by A. X. Ahmad
When he slipped a hand between her legs she was wet already, and she whispered into his ear, urging him on. Hearing her hoarse words, he moved between her legs, stretching out her long, dark body under his. She wrapped her long legs around his lower back, her hands pushed down on his shoulders, and he was lost in the heat and sea-smell of her.
Her breath came out in gasps, and at first he thought she was moaning in pleasure, but then her lips trembled and he realized that she was crying, tears flowing silently down her cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, stopping.
She just bit her lip, wrapped her legs tighter, and urged him on in a choked voice.
“Anna, you’re crying. Is it me?”
“No,” she managed to say. “No. It’s not you. Keep going.” But she cried harder, and turned her face away.
“I … I can’t go on like this,” he whispered. He pulled free and lay on the crumpled sheets beside her. When he reached out to hold her she hid her face in his chest and sobbed, her crying unbridled now. Not knowing what to do, he held her, rocking her gently, as though she were a child. After a long time her breathing slowed, and then she fell fast asleep.
He held her as she slept. The minutes ticked by, and jumbled thoughts raced through his brain: confusion at what had just happened, and fear at being discovered here. He thought of his wife, alone halfway across the island, lost in front of her television set, and felt the first sickening pang of guilt.
It felt like forever before Anna jerked awake. She sat up groggily and walked naked to the bathroom, and when she returned, her face was washed and her short hair carefully brushed. As she pulled on her yellow dress her face was peaceful, all the tension drained away, replaced by the blankness of a sleepwalker.
He wore his own sweaty jeans, and she walked him out to the deck, wordlessly touching his cheek before turning back. The glass door slid shut, and she was gone.
He walked, dazed, back down to the half-finished steps.
The afternoon outside was still the same. The green summer ocean still ebbed and flowed, and a few sailboats were now tacking across Vineyard Sound. His hammer was exactly where he’d dropped it, one wooden peg half sunk into the earth. It was all the same, but he felt the way a dreamer does upon awakening, when the mood of the dream colors everything.
Except that it hadn’t been a dream. He could still smell her strong odor on his fingertips, feel her muscular, yearning body under his.
He looked at a pile of cut stone, the strings and pegs he’d laid out earlier, but he could not bear to keep on working. He gathered up his tools and drove away in the truck, and before he went home he stopped at the liquor store and sat in the truck and finished a small bottle of Bacardi.
When he came back to Aquinnah the next morning, the iced-tea glass was gone from the steps. He cut stone, his hands feeling the touch of her fingers even as he handled the sharp edges. All afternoon he waited for her, listened for the tinkling of ice cubes. When she didn’t come he walked up to the house, but the chair by the pool was empty. The sliding glass doors were locked, and the curtains were drawn tight.
Anna didn’t appear that afternoon, or the next. Most days her silver Mercedes was gone. Sometimes there was a white van parked outside the house, like those driven by construction workers or plumbers, though this one was pristine, without a logo or a name painted on it. She must have been having some new appliance installed, but he never saw anyone going in or out of the house.
He willed her to appear again, but the days passed, and when he finished the job, he slipped a bill under the front door. She mailed him a check, and he did not see her again till she called him nearly three months later.
Chapter Seven
A week passes in the Senator’s house, and then a few more days. It does not snow, but the island settles down into the stillness of winter, the ground hard and frozen, the ocean gray and dull.
Ranjit wakes early one morning, Preetam lying next to him, blissfully asleep under a thick down duvet. For a second he does not remember where he is, then he hears the waves crashing below and it all comes back: they are still at the Senator’s house, and today is the day before Christmas.
When he showers he sees that Preetam is using a bottle of Anna’s expensive mango shampoo. Walking up the stairs, he passes Shanti’s room and sees her fast asleep, an arm around the large, dark-faced doll. Damn it, both his wife and daughter behave as though this is their house.
In the kitchen he boils water for chai, and feels a pang of fear: sooner or later, someone will figure out where they are living. This island is too small for secrets.
