Vanished

by Sheela Chari

  “I can see the music better,” she said.

  Sometimes she asked, “Don’t you get bored, Sree? Don’t you want to watch TV instead?”

  He shook his head. His hair, which had now grown past his ears, hung in big, curly locks around his face, making him look girly.

  “Fine,” she said. “Just don’t get used to it, okay? I need my space.”

  She said that every time, but so far, she had never sent him away.

  December arrived, and, one by one, Christmas decorations began to appear in the neighborhood. First it was white metal reindeer pulling a sleigh at the corner of Lambert Street. Then several manger scenes along Winthrop. And finally, near the stone church came the giant inflatable snowman that her dad called the Pillsbury Doughboy. Some of the newer, flashier decorations came and disappeared in a season or two, but these regulars had been there every year as long as Neela could remember. The sight of them strangely comforted her as she walked to school and back, as if seeing a snowman that was almost as tall as her house meant there was still some normalcy in her life.

  It had been weeks since the rock incident, after which not a single clue concerning the missing veena had cropped up. It made Neela wonder if her mother wasn’t right all along, and that it was best to forget about the veena and the curse and everything that went with it. But just when she was about to give up hope, something unexpected happened.

  One day after art class, Neela went to the church office to get an application for the next semester.

  Julia, who was at her desk, saw her immediately. “Neela!” she exclaimed. “Come in!”

  Neela hadn’t talked to Julia since that day on the phone when the teakettle was stolen. She glanced at Mary’s desk, which was empty. “Where’s Mary?” she asked.

  “She had a dental appointment,” Julia said. “I’m glad you came. I have something to show you on my computer.”

  Neela walked gingerly around the stacks of papers and bags on Julia’s desk, trying not to knock anything over.

  “Don’t mind my mess,” Julia said cheerfully. “You wouldn’t guess looking at it, but it’s an organized mess. I know where everything is.”

  “So, did you ever find the teakettle?” Neela asked. She looked at Julia’s things. If it was here, they would never find it.

  “No, but I found something else. I was scratching my head, trying to figure out how to track down Hal or your missing—uh, what was it again?”

  “Veena.”

  “Right. So then I had this idea—what if I looked through the pictures from our fall picnic? Maybe Hal is someone who belongs to our church.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Neela said. “But you don’t know what he looks like.”

  “Oh, I know just about everyone who comes and goes in the church. So I figured I would look for an elderly, well-dressed man—that’s how you described him—that I didn’t know. And bingo.” She opened a computer file. “Is this your Hal?”

  Neela watched the screen as the picture loaded. Then there before her was the very man she had met, a person she had almost come to believe didn’t exist, until she saw his photo staring back at her. He was dressed differently, this time in navy slacks and a pale purple polo shirt, but he had the same hawkish eyes and the shortly cropped gray hair, and he was standing with a plate of food next to Mary Goodwin.

  “That’s him,” Neela said excitedly. “And look, Mary does know him. They’re standing together.”

  “That’s right,” Julia agreed.

  “So she lied,” Neela said, then wondered if that was the right thing to say in front of Julia.

  But Julia was more puzzled than anything. “Maybe she met him that day and forgot. It was a newcomer picnic, and there were so many people there. I have great respect for Mary. It isn’t like her to lie.”

  Neela didn’t say anything. Personally, she didn’t trust Mary, but Julia did have a point about the newcomer picnic. She studied the photo. Mary wore a dark-colored, button-up blouse, and looked as if she were at a funeral instead of a picnic. Hal looked as he did the last time Neela saw him: well-dressed and nice. How could someone who looked like him steal her veena? Or throw a rock at her house?

  “So, now what?” she asked.

  “You tell me,” Julia said. “We’ve got this picture of Hal.”

  And Mary, Neela wanted to add. “Is there a way to find out where Hal lives?” she asked instead. “If he belongs to the church, you could have his address somewhere, like an address book.…” Her voice trailed off. She looked at Julia’s desk. How would anyone find anything in all those stacks of papers?

  “Yes!” Julia said. “We have it in two formats—one in hard copy, which would be in…Now which stack would it be? Hmm.”

