Snip. Brat. She’s a toddler armed with a power saw. She’s Hasan Chowdhury. When it occurs to me that I now sound as conventional and as controlling as Amma talking about Luna, I back off. “It’s her money. She has a right to her opinion.”
“Opinion? That’s not opinion, that’s treachery.” On the other side of the house, a door opens, then slams shut. Feet pound along a wooden floor. Jason’s home. “What will you do?”
The answer is obvious. How can I consent to severing my relationship with Surinder? Surely this is just a temper tantrum, a rogue storm to be endured until it passes. But what if it’s not? What if she truly intends to break off contact forever? What is the correct way to respond? “What would you do?” I ask Fee. She must know something I don’t. Her son comes home.
“Dunno. But I wouldn’t give in. Impudent pup.” She’s on her feet rooting through a cupboard. Cellophane crinkles and a sea blue package of crackers lands on the table.
I help myself. Salty, like Fee’s invective, the cracker soothes. We sip tea and let the afternoon settle. I wonder about Surinder. She needs a good talking to. Graham is the only one who could ever get through her thick teen-aged skin and, even then, rarely. But she’s older. And Graham’s gone. Perhaps I should send the watch. But no. That’s giving in to treachery, too.
“It’s not like I raised her to be this way,” I finally say.
Fee’s mouth opens, but she stops before anything emerges. Instead, she pulls her hand over her lips and looks to be contemplating something fragile, like a porcelain doll or a glass bell.
*
I have indistinct memories of my own mother – most of them involving the churning of her strong thick legs as she moved in and out of the realm of my young world. She had tiny hands that smelled light and lemony, one slightly larger than the other – features which demanded my six-year-old notice when she nursed my father through the Asian flu in the spring of 1957. When she came down with it, no one was surprised except her. “It’s nothing.” She would have wrung out a floor rag made from a worn flannel nightgown, then crawled beneath the table. She would have cleaned until it glistened. Until she could no longer hold herself up. She was that way, keeping rituals intact, no matter what.
The June funeral passed in a blur of coconut macaroons and tuna casseroles. People chucked me under the chin and said how brave I was, or hugged me so hard, I thought my insides would spill onto my mother’s spotless floors. I was more interested in three black puppies who played with a greasy paper bag in the empty lot next to the funeral parlour.
There were a few changes around home after that. I stayed with a neighbour once school was out, and until Dad returned from work. But he never failed to pick me up on time. He continued to devote weekends to the family, such as it was – we picnicked, played catch, camped, rode our bikes – after a few weeks, my mother’s memory began to fade. Though this disturbed me – I wanted to hold onto something as solid as her form – I did not mention it to my father, who I believed would have perceived my yearning as a lack of loyalty, and been wounded.
I revived memories when I looked at old photos – images I haven’t seen in decades, not since I left home, but even today are easily conjured up. With her gardening gear and a bobbing crop of black-eyed susans, squinting into the sun. Hair pulled back in a kerchief, behind the wheel of our new 1955 Oldsmobile, a badge of patriotism for all loyal Lansing residents. Then, holding me in a soft blanket when I was half the length of her arm. The mottled afternoon light on the porch made the image appear like an old, cracked oil painting. But in the end, I do not know if my memories were real, or something accidental, constructed by the collision of detail and desire.
It doesn’t matter, I suppose. They are just memories.
*
Two more days, and we finish clearing out my schoolhouse. Fee and I cover the rescued furniture with plastic sheets. My bagged clothing will go to the laundromat tomorrow, except for the peasant blouse, which will go to the dry-cleaner. Perhaps when it’s pressed and smells less mildewy, I will be more decisive about its fate. Everything else is in cardboard boxes in Fee’s basement. My things add a distinctive odour to her cellar.