The problem is finding another place to live. The only other apartment that he has found is a cramped flat above a Chinese restaurant in Vineyard Haven, at twice the rent of the old shack.
And Preetam is so happy here: she has finally stopped watching television and instead cooks dinner each night, using Anna Neals’s copper-bottomed pans. Ranjit has heard her on the phone, talking to her relatives in Boston, saying, “Hanh, of course this house is temporary, but you should see it. They have two freezers, all stainless steel appliances, and you should see the view. Yes, yes, Ranjit is doing very well, soon we’ll be moving into a house like this one.”
Tonight is Christmas Eve, he tells himself. Let them be happy for a few days more. We’ll move in the New Year.
He fills his travel mug with chai and drives out to check on his houses. He has drained all the heating systems and cleaned out gutters, and now all he has to do is check for mice. He should be done by noon, in time for him to swing by the Oak Bluffs Post Office. A few payments have come in, and he’s used the money to order Christmas presents for Shanti and Preetam.
His first stop for the day is the Red Heron Estate. He stops at its high iron gate, flanked by stone pillars and an alarm box. Security was beefed up for the President’s visit, and there are now alarms and cameras everywhere. It is hard to remember all the alarm codes, but last week an alarm had malfunctioned three times, and the alarm technician, tired of making the trip out to the island, had given him the master override code. Now he punches in BLUESKY and the gates swing open.
Driving up to the main house, he walks past the wide front porch with its rows of colorful rocking chairs, imagining the President of the United States sitting here last summer, smiling his wide, toothy smile. The African-American elite of the island must have congregated here, men in pastel-colored polo shirts, and women like Anna, with sleek figures and big sun hats. Something of that event remains, caught in the angles of the rocking chairs, and the rings on the wooden tables made by wet beer bottles.
He carefully punches in BLUESKY again and the front door swings open. Shanti has asked him to look through the house for traces of the President, and see if he can find her a toothbrush with the presidential seal on it, or perhaps one of his daughter’s toys, but the house is clean and impersonal, all the furniture draped with white dust cloths. He wanders from room to room, looking for leaks or mouse droppings, and completes his check quickly before rearming the alarms.
His next stop is half an hour away, in Oak Bluffs, a gray-shingled mansion that faces Ocean Park. It belongs to an African-American doctor, and has been in his family for generations.
Noticing the dark droppings of field mice, he sets mousetraps throughout the house, spreading each with a gob of peanut butter. As he wanders from room to room, the urge to pry, once ignited, does not go away. He opens drawers and closets, and on a high shelf finds a large tin box. Opening it, he sees an old stethoscope, along with rolls of bandages, disposable syringes, and even vials of antibiotics and morphine.
Clearly the doctor likes to be prepared, and that is not all. Lying on the floor to put a trap under a bed, Ranjit sees a dusty, rectangular leather case. Dragging it out, he clicks open its heavy brass locks and peers into its red velvet interior. It is a disassembled shotgun, and not just any gun, but a hand-crafted twelve-gauge Holland & Holland, decorated with ornate silver scrollwo
rk. Without thinking, he picks up the walnut stock, slips the long barrels into place, and screws on the side latch.
He inhales the familiar tang of gun oil and can’t resist lifting the gun to his shoulder. There is a black crow sitting on a branch outside the window, and he aims at it. Bang, bang, he says under his breath, you’re dead.
Perhaps the crow hears him, for it suddenly caws and flaps into the sky. Laughing, he quickly breaks the gun down and replaces the case under the bed.
All this fooling around has made him late, but he gets to the post office in Oak Bluffs before it shuts. He waits patiently in line, relieved to find out that his three large boxes have arrived, sent express delivery from L.L. Bean. He has spent two hundred dollars on presents, money he can ill afford, but it will be worth every cent just to see the expressions on Preetam and Shanti’s faces.
He signs for his packages and is about to leave when he hears a high voice behind him.
“So how are things at the Senator’s house?”
Has he been found out? Heart hammering in his chest, he turns and sees an elderly woman in a wool hat, her swollen ankles bulging over thick-soled shoes. He sighs in relief as he recognizes Betty Green, the Senator’s housekeeper.
