by Rishi Reddi
“But you don’t know?”
“If he had been carrying a gun, he would have used to it to save his life. He would have used it to stop Singh when he started waving that axe.”
“But he didn’t?”
“Upon entering the packing shed, and hearing Singh’s abuse, we were immediately put off,” Hitchcock continued. “Yet Mr. Edgar and I had a job to get done, and we entered the packing shed to do it. Singh brandished that axe to try to make us leave. But we wouldn’t be deterred. Although he was threatening us, I didn’t believe he’d be so determined as to take action. But it was clear now that had been his intent all along.”
“Mr. Hitchcock, how would you explain that Mr. Edgar’s body was found with a holster? How would you explain that the holster was empty?”
“It was a busy day, sir,” Hitchcock said. “Have you never been absent-minded on a busy day? Left your home in the morning without something you should have taken with you?”
The courtroom was quiet. Ram imagined every person was reminded of the time they had done that very thing.
“Would you say, Mr. Hitchcock, that you or Mr. Edgar did anything at all to provoke the defendant?”
“We did nothing. We only wanted to do our work peaceably.”
“What did the defendant do next?”
“He yelled at us to ‘Get out of my shed! Get off of my farm!’ Then, before I knew what he was doing. He swung at Mr. Edgar with the axe and wounded him.”
The jury was listening intently, bodies bent forward, focused on Hitchcock’s elegant face.
“The axe hit him somewhere in the upper arm or shoulder,” Hitchcock continued. “I was very fearful and stumbled back, but I thought the best escape for us both was if I could start my car and we could leave the farm to safety. I believed that Mr. Edgar’s injuries would not prevent him from running. But somehow they did.”
Now Hitchcock looked at Ram. Cold blue eyes that alarmed him, focused directly on his face. “It’s only because of that Hindu that I didn’t die too.”
“Which Hindu?” the district attorney asked.
“That one.” Hitchcock pointed at Ram. All eyes in the courtroom turned to him. Ram froze.
“He wrestled the defendant to the ground,” Hitchcock continued. His voice was hollow, his face without expression, because now he was telling the truth. “That gave me enough time to crank the engine of my car, allowing me to escape.”
BY NOON, Ram felt that Karak’s case was already lost, for how could anyone counter the version of events narrated by that elegant man with the cold blue eyes? Ram had seen how the jury had reacted to his confidence, his authority. Even if Adela told them what she had seen and heard, why would those men believe her? When the judge dismissed them all for a break, Ram and the others did not talk about this.
While the courtroom emptied, Ram, Jivan, Amarjeet, and Kishen decided to stay, for fear they would not be allowed back inside. Jivan and Amarjeet talked quietly in the corner. Kishen Kaur walked slowly in the aisle. Ram rose to ease the ache in his back. The scent of stale perspiration was stifling and he edged closer to the open windows. He heard yelling, heckling, on the sidewalk below. “¡Puta!” A male voice rose above the rest. “Whore! You go in there, you’ll be sorry!” the man shouted in Spanish.
Ram leaned out the window. Opposite the courthouse, a group of Mexican men stood in the shade of the promenade near the drugstore. On the road in front of them, in the merciless sun, Adela was walking by herself toward the courthouse steps. His relief and pride rose together, one emotion.
Several of the men taunted her, jeering. Ram felt their menace himself. Then, one of them leaned forward, positioned himself, and spat. The spot of liquid landed on the hem of her skirt. She did not flinch. His stomach lurched in anger. “Oye!” he yelled out the window and pedestrians turned to look.
She glanced up at the building and Ram thought she saw him. She brushed the hair from her face—a familiar gesture—and walked up the courthouse stairs, out of his line of sight. He felt tears sting his eyes.
ADELA TOOK THE WITNESS STAND THAT AFTERNOON, after Simms and the district attorney had consulted with the judge in his chambers. She seemed prim, rigid, wearing a white blouse with a high collar. She clutched her handbag to her belly. She raised her hand and took the oath in Spanish.
“I beg the court for its patience,” Simms said. “I would like to ask my questions to Mrs. Rey in English, without a Spanish interpreter. But I ask that her Spanish answers be translated into English for the benefit of the jury.”
