Leave It to Me

by Bharati Mukherjee

  Ma Varuna and Bette Ann Krutch: Of the two, which was the impostor?

  I, a ragpicker of wisdom, hoard what I need. From Bette Ann’s promotional material, I grabbed the Master Butcher chart of prime “cuts” of emotion. From Ma Varuna’s psycho-nutrition, I stashed away hallucinogenic aphorisms. My favorite among her one-liners: “Destruction is creation’s necessary prelude.”

  Zen masters have it too easy, answering disciples’ questions with questions of their own. What I’ve learned—am still learning from unwitting teachers like Frankie, Al, Baby, Fred, Larry, Mother, Ham—is that for each question there are a zillion correct answers. Mother’s milk; cobra’s venom. Since both are right, and of equal value, pick the one that feels good.

  A question for Bio-Mom: How did it feel when the Gray Nuns brought me to you in your Indian prison?

  I was listing in my head all the correct answers to why Ma V aka Bette Ann K. should have “bile-eliminated” Jocko when she surprised me by taking off her clothes in front of me with the taunting efficiency of a professional stripper. Her first divestiture was her long hair. She flung the wig at my feet. The wig was of human hair, but I’d assumed the hair was her own. Black strands writhed like serpents around my ankles. Next, she shrugged off the vest. In the whirl of gold brocade and rich silk, I thought I glimpsed the twisted, accusatory face of Master. And after that, with gestures that were lithe, lewd but also mysterious, she freed herself of the long tunic of gauzy material. The torso she revealed paralyzed me with its … its oiled luminosity, its mean muscularity, its scornful splendor. I heard a flawed heart pound the arrhythmic beat of adoration. The harem pants shimmied to the floor. I heard Mr. Bullock’s voice recite half a line. Not by then-you’re-a-natural Debby DiMartino, but by Emily Dickinson. “ ‘You may have met Him …,’ ” my junior high English teacher cautioned. The rest of the line was drowned out by Jess’s ringing exultation. “And wham! There was this … apparition.” Ruddy, roused male genitalia and silver heels mocked me. The apparition worshiped at its own altar with a frenzy of ecstasy or impudence. In that four-hundred-dollar hotel suite, the diffuse yellow light from a chandelier melted into the carnelian glow of sunset limning a tropical horizon.

  Apparition, “narrow fellow,” blackmailer: it spoke. “That silly woman, what’s her name, Betty Lou? Betty Nan? Airport janitors will find her when they clean women’s rest rooms. Meantime, Miss Media Escort! Do your escorting job and drive me to your boss’s foxhole. I got a score to settle with that bitch.”

  “Are you planning to settle scores in the buff?” Ready whenever you are, Mr. Hawk.

  Romeo Hawk costumed himself leisurely. Cream-colored silk shirt with French cuffs, vanilla double-breasted suit, pink silk jacquard tie, blue sapphire cuff links and tie pin. Snakeskin boots with narrow toes and stacked heels. A man who has spent time in Asian prisons values style. He was Valentino and Nureyev and Adonis.

  He said, admiring himself in the hotel’s flattering mirror, “You find me irresistible?” He had his back to me. “Every woman does.”

  “You’re not my type,” I snapped. I hoped I meant it.

  “I don’t have to be.” He grinned. “I’m your father. I didn’t come empty-handed, daughter.”

  He didn’t contain his excitement; he didn’t even try to. I braced for his gift—a burst of Saturday night special?—as he ran to the closet. He chucked the satchel-sized pocketbook and a flea market hatbox to the closet floor, then came to me holding out the carry-on I’d shifted on the shelf so I could ease down the traveling kettle. A green vinyl carry-on. The leather-panted Eurasian in the allnight diner where I hadn’t paid for my Pepsi. No convergence is coincidental.

  He read my mind. “The first time was accidental.” He unzipped the carry-on. Cheap metal zippers need a lot of curses and tugs. “The rest perspiration.” He dangled the carry-on just out of my reach. It looked light, hanging limp from his flat, wide hands. Karate-hardened hands. Flash hands. Killer hands. “The only gift you’ll ever want, daughter.”

  I tore the carry-on out of those cruel hands and upended it on the rug. Five passports, that’s all that fell out of the cheap vinyl bag. Five to be exact. Five passports issued to five separate names, but each carrying a photo of Jess’s guileless face. I studied those thick, embossed and stamp-smudged official pages like a palmist reading life-routes and loveroutes.

