Secrets We Kept

by Krystal A. Sital

  There was much for her to do throughout the day—sweeping and dusting, scrubbing and mopping the walls and floors. It would only become layered with dust and muck again when her husband and his friends returned to work in the evening, but better to clean every day than to let it build up, she thought.

  DHARMENDRA RETURNED HOME with his friends at five to a sleeping wife. He woke her, his mood changing from tired to sour to grouchy. Arya was still in a haze from dreaming of her home and of their tranquil honeymoon with its glorious sunsets, of Dharmendra slipping into bed next to her and nuzzling his stubble into the back of her neck. His hunger made her defensive. How was she to cook? There was no money, no refrigerator, no goods, no utensils. Dharmendra’s friends stood outside smoking cigarettes.

  Allyuh goh ahead and staht, he told them. We goh be right back.

  They set out in the jeep to buy the cheapest items. Though everything they purchased was plastic, Arya held their bags tightly because these were the first things they would buy and own together. They chose a large iron pot for her to cook in over the open fire downstairs, plastic utensils, plates, and bowls that could withstand rough handling for a while. For tonight they bought Chinese food—fried shrimp wontons, vegetable fried rice with half a chicken doused in pepper sauce, and whatever else the guys wanted to eat.

  Dem doh wahn payment oh anyting, Dharmendra said. Dem ­fellahs and dem juss helpin meh out. Boh we hah toh feed dem. Mammy used to send food and ting foh dem boh now yuh hah toh cook. How it lookin ah hah wife hwome boh no food when me and dese fellahs reach hyah? The plastic bags whipped between them in the breeze. Arya said nothing.

  Before they curled up on the ground that night, ­Dharmendra handed Arya his wallet; it was filled with money he had withdrawn from the bank earlier that day. Take wah yuh need toh buy grocery and ting tomorrow. It hah ah grocery store right out de road. It eh fah atall. Geh some tings so yuh could hah someting ready foh me and dem bois when we reach back tomorrow.

  Arya took the worn leather wallet he slipped into her hands. He turned the oil lamp up for her, the yellow flame licking high and gleeful. Dharmendra lit a candle to take with him to the bathroom. Massaging the leather between her hands, she felt the warmth from his pocket. When she opened it, she did so slowly, pushing up his laminated policeman’s ID with her thumb and then sliding it down. She went through all of his cards this way, most of them serving only the purpose of identification, and then his sole bankcard. The money was pressed into a slit at the back. There were seven electric-blue hundred-dollar bills. She counted the amount several times. This was enough to hold them over for months.

  Take wah yuh need, was what he said. She extracted a single hundred-dollar bill, folded it in half, and placed it beneath what served as their mattress. Lying back with her hands tucked beneath her head, she followed the flickering shadows the flame cast on the unpainted walls. The belch and cough from her husband’s rectum in the next room, accompanied by its smell, didn’t faze her; her mind was on the glossy fruits she would choose from vendors at the market tomorrow, haggling over a better price, the brightly packaged goods she’d purchase from the grocery store, a snow cone or two doused in condensed milk to devour on her way back from food shopping.

  How much yuh take? he asked her, slipping his wallet into the pocket of the uniform he’d be wearing tomorrow. Oh Gawd gyul, ah so tired, he said without waiting for an answer. He knelt on the floor next to her.

  Ah hundred, she whispered.

  He sat up and grabbed his wallet.

  Ah take out all foh yuh rheally boh ahgo keep ah hundred foh me. Tak de ress. Yuh goh need it.

  He handed her the remainder of the money, and the crackling bills remained askew in her palms. Dharmendra extinguished the flame and lay back.

  Poh it away, lewwe sleep.

  She folded them in her hands and tried to fall asleep but couldn’t for a long time. When she did, the money was within her grasp beneath her pillow.

  THE NEXT DAY Arya went through what would become her morning routine before her husband installed plumbing and electricity. She dragged the bucket down to the river, tossed its contents in, rinsed it with water from the well, filled another to clean herself and brush her teeth, scrubbed away the mess they’d made the day before, stuffed herself with fruit from their backyard, and went to the market and store with bills tucked under her armpit where no one could snatch them from her.

