by A. X. Ahmad
This logic calms him, and he takes a deep breath, and then another, and gradually the reality of the situation reasserts itself: the house is wrecked, and he knows that he should call the police and file a report. But what if they ask for his papers? He looks down at the driving license he had bought in Boston. Will it pass muster?
No choice. He takes out his cell phone and dials, and the West Tisbury police say they’re sending a car out right away.
By the time the dark blue cruiser pulls up, he has left messages on the character actor’s answering machines in New York and Los Angeles.
A thick-trunked police officer with a lined face gets slowly out of the cruiser. His peaked cap is pushed back on his head, and his blue uniform shirt is tight over his midriff. Peering at Ranjit, he unbuttons his holster with one flick of his thumb.
“Don’t move. I need to see your hands, now.”
Looking down, Ranjit realizes that the shoulder of his jacket is ripped open, its beige canvas spattered with dark blood.
“Wait.” Ranjit’s words come out in a rush. “I didn’t do anything, it’s dog blood—”
The officer’s hands are a blur and his gun slides out of the holster. “Shut up. Do it.”
Ranjit backs up against his truck and raises his arms high. He takes a deep breath and speaks slowly. “Look, I’m the caretaker for this house. I’m Ranjit Singh, my client is Mark Allston. I have a contract with him, I have the keys to the house—”
The officer steps forward slowly, squinting at Ranjit, and a look of recognition passes across his broad face. “Hey, you the guy who lives next to Mike’s Tow? On Masonic Avenue? The Indian guy?”
Ranjit nods, making sure his hands are in full view.
“Yeah, I get my car fixed at Mike’s, I seen you before. I’m Officer Gardner.” The man slowly lowers his weapon, and the deep lines in his forehead disappear. “Now, what happened in there? You called in a burglary in progress. The intruders attack you?”
Ranjit shakes his head. “No, they’re gone. Their dog attacked me. A big dog.”
“Dog? Wait here, okay?”
The officer approaches the back door, cautiously peers in, and then walks into the kitchen. There is a muffled cry and he bursts out, breathing heavily.
“Mary mother of God.” He stares at Ranjit, who is still standing by his truck. “What the hell happened to that pit bull?”
“I killed it.” Ranjit suddenly feels very calm. “It attacked me. I had no choice.”
“Jesus Christ. How did you do that?”
“I was in the military. We were trained to deal with dogs.”
The man takes off his cap and runs a hand over his crew cut. “Those pit bulls will tear your throat out. I’ve seen it. You better tell me what happened in there.”
Ranjit tells him about hearing voices in the kitchen. The intruders must have heard him come in, pretended to leave, then loosed their dog on him.
“They were two men. I can’t be sure, but I think I’ve seen them before. They drive an old blue car, a Mercury. The rear bumper has duct tape on it.”
The officer’s face turns red with excitement. “An old Mercury? Did one of them have tattoos?”
Ranjit thinks back on the parking lot outside the liquor store. “Some sort of fish.” He gestures at his arms. “One on each arm.”
“Son of a bitch.” The officer runs to the cruiser and begins to talk excitedly on the radio. “Hey, Gardner here. You know those two guys we busted for illegal hunting? Yeah, yeah, in the fall. I got an ID here on the burglaries. Put out an APB on those guys. Yeah, thanks.”
Ranjit remembers that Anna had known their names, but he can’t remember them. Most American names sound the same to him. “Officer, you know who those two men are?”
Officer Gardner’s thick face lights up with a smile. “Yeah, I think we have a pretty good idea. Now don’t leave the island for the next week, okay? We’re going to need you to ID those guys. You’re still at Masonic Avenue, right?”
Ranjit pauses. “Yes, sir.”
“And get that shoulder looked at. The dog in there looked pretty sick to me.” The officer shakes his head in disgust, and the lines in his forehead reappear. “Those guys breed pit bulls, they keep them hungry and mean.”
Ranjit nods, feeling relieved. “Yes, sir, I will. Can I go now? It’s Christmas Eve, and my family is waiting—”
“Ah, there’s one thing. Any chance that those two recognized you? It’s a small island, and you stand out, for sure.”
