“Why, are you not comfortable playing the lead?”
“No, it’s just—”
“Look, figure out if you want it by tomorrow morning. I’d really like to see you as Samantha. She’s the Lolita of the play, okay, and you’re perfect for the part.”
Isabella blushed. Erik whispered, “That’s hot.”
“I’ll have to think about it.” She fought the urge to vomit; her heart raced.
“Okay.” Tewks rolled his eyes. “You have one day. The show is scheduled to begin in three weeks. And now that we’ve changed things, we are in a crunch.” He continued reassigning a few of the smaller roles.
Dammit! Isabella’s thoughts were so loud she wondered if others could hear her. She couldn’t possibly manage the lead role. She couldn’t even remember her homework, much less an entire script. It was Tewks’s fault they were behind schedule; now they all were going to be punished for his lack of connection to reality.
“No, not okay, Tewks.” Tracy was the only student who had the permission to call him by his nickname. “She’s all wrong for the part. I should be Samantha. Look at her! She totally can’t even handle us looking at her right now. How is she supposed to manage an entire audience?”
Isabella laughed nervously. Her nose, which was a smaller, feminine version of her brother’s, turned scarlet. When she was born, Isabella had looked just like her father’s second cousin’s mother—a woman named Rani who everyone said was sohná. When Isabella was eight, she began to look more like her mother’s side of the family; her eyes appeared more unintentionally intense day by day. Now, as a teen, she finally looked like herself, independent of the Singh or Mazur tribes, aside from the nose.
“Shush up, Tracy. Samantha’s Best Friend is a great role for you.” He turned back to Isabella. “We’ll have to do something about that overly responsive nose of yours. Do you have contacts?”
“You’ll be great,” Erik said before tossing his backpack over his shoulder and leaving with the other students.
In the hallway, Michelle held her hand and said, “Remember that time we told our moms we were sleeping at each other’s houses and went to the haunted house in Oswego instead?”
“Yeah, brilliant idea. We didn’t even make it until dark.” Isabella rolled her eyes.
“And we thought we were going to sleep there through the night and take pictures of the old woman ghost.”
“Mrs. Fletcher. Yeah, that was super creepy.”
Then Michelle changed the subject. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to tell you first,” she said. “My dad had to tell Tewks because he’s a teacher.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s my immune system. They don’t know what’s wrong with me. They think I’m—”
“Don’t even say it.”
Michelle had been sick for months, but Isabella had just assumed it was mono or the flu or something that teenagers get. She never thought it was serious.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ve got something bad in my blood.”
“Where are you going?”
“New York City. My dad got transferred there so we can be close to NYU and Columbia hospitals. I’m scared, Iz.”
Isabella hugged her friend. “It’ll be okay. I know it will.” She said a prayer in her mind. She held Michelle’s hand as they walked. “The city isn’t far. I can take a bus there in three hours.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. I’ll ride the bus even if I have to sit next to a weirdo.”
“You’re gonna do great as Samantha.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. Do it for me.”
Isabella’s stomach turned, and her head shook no.
“You want to come over?”
“I should head home. Mom’s all into QT together. I’ll walk.”
“I have to pack anyway. I’ll call you before I leave.”
“I can’t believe—” Isabella stopped, her words flat in her mouth.
She walked the long way home from school. The cold air was heavy with moisture. Isabella let the tears come without fight. They rolled warmly down her cheeks and around her mouth, then collected at the delicate point of her chin. She wished her run-down suburban surroundings were a desert, ocean, or forest. The houses she passed in the neighborhood around Cobalt High seemed to be watching her, judging her with their chipped-paint faces. Instead of inducing visions of comfort and apple pie, the word neighborhood twisted Isabella’s stomach into knots.