“Oh, I haven’t been up there in a few days, but so far, so good.”
“The field mice are going to get in. Ah, what a stupid place to build a house, in the middle of nowhere. But that Anna Williams, she never had any sense. Her father had a hunting shack up there, and then she goes and builds that big house.”
Betty pauses for a breath, and he sees his chance. The native Vineyarders he meets are normally a closed-mouthed bunch.
“So, you’ve known Anna—Mrs. Neals—for a long time?”
Betty chuckles, ending in a long, hacking smoker’s cough. “Known her? Known her? Her mother died when she was just a baby. I practically brought up that girl. Oh, she was a handful even then, no sense in her. Still, I blame the father. Old Mr. Williams, he was a strange one. Black man—as black as me—but went off to Ha-vahd and thought he was white. Always wearing those ridiculous hunting clothes, tramping around, drinking, shooting animals.
“Other people, they built houses, they farmed their land, but not Mr. Williams. Prime land all along the coast, given over to the skunks and the birds. Can you imagine it? All that land, just sitting there. Well, this was a sleepy place back then, not like now, the whole island owned by … outsiders, foreigners.”
She glances at him and smiles sweetly. “No offense, I didn’t mean you, Ranjit, I mean all those stuck-up mainlanders.”
“No offense taken.” He looks at his watch and sees that it is getting late, but he has to ask. “When I was up at the house, I noticed a child’s bedroom. Does the Senator have a daughter, I mean, from his previous marriage?”
Betty gives him a sideways glance, and her voice drops to a whisper. “You haven’t heard? That was Anna’s daughter. Died in an accident, three years ago. Anna never recovered, but who would? Losing a child is unnatural, they aren’t meant to go first. Oh, I shouldn’t gossip, it isn’t right.”
She turns around abruptly and heads for the post office doors. “Well, Merry Christmas,” she says over her shoulder. “And be careful. There’s been three more break-ins after that old lady was killed.”
“Yes, thanks,” he says, but his face burns with shame when he thinks back to that afternoon; had he tried to take advantage of a grieving, mixed-up woman? No, she had taken him by the hand, led him into the house …
Forget it, he tells himself, that’s all over. Holding the large packages, he hurries to his truck.
* * *
His last house is on the way home, in Lambert’s Cove. It belongs to a retired character actor and is his least favorite, with cigarette burns on its dark furniture, its lace curtains fumed brown with nicotine. If he’s quick, he should be out of there in ten minutes.
Lambert’s Cove is silent and the houses he passes are all shut for the winter, their shades pulled, their driveways empty of cars. He parks the truck on the street and walks up to the front door, turning the key with one swift motion. Then he stops dead.
From the kitchen beyond comes the murmur of men’s voices. Someone is in the house. He remembers Betty Green’s warning and pulls the knife from his boot, the rope handle rough in his hand. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he sees that the plaid sofa in the living room has been overturned and the long wooden bar is littered with empty bottles of liquor.
There is sudden, raucous laughter in the next room, then heavy footsteps, followed by the creak of the screen door opening and the back door being unlatched. The intruders are leaving.
He has to find out who they are. Crouching low, he crosses the living room, the knife blade held downward. Holding his breath, he peers through the kitchen doorway.
The refrigerator is open, its dim blue light filling the room, and the men are gone. If he hurries to the back window, he can catch a glimpse of them. He lowers his knife and steps into the room.
A growl. Out of nowhere, a dark shape springs at him.
Hits him, hard and fast, high on his left shoulder. He spins aside, feeling his canvas jacket rip. A large black dog hurtles past him, slams into a cabinet, and turns, its canines bared.
The Pakistanis had attack dogs at the border. Without thinking, he unbuckles his thick leather belt and whips it free.
The dog’s hind legs tense, and it launches into the air, going for his throat.
His belt cracks in the darkness, its brass buckle smacking the dog’s nose. Distracted, it lunges for the belt and sinks its teeth into the leather, trying to jerk it away. Ranjit pivots, bringing the knife down, aiming for the spot right behind its head.