Ranjit’s face darkens, and the officer puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Hey, no need to worry now, we’ll pick ’em up in a day or two. Just be careful. I tell you what. I’ll swing by Masonic Avenue now and then and keep an eye on things.”
Ranjit forces himself to speak. “Well, I don’t want to put you to any trouble, Officer. I know it’s Christmas, and you must be busy…”
The cop beams. “No trouble. No trouble at all. Merry Christmas.”
Getting into his truck, Ranjit realizes that he’s shivering. What happens if the cop drives by Masonic Avenue and sees that the house is empty? They could easily be traced to the Senator’s house, and then he’ll be arrested for trespassing.
He gets into his truck, blasts the heater, and begins the long drive to Aquinnah. Whether Preetam likes it or not, they’re leaving the Senator’s house. He’ll have to talk to her soon, but not tonight, not on Christmas Eve. He glances over his shoulder at the large boxes lying on the backseat.
No matter what, his family will celebrate this Christmas.
Chapter Eight
It is dark by the time Ranjit gets back to Aquinnah. He parks outside the house and unbuttons his shirt to check for scratches: his shoulder is bruised, but, thank the Guru, his skin is unbroken, the thick canvas jacket having absorbed the impact of the dog’s assault. The jacket is ripped and useless now. Taking it off, he stuffs it into his toolbox before entering the house.
He expects Preetam to be on the phone, but instead it is quiet, and he can hear the low murmur of voices.
Standing in the entryway, he sees Preetam sitting on the gray leather couch, with Shanti on the floor below her. He watches as Preetam gently combs through the tangles in Shanti’s long, curly hair, then pours oil from a bottle and massages it into her daughter’s scalp. The sickly sweet fragrance of coconut oil fills the room.
He slips into the room. “Hey, you two. Shanti, you look so … different.”
Shanti looks up at him with beseeching eyes. Her hair is gleaming with oil and she is dressed in a too-short pink salwar kameez, her nails painted a matching color.
Ranjit chuckles, knowing that she hates having her hair oiled, and would rather wear jeans and a sweatshirt.
Preetam misses the whole exchange. “See, Ranjit, how beautiful your daughter looks now? Like a proper girl. These days she’s always running around in those dirty jeans, like a tomboy.”
“Yes, indeed. She looks very nice.”
With the heat cranked up, Preetam is wearing a thin white cotton salwar kameez and her feet are bare, just as she would dress on a hot day in India. He knows that in this house, she has forgotten about America.
He sniffs the warm air. “What are you cooking? It smells delicious.”
“Well, it’s Christmas and all. So I thought I’d make that chicken that you like, and rice. Why don’t you wash up, and we can eat?” She stares into his face. “Are you all right, Ranjit? You look pale.”
“Oh, I’m just a little tired. It’s been a long day.”
Preetam nods and goes back to combing Shanti’s hair. “Okay, dinner’s ready. I’ll reheat the chicken while you wash up.”
He walks quickly down the stairs and notices that a light is on halfway down the corridor. Entering the Senator’s study, he sees that the wooden swivel chair is askew and a desk drawer is open. Lying half-made on the desk is a necklace of paper clips. Damn it, Shanti must have been in here—he’ll have to give her a stern talking-to.
He starts to close the drawer, but can’t help peering in. In the front is a tangle of rubber bands, ballpoints, and paper clips, but behind them is a page torn out of a notebook and folded over. He reaches in and unfolds the paper, seeing a drawing in vivid crayon. It is crudely done, but there is no mistaking the outline of this house, the blue sea beyond, seagulls like check marks flying above it. In a wobbly child’s handwriting is written “Jojo.”
So Anna’s daughter was called Jojo. What is that short for? Johanna? Josephine? He replaces the paper and gently closes the drawer. He imagines a girl younger than Shanti dancing into this room, imagines the Senator lifting her up into his lap, taking the picture and admiring it, then placing it carefully in the back of his drawer.
From upstairs he hears the clink of plates on the table.
“Ranjit! The food is hot!”
“Coming, Preetam,” he says, but lingers on in the silent room for another moment. It seems strange that the pink bedroom has been left intact, but there are no photographs of Jojo anywhere in the house. Stop it, he tells himself. This is too morbid.