  For her trip to the market downtown in the morning, Arya wore flats and tights that accentuated her body in all the right places. Only two months pregnant and with no baby weight yet, she could still wear the stylish clothes she’d always worn. As she walked, she sashayed her hips from side to side in a fluid motion, capturing even the eyes of the women who passed by. Men hooted and whistled; Arya smiled. They didn’t yet know who she was, but soon enough she’d be de policemahn wife, and respect, not whistles, would follow her, though the lascivious thoughts that undoubtedly entered their minds wouldn’t end.

  Arya took a ten-minute bus ride to the market in Chaguanas where vendors sat wilting, along with their produce, in the sun. She gazed at heaps of mangoes of all different varieties—julie, donkeystone, doo-doose, starch, long—alongside bundles of bandanya, bags of rice, sacks of flour, ground peas. Though there was no need, she haggled with the vendors anyway, getting a great price for their stash. Her eye for fruits and vegetables was keen. From the shake of an avocado she could tell if it was ripe or if it would ripen nicely, if it was plucked too young, or if the inside was rotten. She rapped her knuckles on a watermelon, ran her hands along its skin, and shook it before deciding it was good enough to consume later that night. Without a fridge or icebox there was nowhere to store anything extra or left over.

  At the butcher’s she ordered salted beef—Dharmendra’s favorite in rice dishes, though his Hindu parents couldn’t ever know—and eyed the man’s hands as he placed the meat on the scale. She was unknown in the Chaguanas market, her style too new, her face too fresh, so he tipped the balance in his favor.

  A A wah yuh tink yuh doin? Yuh feel ah dotish awah? Me eh blind. Gih meh ah bettah price now oh else ah leave yuh blasted meat juss so.

  The man put his hands up defensively. Arya steupsed, getting used to this small defiant act toward people who pissed her off. The butcher wouldn’t make that mistake with her again. And to hook her into coming back to him now that they’d done this dance and knew where they stood, he lowered his price and threw in a little extra for good faith.

  A bit high off of being able to get anything she wanted for the first time in her life, she wandered to the section of sweets and indulged in a milky piece of burfi, the sprinkles crumbling and melting in her mouth. She sampled blocks of peera, the rice and sugar grainy and pleasant on her tongue. The taste of sticky honey from the rasgulla remained long after she was on a maxi taxi.

  At home, she prepared her meal on the back steps. She ground seasoning with two stones, chopped meat on a tree stump, and seared everything over the open fire on the ground floor. When Dharmendra and his boys came home that evening, they gathered around the pot, spooning this meat dish—something ­Dharmendra’s mother would never have sent—onto their plates. They cracked the watermelon and devoured the whole thing in minutes before returning to their work with vigor.

  BLOWS

  ONLY TWO MONTHS HAD PASSED, but Arya and Dharmendra had transformed the place. There were now some doors and ­windows, lights, a toilet, fridge, sink. No more lugging bodily discharge out of the house in that godforsaken bucket. Once the grass started towering in the backyard and Arya could no longer see, she started to fling the contents of their bucket over the grass and somewhere beyond.

  —It eh hah nobuddy toh check up on meh oh anyting, my mother says, laughing, an if dey gone lookin and geh stick up een shit den dey was lookin foh it. Is my house now, ah di hah propahty gyul.

  Their home was becoming comfortable. Arya was comfortable. Enough that she took pity on her younger brother Amrit
and his sixteen-year-old girlfriend, and offered them a place to stay for a while. A while turned into a week, then two, three, four.

  Arya was downstairs at the stone sink scrubbing clothes against the washboard with her knuckles. The suds built around her arms, soaking her dress as well. She strung pants and shirts, nightgowns and sheets on the lines, clipping them with wooden clothespins to dry. On such a hot day, she knew everything would dry quickly.

  Her belly had begun to show, her gait had changed, and she could no longer hug the basket in front of her as she liked but instead fastened it to her hip. As she was walking upstairs to change into dry clothing, her brother and his girlfriend skipped down the stairs giggling. They were going to a bazaar they’d heard about through the grapevine.