  Jess, too, was a ghost. She had inhabited five other bodies than the one I knew.

  Bio-Mom’d paid her footloose way through hot, smoky Asia dealing in passports as well as dope. That, too, made sense.

  The woman Fred Pointer had dug up as my biological mother and whom he had courted as Jess DuPree, successful Bay Area businesswoman, was also Jeanne Jellineau, b. 2/5/38, a citizen of France, the holder of a valid passport issued to her by the French embassy in Ankara. And she was Sigrid Schlant, a West German, b. 8/8/42, with a replacement passport issued her in Bangkok, where the original had been stolen. Also, Veronica Alexandra Taylor; born in Johannesburg, South Africa, on 6/7/44; Magda Lukacs, born on 3/9/43 in a German camp for displaced persons; and Margaret Rose Smith, a British citizen, born on 1/29/41 in Port of Spain, Trinidad.

  “You want to take the first shot, daughter, it’s yours. We’re on the same side.”

  “ ‘Zero at the bone.’ Dad?”

  A vain man, he preened in front of the full-length mirror. “Whaa?”

  “I’m on nobody’s side.”

  Romeo slicked down a stray strand of his hair. He liked what he saw in the mirror. “Same as being on everybody’s side.” He shoved the mirrored closet door shut. “Don’t elevate yourself to something you are not.”

  Like god or demon? Like a snake-thing? I took a swing at his face. He bounced back, grinning. “Dad forgives. Hello, daughter! Jolly good!”

  Larry’s old I MY ARSENAL sign was stolen off his apartment door soon after he vanished. I suspect Emad, but have no proof. The sign he painted especially for me I keep hanging above my futon. It reads: THE WORLD ACCORDING TO LIBERACE: TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING IS SIMPLY WONDERFUL. Larry communes with me through the sign. The things you can see and touch aren’t the things you should dread, he still mentors me. In that zombie hour of each night when I am not sure if I am dead or simply asleep, Larry and Liberace merge, sequined and giggling. Fear of the invisible is a good thing because it keeps you alive. Too much fear of ghosts is better, is simply wonderful, because it might also save your soul.

  I didn’t drive Romeo Hawk to Jess and Ham’s floating love nest because of the 9mm he pointed at my head. I drove him because he was the scatterer of seeds from which I’d sprouted. Nature has no prodigality, no psychology, no sympathy. I drove him because he was that place, the over there, he was my poem of night, light and leaves. I was gambling on finding the maze’s exit. Romeo did fancy twirls with the 9mm as we headed for the Golden Gate Bridge. He had the widest, surest hands I had ever seen.

  He caught me staring at those hands, and said, “Don’t get any funny ideas. These are my waste disposal units. They take care of expendable people. And the nosy.”

  “Like Jess’s friend? Did they take care of Fred Pointer too?”

  “Never inform, and never explain. That’s the way I’ve always lived.” He grinned. We could have been talking about a misdemeanor. “Jess’s friend was. Now he isn’t.”

  “Fred Pointer didn’t start this,” I fumed.

  “There is no start, and there is no finish. Only process, you get the picture? I learned that from my trusted friend the warden, a Hindu.”

  “Fred shouldn’t have had to die.”

  “It was his time, dear. And that bitch deserves serious attention from me. All those years in prison in India, how many deaths is that worth?”

  “You’re crazy!”

  That’s when Romeo raised the handgun to my neck level, and caressed my throat with it. Kept caressing the whole, slow length of the bridge.

  Karma is groping your way out of a maze. You know there’s an exi
t.

  “You’re not doing so badly yourself, little Devi. I always say genes will win out.” Romeo was in a chatty mood.

  Beg not for justice, and you won’t end up straitjacketed in a padded cell or drowned in shallow water in Land’s End. Make it happen!

  Being stuck with an armed and crazy bio-parent in the rush-hour Marin-bound traffic organized my priorities. I didn’t give a damn if I never found out details like the exact time of birth and name of birthplace. Go with the flow, as Fred Pointer’d counseled, keep your identity—your only asset—liquid. Breathe deep, relax.

  “Take in the view,” I said to distract Bio-Daddy. “We’re proud of it.” That “we” had slipped out, startling me.

  “Nice Jag,” Romeo agreed.

  The Jaguar ahead of me had a bumper sticker that said IT’S NEVER TOO LATE TO HAVE A HAPPY CHILDHOOD.