He walks to the bathroom and takes a quick shower, seeing that his shoulder is bruised a dark blue. He scrubs his beard and mustache and soaps his hands over and over, trying to wash away the smell of the dog.
* * *
For once they eat at the oak table in the bay window, laid with the Senator’s fine china. Ranjit takes a big helping of steaming rajmah beans from a tureen, heaping it over a mound of basmati rice. There is also chicken curry, redolent with onions and the rich aroma of saffron.
Preetam watches him eat, smiling indulgently.
“This is fantastic. Where did you get the saffron?” he asks, his mouth half full.
“Oh, there’s a cupboard in the kitchen full of Indian masalas. There’s even mustard seed and cumin. Whoever owns this house must like Indian food.”
He thinks of the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches he’d seen Anna eating during the summer, but doesn’t correct her.
Shanti’s face is beaming as she eats. “Papaji, have you seen Ocean Park? They took us on a field trip. It’s so beautiful. There’s a Christmas tree in the bandstand, and sparkly reindeers, and a green fountain made out of lights.”
He smiles back. “They really take Christmas seriously here. Out by the Radio Shack, I saw two tractors decorated with Christmas lights.”
She stops eating and sighs. “I love Christmas, Papaji. Too bad we don’t celebrate it.”
“What do you mean, beti?”
“Well, Mama told me that we’re Sikhs, so we don’t get presents…”
Preetam looks down at her plate, and he can see the strain in her face.
“Well,” he says, “actually, Santa got here early. Some packages arrived in the mail.”
Shanti’s eyes widen. “Really? You’re not kidding?”
“No, I’m not. Finish your dinner, and we’ll see what he sent.”
Preetam looks up at him and raises her eyebrows. He nods, Don’t worry, I’ve got it under control, and starts to get up. “This food is so good, I’m going to get a second helping.”
“No, no.” Preetam takes the plate from him. “I’ll get you some food. You’re tired, you sit.” As she passes his chair she gently squeezes his shoulder.
* * *
Shanti just stares when he brings in the boxes from the truck. Two are wrapped in shiny, striped-pink paper, and the third is a flat purple box with a turquoise bow.
“Papaji, we’re not supposed to open presents till Christmas morning…”
“That rule doesn’t apply to Sikhs. We can open our presents any time we feel like. The pink ones are for you.”
Ranjit and Preetam sit on the couch, watching Shanti unwrap the first box, sliding her small fingers under the pieces of tape and carefully setting aside the shiny paper.
“Oh. Oh.” She opens the box and lifts out a hot pink L.L.Bean parka wrapped in crackling white tissue. She rubs her cheek against the fabric, inhaling its new smell. “It’s exactly the one I wanted, it has a fleece liner and everything. Thank you, Papaji, thank you.”
She plants a wet kiss on his cheek and runs to the hall mirror to try on the jacket.
“The other box with the bow,” he says softly, “is for you, Preetam.”
“Me? Why did you spend your hard-earned money on me?”
“Open it.”
Preetam tears open the wrapping paper, and inside is a black wool coat with a fur-lined hood, two pairs of pants, and three colorful wool sweaters.
“You can wear the pants when you go out,” he says. “I know you didn’t like wearing salwar kameez to the sewing group.”
Preetam’s eyes are sparkling. “They’re beautiful, and the coat is so warm. I can go outside in this.” She puts on the coat and pulls the hood over her head, so that only her nose protrudes.
“You look like an Eskimo, Ma,” Shanti shouts.
“Don’t listen to her. You look beautiful.”
Preetam drops the hood and suddenly looks stricken. “And you, Ranjit? You didn’t get anything for yourself? All you have is that dirty old coat…”
“Both of you are my presents. You are all that I need.”
They come over and hug him and he’s suddenly enveloped in a crush of wool and shiny acrylic.
* * *
The boxes have been stored in a corner, the ribbons and paper flattened and put away. Shanti has taken her other present, a matching pink backpack, and gone downstairs to her room. Preetam starts to clear the dirty dishes, telling Ranjit to put his feet up and rest.
