The Last Taxi Ride

by A. X. Ahmad

  She separates her hands and lays them, palms down, on the edge of the table.

  “And when she got pregnant—she was eighteen, studying nursing, like me—she was as stubborn as a goat, she would not tell me who the father was. But I did find out: he was a respectable man, a Brahmin. And he was much older, his daughters were Leela’s age. Can you imagine the shame? And Leela insisted on having the child, because she thought that the man would come around. Of course, he didn’t. Just shut himself up in his nice house with high walls, sent over an envelope of money. Leela went into a deep, deep depression; she couldn’t take care of Dev. So when my husband, he got papers for Leela to come to America and study nursing, I said, Go, you go. Leave the child with me. I will raise him. I sent her away, I thought it was for the best.”

  Ranjit clears his throat. “Your husband was here, in New York, right? He drove a cab?”

  “Yes. He was here, in this very house. But he didn’t know about his grandchild. I … we … could not tell him, it was so shameful. How did I know my husband was going to die?” She entwines her hands again. “How was I supposed to know Leela would end up all alone here?”

  “We make the best decisions we can, Auntie. We can’t always see the future.”

  “Maybe.” She shakes her head. “Maybe. Leela was all alone here. She started pining for her boy. She wanted to get papers for us, but it would take years, and by then he would be all grown. So she went to that devil, Patel. Someone came to my door in Georgetown; he said, Pack your bags, Auntie, you’re going to America.

  “I thought we would fly to New York, like everyone else, but you know where they took us? Canada. We stayed in motels. We were freezing—snow outside, the whole world white—and always moving, in a van with some other Guyanese, real low-class folks. Then one morning, suddenly, the men driving us, they were all relaxed, and I knew we were in America. They dropped us to a motel in some place called Buffalo.

  “Leela was there. She had on a big coat, hat, boots, and all. She saw Dev, she held out her arms to him, but he started crying. He ran away from her, he came right back to me.”

  The old lady blinks back tears. There must be a clock somewhere in the house, because he becomes aware of a regular ticking.

  “You need to give it time, Auntie. This is a new place, it’s hard at first.”

  “It’s been over a year.” She looks calmly at him. “The child still calls her Leela. He calls me Mom-Mom. As far as he is concerned, I am his mother, and that makes Leela very angry. So you see, Ranjit, everything she has done, it’s for nothing. She is ruining her life, and ours. For what? You tell me, for what?”

  He thinks of Shanti, far away in India. The only contact he’s had with her has been hour-long conversations on Skype, conversations colored by the distance. What will it be like to live with a headstrong thirteen-year-old girl, with all the frictions of everyday life?

  “You see what this Patel is doing to Leela? Every night, she comes back from the club bruised and battered. Help me, please, Ranjit. I want to make sure she is all right, then I’m going to take Dev and go home.”

  As if on cue there is a soft wail from down the corridor. Auntie half turns and listens, and the wail is followed by mumbled words.

  “The child has nightmares. I must go to him.”

  She trots down the hallway, and he soon hears the murmur of her voice, followed by a pat-pat-pat as she puts the boy back to sleep. She sings softly to him, a tune that he suddenly recognizes.

  Makhan roti chini, neeni baba neeni

  Makhan roti ho gaya, mera baba so gaya …

  She sings the lullaby in a soft, quavering voice: Butter, bread, sugar. Sleep, child, sleep. The butter and bread is finished. My child has fallen back to sleep …

  He remembers lying in the darkness, his mother’s hand stroking his head, hearing her sing that same lullaby. Shorn of meaning, the words were comforting and rhythmic.

  Auntie sings the lullaby again, and her voice grows fainter.

  Ranjit washes his plate with the frayed sponge, trying to be quiet. He can’t find a dish towel, so he leaves it by the side of the sink. Walking down the hallway, he peers into Auntie’s bedroom, lit by the eerie blue nightlight, and sees her lying curled around Dev, one arm thrown across him. They are both asleep, and the boy’s eyelashes flutter as he dreams.

  Ranjit’s watch has stopped, and he wishes that he knew the time: he can hear the ticking of the clock somewhere, but can’t see one. Ah, the television. Surely there are news stations on.