  “I myself prefer a Bentley,” he went on. “Benzes are vulgar, Beamers prosaic.”

  “How about Alfa Romeos?” If it hadn’t been for that Spider Veloce cutting me off that August day at the border, I’d probably not be chauffeuring my father to Marin this February evening.

  “Too moody.” He grinned. “Not worth the dough you have to shell out for it. Even as a kid keeping books for my father—hey, I forgot, your late grandfather; he owned a pedicab fleet—I could see myself in a white Bentley.”

  “White?”

  “Snow white. Why? I’ll tell you why.” The handgun on his lap, he launched into the Hawk family history. “Because my father, Yves Haque, ran the Snow White Pedicab Company of Saigon. Our surname—your name—was spelled H-a-q-u-e by then. H-a-q to H-a-q-u-e was strictly an economic decision. A penniless man makes his way out of Peshawar or someplace equally filthy, and peddles cigarettes, chewing gum, dirty cards in Indochine cities. Ib Haq was an okay moniker for that man. His son upgrades Haq to Haque, buys himself a Eurasian whore for a wife, and makes what living he can driving pedicabs on the crowded streets of Saigon. Haque’s son, yours truly, Americanizes his name to H-a-w-k, and procures for GIs to-die-for dreams. A procurer is not, repeat not, a pimp. We’re talking imagination on the grand scale, Miss Dee. If you can supply satiety, there’ll always be appetite. I could have been a millionaire. The war was good, very good, and damn your Berkeley peaceniks. The war was great, especially since Vietnam wasn’t my real homeland. And then boom! my number one Bar-dolly decides to moonlight as the Cong’s number one Tigerlady. You ever see American and South Vietnamese interrogators do their multicultural interrogation thing? Ever see a bargirl acupunctured with sharpened bamboo sticks? I got out fast.”

  “You turned her in?”

  “Why not? A procurer’s goal is profit. Patriotism and personal loyalty are strictly for the naive. Your boss knows that. She bought her way out of jail by turning ‘approver’ on me. That I could forgive. I’d have done the same in her place, but stupidity? She thought I’d rot to death in jail or, better still, get killed. The only peace of mind she’s had for twenty years is thinking I’d never get out. Cads have more lives than cats.”

  “No one says ‘cad’ anymore.” Frankie Fong said “cad,” but he was imitating British actors in white silk scarves and paisley silk dressing gowns.

  “Three life sentences still leaves me plenty.” He pulled a letter or document out of the inner breast pocket of his stylish white jacket. The size and quality of the sheets of paper reminded me of the transcripts Fred had shown me when I was cocktail waitressing at poor Beth’s club. I hadn’t murdered Fred, but I’d killed him.

  I kept my eyes on the Pollyanna Jag while Romeo Hawk read aloud portions from the court transcript. He said, “ ‘BARRISTER: You are claiming that the defendant bought five Kingfisher beers for the deceased female at Shakti Bar, which is known to be frequented by prostitutes and hippies. Five quart-sized bottles would be enough to fell a habitual alcoholic. Is your claim supported by personal and visual witnessing? APPROVER: I was there at the Shakti that night. I have twenty-twenty vision. BARRISTER: Can you deny that you also were heavily imbibing? APPROVER: That’s irrelevant. He got her drunk so he could steal her passport and valuables, rape her, then garrote her. Garroting was a signature method with him. BARRISTER: You have this knowledge of theft, carnality and murder because you were present in the room and therefore you are not merely a witness to these deeds but also an accessory. APPROVER: Yes, I was present when he choked her to death. No, I wasn’t an accessory. He cast a spell over me with that body, that smile … I saw him kill Astrid, I mean the deceased female, I saw him kill her and I did nothing.’ What do you think, Devi? Is she guilty of accessorizing?”

  Mother wore her guilt the way other women wore hats, scarves, earrings. The madman in my passenger seat didn’t know how right he was.

  I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Jess must have thought it was Ham coming back with hummus and pita when Romeo and I clambered on board Last Chance. She popped out on deck through a narrow doorway, very smart in white jeans and white sweater, shouting, “Sweetheart, did they still have the whole wheat we like?”

  I said, “Hello, Mom.”

  Jess shrieked.

  “She is registering pleasure,” Romeo explained.

  Jess shrieked again.

  Romeo turned on the charm, scooped her hand off the deck rail and kissed it.