  Neela looked again at the heaping stacks. “What’s the other format?”

  “On the computer,” Julia said. “How brilliant! Let’s look him up on my computer.”

  Neela wasn’t sure why Julia was so excited, but then again, it was exciting, like being detectives. But the only name they knew was Hal. When Julia typed it in, no records came up. And just like that, the search was over.

  “Don’t worry,” Julia said, seeing Neela’s face. “I’m not sure if it’s allowed, but I’m going to e-mail you this picture of Hal. You hang on to it. Maybe seeing his face will jog your memory, and you’ll remember something important about him that will help you find your vee—um—instrument.”

  Neela smiled and said thanks, but she was disappointed. Also, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to look at Hal’s face much longer.

  They talked a bit more while Neela told her about the rock and how it had happened on the same day as the teakettle getting stolen. She didn’t want to sound crazy, so she didn’t mention Veronica Wyvern, Guru, or the curse. Then they moved on to other things, like Neela’s art class, school, and finally music.

  “I used to play the clarinet when I was a child.” Julia laughed. “Boy, did I stink. The neighborhood must have been very happy when I gave it up.”

  “It’s hard to play anything in tune,” Neela said. “I sounded terrible when I began. I’m so much better now than before. But I still have to get over my stage fright.”

  “Oh, you have that? My daughter, who’s grown up now, had the same problem. Her hands would shake like crazy during her piano recitals. I’d tell her to think of pink elephants.”

  “Thinking doesn’t help,” Neela said. “Not thinking does. But it’s hard not to think when I play.”

  “Well, I still say you’re very admirable, being so serious about music at your age.”

  Neela knew Julia was probably just being nice, but it was still satisfying to get a compliment. No one had ever called her admirable or serious before.

  Just then the phone rang. As Julia answered, Neela noticed that the wyvern embroidery was back on Mary’s desk. Here was her chance to look at it!

  She went over and picked it up. The price tag on the back said Dray’s Discount Store. Hardly a family heirloom, she thought. The only thing interesting was the banner across the top, in which the word wyvern was stitched in curlicue writing. Neela’s heart leaped for a moment when she recognized the word, but then again, she already knew the dragon was a wyvern, so it didn’t tell her all that much. So what was it that Mary didn’t want her to see?

  Her eyes met Julia’s.

  “Sorry, Neela,” Julia whispered, covering the mouthpiece. “I have to take this one.” She smiled at her before resuming her phone conversation.

  Neela looked again at the embroidery. She had never stolen anything in her whole life. And yet she had the strongest urge to tuck the frame inside her cardigan and slip out before Julia noticed. The feeling was so intense, her arm tingled and her throat went dry. She told herself stealing was wrong and that Julia could get in trouble.

  Still, Neela was sure there was something important about the embroidery. Could she take a picture of it somehow? Looking around the room, she spotted the photocopying machine behind Ma
ry’s desk.

  She lifted the lid of the machine and turned to Julia. “Can I photocopy this?” she asked softly.

  Julia, who was still busy talking, nodded distractedly.

  Neela watched as the light from the machine crossed under the embroidery she had laid flat over the glass tray. When the copy came out, she surveyed the results. Wow! The copy of the wyvern was clear and crisp.

  She put the frame back on Mary’s desk, glad she had found a solution, but a bit unsettled by how close she had come to stealing. I’m getting as bad as Hal, she thought.

  She waved to Julia before leaving. After weeks of nothing, she now had Hal’s picture, a photocopy of Mary’s embroidery, and she had made a friend in Julia. A pretty good day in all. Now if she could only figure out what Mary was up to.

  Sunday morning, Neela woke up to Sree howling in the bathroom.

  “Sree, I’ll be fast,” Mrs. Krishnan said over his whining voice.

  “No, no, noooo…”

  Neela put her pillow over her head. Not again, she thought. She tried to ignore them, willing herself back to sleep. But the harder she tried, the louder Sree’s voice became. Would the two of them ever stop? Finally Neela rose from bed. She wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do, but by the time she reached the bathroom and saw the lollipops all over the floor, she had made up her mind. She held out her hand. “Give me the scissors.”

