by A. X. Ahmad
Without waiting for her, he stands. The pain shoots through his side, and he stumbles and almost falls.
“You’re in no shape to go anywhere.” She drops the stick of driftwood and grips his arm tightly. “If the bleeding starts again, I don’t know what I’ll do. You rest today, and we can look for him tomorrow, okay?”
He is forced to accept the truth of her words. As they walk away, he glances back at the rowboat: the patch of snow in front of where she had sat is now a forest of lines and swirls.
Leaning on her, he walks back to the house, using the deep footprints they made on the way out.
* * *
Exhausted, he changes into dry clothes and falls asleep. When he wakes, the sun has set and he can hear the storm brewing outside, the wind whipping through the trees and making their branches creak. Anna starts a fire, lights a ring of candles, and they stay in bed, eating canned tuna, pickled onions, and crackers.
When they are done, she brushes the crumbs from his chest.
“Anna, the alarms, we have to be sure—”
“They’re all on. Don’t worry, we’ll be able to hear them from up here.”
He begins to say more, but she silences him, covering his mouth with hers.
They kiss, tentatively at first, then deeper, and soon the fishy taste in their mouths gives way to the sweetness of saliva.
Their lovemaking this time is slower, buffered by their knowledge of each other’s bodies, more of an exploration, and less of a devouring. He holds her breasts in his hands, marveling at their firmness, his thumbs circling the thick nubs of her nipples. When she can stand his touch no more, he lowers his head and takes them into his mouth. And when she sighs and turns away from that pleasure, he kisses the salty back of her neck, feeling the curly hairs, moving lower to implant a line of kisses down her long back.
But he tires easily and sinks exhausted back into the pillows. It is her turn, her quick hands exploring the hard musculature of his legs, stroking the hair of his thighs till he is aroused and ready. She twists onto her side, and he wonders what she is doing, till her groin is near his head and her wish is explicit. He rests his head on her warm thigh and uses his tongue, and at the same time feels her mouth close over him.
In the darkness and the flickering candlelight he is no longer human, but has reverted to some sea-state that he has long forgotten, a world of membrane and brine. For a long time there are only pulse beats, slowing and quickening.
Then they are done, and pull away from each other. He’s on the verge of sleep when her voice cuts through the darkness.
“I wish we could go away, Ranjit. Away from all this. Somewhere warm. Where would we go? India?”
“No.” He thinks. “Not India. Brazil. I think we’d like it.”
“What would we do?”
“Oh, drink wine. Eat grilled meat on the beach. Walk around. We would fit in, I think.”
“Yes, Brazil.” Her voice is a sigh. “I can see us, at some market. We’re buying fruit, and then we’ll go home and peel them and eat them. Mangoes, and papayas…”
Her voice fades away as sleep overtakes him.
He wakes a few hours later, his consciousness sharpening for an instant, and he knows Anna is not in bed. She is sitting in the chair by the fireplace, her face blank, staring into the ashy fireplace with unseeing eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
All night there has been the swaying of trees. The next morning the storm is upon them, a soft snow pattering onto the ground. Anna is silent as she helps him get ready. He hesitates before he tells her to bring the shotgun, just for insurance.
He waits in the hallway downstairs, and she returns with the gun cradled in her hands. “You don’t know Clayton. If you point this thing at him, you’re going to have to use it.”
“I don’t plan on using it unless I have to. I know he’s your husband—”
“He’s nothing to me now. Nothing.”
The venom in her voice shocks him. They walk slowly to the Mercedes, and she lays the shotgun on the floor of the backseat.
As they head down-island the sunlight takes on a sudden, hard brilliance, even as it is being leached from the sky. The winds buffet the silver Mercedes, and Anna drives absentmindedly, speeding up and braking, barely slowing at the snow-covered forks. She leans on her horn, narrowly passing a slow-moving station wagon, and Ranjit sinks down into his seat and winces.
“Sorry, sorry,” she says, but she doesn’t slow down.
