by Amrit Chima
“Yes, thank you,” he grinned at her. “I’m fine.”
“Good, good.”
Leaving Jai and the girls with the suitcases, Manmohan led the young men to the cargo compartment of the liner where the rest of the Toor belongings had been stored during the long trip at sea. Gesturing at which boxes were theirs, he then went back outside to wait as they loaded Stewart’s Chevy. It was clear that Manmohan had left nothing behind that was not bolted down in the mill. Darshan read the labels and peeked inside boxes to discover tools (knives, wrenches, sockets and axes, pipe threading with the oil needed to use it, hand drills that Darshan remembered physically straining to twist into wood, rakes, machetes, shovels, and wood saws), kitchenware (boxes of brass and copper dishes that had originally come from India, an oval-based container with a narrow neck to store milk in the ground, a noodle maker, and the Steinfeld spice grinder), clothing (saris, turbans, suits, and frocks), gold jewelry sets, embroidered sheets and tablecloths, boxes of photographs, toy tractors, marbles, and slingshots made of discarded rubber tires and wood shaped like Ys.
After clearing out half the boxes, they had a better view to the dark corner of the cargo hold where something large was covered by a tarpaulin. Stewart pointed at it. “That yours, too?”
Darshan focused his eyes in the dimness, perceiving the shape of a car as he drew nearer. He bunched some of the tarpaulin in his fist, pulling it off to reveal his Falcon.
“Bitchin,” Stewart nodded appreciatively.
“He brought it,” Darshan murmured, walking around the vehicle, pushing bags and trunks out of the way. Peering through the front window, he saw the chest and plywood box he had once discovered in the rafters of the main house but that he had been too afraid to open. Touching the Falcon’s surface, he noticed the paint was not as smooth as it had once been. He thought of his shack in the jungle and his coconut tree at the top of the hill and how he would never see them again. This car was the only other piece of Fiji that was truly his. It did not matter the place, but if needed, it could take him anywhere.
~ ~ ~
“He won’t always be angry,” Stewart told Darshan after they had unloaded the truck that had been packed and bungee-corded with more than half the Toor family belongings. Manmohan had taken the key to the apartment and trudged upstairs without speaking to any of them, Jai and the girls trailing slowly after him.
“It’s not at all what he thought it would be,” Darshan said.
Stewart climbed into his truck. “He’ll be all right.”
“Maybe.”
“Elizabeth’s probably waiting,” Stewart said, starting the engine. “You should call her, tell her everything.” And then he pulled away.
Darshan leaned against the Falcon. He tapped his heel against the front tire, thinking how strange it was to have his car here. It was not as conspicuous as it had once been, in this country where everything was shiny and concrete. There had been nothing like it in Fiji, nothing as handsome, nothing as polished.
He stared up at the apartment on the second floor, wondering if his family realized what he had given to them, what it had cost him. It was not perfect, the furniture old and used, the linoleum still peeling in the kitchen, the bathtub’s clawed feet still rusty. At least the sink worked. He and Elizabeth had repaired it together. It previously had two separate faucets, one for scalding hot, one for ice cold. He had burned his finger in the hot water, and after Elizabeth had secured a bandage over his throbbing blister, they used plumbing tape and piping to connect the two taps together so the cold and hot water could mix. She would be watching The Twilight Zone now, after which she would turn on her paint-spackled stereo and wait for his call.
Gathering his courage, he rapped his knuckles on the side of the car then went up to the apartment. His parents were in the living room, Jai on the sofa, appearing so small in the sea of boxes around her, and Manmohan in a stiff wooden chair that was good for his back. His expression was severe.
“It is a nice place,” Darshan told them. “You should have seen it before we cleaned. The landlord gave us a twenty-five dollar discount in exchange for keeping the trash area tidy. One-twenty is not a bad price for San Francisco.”
