stared at his own boots, at the line where the iron bars met the floor. From this narrow vantage, it was unclear which one of them was imprisoned.
They did not speak for a while. Karak sat on the bench, holding his head between his hands. Ram remained standing near the bars. It was comforting to be there, to stand silently with Karak in the sadness. Ram had not expected this.
Finally he said, “Jivan Singh. Amarjeet Singh. Kishen Kaur. Everyone seeks the best for you. Everyone is fighting.”
Karak nodded, but he did not come closer.
Ram could think of nothing more to say. Then his mother’s voice came to him, intoning a sacred phrase. “In the remembrance of the Divine, there is no fear of death. In the remembrance of the Divine, all hopes are fulfilled.”
Karak closed his eyes.
Night was falling. Ram turned to go.
“Please,” Karak said, “ask Rosa to come see me. I will spend the night here. She can come in the morning. They’ll take me back to El Centro afterward.”
“I’ll do that, Karak,” he said.
37
KARAK HAD NOT BEEN INSIDE A JAILHOUSE SINCE HIS DAYS IN HONG Kong, when he had brawled with a white British soldier. They had called it the “brig.” In the afternoons, they had been let out for exercise and every meal consisted only of rice with a dried paste. He shared the cell with a family of mice. But when Karak’s lieutenant learned that Karak was there, he managed to free him in just two days. That lieutenant had liked Karak. He had watched out for him. Sometimes they drank together, although afterward, the lieutenant would visit the Filipino brothel where the white officers went, where Karak was not allowed.
Now, it was different. He had killed a man. There had been a moment of rage when he had not known what he was doing. Even now, he did not know, exactly, what happened. Only that Clive had arrived and stood in the shed near the door. That Hitchcock was with them. That Karak had been breaking up wood to make more crates, because Consolidated’s workers had taken the ones that he and Ram had made.
If they were by themselves, Clive and Karak would be civil, decent, understand that they were both men. But with Hitchcock present, Clive could pull that gun out of his holster and point it at Karak. That same gun that he had shown off to Karak years before, when he had announced his engagement to his wife, drinking Karak’s whiskey in Jivan’s yard. Karak had held that gun then—pearl inlay in the grip, Clive’s initials engraved on the barrel—he had felt the weight of it in his hand. With Hitchcock there, Clive could laugh at Karak. He could tell Karak to take his blanket and go home.
A glimmer of sunlight had caught the revolver’s barrel, bounced off the perfect circle of its muzzle.
They say rage blinds one, but it is not true. Rage takes away more than sight. It robs hearing and taste, feeling and reason, leaving only the ancient scent of fear and anger and the need to destroy. Karak had wrapped his hands around the axe’s wooden handle. The wood had felt solid, heavy, satisfying. And when he lifted it to swing—that had felt good too. The man collapsed, his life bled out on the land Karak knew so well, where the dirt turned to sand, where the shadow of the packing shed appeared in late afternoon. Where, when the wind blew from the northwest, he could smell Kishen Kaur’s cooking across the unbroken distance.
Karak had not been crazy when he had killed Clive. He would not absolve the Anglos of their guilt by accepting that. He had been enraged because they threatened his life, his existence. There was a difference.
Now, strangely, he felt closer to Clive than ever. He felt the man inside him, like someone he had loved. As if he would step through the doorway soon, to visit. What’s that hellfire got into you out there? Clive would say, laughing his raspy laugh. Why you acting different when Hitchcock is near? Karak would ask, handing him a glass of whiskey. Was he dead? Had he killed him? He could not clear his head.
At the end of the hallway, Karak heard the sound of the wooden door scraping against the floor. He heard Sheriff Fielding’s voice, then Ram’s, and a woman’s muffled answer. The door closed again.
He stood as Rosa approached the cell. He knew how much he had changed from the way she looked at him. His chains shifted and rattled, but something humiliated him even more—he had led Rosa to this place, where prostitutes and thieves came, where lowly drifters stayed the night before they were run out of town. They had lived together in a house, owned a car, a piano. Now the sheriff, Hollins, Jasper Davis, all of them would know that his wife had stepped into this place because of him. He had last seen her several weeks before, when the lettuce was being thinned. When that lettuce field would have set everything right again.
“Entonces, ¿es verdad?” she finally asked. Her voice sounded deeper than usual, bouncing off the hard brick walls, filling the empty space of the cell.
“It
is not true in the way they say it happened,” he said in Spanish.
She frowned, tilted her head. “What do you mean?” The words caught in her throat.
Karak drew closer. She was looking at him with anger, eyebrows knit, but also distance, as if she did not recognize him. He could not tell if she had been crying. She had lost her youth, but still, he felt drawn to her. She had worn her best dress. The dress protected her against the dirtiness he had brought to her, protected her against him and what he had done.
He felt a familiar resentment stir again. After all, he had done it for her, hadn’t he? Because that lettuce would have earned the money that would have brought her back, he was sure of it.
“I am not crazy, Rosa, as that lawyer said.” His hands gripped the bars. “I was mad. A farmer has a right to be mad when his crop is stolen from him.” He was tired of explaining this to everyone.
She seemed frightened by his fervor. Her silence left him flailing. Where did she stand? With him, or with them? He would not allow her to question his dignity.
“That is what I told the district attorney.” He saw the surprise on her face. “That’s right! He visited me in El Centro. He came to the cell.”
“He came to your cell? In person?”
So she did not believe him. Did she respect him more because the D.A. had come to visit?
“Did you tell him anything?” she asked.
“I told him everything.” He saw her expression change. She spoke slowly, as if talking to a child, as if talking to their children.
“He came to trap you. Don’t you see?” She said it without feeling, as if he did not matter anymore. “You Hindus always trust the Anglos too much.”
He felt the flash of clarity in her meaning. The D.A.’s jovial conversation. How he had brought a stool and shared soda pop and had wanted to know about Karak’s past in Hong Kong, in Shanghai, in the Philippines. About his childhood. He had been made a fool when he agreed to grow that lettuce. Now Rosa knew he had been made a fool again.