“Proceed,” the judge said.
“Do you speak English, Mrs. Rey?” Simms asked.
She responded in rapid Spanish, glancing at the young man who stood next to her, below the witness dais. His hair was neatly combed. He wore a jacket and tie. “I cannot speak so well,” he translated for her, “but I understand.”
“So you understand everything I’m saying to you?” Simms asked.
“I understand,” the young man translated. She was holding a handkerchief, and Ram could see her working it, kneading it with her fingers.
“Do you know anything about Clive Edgar’s death?” Simms asked.
“I saw the killing with my own eyes.” A murmur went through the courtroom.
“Where were you when you saw this?” Simms said.
“I was in the packing shed, getting water from the olla that always hangs there, hidden in the corner.”
“What is your feeling toward Karak Singh?” Simms asked.
“I hate him,” she said grimly. “My cousin is his wife. He beat her. They no longer live together.”
“Do you gain anything by coming here today?”
“Yes,” she said, and swallowed. “The hatred of my neighbors. They threaten to hurt me. Today a man spat at me. Another pushed me in front of this building.”
“Then why did you come?” Adela glanced at Ram. For a microscopic moment their eyes met, her expression softened. Ram held his breath.
“Porque . . .” she said, hesitating.
“Because . . .” the translator said.
She stuttered, looked at her hands, the handkerchief, the bag. For a moment, her features strained for composure.
“As God is my witness,” the young man translated, “one must tell the truth.”
Clarence Simms allowed the silence to linger for a moment.
“Mrs. Rey, please tell us what you saw happen between Mr. Singh and Mr. Edgar,” Simms asked.
“Karak and Clive were arguing in the packing shed. When Karak would not stop building the crates, Jonathan Hitchcock entered the shed.” She paused. Her cheeks flushed. “Then Clive took out his gun and pointed it at Karak. He said, ‘A Hindu is worth only one boxcar of lettuce. Take your blanket and go!’”
Murmurs swept through the courtroom. Jivan and Ram exchanged a glance. The judge banged his gavel against his desk. As the courtroom grew quiet again, Simms resumed his questioning.
“So Mr. Edgar pointed his gun at Mr. Singh and told him that he was worth merely a ‘boxcar of lettuce’ and that he should ‘take his blanket and go’?”
“Yes.”
Ram looked at Karak. He was staring at his folded hands on the table, his head bent. Something about him seemed calm, resigned.
“What was Mr. Singh’s response?”
“Karak’s face grew red. I have never before seen him like that.” Adela held the handkerchief to her eyes. “Before Mr. Hitchcock came into the shed, they had only been arguing . . . just words. But when Señor Hitchcock entered, Clive pointed the gun. Karak was so angry.” She breathed deeply. Her chest shuddered, and Ram could feel the breath, the shudder, within his own body. “He ran toward Clive, shouting, screaming. Clive could have shot him at any time, but he didn’t. He just kept pointing the gun. Then Karak swung the axe and hit Clive in the shoulder, and Clive gave such a yell . . . he dropped the gun . . . Then Clive started to run, but Karak chased him. He swung the axe again, and Mr. Hitchcock was running
too . . . and . . .” Adela covered her mouth with the handkerchief. Simms waited until she composed herself.
“What happened to that gun, Mrs. Rey?” Simms asked.
Her face flushed. “After Clive dropped it, I picked it up.”
“Why?”
“I thought Karak might try to use it.”
“And where is the gun now?”
“It is here.” She reached inside her bag.
She held up a .45 Colt, a grip inlaid with pearl, a monogram engraved on the barrel.
For the first time that day, Ram felt a surge of hope.
40
TWO AFTERNOONS LATER, AFTER THE LAST OF THE WITNESSES HAD SPOKEN, after Clarence Simms had delivered an argument in Karak’s defense, Ram entered the barrio and knocked on Esperanza and Alejandro’s door. It was Rosa who answered. There was despair in her eyes. It seemed as if she had not spoken for days. She turned away, leaving the door open.
“What is it?” Esperanza said, coming to the threshold. “Oh!” she said, after seeing Ram.