“We have to clean other people’s trash?” Jai asked, resignation in her voice. She had been uprooted, pulled from the hard-earned life she had established in Fiji to come here and clean other people’s garbage.
“No, Bebe,” he told her, sorry for mentioning it. “I will do it.”
“Good,” Navpreet said, entering the living room. “Because I am not cleaning garbage either. And neither is Livleen.” She took her sister’s hand, pulling her toward the couch. She demurely sat, kicked off her shoes, and propped her feet on the coffee table. Livleen sat beside her.
“Your hair,” Manmohan said quietly, not looking at Darshan.
The room quieted, and no one said another word.
Darshan went to the bay window where he had set aside his new red toolbox that stored all his paintbrushes, screwdrivers, hammers, and nails, all of which he had to work overtime to pay for. Two tall plants flanked the window, leaning inward to catch the sun’s rays. He had thought the green would be a nice, warming touch. He stared down to the street where the Falcon was parked, the trunk and back seat still full of boxes. Only a day and already he wanted to speed away, car and young man like outlaws, fleeing and laughing into the San Francisco hills.
~ ~ ~
The free spaces in Darshan’s days narrowed and condensed over the following months. A mountain of responsibility had accumulated until there was nothing left of his time. The cross-town drive to Kaiser for Manmohan’s frequent medical appointments. Overtime in pathology to pay for rent, food, clothing, and his tuition. Classes and preparation for exams. The weekly commute across the Bay to the Stockton gurdwara to see Junker Singh and his family who, following the growing migratory tide of colonial Indians to the United States, had come to the Bay Area shortly after the Toors. And at the end of every week, when he ached to lie down and close his eyes, he found himself in the dank apartment building alley sweeping up the putrid, rotting tenant garbage, wishing for a hot shower at Elizabeth’s.
Fatigue caused him to be easily irked, and he often muttered dark, irritable complaints about his family while shoving his foot in the aluminum bins to compress everything down before taking it all out to the sidewalk. There was a general sense of surrender and loss in his parents’ attitude, evidenced by the slow shuffle of Jai’s feet when she walked and by the expression of bitterness chiseled permanently into Manmohan’s face, making Darshan feel as though all his efforts were wasted. Livleen, who had taken a paper route, was the only one of them to offer help, and although he appreciated the gesture, her income did little to alleviate the pressure on him, which made him angrier with Navpreet, who had not made any attempts to search for a job at all. And despite the fact that their schedules were entirely at odds, Navpreet demanded that he drive her to San Francisco State where she was also taking classes, pick her up, bring her lunch, take her out to meet friends, never once offering to take public transportation.
One evening, sweaty and stinking of garbage, eyes burning with lack of sleep, he climbed the stairs to find Navpreet dozing in the living room. She was sitting on the floor against the couch, her legs stretched out under the coffee table, class notes scattered about her. Her mouth was slack, open in such a blissful state of rest that he resentfully stomped his foot hard on the wooden floor, startling her awake.
“Damn it, Darshan!” she said. “You scared me.”
“Navpreet,” he said, keeping his voice even. “You need to get a job.”
She gathered her papers together. “I don’t have time for a job.”
“I have a friend in the lab at Kaiser.”
“So,” she replied, rubbing her temples, taking a sip from a glass of water on the coffee table.
“They need someone.”
“I’m pre-med, Darshan.” She closed her eyes in exas
peration, and when she opened them again she spoke to him as if explaining an obvious concept to a slow child. “I cannot work and study.”
“I work forty, sometimes fifty hours every week now,” he told her. “It is my last year of college. I have not slept in almost thirty hours. You need to get a job.”
She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes. “I am doing something important.”
“I cannot continue to pay for your tuition.”
A look of adolescent panic crossed her face. “But you pay for everyone else. You gave money to Livleen for her braces.”
He exhaled forcefully, crossing his arms and balling his fists into his armpits. “Livleen is saving her own money for her braces.” His voice grew louder. “Bapu and Bebe need our help. We are supposed to help them.”