  Mrs. Krishnan stared at her. Behind them, Sree lay in a quivering heap on the ground.

  “But you don’t know anything about…” her mom started. She looked down at Sree. “Honey, if you just had a lollipop and…”

  Sree cried even harder.

  By now, Mr. Krishnan had stopped by the bathroom, too. “Neela wants to help? Grab the chance!”

  “But she’s only eleven,” Mrs. Krishnan said, alarmed. “Can we really trust her with the scissors? He moves around so much and—”

  “She’ll be fine,” he said.

  Neela closed the bathroom door behind her. After a moment, she heard her parents clattering their mugs in the kitchen. Her mom said, “How can we have coffee while she might be in there puncturing his face?”

  Great, Neela thought. She was glad her mother had so much confidence in her. She looked down at her brother. “Get up,” she said.

  “No,” he cried. He curled up into a smaller ball.

  “I’m not cutting your hair,” she said.

  He looked up at her. “You’re not?”

  “No. At least not the way Mom wants.”

  She could see the gears turning in his head: Where was the trick? “No tricks,” she said.

  He sat up. “Are you cutting out my brain?”

  “Of course not.” She looked around the bathroom. Then she saw something that gave her an idea. “Sit on the toilet, Sree. With the lid down.” From the shelf behind him, she picked up a bowl of seashells, dumped them into the bathtub, and dusted off the empty bowl. Then she put it upside down on his head.

  Sree started squirming, then giggling. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m protecting your brain. I’ll only cut whatever is sticking out of the bowl.”

  He thought about it for a moment. “Promise?”

  “Yeah.”

  Then he sat still as she carefully snipped the ends of his hair around the edge of the bowl—along his forehead, around his ears, and then behind his neck.

  Halfway through, Sree looked up at her. “I hate lollipops,” he said.

  Neela nodded. “I know.”

  That evening, Sudha Auntie came for dinner. Mrs. Krishnan made it a point to invite her over a few times in the year so she and Mr. Krishnan could suck up to her. At least, that was how Neela saw it. Sudha Auntie arrived promptly at six o’clock in a mustard-colored sari and matching blouse, carrying a bag of oranges, which she gave to Mrs. Krishnan.

  Everyone settled down in the living room, including Sree, who was still happily fingering his new haircut. He had liked it so much, he said he wanted it done with a bowl every time. When Mr. Krishnan saw Sree, he said something like, “Look, it’s the fifth Beatle!” But mostly he and Mrs. Krishnan were relieved that nothing had been punctured or shorn and that Sree ended up looking half decent.

  Sudha Auntie began by talking about growing up in Thanjavur, a city in India famous for art and music. “It’s a place where music lives and breathes. All the leading instrument-makers reside there; even Guru did.”

  When she heard Guru’s name, Neela sat up. Would Sudha Auntie say more about the maya veena? Neela had studied the picture of Hal and the photocopy of the embroidery what seemed like a hundred times, but so far, she had come up with nothing.

  But today her teacher was more focused on her own roots. “My family, for three generations, have all been musicians. When I was only six years old, my mother began teaching me the veena. So you can just imagine how my family of musicians living in Thanjavur reacted when I said I wanted to be a veterinarian.”

  “What did they do?” Neela asked.

  “They married me off, of course. At sixteen. My mother said girls from good families didn’t become animal doctors.”

  Sixteen! Neela couldn’t imagine getting married that soon.

  “But I wanted to be a vet,” Sudha Auntie continued. “I grew up with a Pomeranian. She was so sweet. She did not bark at anybody. So after I married, I made a deal with my husband’s family: I would play the veena, but I would also go to vet school.”

  “Why did they care if you played the veena or not?” Neela asked.

  Sudha Auntie turned to her. “My family were very noted musicians. My husband’s family wanted me to continue that tradition. But they were open-minded and sent me to vet school. On our first day, we had to do dissection.” Sudha Auntie made a scissoring action with her hand. “On dead animals. That day it was a fetal pig. Well, I took one look at the guts of a pig, and my vet career was over. I decided that playing the veena wasn’t so bad. What do you say?” She tweaked Sree’s cheek. He gave her a horrified look before darting behind his mother.