Tree branches along the road sway wildly as the wind grows stronger. A storm this strong can bring down trees and power lines, rip the shingles off houses. There is no doubt that the Senator will have to return to the deep, sheltered harbor at Vineyard Haven.
He needs to talk to the Senator and trade the microfilm for his family’s release. But then what? All the old patterns have shattered, and none of the pieces fit together anymore.
Outside, the sky darkens and the air smells of newly whetted steel. They roar down the road to Vineyard Haven, heading for the ferry terminal.
* * *
The radio in the car fades in and out. Just as Anna pulls into the ferry terminal, it gives one final crackle and lapses into pure static. The snow is so thick now that Ranjit can barely make out the arms of land that encircle the deep harbor, or the stone breakwater that cuts across its mouth.
He takes out his binoculars and starts systematically sweeping the harbor, east to west.
Shanti loved to come down here in summer, buy an ice-cream cone at the Black Dog bakery, and walk with him along the wharf, watching the white sails of the yachts slipping across the calm, blue-green water.
Now the few sailboats anchored behind the breakwater are rising and falling with each massive swell, tugging at their anchors. The buoys in the harbor bob up and down on frothing waves, their bells clanging.
He adjusts the magnification on the binoculars and focuses on two specks coming in from the Vineyard Sound. They turn out to be fishing trawlers, identifiable by their tall superstructures.
“Nothing,” he says, lowering the binoculars. “Maybe the Senator made landfall on the Cape after all.”
“No.” Anna’s voice is firm. “He can’t swim, he’s scared of the ocean. He wouldn’t be able to sail that far.”
The waves break against the seawall, their spray spattering against the car windows. There is nothing else to look at, but Anna takes up the binoculars and peers out into the murk.
“Where the hell is he?” she mutters, her face flushed with anger.
Ranjit has seen this same look on some of his men before they went into battle. They were the ones who would be shot to pieces, while the scared, sober ones survived.
“Damn it.” Anna thrusts the binoculars at him and reaches for the door handle. “The harbormaster’s office is in the ferry terminal. They have a list of all the boats.”
Without waiting for him, she steps out, staggering as a blast of wind hits her. Ranjit sighs, pulls on the red hunting cap, and they weave across the empty parking lot, soaked by the salty spray.
* * *
The harbormaster’s office is a small, cramped room at the back of the ferry terminal. Anna pushes open a door and a white-haired man in shirtsleeves scowls up at her. His office is a mess, and papers are strewn across his desk, along with rolled-up charts and cups of congealed coffee.
“This office is private, young lady.”
With a whine, a skinny greyhound rises from the corner. It’s so thin that its ribs look as though they’re carved out of balsa wood.
Ranjit stays behind Anna as she walks into the room and shakes her wet hair, sending flakes of snow flying. She smiles sweetly, her dimples showing.
“You might remember me. I’m Anna Williams. Douglas Williams’s daughter.”
The man stares at her. “Williams? The hunter fella? Out in Aquinnah?”
She nods, and the man scratches his head. “I’ll be damned. I remember you. You married a senator or something
?”
Her smile grows brighter. “That’s me. And I need a favor. We’re not sure if a friend made it into the harbor today.”
The greyhound comes over to Anna. She scratches its head, and it closes its eyes tightly, growling with pleasure.
The harbormaster’s face softens. “Yeah, I can tell you that. What kind of boat? Name?”
“The Osprey. She’s a sloop.”
“Osprey? Osprey? What kind of damn name is that? These days, everybody names their boats this crap. Do you know I have five boats in the harbor—five—called Carpe Diem?”
The man swivels in his chair and turns to a clunky computer terminal. Muttering under his breath, he tilts his head back and reads from the screen.
“Sloop, you say? Yeah, your friend is safe. Came into the harbor yesterday evening, late, around seven.”
“Why, thank you. Sorry to have disturbed you.”
She smiles and rubs the dog’s head, and it whines in protest as they leave.