The long, thin blade pierces flesh. The dog howls and twists, letting go of the belt, its teeth snapping. Ranjit drops the belt, both hands on the knife handle now, and pitches forward, bringing his two hundred pounds of dead weight down onto the blade.
Dog and man fall to the floor. The dog’s back feet skitter and scrape; it is dying, but slowly, too slowly, and its teeth are still snapping, close, too close.
Help me, Guru.
He pushes the blade deeper, cutting through thick muscle, feeling a warm liquid flow over his hands.
The dog gasps, its breath hot and meaty. With one final shudder, it goes still.
Over. It’s over. Letting go of the knife, he falls backward against the cabinets. Near his feet the pile of black, bulked muscle twitches convulsively, and he watches the life fade from the dog’s yellow eyes.
Only when it is completely still does he try to rise, slipping in wet blood. His shaking hand finds a switch and a bright fluorescent light floods the room.
The dog lies on the worn linoleum floor. Bubbly dark blood leaks from its open mouth and stains its velvet muzzle.
A dog. Almost killed by a fucking dog.
Outside there is the sound of a car engine starting. He runs to the back window, but all he sees is a blue car vanishing down the road, its bumper held on with duct tape.
He turns and stares at the thick black collar around the dog’s neck. He knows this dog. It belonged to those men outside the liquor store, Plaid-shirt and his brother.
Pulling his knife free with great difficulty, he wipes it in the dog’s thick black fur. He leaves the house and leans against the truck, gulping in the cold air, his eyes shut, thinking of the dog’s dying eyes.
Unbidden, a memory surfaces from Siachen. All the firebases high in the mountains were re-supplied by strings of mules, and Ranjit’s favorite was Rajah, a gray pack mule who unhesitatingly led each convoy around the crevasses hidden below the snow.
One bright, sunny day, Ranjit was leading a convoy high up on the glacier when the Pakistanis found their range. The clear blue sky suddenly rained artillery shells, and Rajah panicked, tore the reins out of his hands, and bolted blindly away. He sprinted after the beast, just in time to see it plunge through the snow into a deep crevasse.
Rajah somehow survived the fall. He could hear the animal’s frightened screams from deep in the crevasse, as though it was begging for mercy. He fired down into the blackness, but the bullets just ricocheted against a thick lip of ice.
He knelt by the crevasse. “It’s okay, boy,” he called down. “It’s going to be all right,” and for a moment the screaming died down.
He pulled the pin on a grenade and dropped it into the crevasse. He was already walking away when he felt the muffled boom under his feet. Rajah was the first to go. The first betrayal.
“Yes, the mule, Captain. It really upset the men.”
Ranjit’s eyes snap open, and Sergeant Khandelkar is leaning against a tree, his white snowsuit hanging off his emaciated frame. The skin on his face is pulled tight, and he seems to have shrunk, as though all the water has evaporated from his muscles.
“Private Dewan was most upset about Rajah,” Khandelkar continues. “He loved that animal. Always stealing potatoes and feeding it. Do you remember?”
“Yes.” Ranjit’s voice is a whisper. “I remember everything.”
“Remember that terrible American band the boy liked? Guns and something—yes, Guns and Roses.” Khandelkar laughs, and a blue vein pulses in his forehead. “He still sings, you know. I hear his voice on the wind. He is a terrible singer.”
The Sergeant’s sunken eyes bore into Ranjit. “Something strange is happening to us, Captain. The snow is melting. Soon it will no longer provide a covering. And the crows know it, they sit on my chest and peck and peck, their beaks as sharp as little knives. I will not exist much longer, Captain. But Dewan is still buried deep. Keep your promise. Bring him down.”
Ranjit’s voice comes in a rush. “Sergeant, there is nothing I can do for you. I am a servant now, I look after houses—”
He is talking into the air: the space where Khandelkar had stood is empty. He leans back against the truck and holds his head in his hands. The dog has triggered this hallucination. The Sergeant’s words were gibberish: snow does not melt on the glacier in December.