  He returns to the parlor and picks up his pills from the table, but his gun is gone. Turning on the huge television, he mutes the sound and flips through the channels. An overweight woman on a cooking show smiles as she watches a hunk of butter simmer in a pan; a man in a toupee gestures at a shining car; a basketball player flies through the air and dunks a ball.

  He flips some more, past the image of a familiar head, bald and blocky. Flipping back, he sees Senator Neals—dressed in a crisp white shirt and a dark suit—standing at a podium, in the midst of a speech. The crawl below him says, “Massachusetts Senator ending fact-finding trip to China.” Fumbling with the remote, Ranjit turns up the volume.

  Neals speaks without notes, his football-player’s frame towering above the anxious-looking Chinese officials who surround him.

  “… this stop at the Shenzen Free Trade Zone concludes our visit. We are grateful to the Chinese Labor Ministry for opening up their manufacturing facilities to us. While we realize that China has to compete in a global economy, it cannot be at the cost of human rights. We have been assured that the use of prison labor, while widespread, will be ended and…”

  Ranjit studies the screen. The Senator looks good; he has lost some of the bulk he gained after Anna died, and the bags under his eyes have gone. His shaved head hides his age, and his bass voice is deep and authoritative.

  The picture shifts to a female news anchor. “China has come under fire in recent months for their use of prison labor. Prisoners with no rights have been forced to make everything from baseball bats to children’s toys, items sold to an unsuspecting American public. Senator Neals, the head of the International Trade Subcommittee, will soon issue a report that will have a major impact on U.S.-China relations. Now, in sports…”

  Ranjit turns off the television. Did the Senator get his phone message, or was it lost somewhere in the chain of aides and assistants? It seems as though Neals will be back in the United States by the end of the week, but by then it will be too late.

  With the television off, the house is silent again. Ranjit guesses it must be two or three in the morning; Leela should be back soon. That is, if she isn’t in a hotel room with Lateef. Ranjit’s fists clench at the thought of the smug, sadistic young man with his beringed fingers.

  From down the hall, he can hear Dev mumbling in his sleep. It has been so long since he has been in a house with a sleeping woman and child that he savors the feeling. He also knows that they are now his responsibility; he sinks back into the couch, closes his eyes, and prays:

  The company I keep is wretched and low, and I am anxious day and night

  My actions are crooked, and I am of lowly birth.

  O Lord, master of the earth, life of the soul, please do not forget me!

  I am your humble servant, take away my pains, and bless me

  I shall not leave your feet, even though my body may perish …

  When he opens his eyes, the shadows around him are dark and unmoving.

  * * *

  The sound of a car door slamming wakes him from a half doze. Getting to his feet, he walks into the corridor, just in time to see Leela enter, her keys in her hands. He is hidden in the darkness, and she does not see him as she bends to remove her white high heels. She is wearing a short turquoise dress that clings to her hips, and her platinum-blond weave is like a gleaming helmet, one long swoop of hair pasted across her forehead.

  “Leela. Hey.”

  She looks up shar
ply, a high-heeled shoe in her hand, then slumps against the wall. “Shit. You scared me. You’re still here.”

  “Your mother said you wanted to talk to me.” Coming closer, he smells the sharp tang of alcohol. “Are you okay? Lateef?”

  “He didn’t come to the club. My lucky night, huh? But that fucker Patel wouldn’t let me work the sky-booths, he said my eye … said I should have stayed home. How does it look, Ranjit? Bad?”

  She pushes off the wall, still wearing one shoe, and almost falls.

  He catches her by her elbow. “Hey, hey, steady.” The edges of her slim nostrils are pink; she is pretty high as well as drunk.

  “You’re always grabbing on to me. If you have a crush on me, just say so.”

  Stung, he lets go of her. “Look, I’m sorry that I fainted, I—”

  “It’s okay.” Leaning against him, she bends and slips off her other shoe. “My mother likes it when people are sick. She used to be a nurse. She wanted me to be a nurse, too. I started off studying to be a nurse, but now I’m a whore.” Her voice gets louder.