  “The world is lucky because of that decision,” Mrs. Krishnan said, covering up for Sree.

  “Well, times are different,” Sudha Auntie said. “You don’t have to be so traditional to be a veena player. Heck, you don’t even have to be Indian anymore.”

  “Like Tannenbaum,” Mr. Krishnan said. “We were amazed by how authentic he sounded that day. Right, Lakshmi?”

  “Very authentic,” Mrs. Krishnan murmured.

  Neela had an idea. “What about Veronica Wyvern?”

  “Veronica Wyvern?” Neela’s mother repeated. Her eyes flashed.

  “She’s an American player,” Neela said innocently.

  “Lovely musician.” Sudha Auntie smiled widely. “Trained entirely here in Boston.”

  “Did you ever hear her?” Neela asked. “In person, that is?”

  “A few times,” Sudha Auntie said. “We were friendly.”

  “You were friends?” Neela asked, trying not to look too excited.

  “I said we were friendly, not friends,” Sudha Auntie corrected. “Why do you seem so interested, Neela? Is there something about her you wanted to know?”

  Neela paused. There was something she wanted to know ever since she first talked about Veronica with Pavi over the phone. It was the one mystery element that stood between the veena belonging to Veronica, and then to her. “I wanted to write a report about Veronica Wyvern,” Neela said slowly, thinking as she spoke. “And it’s always more interesting to include quirky information. Like, did she own a million veenas, or just one?”

  “That’s what people want to know?” Sudha Auntie said. “Humph. How about how she had mastered hundreds of ragams by the age of twelve? That would be more relevant.” Then she saw Neela’s impatient expression.

  “Oh, all right,” Sudha Auntie continued. “I think she owned only one. Most players own at least two or three. Not her. And”—she scratched her head thoughtfully—“I’ll tell you how
I know. It might be the kind of ‘quirky’ information you’re looking for. One day I went to the grocery store in Cambridge, when I ran into her in the parking lot. We stopped and chatted for a few minutes. Her hands were full of grocery bags. She opened her car door to pile them into the back. I spotted her veena. ‘Off to a concert?’ I asked. She said no. ‘Master class?’ No. Then, if I wasn’t so nosy, I’d have kept quiet. But people rarely carry around their veenas, so I had to know where she was going with it. I pestered her some more, and she told me she was going nowhere but the grocery store. ‘I always take my instrument with me,’ she said. ‘No matter where I go.’ ‘Every day, everywhere?’ I asked. ‘Rain, sun, and snow?’ She said yes, and I thought this was the looniest thing I’d ever heard. Especially when she told me it was the only veena she owned. But I guess that’s dedication for you. And quirky.”

  Neela listened intently to Sudha Auntie’s story. It did sound strange to take your veena to the grocery store. But maybe Veronica had a reason? “Did you ever see her veena?” she persisted. “Would you recognize it if you saw it?”

  “Neela, why this morbid curiosity in a dead musician’s instrument?” Mrs. Krishnan said.

  Sudha Auntie nodded. “I don’t recall what it looked like. I guess I was too busy listening to her play. Poor lady. She met an untimely demise.”

  Mrs. Krishnan said, “Maybe we can change the subject to something more cheerful?”

  “What happened to the pig?” Sree suddenly asked.

  “Pig?” Sudha Auntie asked.

  “He means the fetal pig you had to cut up,” Neela said. “Who cares, Sree? That wasn’t the point of her story.” She couldn’t help sounding cross. It seemed with every chance she got, Neela’s mother was steering her away from her grandmother’s veena.

  Still, Sudha Auntie had managed to answer Neela’s question. A woman who carried her only veena with her everywhere she went would certainly have had it with her when she was on the train that crashed in India. Case closed. So where did that leave Neela?

  Sudha Auntie gave a wink at Sree. “Would you believe that fetal pig was reincarnated as a little boy? Ha!”