“Papaji, tuck me in, please.” Shanti appears at the top of the stairs in her pajama bottoms and her new pink coat.
They go downstairs and he sits on the edge of her bed. “Hey, you can’t sleep with that on. You’ll get all sweaty.”
She reluctantly pulls off her coat and snuggles deep into her blankets. There is a lump next to her, and he reaches under the blanket, drawing out the old, dark-faced doll. It is heavy and reeks of musty old cloth.
“I told you not to play with this. It’s old, and it might break.”
“Papaji, please, Rosie keeps me company when I sleep. I don’t have bad dreams when she’s with me.”
“Rosie?”
“Yes, that’s her name. She told me so.”
Ranjit sighs. “Okay, but just for tonight. And put Rosie back on the shelf during the day.” He bends and kisses her warm forehead. “Now go to sleep. I’ll sit here for a few minutes.”
“Merry Christmas, Papaji.” She sighs and turns onto her stomach. Soon her breathing slows and she’s deeply asleep.
Upstairs in the kitchen Preetam is washing the dishes by hand—she is suspicious of the dishwasher—and he dries, standing next to her. He sneaks a glance at her as he wipes the last plate, careful not to crack the thin bone china. Her face is bright with happiness, and seeing her like this, it frightens him to even think of leaving this house.
When they are done the sleeves of her white cotton kameez are wet and there is a damp patch on her stomach where she has leaned against the sink. She looks at him, and he meets her gaze.
“Is Shanti asleep?” she asks in a whisper.
He nods, and together they walk down the stairs to the bottom of the house.
* * *
They sit on the side of the small bed, holding hands like teenagers, her soft, moist palm in his.
“How hard you’ve been working, Ranjit, your hands used to be so smooth, but now…” She turns her face to his, and he leans in to kiss her.
It has been so long that he has forgotten everything: the feeling of her small mouth on his, the scent of her hair, the soft skin at the back of her neck.
How could he have forgotten? He starts to unbutton her kameez but she says, “No, no, turn off the light,” and slips off the bed.
In the darkness he watches her pale silhouette as she lifts the kameez over her head. He pulls off his own clothes and unwraps his turban.
Her skin feels cool—she was always cold, he remembers, even in the heat of summer—and he buries his face in the hollow between her neck and shoulder, inhaling her scent. I’m home, he thinks, take me home, but she stiffens in his arms.
It has been a long time, he tells himself, she’s nervous, be patient.
Stroking her back, he feels her relax and lean in to him. This time, when he kisses her, her cool lips press back. He traces the contours of her breasts, her stomach, and her hips, his touch awaking hidden memories: the first time she had taken her clothes off, looking solemn as she stepped out of her red wedding sari. The years before Shanti was born, when each Sunday afternoon they would explore each other’s bodies, then drowse together in the heat, their bodies stuck together with sweat.
He kisses her till she is ready, and then they are rocking together on the small bed, the ocean close by, its waves rising and falling.
When they are done, he remains on top of her, inhaling the rich, clean smell of her hair. But she has been using Anna’s shampoo, and he finds himself remembering how fiercely Anna had kissed him in her bedroom, the way she had felt under him, her strong arms locked around his back …
No. Don’t think about that. That was one afternoon, an aberration. His life is here, with his wife and child.
Preetam must sense his mind drifting, because she whispers in the darkness. “What are you thinking about, Ranjit?”
He rolls off her and holds her hand. “Nothing. I’m just so happy that you’re happy here.”
“Thank you for the presents, Ranjit. I know how hard you’ve been working, and I know that I … I have been so cranky all the time. I’ll try to do better—”
“Shhh. No need to apologize. It’s been hard for all of us. I have a feeling that this next year will be better.”
“Yes, I think so, too. Hold me.”
She cuddles into him, tucking her cold feet against his warm legs, and quickly falls asleep. He remains awake, his thoughts drifting to Anna and her dead daughter. He can’t help wondering whether Jojo had Anna’s dark eyes, or resembled the Senator. To stop his thoughts, he slows down his breathing, feeling each breath fill his belly, then slowly leave his nostrils.