  “Hey, don’t talk like that.”

  “How do you want me to talk? This is how I talk, okay?”

  Still holding her elbow, he guides her into the parlor and she sinks down onto the plastic-covered couch, her dress riding up her muscular thighs. He stands in the doorway and averts his gaze.

  “Mama says you are going to be my savior. Did she tell you my whole sad story? She likes to do that.” Leela smiles up crookedly.

  “She gave me some dinner. She’s been very kind.”

  “She says you’re a good man. If I wasn’t a whore, she says I might have a chance with you.”

  “Don’t say that. It’s no point beating up on yourself.”

  “But…” In the darkness her eyes are green as a cat’s. “… really, I must be a whore. You want to see how much money I made tonight? With my eye like this?” She reaches into her small white purse, and hundred-dollar bills spill onto the floor. “Hey, if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, then it must be a duck.”

  The self-loathing in her voice is corrosive. He gathers up the money and hands it to her.

  She ignores the money and holds on to his arm. “You know what I read in books? Whores don’t kiss. They do everything, but they won’t kiss you. That’s bullshit, you know? We kiss. Sure, we kiss. Buy enough bottles, I’ll kiss you.”

  “Shhh.” He reaches out and hugs her awkwardly with his good arm. “Shhh.”

  She leans into him, and he feels her warm lips press into his neck. “Leela, please, no.”

  But she is kissing his neck. Her hand fumbles at the buttons of his shirt, then her palm slides through, warm and sticky, and lies flat on his chest.

  “What is it? You think I’m a whore, is that it?” she whispers into his ear, her hand still in his shirt.

  “No, it’s nothing like that. I like you, but—”

  She leans in and kisses him on the mouth and he tastes alcohol and sweetness.

  “More. Please, more.” Her voice is choked and so full of hunger that he is frightened. She takes his hand and presses it to her own warm chest, and he feels her nipple stiffen under the silk. If he is going to stop, this is the point.

  “It’s all going to end soon.” She speaks urgently. “And I don’t want to be alone. It’s all going to end. Kiss me.”

  The words make sense in the way that Roopmattie’s lullaby made sense: nonsense words that morph into need, into hot desire, undermining his defenses.

  He kisses her back.

  Her mouth mashes into his, her tongue darts into his mouth, her saliva is sweet.

  When they part for breath, she slides off the couch and pulls him up. They walk together down the dark corridor, past her sleeping mother and child, to the boy’s room at the rear of the house. She closes the door, and he slumps onto the narrow bed.

  Still standing, she unzips her turquoise dress and pulls it off, then her bra. The underwiring has left red lines under her full breasts, and there are other red marks high up on her arms, which he now realizes are rope burns.

  “You think I’m too fat? The other girls are so skinny…”

  “You’re perfect. Come here.”

  Pulling her to him, he kisses the marked flesh on her arms, then her chest.

  He is conscious of her mother and son sleeping feet away, but more than that, he is conscious of her heavy, warm breasts brushing his face, her hands pressing into the back of his head.

  Then she unbuckles his jeans, and feels for him, holds him. He moves till he is sitting against the wall, and she climbs onto his lap.

  When he holds her head, she twists it away. “Careful,” she whispers. “My hair. I just did it today.”

  One-handed, he is not much use. She guides him in, and holds his shoulders and pushes into him. The movement is both familiar and strange, each of them searching for the other’s rhythm; they find it, and go on and on. Just when he cannot last anymore, she closes her eyes tightly, breathes hard through her open mouth, shudders and gasps. He stops for a moment, but she urges him on, and they buck back and forth, and soon he is spent, too.

  Exhausted, they sit in the darkness, still joined, but separate again. Over the top of her immaculate blond hair he can see the mobile of the solar system, trembling gently.

  Her lips tickle his ear. “I hate this house. She thinks everything will be soiled, that’s why she puts plastic on the couch. She’d cover me with plastic too, if she could.”

  She climbs off him and walks away. He lies down on the thin pillow and listens to the ticking of the hidden clock.

  He hears water splashing in a toilet, then silence. Still naked, she comes back, slides in next to him, and instantly falls asleep.