She gestured at her homework. “I am studying to become the future family physician. And it was not my choice to come here. I wanted something else, but they would not listen to me.”
Releasing his arms, he gathered the hair at the front of his head and held it back. “At least a job in the hospital will get you school credits.”
“Anything else?” she said, dismissing him with a wave of her pencil, preparing to study.
“Navpreet—”
“I’ll do it if I have to,” she said irritably. “But I am not taking the bus.”
He had not wanted to teach her how to drive, to allow her access to his car, to let her abuse it and steal it away from him, but she insisted and he was too exhausted to refuse her. His only consolation was that she would be forced to assume some of the responsibilities that came with its use, and so, grudgingly, he took her to Serramonte Shopping Mall’s parking lot, wishing fervently that she would fail.
The workings of a five-speed were beyond Navpreet, however, which became quickly evident during that first lesson. Holding his breath, he shut his eyes tight, fingers clutching frantically at the dashboard as she attempted to handle the gears and navigate the parking lot. She plugged the gas, set on a determinedly straight course that ended at several parked cars and the gigantic wall of Macy’s beyond. The roar of the engine rang in his ears, echoing loudly against the pavement. The car began to grind in protest when she did not shift to second, and she made no attempt to turn.
“Neutral,” Darshan said evenly, head down.
The car quieted somewhat, but did not slow. “Okay, it’s in neutral,” she said, her voice tight with terror. “Now what should I do?”
“Brake.”
“But I can’t,” she shouted. “It jerks when I stop.”
“That’s why you’re in neutral,” he said in alarm.
The car slammed to a stop. Darshan gasped as braced himself against the dashboard. Opening his eyes, he was relieved to see there was still a reasonable distance between the Falcon and the parked cars. He turned to the backseat. “You okay, Livleen?”
“I’m fine,” she said, slouched low.
“Won’t anyone ask me?” Navpreet said, gripping her heart.
Darshan exhaled. “One more time. Now put it in first and slowly let go of the clutch at the same moment you press the gas.”
The engine revved, and the Falcon lurched forward and died. He told her to restart the engine. “Slowly and evenly. Too much gas, not enough release of the clutch.”
Again the car jerked forward and died. Navpreet pounded the wheel with her fist. “Damn it, Darshan! You are making me so nervous!”
“I am making you nervous?” He started to laugh.
“Fine!” she shouted and restarted the car. After an awful peeling of rubber and a horrible squeal, the car staggered forward and she drove a U before braking furiously. “There,” she said triumphantly. “A turn!”
“Something is burning,” Livleen said. She reached under Darshan’s seat to retrieve one of her clogs that had fallen off.
“Navpreet,” Darshan said in frustration, getting out to check for smoke. “You have to be slow and easy with her.” There was no smoke, but fumes of burnt tire stung his throat. He bent to have a look under the car.
“Slow and easy was not working. And the car moved, didn’t it? I turned, didn’t I?”
“It’s time to go pick up Bapu,” he said. “Let me drive.”
Fuming, Navpreet took her place on the passenger side. She glowered at him, but he ignored her, relieved to have his car back. He pulled out of the parking lot and onto the ramp leading to the 280 highway.
They drove in silence, the radio on low. Darshan could see that she was still upset, her arms crossed, her face stony.
“The bus isn’t so bad,” he finally said, feeling a little sorry for her. “You can study during the ride.”
“I am not taking the bus.”
“You have to do something,” he told her. “I can’t be in charge of everything. I can’t drive you around everywhere.”
“So you keep saying.”
“We have to work together.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I think we should pool our paychecks,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it. We can save much faster, do something with the money to make sure Bapu and Bebe have nothing to worry about.”
She laughed with scorn. “First you want me to get a job because you don’t want to support me. Then you expect me to take the bus to get there so you don’t have to share your precious car, and now you want me to give you all my money?”
“It isn’t for me.”