Back in the car Ranjit blasts the heater and the fog slowly clears from the windshield.
“Anna, if he came in last night, he could have sailed anywhere. There are a million private harbors. He could be back at the house, for all we know. We have to get back now, before the snow gets any worse.”
She bites her lower lip and starts the ignition. As they pull out of the parking lot, Ranjit sees that the Stop and Shop supermarket across the road is still open, and an entire Brazilian fishing crew is running in to it. If they are laying in supplies, then the storm is going to last a while.
“We should get some food,” he says, and waves toward the supermarket. “I can’t eat beans and crackers anymore.”
* * *
He remains in the car, and ten minutes later, just as the lights in the supermarket go out, she emerges, carrying three bags of groceries.
Slamming the door shut, she brushes wet snow from her shoulders.
“Tea,” he says. “Did you remember to get more tea?”
She throws her head back and laughs.
“What is it?”
“Look at us,” she says softly, “like an old married couple,” and leans forward to kiss him with her cold lips. “Yes, they had tea. And I even found a bottle of Indian pickle.”
The anger in her seems to have leached away, replaced by tenderness. She drives slowly, holding his hand the whole way.
* * *
The snow is falling faster as they reach the gates of the Red Heron Estate. Anna alights and punches in BLUESKY. At the house, she does the same, deactivating the alarms and motion sensors. They have been gone barely three hours, but the house seems colder.
He props the shotgun in a corner of the kitchen and watches her unload the grocery bags. Rice. Pink lentils. Jalapeño peppers. Fragrant coriander leaves—how do they get those in the Vineyard, in the dead of winter? Onions, potatoes, and garlic. A bottle of Indian mango pickle, the expiration date reading two months ago. He is suddenly aware of being ravenously hungry.
“I’ll make you the best meal you’ve eaten,” he tells Anna.
“He cooks, too,” she says under her breath, then smiles up at him.
“Well, I only know how to make one dish.”
“Uh-oh,” she says, mocking him. “Just don’t put tea leaves in it, okay?”
* * *
Anna peels the onions and potatoes and washes the lentils and rice, and half an hour later, the hot, fragrant khitchri is done. He scoops two bowls full, and adds a dab of mango pickle to each.
“Eat it while it’s hot,” he says, handing Anna a bowl. They sit at the long plank table and eat silently, blowing on each spoonful.
“This is delicious,” she says. “What is it?”
“Khitchri. We used to make it up on the glacier. It used to take five hours to cook, that’s why we had to have four men at each post: two men on guard duty, one man to shovel snow, and one man to cook the khitchri.”
“Well, I want more.” She refills her bowl. “I really need to get the recipe for this.”
“You just made it. You did everything. I just threw it all into the pot.”
“Yes, but what about the proportions?”
“You just throw it together. There are no proportions.”
“No proportions? Then how do you cook it?”
“Americans always want to measure things. Just use your judgment.”
She guffaws loudly.
“What is so funny?”
“It’s just that … at times you’re so Indian.”
“What do you mean? I am Indian.”
They look at each other and her laughter grows louder. Still chuckling, she gathers up their empty bowls and takes them to the sink, washing them with hot water from a kettle.
It is almost dark. He should get up and light the candles, but instead he just watches her washing up, her head bent over the sink, the back of her long neck exposed. She suddenly lowers her head, and a muffled sound escapes her lips. He thinks she’s still laughing, and he’s smiling when he addresses her.
“Now what’s so funny?”
She just stands silently at the sink. When he puts a hand on her shoulder and turns her around he sees that her chest is heaving, and tears streak her face.
“What? What happened?” His hand grips her shoulder tightly.
“It’s not fair,” she says, her voice choked. “I’m … I’m so happy. Here, with you. Cooking together, eating together. And it’s all a dream, right?”
She pushes hair from her eyes. “Ranjit, I meant what I said last night. We don’t have to go through with all this madness. Clayton has a slush fund hidden somewhere in the house. It’s not a lot, but enough to get us far away from this mess. We could really go to Brazil.”