While I put the laundry into the bed of Fee’s truck, Ed appears for his regular inspection. I don’t know what to tell him. We are ready to proceed. I am sure some of the five thousand dollars remain unspent – perhaps enough for a deposit on roofing materials. He should order them if we are to avoid further delays. But why bother? I probably won’t ever be able to pay for them. Though I know I should say something, my nerves are raw and I cannot stomach the pity he will dole out once he hears about Surinder’s ultimatum.
“Give me a hand with this, would you?” I help him re-tie a plastic sheet which has flapped in the wind all morning. He then circles the house, picks up a stray piece of splintered wood and tosses it into the almost over-flowing dumpster. He slams the tailgate when I’ve loaded all the bags.
“I’ll tell them the dumpster’s ready,” he says. “The site looks good.” He says nothing about what’s next.
That night, Sunday, everyone except me goes to bed early. I can’t sleep. The quiet that blankets the house disallows rest. I get up and go to the living room. I pace between the television and front door. Then I eat corn flakes. I watch the second hand creep around the clock, three, four, five revolutions. Underneath a book – The Pet Goat – awfully juvenile, even for Jason – I find one of Hayley’s discarded magazines. A quick flip through proves nothing has changed since I was her age. The article on how to recognize love is a duplicate of one I read in 1965.
Not that it helped me. I refused to recognize it with Shaheed, and instead spent so many months avoiding naming the feelings that had taken root between us.
And then when I fell for Graham, love was nothing like what any of those infantile magazines promised. It was so much bigger. I felt both a part of the universe, and as though the universe was inside my body. I was consumed by the belief that he would help me carry my burdens through life, because in some wonderful, coincidental way, they were his burdens, too. I would never let him go. I would follow him into the sea. Into the sky. Across the border to Canada. I felt powerless – and relieved.
I still miss him more than any vacuous article could possibly describe.
What does Surinder know about love? Stupid question, Robin Rowe. Your daughter is nearly thirty. I haven’t thought of her love life since she was a teenager and I drove myself crazy wishing she didn’t have one. Not that I wanted her to be unhappy. I just didn’t want her to get hurt.
Such a soft little baby. Ghostly white, almost translucent. Touch her then, and her skin would turn red as a plum. Her wise eyes and aura of serenity that enfolded her form right from the moment of birth prompted a hospital nurse to describe her as “an old soul.” She never pulled my hair, bit my nipple, and when she explored my face, she did not plunge her fingers into my nostrils or mouth. Slow and tender, her touch was a soothing kiss.
When she slept, Graham and I watched, giggled and hushed each other. She would sigh and shift, one fist sliding back behind her ear, tiny lips reflexively nursing on air. Her night waking, heralded by a cry as soft as a kitten’s, never alarmed us, so gentle it was, so yielding her reentry into sleep.
I loved to watch the stretch that possessed her entire body when she woke, the way the muscles and bones unfolded, then refolded. The flesh on her chest would tighten around her ribs, her stomach would almost disappear. And then she’d relax. It was like air rushing back into a balloon. Her body knew how to work without anyone ever having taught it. She was a miracle, no less.
Just as she is a miracle now, though she is distant from that small being that curled into my chest at night and breathed with me, like me, so much so that I wondered sometimes if she was the source of my own breath, not a child at all, but a channel that kept me alive. I cannot give up this connection. I refuse.
Before the sun rises, dizzy with the enormity, I know what I must say. She can do what she likes, but I will sell my home and live on the street before I will cut myself off from my daughter.
*
After breakfast, rain begins and I write two letters. In one, I employ the formal language of lawyers and kindly advise them right back that the offer they broker is not acceptable to the party of the second part, and that they may wish to inform their client thusly. The other letter I address to my daughter. I desperately want to sound mature and parental. She needs to know that despite all that is happening, I love her and want the chance to reconnect. But along with the ink, anger leaks out of my pen.
Dear Surinder,
This morning, I am posting a letter to your lawyer to let him know I cannot accept your offer. I have thought about it, and the consequences, but there is no way I can volunteer to permanently sever our connection. I will now lose my home as you know. As enormous as this is, I will somehow get through it, which would not be the case if I agreed to never contact you again. That would kill me.