She ducked into the clearing that ran between an old factory and the river near the Flats. Nature ignores us, she thought; it doesn’t watch us. The wild had reclaimed the factory-turned-brownfield. Concrete slabs, rebar, and other remnants of the booming assembly of computer parts were almost fully appropriated. Tall grasses, young sycamores, and ivy sprouted from gaps in the walls and tilted cement blocks. A steel rod stabbed an oak tree that had grown too close to a wall. How slow the pain must have been, Isabella thought. The bark looked as if it had parted and made way for the metal that embedded itself into it—but it grew beyond that point; its branch made a detour around the steel. The tree continued.
She slowed her steps and peered into a glassless window of the factory. It smelled sweet inside, as if the last person who’d left had dumped a barrel of clover honey on the floor. They must have left quickly, she noted, because telephones, folders, desks, and other typical office equipment were still inside, as if an atom bomb had vaporized all the humans. She heard the whoo-whoo of a barn owl that was perched high in the rafters. It stared down at her with its ghostly, heart-shaped face. Humans leave permanent stains on the spaces they use, she thought, then turned her back to the brownfield and walked toward the thicket.
She’d learned in fourth grade that the cougar, felis concolor, and the wolf, canis lupus, were common in New York State—even here in the Southern Tier. Isabella looked for an imprint of these animals, but they’d left nothing. She imagined the cougar slinking through the tall grass and the wolf leaping through the forest. The image was so foreign, like trying to imagine an elephant or a grazing triceratops. She’d also completed a report on the Iroquois in that same class. Her mind was filling with absent lives. She took in her surroundings, extinct and otherwise.
As she continued along, the ground grew wet because of the Chautauqua River. A large black willow moaned with the wind. It looked nothing like the black cutout on the stage; this one still had most of its leaves. The wind blew, but the tree stood still. The roots ruptured the earth as though the spine of a creature were rising to the surface. Then Isabella noticed the long thin branches lift gently with the breeze. Just a moment before, she hadn’t noticed this slight movement. She refocused her eyes, as though she were watching it for the first time, and was amazed: A beetle dove under a root. Ants marched in a line to the water’s edge. Her shadow caused night to fall upon a forest of reeds. If she focused too hard, she could no longer see the details, but if she allowed her peripheral vision to lead, everything moved—like when she tried to count the number of stars in the Pleiades and they would disappear, then playfully reappear a moment later when she focused on something else.
Isabella bent over and picked up a rock at her feet. The rock wasn’t special, but the moment was. She memorized the rough, reddish-gray surface. The rock would find a place among her collection in the shoebox or her locker at school. She wanted to remember this moment because she felt present. Some moments she wanted to remember because of their pain—like the ball of rubber bands she’d “borrowed” from Ms. Simm’s desk after she’d passed away at ninety—or because of their joy, as in the paper clips she’d “borrowed” from Erik. These items embodied the essence of people, and when she perused her collection, it felt like communing with friends. She’d collected so many little things, and she never forgot the feeling of the moment to which it was attached.
Her path took her along the river; in this light the water looked black as tar. She met up with Main Street in t
he Flats and followed it all the way to her house on Peregrine Court, the split-level at the end of the cul-de-sac. As she turned her key in the lock, she heard strange metallic noises twang and ting from the backyard. She didn’t check to see what it was; she just stood and listened instead.
Paul
From his chair at the head of the table, Paul surveyed the dining room as an emperor might his empire. He cast his eyes across the various dishes his wife had prepared for their dinner: sauerbraten, cabbage salad, spec piragi, and Alexander cake for dessert. His family sat in the designated chairs Maija had assigned at the beginning of time, after she’d bought the table-and-chair set, sanded them down, and stained them this deep walnut color.
Paul perused his offspring’s cleanliness, noting Izzy’s frizzy hair and Vic’s face, which appeared more masculine because of his broken nose. He looked at his wife, his love, and noticed she looked tired. He remembered when he first saw Maija—how every part of her glowed as if there were something she knew about the world, some secret no one else knew about how it all was going to turn out. His love for Maija had grown exponentially every year since the first moment he’d kissed her in the park. He put his hand on hers and squeezed. She squeezed back.