  Dharmendra doh need no help on de house Amrit? Arya asked.

  Karen pouted, and Amrit shook his head. They were off.

  Upstairs she passed by the room that was to be for her child. Arya jiggled the doorknob and tried to get in. Amrit and Karen had installed a lock. In their house. Dammit Amrit! she said. Footsteps sounded on the back staircase. Thinking it was Amrit returning for something he forgot, she said, Amrit, why yuh put ah lock on dis door? Yuh hah no right. When Dharmendra’s voice was the one to reach her ears, Arya knew he’d seen them leave. She walked away, not wanting to deal with her husband’s anger, despite how right he might be.

  They stood in the middle of the narrow corridor that cleaved the entire second floor in two. She saw how Amrit’s reluctance to help with something as easy as setting cinderblocks had rankled Dharmendra. He threatened to kick them out. Arya leaned against the wall and placed her hands on her belly. At four months pregnant, her belly protruded round on her slim body.

  Dis muddah ass, ow long e goh eat off meh? Eh Arya?

  Dharmendra, watch yuh mout bout meh bruddah.

  E is ah nasty, ungrateful son-of-ah-bitch. E eh eatin and drinkin off meh no moh.

  Dharmendra, ever irrational when enraged, wouldn’t calm down now. Arya suspected he’d even had a few drinks in him already, as he was wont to do when working on the house all day on the weekends. She steupsed as she walked past him, long and loud. Irked by his wife’s blatant disrespect, he grabbed her and shoved her back into place.

  Wah de ass wrong wid yuh? Yuh mad awah? she flared up at him, ready with a torrent of vituperations. He cracked a blow to her jaw. Her head ricocheted off the concrete wall. Black splotches stained her vision. Her sight blurred; her knees buckled. Instinctively she cradled her belly. Arya fell on her side. Dharmendra turned and left.

  She lay on the cold, dusty floor and heard the slap of his leather slippers hitting his heels as he walked away. Here in this place she had fallen in love with, Arya now knew intimately every creak and rumble on 22 Pepper Place. She heard the laundry billow, then stop as he broke through the wet sheets hanging on the clothesline. He sauntered over a carpet of lush grass at the back of their house, and she heard nothing for a minute. Separating their house from his brother’s was a tongue of gravel, the same path she often crossed to gossip with her sister-in-law next door. Through the gaping holes in their walls where windows had yet to be installed, the gravel crunching beneath his slippers reached her on the second floor. It was so quiet where they lived, where the humming of a bird’s wings could easily be heard through an opened window. But today she found no comfort in the quiet of nature’s melody. Arya wondered if he was going to his brother’s or the rum shop down the street. Would he return? Would he gather her in his arms? Kiss away her tears? Promise to never do it again? She’d never told him about her father beating her mother, and he’d never been violent before, why now?

  —Meh nevah tell im nutten bout Rebecca gettin lix so, my mother tells me. Din wantah plant no seed een e head toh beat me too plus yuh nevah suppose toh talk bout dem tings back een de day. Ah tell mehself, eh Krys, no mahn goh evah put deh hand on meh as long as ah life een meh body.

  The rumble and thump of the loose cesspit cover ground below his weight as he crossed their yard into his brother’s. Prana, the eldest Sital sibling, said, Aye boi, come come come ahgo meet yuh een di front. Wah yuh wantah drink today? Already six in the evening, it was time for their routine fraternal drink.

  Arya slapped the floor with her palms and blinked the tears from her eyes. She rolled onto her back and lay supine. The grooved plywood ceiling Dharmendra had recently installed swam before her eyes. Getting up, a pain pulled on her right side; she kicked the front door, but it didn’t budge. She leaned against the walls, the coolness quenching the heat in her body. Looking down at her belly, she cradled it in her hands.

  —We di juss find out yuh was a gyul chile, Krys, my mother tells me. Ah wasn’t bringin yuh intah ah wherl whey yuh goh watch yuh muddah geh beat up like me.

  Arya slid back down to the floor. The impact of her butt hitting the ground jolted her. She clapped a hand to the back of her head, the other palm never leaving her belly. His hand cutting through the air replayed over and over again in her mind. No remorse. No reaction.