  Five minutes pass, then ten. Covering her with a sheet, he gets out of the bed and pulls his jeans over his sticky thighs. He picks up her turquoise dress, her pink lacy underwear and scalloped bra, and puts them all on the dresser.

  When he leaves, she is deep asleep, the planets trembling above her. What is their correct order? Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars …

  He goes into the living room and settles as best he can onto the couch, the plastic crackling under him. Her scent is on his fingertips, her smell of alcohol and perfume trapped in his beard. Lying in the hot room, images of her face and plump body fragment in his mind.

  This is the first woman he has touched in over a year. After the encounter with the yoga woman, he swore he wouldn’t do such a thing again, but he has, and Leela was so hammered that she probably won’t even remember this tomorrow.

  He tries to imagine the next morning, the next few days, even his future when all this is over, but it is a blank. All he can hear is the ticking of the clock, hidden somewhere in this house.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  When Ranjit wakes the next morning, he is soaked in sweat, and his cheek is stuck to the plastic of the couch. He sits up, listening: the room is stifling hot, and from outside comes the raspy buzzing of cicadas.

  He feels a sickening guilt when he remembers last night, and delays leaving the parlor. It is shabbier in the bright daylight: the watery yellow walls are scuffed at the bottom, and, under the plastic covering, the couch is a faded purple. Only the television set retains its sleek contours.

  “Ranjit? You up?” From the kitchen there is the click-click of the gas stove being lit. Leela’s voice is flat and matter-of-fact. “You up?”

  Steeling himself, he walks into the kitchen and sees Leela, her back to him, spooning tea into a blue porcelain teapot. She is wearing a red T-shirt, and cutoff jean shorts, so short that they reveal half-moons of flesh. She tugs her shorts down as she turns to him; her hair is still platinum blond but her eyes are hazel again.

  “I heard you waking up, so I put the kettle on. You want some tea?”

  She has had just a few hours’ sleep, but her eyes are clear and her face is smooth and fresh. How strange to know the softness of her skin, the taste of her mouth, b
ut not to know what she is thinking.

  “Tea would be great.” He pauses, noticing a graphic of Che Guevara on her T-shirt, bearded and wearing a beret. “Nice T-shirt. You’re a fan of his?”

  “Who?” She looks down at her shirt. “This is a real guy?”

  “Che? Yes, he’s dead. He fought with Castro in Cuba, and after the revolution … Never mind.” He pauses. “About last night—”

  He waits for her to look blank, or to say that she was drunk and high, and excuse herself.

  Just then a kettle on the stove begins to whistle and Leela pours the boiling water into the teapot. Ranjit waits, conscious of his cheeks burning. She puts the teapot and an empty mug in front of him.

  “Last night was great. Let it steep for about four minutes,” she says.

  He sits back in his chair, relieved. She toasts bread in a ridged cast-iron pan, then butters it, and adds grains of sugar, and he thanks her for it.

  “This isn’t a real breakfast. My mom would make bake and saltfish, but this is the best I can do.” She sits across from him, watching him. “How did you manage to sleep on the couch? Dev woke me at seven thirty, and I looked in on you. You were dead to the world.”

  “That’s one of my good qualities. I can sleep anywhere.” He pours them both cups of tea from the teapot, and she sips hers, the steam swirling into her face.

  “Hmm.”

  “This tea is really good.” He gestures to his plate. “Last night your mother said that you couldn’t cook.”

  “Oh, I can make toast, but that’s it. The tea, I get it from this guy in Jackson Heights, it’s a second-flush Darjeeling.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t need you to cook for me, I’m a pretty good cook.”

  She rears back in mock surprise. “Really? I don’t know that many men who cook. You’re just full of good qualities.”

  “I’m also good at passing out on people’s front steps.”

  She laughs, a deep belly laugh, and he knows then that they have crossed over into another place.

  Hearing laughter from outside, he glances out of the window. Auntie wears a faded blue housedress and stands barefoot amidst the crabgrass, watering the sunflowers. Dev whoops as he dances in and out of the spray of water. Even from here, the affection between them is palpable.