  “Long time no see?” I suggested.

  With her free hand, Jess grabbed the deck rail. Scary biceps. She kicked Romeo hard once, twice, thrice, in the shins. Romeo’s grin got wider and wider as each kick landed. Envy my strength.

  Change that bumper sticker, Pollyanna. Some five-foot-nine, one-hundred-fourteen-pound children are miserable.

  Romeo tired of Jess’s kicks. His leg shot up and out and made contact with Jess’s chest. He was faster than the Flash. Two more high kicks. Speed and malice total serious damage.

  Jess moaned. “You can’t have fucking broken out of that Indian jail. They kept you shackled. You’re not here. You’re fucking dead.”

  Romeo belly-laughed. “I’m not enjoying your nice company and the view of this nice bay,” he said. “Bribery doesn’t pay.”

  “Devi, call the cops!”

  I backed away from Mom and Dad.

  “That’s what cell phones are for, Devi. Emergencies. Get 911!”

  “We left in a hurry, Jess.” No cell phone, no promo kit; only the care basket of waters, fruits and candies in the backseat of the Corolla.

  Romeo snickered. “She doesn’t like guns to her head.” He shoved Jess roughly against the deck rails, bent her torso so far back over the top rail that I felt her pain in my spine.

  “Let her go, please let her go.”

  Romeo nuzzled his chin in the mohair tautness between Jess’s breasts. “Not bad for your age.” Then he switched to his Ma Varuna-Lauren Bacali voice. “If roses are red, and violets are blue, our hate is eternal, and our love absolute. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  I’d forgotten it was Valentine’s Day. Pappy would have left a box of Laura Lee by Mama’s penny jar in the kitchen. Frankie would have sent his newest two dozen red roses. Or saucy stuff from Victoria’s Secret. Probably both. To all his women. He’d have Fatboy Frontman take care of the Valentine problem. Nobody sent me flowers this year. Not even a Hallmark card. I’d have settled for one splinter-small ice-cold lead on whatever Romeo’d meant by absolute love. I hated Jess. She wasn’t worthy of obsessive desire and claim-or-die pursuits. He made me wanton, Jess had lied to herself. She wasn’t wanton, had never been and would never be, she was just another Central Valley hippie aging into Marin matron.

  You didn’t earn the right to pay Emily homage, Mother; I have.

  “Get the hell out! Both of you!” Jess screamed. Then she sobbed.

  “Fred didn’t fall, Mom! He was pushed.”

  “Shut up!” Jess shouted. “Shut the fuck up! This isn’t happening to me.”

  Something was happening to me. A little girl in a shapeless gray smock was being marched
up the cracked cement steps of a small-town courthouse. Pariah puppies suckled on the saggy tits of a scarred, bony bitch in the courtyard. Movie lines merged with memories. You shouldn’t have. You was my mother.

  I rushed Romeo and Jess; I clawed, punched, jabbed, screamed and wept. Romeo eased his hold on Jess, but didn’t let go.

  “Why?” I begged. “They brought me to see you. The Gray Nuns. It was a long, nasty ride. The bus was packed. Why didn’t you want me? I need to know. Why didn’t you keep me? Why didn’t you want to see me again?” It always came back to needs and wants. Frankie Fong had had that one figured.

  Jess spat in my face. “I’ve never been pregnant,” she hissed. “I wasn’t that dumb. I may have been naive, but I wasn’t dumb, never.”

  A flash, not a memory: Judge, I’m not exactly dumb, you know. I’ve been on the Pill since I was fourteen, okay. That’s not my kid. The dumb nuns got it wrong, but then what did you expect? I must have been in the courtroom. I couldn’t picture the place. I didn’t see faces. Had it been hot or rainy that day?

  Romeo pushed me away, and tightened his grasp on Jess’s wrists. “Petunia, my pet, you can still rouse me.”

  Jess was flattered into a slight blush. I watched that grateful rosiness spread across her cheeks, and streak into the wrinkles around her lips.

  Romeo took advantage of the blushing and softening. He whipped something metallic out of his pocket. Handcuffs. The man and woman who’d given me life were as strange to me as honeymooners from Mars.

  Nothing is wrong with that picture of lovers on the deck of a houseboat in a neighborly marina. Of the men I have known, more have than haven’t routinely carried handguns and sex toys, in addition to the usual wallet-stuffers like credit cards and driver’s license.