He has a vision of the two of them: she is wearing her yellow dress and sitting on a shaded veranda. When he comes in from the heat, she smiles at him and hands him a cool glass, and he drinks deeply from it, tasting the tartness of fresh lime juice.
“Anna.” He lowers his hands from her shoulders. “I need to get my family out of prison…”
Her dark eyes are fixed on his.
“… I need to finish this. I’ve been running for too long, I don’t have the strength to run any more. This has to stop. Somehow I have to make it stop.”
“Then we’ll go away when it’s over. You and I.” He feels her gaze focused on him. “We can take Shanti with us.”
“Anna, if I leave Preetam”—he cannot bring himself to say divorce—“she’ll make sure I never see Shanti again.”
“That’s absurd. There are courts, there are ways to handle that. Your daughter is a sweetheart, but your wife makes you so unhappy. Anyone can see that. Why do you stay with her?”
He thinks of Preetam, beautiful at twenty-one, the two of them in a movie theater, holding hands; and now, the woman who lives in a world of black-and-white nostalgia. It is all his fault. He was the one who took her out of India and into this strange world.
“I owe her,” he says softly. “I owe her too much.”
Anna turns back to the sink and turns the faucet on and off. “You owe her. How stupid of me. Of course.” She gives the faucet another wrench. “I wonder if that’s why Clayton stays with me? Because he owes me?”
In the silence Ranjit can hear water dripping. He wants to say, In another life, Anna, we could be together. But this one is so crowded, so full of ghosts. There is barely a place for me, where could I put you?
Instead he says nothing. She slips past him, walks down the long corridor, and turns into the darkened living room.
“Anna, please…”
He follows her. She pulls open the drapes and looks out of the French doors. The wind is roaring over the lawns, shaking the tall oaks at the periphery.
Standing beside her, he imagines a tree falling. The shock of it as it hits the ground, its roots grasping at empty air, branches sprawled like broken limbs. When a thing that large dies, it takes an entire world with it.
/> “I am so grateful, without you I would be dead. But right now, I—”
She turns and puts her warm hands on his cheeks.
“Shhh. Don’t say another word.”
Taking his hand in hers, she leads him down the long corridor and up the stairs.
* * *
The bedroom is cold, and smells of the ashes from last night’s fire. She bends to light some candles, and in the flickering light she undresses him with deft hands, taking his sweater off, then the long-sleeved T-shirt underneath. The bandage on his right side, which used to stretch across his stomach, is now a smaller rectangle of gauze; the black, sticky residue from the older bandage is still visible on his skin.
The cold air of the room knifes into him, and he moves toward the bed, but she motions for him to wait. She pulls off his trousers, and then steps quickly out of her own clothes. Naked, she pulls them both in front of the oval mirror that hangs over the dresser.
“Look at us,” she says.
His own face stares out at him, shadowed by pain, his nose like a blade. His hair is still short and unruly, spiking up from his head.
“Look,” she whispers. “I want you to remember us.”
He cannot bear to look at her, but he forces himself, taking in her round breasts with their dark nipples, her narrow waist, the flare of her hips.
In the mirror, her raven-black eyes hold his gaze, and he sees that they are glistening with tears. They stand side by side, their bodies growing cold, but she will not let him go. Only when a shiver runs through him does she turn and lead him to the bed.
* * *
They take it very slowly, starting and stopping and starting again. Their gestures in the dark fight against time, against the loss of each other. They stretch out the minutes in wet and liquid ways, engaging and then pulling apart.
He tries to remember it all: every curve of her, the way she closes her dark eyes when he kisses her. The end is not a triumph but a surrender to nerves that are stretched taut, to muscles that scream for release. They lie in the darkness, their bodies chafed and raw.
The storm rages outside, claps of thunder as crisp as artillery fire followed by the crack of tree branches breaking. Anna wraps her arms and legs around him and holds him tight. He hears her breathing slow, feels her drifting into sleep.