“Esperanza?” Alejandro’s voice boomed in the background.
“It is Ram Singh,” Esperanza said.
Alejandro came to the door. “What do you want?” he said. His tone was not kind.
“I am looking for Adela,” Ram said in Spanish.
“She is not here.”
“Where is she?”
“We do not know,” Esperanza said. “She left without telling us.”
Ram thought it was a lie. “Just . . . I want to talk with her.”
“We told you,” Alejandro said, “she is not here.”
A knot was forming in Ram’s stomach. “Where has she gone?”
“We are telling the truth,” Esperanza said, without anger.
For a moment Ram wanted to force the door open, to see if Adela was standing there, just listening on the other side. “I don’t want to hurt her—I just want to thank her. She did something brave. She—”
“She has no need of your thanks,” Esperanza said, suddenly irritated. “She did it for Rosa’s children. Now she is in danger and men threaten to kill her.”
Ram wondered how much Esperanza knew about the two of them. He put his hand on the doorframe. “Please, tell me where she’s gone.”
Esperanza stepped backward. “I’m telling you, we don’t know,” she said.
Alejandro wedged his body between them. “If we did, we wouldn’t tell you.” The men locked eyes. “Adiós, Ram,” Alejandro said calmly. For a long time, he had been the worker, and Ram had been the boss. There was no pretense now. “Please go without a fuss.”
The door shut. Ram turned around slowly. The truth hovered like the desert heat, ever-present, suffocating, immutable. He believed them.
He drove to the seamstress shop. The bell chimed as he opened the door. Sitting behind a sewing machine, a gray-haired woman gazed at him without blinking. Mrs. Belvidere did not recognize him; she had met him only once before, a dark-skinned man who spoke strangely, who came from a place that she did not know. He needed to be charming, mild. Certainly she would have known about the trial and Adela’s role in it.
Ram clasped his hands behind his back. “I am looking for a woman who works here, Señora Adela Rey Vasquez.”
“Does she know you?” Her voice was tremulous. “What do you want with her?”
“I have an urgent message to give her. She knows me well. My name is Ram. I am related by marriage to her cousin Rosa.” The woman did not seem impressed by this information.
“Adela no longer works here. I begged her to stay. But she told me that she had to go away for a while.”
He should not hold out any hope. “Did she say when she would come back? Did she say where she was going?”
She looked at him with suspicion. “I asked her the same thing, Mr. . . . Singh.”
She had guessed the name without him giving it. He had underestimated her. Nothing in this town could be secret. “She is a nice girl,” Mrs. Belvidere said finally. “How did she become mixed up in a mess?”
“Yes, madam,” Ram said, hands still clasped behind his back. He did not want to answer her question. If he could just seem good enough, compliant enough, would he get more information? “I hope she is safe,” he said.
“Yesterday morning, some fellas from town were asking for her. I won’t say who they were. They said they had some business with her. I asked what kind of business would two grown men have with a Mexican girl like her? They just laughed.” Mrs. Belvidere’s voice might have a tremor, but she spoke clearly. “It didn’t sound none too nice. Well. She was a good girl, and I asked her to stay, but she said she didn’t think she’d be back.”
Her words beat upon him. He could not accept their finality. He turned to go.
“If you find her, tell her that I will miss her. She was a fine worker. Don’t know who I’ll replace her with,” the woman said.
“I will, madam,” he said.
DID PADMA STILL WAIT FOR HIM? After eleven years, he supposed she did. Waited for him as a wife waits for a husband. Because they were defined by each other, and there was truth in the definition. There was truth in the child that connected them. There was truth in the longing that he had felt as a young man. But there is the land of one’s birth, and the land of one’s work and action, and for some, they are not the same. He remembered the longing, but he did not feel it anymore. He knew, from her occasional letters, that she did not feel it either.
He could not go back now. How could he return when Adela was gone, when he sat in the debris of Karak’s ruined life after Clive’s destruction? But he knew: He could go back. He did not want to.