Paul wiped his lips with his handkerchief. His mouth was watering.
Maija said, “Isabella, perhaps you should say it tonight for us.”
Grace wasn’t common in the Singh household—and Paul did not like it when Maija asked the children to say it—but Maija seemed happier after doing this ceremony, so he never interrupted. Maija arched her eyebrows over her granite eyes, but Isabella was quiet; only the sauerbraten bubbled.
Paul cleared his throat theatrically. Isabella sighed and closed her eyes; Vic did, too. But Paul sat twisting the moustache above his lip, as he often did, watching all of them.
“Thank you for the food, God,” Isabella said, “and may you watch over all of us and”—she fought for words—“may you forgive us all. Amen.”
Maija pursed her full lips. “What do we need forgiveness for?”
Isabella shrugged her shoulders. “I dunno. It just sounded right.”
Paul thought that was silly. Forgiveness. For what? For being alive? Silly, but Isabella was a young woman, and, well, she was still learning.
“Did you find the letters from your father, Paul?” Maija ladled some jus onto the beef on Paul’s plate.
“Not now, piyar,” Paul said.
Paul kept his eyes locked on his plate. He thought about the pile of letters, one of which, he’d noticed, had already been opened and resealed poorly. He looked at Vic. No, his son had too many other important things going on. Then he looked at Maija—but she wouldn’t be so anxious to see the contents if she’d already opened it. His eyes fell on his daughter, and right away he knew she was the culprit because her nose was red, which was a dead giveaway. But why she might do such a thing? Could it be because she wondered why his letters were being handled like a gift jewel sent from a maharaja? Paul imagined she’d opened the letter with the steam from her hot peppermint tea the week before, marveling at the careful up-and-down strokes of a ballpoint pen that made symbols—the Punjabi writing was a cross between ancient Greek and Chinese—and at how much like saltwater the parchment smelled. Or perhaps she’d thought nothing at all.
“What happened to your nose, Vic?” Isabella said. “It’s bigger than it was yesterday.”
“What happened to your face, Izzy?”
“Paul, darling? The letters—have you read them?”
Paul ignored his wife. He ignored his children. Instead, he relished the rich beef juice that filled his mouth. Paul thought Vic was looking even more handsome now. The bruises added a certain depth to his face. He knew, too, that having such scars while at school would be beneficial to his son’s persona. Though he had been the recipient of the damage, he would be now considered a little dangerous, devil-may-care. Girls would find him more attractive and reckless. Paul watched his son eat as if he’d never seen food before, and added eating properly to the list of things he wished to teach him before too long.
Paul looked at Vic’s hands as he shoved more and more food in his mouth. The bandages around his son’s fingers told a deeper story. When Paul had returned home from the station earlier that evening, he’d decided that he would instruct Vic in the ways of Punjabi martial arts. Paul began with sword training. He kept his kirpans in the garage, above the chainsaw near a box with the Christmas ornaments. After he’d dusted them off, he’d taken Vic into the backyard and taught him to swing them and slice the air, though Vic had only managed to flail wildly and shear the tops off of Maija’s roses.
Then they moved to sprinting; Paul joyfully showed Vic how to extend his neck and back synchronically with his calves and knees. They bounded like antelope along the fence until Paul was winded. Then there was hand-to-hand combat, which was most difficult for Vic. Paul insisted he should learn how to box, not to instigate a brawl but rather to be prepared in the event of one breaking out. He’d told him bullies were like locusts—they don’t stop until you smash them underfoot—and he felt smart saying that. Paul had held up his hands and made Vic punch them repeatedly then alternately hit him in the stomach: right jab, left jab, right hook, left hook, body blow. One punch in particular turned Paul’s complexion green. To hide the bout of nausea, Paul had blocked a punch and accidentally bent one of his son’s fingers halfway backward.
Jesus, Papa, you wanna break my hand, too?
It’s not broken, just sprained, it’s okay, Paul said. Let’s do push-ups now, all right? One-handed.