Your offer was not surprising, and yet, I ask myself: how could you? No need to answer. I know you move in a world where such silliness and self-centredness are not only a way of life; they are qualities of those who emerge winners. And that is what matters in the legal arena, isn’t it, no matter the cost? The end justifying the means, and all that…
But I was very disappointed, just as I suspect your father would have been had he lived to read your words. I hope one day you will seek professional help for the bitterness which has clearly consumed much of your core.
I don’t expect to hear from you anytime soon, but rest assured, when you are ready to reconnect with your mother (and you will be one day, trust me), I will be ready.
Much love,
Mum.
PS Surinder was such a beautiful and original name for you. You don’t understand what you have done by changing it.
I seal both envelopes, put on Fee’s raincoat and walk to the mailbox. When I push the letters through the slot, I settle my fate. It is 9:00 am. I am ready to face the rest of my life. My next task is to tell Ed he must stop work immediately. I call him on his cell phone and we arrange to meet in town.
Twenty minutes later, we are surrounded by trendy boys in baggy pants and girls with nose rings. They chatter like birds. The cappuccino machine goes full tilt, as though it could burst under all that pressure. Coupled with the babble, it’s raucous in here. We sip coffee and while I struggle to gather my thoughts, I watch the rain on the window. Rivulets, wide and narrow, converge and separate. The window could be a map of Bangladesh.
Finally, I lean in and nearly shout my story – the revised version I see fit to tell, because now that I’ve made up my mind, I don’t want to share the sordid details. So I mention “a family member”, vaguely refer to a gene for stinginess and leave it at that.
“So we have to stop. How much more do I owe?” I reach for my purse, as though I might perform the impossible trick of pulling the balance owing from its innards. I fear his answer.
His gnarled fingers play a nervous guitar on his paper napkin. This time, no fingerprints. He’s washed his hands. He waits what seems like a long time. “There’s still a little left in the pot.”
“Great. Can I – you know – get a refund?” At least I can pay something back to Fee right away, and after the house is sold, I can settle with her and Mac.
“Well, actually, I’ve already ordered the trusses. Sorry.” He frowns, then sighs. “I don’t understand. The bank’s throwing away money…”
“To anybody with the means to pay it back.” It pains me to admit the full extent of my penury. I won’t look at him. I want no more of his compassion.
We sip our coffee. I wonder how we appear. A couple contemplating a sick child; a pending lay-off; a move off the island. Heads bowed, foreheads furrowed, lips shut tight as though there is still time to stop the words that confirm their impossible situation.
“There’s something,” Ed says suddenly. “Just an idea.” I look at him politely, I have to, but there are no unexplored avenues. It costs money to fix a roof. I have no money. End of story. He clears his throat. “I’ve seen you – you do good work. I could use an extra pair of hands these days.”
“Use?” And it is like being underwater where the waves strike the shore. Sand swirls, pushed and dragged. The bottom falls, everything shifts, images flow. And when your sputtering, sand-coated self finally emerges from the surf, you are surprised that a mere instant has passed, not an entire lifetime.
What is this strange man talking about?
“I’ll pay decently. You could start right away – on your own place. We can work out a scheme like – you know – some part of your wages goes toward the balance owing. And you get weekends off, unless you want the overtime. There’s plenty of work besides your house. Whaddya say?”
I say the first thing that comes to mind. “But I’m a tutor.”
“Oh.”
“I have students. Commitments.” My palms sift the air for excuses.
“No one’s saying you have to quit. Like I said, you can have your weekends, and probably most evenings. Hope you’re an early riser though. We like to get started about 7:30.”