“I’ll do it,” Livleen said.
“Easy for you,” Navpreet told her. “You have the least to give.”
“Don’t you care that this is hard for them?” Darshan asked.
“Don’t talk to me about what is hard for them,” she said angrily. “I know how hard things are for them, acting so miserable, all because of their own choices. You have had three years on your own when you did not once have to think about it. We never got a day without being reminded of what we owe them.”
“It is not a contest, Navpreet,” he said, trying to be gentle because he could see that she was genuinely upset.
She crossed her arms and kept her mouth tightly shut, staring straight ahead out the windshield with such aggravation in her pink cheeks and her turned-down eyebrows he thought she might actually cry.
~ ~ ~
“You’re working too hard,” Elizabeth said, rubbing Darshan’s shoulders, straddling his back as he lay face down. She was wearing the ankle-length, halter dress he liked so much, her hair getting longer, brushing against his skin as she leaned into his body.
“I know,” he said sleepily, his cheek pressed against the pillow. “But once we get everyone situated, it will be much better.”
“You’ve been saying that for a while now. I hardly ever see you. It’s Stewart and me all the time. It’s not the same. We watched Martin’s Laugh-In without you yesterday, and it wasn’t that funny.”
He missed sleeping with her, the warm reassuring presence of her body beneath the covers. This was the first time in months he had not gone to 24th Street for the night. He had just come off the day shift and had only a few hours before the night one began. It was easier to stay near the hospital.
She was silent for a moment, and he could hear her breath in the stillness of her studio as she massaged him. “I’d like to meet them,” she said after a while. “Don’t you think it’s been enough time? It’s already November. I thought it would be fun to make them a Thanksgiving dinner.”
Her fingers were getting deep into his muscles. “I know,” he murmured. “It’s complicated. It’s too much.”
She bent, kissed his temple and continued massaging his shoulders, then worked her fingers down his spine. Closing his eyes, soon there was nothing at all, just a seamless, unnoticed shift from feeling her touch to a dreamless, weightless sleep.
~ ~ ~
“I think it’s you,” Elizabeth told Darshan, slopping mashed potatoes from a dish into a plastic container with a brisk, cold flick of her wrist. “Not them. I think the
y wouldn’t mind so much.”
He looked helplessly around at her studio, at the table and chairs she had borrowed from Stewart and crammed into the center of the room, the half-melted candles, the wine glasses, the cranberry sauce, and the untouched twenty-pound turkey centerpiece nestled in lettuce leaves. “I never told you they were coming,” he said.
“No, you didn’t. It’s my fault.” She locked a lid over the container and put the mashed potatoes in the fridge.
“I thought you had dinner at your mother’s.”
“Next year.”
“But I never told you—”
“I know.”
Trying to lighten the mood, he said, “There are too many of them anyway.”
“What?”
“Too many Toors. They wouldn’t have fit.”
When she did not smile, he tried kissing her cheek. She stiffened. Sighing, he quietly gathered up all the plates and utensils and put them in the cupboard while she refrigerated the rest of the food. They watched some television, sitting next to each other but not touching. When he left, she was sleeping.
“You are late,” Navpreet said when Darshan got home to 24th Street.
He breathed in deeply, the smell of the apartment reminding him of the main house at the lumber mill. It had been feeling more like home of late. Jai had fully settled the family in, covering the two beds in thick blankets, stocking the kitchen with plates, steel tumblers, and pots, and hanging photos and decorations. Everything smelled of washing and spices. The couch upholstery, the blankets, clothing, the walls themselves seemed to radiate the scent of Fiji.
“I am not late. You never asked me to take you anywhere.”
“And now I am late.”
Refusing to be baited, he smiled at her, then called to Jai down the hall.
“In here, beta,” his mother called from the kitchen.
“Sat sri akal, Bebe,” he said, joining her. “Where is Bapu?”
“Lying down. And Livleen went for a walk. You want some chai?”