Paul had been so cheerful during the calisthenics that he’d barely noticed his burning muscles and strained back. As he watched his son, a harsh truth showered down upon him: How was he supposed to best his bully now, with an injured finger? Vic wasn’t great at arm wrestling even with a healthy hand, and his punches were weak. Paul knew that the bully wouldn’t stop until Vic fought back. Vic would have to use his brain. Intelligence was an asset in times like these. Paul had heard about the business of outsourcing for protection at Cobalt High: One kid traded his newest video game to be able to sit near another kid at lunch and walk home near him after school. Enlisting the support of others in his defense was an option, but that was far from heroic. No son of his would buy protection like that wimpy kid.
“Paul?” Maija pleaded.
“Um hum,” Paul mumbled.
“The letters, darling. Did you find them?”
“I did. I found them.”
“Oh, good, good. I wonder what they say.”
Paul watched Maija survey the placement of the dishes on their doilies, which were supposed to prevent humid stains from appearing on the surface of the wood dining table. She adjusted them with care. Up to this point in their marriage, Paul had appreciated the fact that Maija had allowed him to manage Vic, just as she would manage Queen Isabella. Paul and Maija had discussed, when she was pregnant with Vic, that their parental duties would be divided equally. You are good with the emotional, but perhaps I should handle the boy myself, na? he’d said. One boy and one girl later, they had become this thing he’d read about in the Daily Mirror called a nuclear family—almost.
“Paul, dear”—Maija swallowed her food—“do you think that these exercises you do with Vic are, what is it, extreme? Doesn’t he get exercise in his gym class?”
“Mai-ja.” Paul’s voice separated her name into two distinct scolding syllables, but she didn’t waver. Vic, on the other hand, dropped his head.
“Well, then, maybe you could explain exactly what you were doing out there with my son.”
“Mama, it’s fine.”
“See, Maija, it’s fine. The boy likes spending time with his father.” Paul shook his head. He was not going to give her any clues about his logic. In his mind, it wasn’t her place to wonder about such things.
“Okay, yes, fine.” Maija offered a soft smile. “Have you read them?”
Paul looke
d out the window at the rain, which tattooed a rhythm on the concrete patio in their backyard. He took to shredding beef on his plate with his fork and knife. Why was Maija pushing him, here, now, in front of the children, for heaven’s sake? He did not know. Any conversation about his father was sure to give him indigestion. He already ate several rolls of Tums every week. Even the suggestion of the letters triggered an unpleasant taste of blood in the back of his mouth. The beef turned to metal.
He found himself suddenly in different surroundings, reminiscing about a faraway place he was beginning to forget. He remembered his childhood in the village, which felt to him a distant memory of someone else’s life—1955, Punjab: He was chasing his big brother, Kamal, under a dry, dusty sun through a wheat field that stretched all the way into tomorrow. The wheat, six feet in the air, was ready for harvest. Papaji was cutting it with a dátrí, his handheld sickle. Paul and Kamal went to get a closer look at the bundles of wheat.
Come on, yár, you’re too slow! Kamal teased Paul.
Paul was smaller than his older brother. He stretched his body until sinews strained and muscles cramped. Kamal ran faster. His legs were longer, and his body was sleek like a panther’s. Kamal had Papaji’s countenance and would have his size, too. Paul hoped for the growth spurt that his Bebbeji said would come in time, though he knew even then that height alone wouldn’t fill the crevasse between them; his differences would become more apparent as he grew. That secret was buried in the blood, and no one ever talked about it.
That day, as Paul and Kamal ran through the field that rose above their heads, they accidentally separated. Paul turned round and round to locate his brother, but all he could see was a golden wall of wheat. Then he heard Kamal scream. The wheat parted as Paul ran in the direction of the desperate voice. The tall grass whipped his cheeks and cut his chin. When Paul found Kamal, he was prostrate on the ground, shaking, a brown-and-black snake writhing nearby.
Balance of Fragile Things Page 4