Sitting on Jivan’s porch, gazing beyond his cantaloupes to the turned-up lettuce field, Ram recognized what he had lost—a child, a wife, a home, a country. For her help in a desperate moment, for her courage in a world gone mad, Adela deserved his thanks, but it was more than that. He owed her something, yes, but it was more than that too.
As the realization came to him, he shrank away from the field, from Jivan’s home, from the letters and newspapers and dust and sand. He knew where she would be. Long ago, sitting together on the back porch of Jivan’s home, she had told him herself. The place that was her haven. For the first time, he knew what he wanted. He knew where he belonged.
He slept and rose early. There were few things he needed. He carried them in one bag, rolled inside his blanket, just as he had when he rode the train into the Valley. He said goodbye to Jivan Singh and Kishen Kaur. He blessed Leela. She was crying, even though he had not said that he was crossing the boundary, had not explained that, after reaching the other side, he might not be able to cross back. She was fourteen now and felt deeply things that adults had long ago lost the capacity to feel.
Amarjeet drove him east on the road to Yuma and beyond. They stopped at Andrade; he would cross at the checkpoint at Los Algodones. The younger man embraced him, and Ram took his bag and blanket and walked. The officer at the border patrol shed waved him through. The earth was crusted with alkaline. A hot breeze blew from the west, carrying dust from the dunes. He turned to look at Amarjeet, who raised his arm to hail him, a small figure across the expanse of the boundary.
He began to walk. The sun beat down. It was exactly the way that she had described: The sand dunes. The dance hall. The lonely street that led directly west to the grove of mesquite, and the tree with a double trunk, twenty meters high, the tree that everyone knew. Walk five hundred paces north. There was the friendly shack. The garden that her aunt tended, housing chickens and peppers. And yes, there she was, near the fence, her hair swept back, hanging laundry in the breeze.
He had not known what he felt for her, this person bred from different soil. He had not known home could also be a second place, far from the land of one’s birth. A long time ago, he had thought it was not possible.
When Adela saw him, her face showed only surprise. Then there was something else, ancient and deep and of the earth. He recogn
ized it inside himself. And he knew, finally, how to name it.
41
April 1974
TWO THIRTY A.M. ON HIS NIGHTSTAND ALARM CLOCK. THE NEIGHBOR’S white light shone through his window, but his mind was still filled with the images of his not-dream. He had sweated through his nightclothes. He rose to use the bathroom, shuffling stiffly past Anika’s room, past his son and daughter-in-law’s door, making himself remember other images that were not not-dreams, things that he had seen on the television just that night: Cronkite reporting the South Vietnamese air strikes. The Hearst girl’s voice on the audiotape. An American Indian with a single tear in his eye, seated on a paint. For some reason, when he needed other memories in the middle of the night, when he needed to ward off the not-dream, the television pictures came to him most easily.
In his bedroom, he put on fresh pajamas and lay down again, the bedsheet tucked under his chin, closing his eyes. The not-dream had left him for years, but Karak was dead now, and perhaps his mind needed to remember. In the not-dream, he and Karak are young men again, working in their old packing shed, building crates from wooden boards. In it, Ram is chasing Karak in the late afternoon sun, Karak is enraged, running with the axe. Ram is running to catch him, to stop him. The red pool forms and grows, reaching the shed wall, then the empty lettuce crates, finally the edge of the harvested field. Ram slips in the dark liquid. The slickness. The smell of wounded flesh. Is that how it happened? Hard to know now, through memory, dream, not-dream. He had not fallen in the blood. Had he? He hears Clive’s big, jovial voice from a full decade earlier, hoarse, as if he is suffering from a cold: “Nothing better than Mexicali whiskey and Mexicali women.” His laugh and Karak’s ring out together. In Ram’s not-dream he falls asleep and wakes, sleeps and wakes, sleeps, and hears Clive’s animal scream, the harbinger of death. Hitchcock, limping, pathetically trying for the motorcar, turning and turning the crank.
Ram woke with a start. He was crying. That surprised him. In recent years, he would meet Karak for lunch if he were asked, or Karak would come to Ram’s home for dinner, uninvited. Karak bore the burden of keeping the friendship, of needing it more. But now the thought loomed up before him. Ram had loved him too.