In all my ruminations, I never once contemplated a return to full-time employment. If I go back to work, I can get my house finished. I can get a bank loan. But I have no interest in working alongside anyone, especially grimy-fingered, work-booted men like Ed. I know who I am: a semi-retired middle-aged widow with little income, whom it pleases to manage on her own, thank you very much.
If I accept his offer, perhaps I won’t know who I am anymore.
“I’m not very nice to work with,” I say. “I’m not really a people person.”
“You’ll be working with whatever you find in the tool box in the bed of the truck. Plus these.” His hands flop at the wrists. “It’s not the kind of work that requires people skills.”
“I don’t like to talk much,” I warn.
“Suit yourself. It’s not required for the job.”
I work at the flaky arborite on the edge of the table, with a finger nail that is equally chipped and wonder. Graham and I did re-do that whole house by ourselves. But it feels like several lifetimes ago. Like it happened to someone else.
“And another thing. What makes you think I could even tell a socket wrench from a pair of vice grips?”
He laughs. “We’ll go slowly. But it’s not hard. There’s nothing like a good dose of common sense when it comes to working on people’s homes, and I already seen you got that.” As if to mock his words, an arborite chip flicks off my nail and hits his cheek. It sticks to his stubble.
“Sorry.”
He brushes it away and waves to say no matter.
I wonder then about his motivation. I look at his face for pity, which I do not need or want, then for signs of drunkenness, which would do in both of us.
“But why?”
He shrugs. “I told you. There’s too much work. I need someone reliable. It’s a bona fide offer.” He speaks the Latin words like they are a cut of meat or a new fast food. Surinder with all her legal accoutrements would be scornful.
But worthy of scorn or not, he is offering me a way out. I will not have to sell, move, break off contact with my daughter, give up tutoring. Just go back to work. For awhile.
It may be the noise in the coffee shop which is building, it may be the caffeine urging me on, a kind of intoxication, it may be the lightness I have felt ever since posting the letters this morning, who knows what happens in the mind and body when a quick decision is needed?
I nod yes. His smile is both welcoming and relieved.
*
The war in East Pakistan ended just before Christmas 1971. By that time, Graham and I were married and tenants at a drafty Ba
ldwin Street rooming house in Toronto, the unofficial ghetto for draft dodgers and other war objectors. After nine cruel months, independent Bangladesh was born. The news stories of victory emerged, grainy, out-of-synch pictures on the TV that sat in the dining room. Graham held the rabbit ears while I watched parades and parties on stations from Buffalo, scanning, always scanning for a face I recognized. These stories were gradually replaced with more analytical pieces – including a series in a fat newspaper I found at the public library on the widespread collaboration that had taken place between the army and its supporters in East Pakistan. The journalist, Mohammed Atta – was he Bengali? West Pakistani? – said the much-maligned Biharis were not the only collaborators. Religious leaders, government officials, even some college students were identified by name. Though one interviewee speculated that the war would have lasted mere days, not months, and would have been much less brutal in the absence of the collaborators, in general, the reports themselves drew no conclusions. But I didn’t need details to imagine how difficult life must have been for Razzak and his family in that climate. I hoped that he and Luna were safe.
I still hadn’t heard from Luna. She was taking so long to write. Amma, too, was taking her time, but I was more anxious to hear from Luna herself, to hear everything about their escape, their return and the inevitable open arms Mr. and Mrs. Chowdhury would have offered their new son-in-law.
I finally became so exasperated with the silence that I gave up waiting. It had been more than nine months since I’d left. If I wanted to know what had become of the Chowdhurys, it appeared I would have to be the first one to write. That first letter would necessarily have to go to Amma as I had no mailing address for Luna, wherever she was.
It would have been so much easier to compose the letter had I known what had become of Luna and Razzak, and how the family had fared during the war. So I decided to keep it brief.
Dear Amma,
How are you? What news is there? I pray you are all well in Dhaka. What a terrible time you have had with this war. I have been watching the news since I arrived back in America. I’ve been so worried.
This Innocent Corner Page 19