  His laughter traveled up to her ears. He laughed louder. It became deafening. Arya tore at her hair, scratching her ears in the process, drawing blood. No more waiting. He was never coming back. Not to do what she needed him to do.

  She pulled herself up. Perspiration beaded along her upper lip and between her swollen breasts. From the verandah she watched him. Shirtless, he sat on the low wall in his brother’s front yard. They exchanged something. Dharmendra flung his head back and laughed. Both his hands were on the wall with him, supporting him from tipping over. A bottle of beer sat sweating beside him.

  To get to the back of the house took less than thirty seconds. At the back door, she looked through a pile of wood but did not find what she was looking for. Downstairs she spotted a piece of two-by-four in a corner. The one she selected had been varnished carefully by her husband’s hands, no doubt for the bed he was making them. She tested it by slapping it into her palm. It was solid.

  Arya walked through the clean laundry, over the cesspit, and around to the front of the house. Nissi, her sister-in-law, was in the kitchen adding the finishing touches to dinner, something Arya would’ve been doing herself on any given day. Giving them a wide berth, she approached her husband and his brother from behind. Prana stood up, hooked the necks of the empty bottles between his fingers, and disappeared into the house for more. Arya tightened her grip around the wood. Behind Dharmendra now, she raised it high over her head and in one sweep of strength clapped it on his back. He grabbed the sides of the wall tighter, trying not to topple over. He knew it was his wife. Over and over she arced her weapon, bringing it down on his back. Hit after hit, he sat there, his clenched fists supporting him on the stone wall.

  Prana emerged from the house with beers in hand. Aye aye aye gyul, wah yuh doin? He got closer. Without stopping she warned through ragged breath, Prana, if yuh come closah ahgo beat yuh too. Prana didn’t move.

  Nevah, Arya spat at her husband, in yuh life, she hit him, hit meh again. Spent, she allowed the two-by-four to clatter to the ground. She turned and walked away, the image of her husband hunched forward, red welts forming on his back, burned into her memory.

  —Krys chile, e nevah lay so much as ah fingah on meh again.

  LEGACY

  —AH COULDAH SEE DE GREED een all ah dem eye, my mother says to me, dey eh care one ass bout Pappy.

  My mother is right: after three brain surgeries in November of 2006, no one cares for Shiva’s life. They just need him to stay alive long enough to figure out who has his last will and testament. With no concern for his condition, my mother sees how her siblings count his money, inventory his land holdings, and tally their possible values. Who will benefit most from Shiva’s death? Who will inherit hundreds of thousands of dollars in verdant land stretching across Trinidad? Who will Shiva bequeath everything to? If my grandfather chooses to follow tradition, then only one person, his eldest son, will inherit everything. But no one ha
s proof, and so they all ask underhanded questions of one another, sometimes directly accusing: So you hah e lass will. Dat is why yuh could go bout yuh business so.

  Several of Shiva’s children have a will in their possession, but no one is forthcoming, each hoping theirs is the most recent. Shiva was fond of visiting his lawyer and drawing up wills based on who had won his favor for the time being. My mother has a will of her own that names her the executor and gives my ­grandmother power of attorney. With him incapacitated, my grandmother is able to make all decisions on his behalf, and my mother bears the burden of carrying out the legal provisions of his will. But that will is ten years old, and if Rebecca and Arya plan to wield it, they have to do so swiftly.

  In our apartment, my mother unfolds papers from our fireproof safe. They resemble ancient parchment, yellowed and creased. She’s protected the will for ten years, from Trinidad to America, a piece of paper that unevenly divides Shiva’s legacy among my mother and only two of her sisters.

  —E di always makin will, my mother tells me. Wah frame ah min e was een when e mak dis one meh doh evan remembah, boh is mad e mad wid Amrit and Rahul and dah is why e leave dem out. Boh de uddah gyuls and dem is wutless dey wutless refusin toh help im when time foh im to move up hyah een America, so e cut dem out too.

  The family set the current in motion, and it pulls them along, Rebecca signing every document that comes her way to keep her husband alive.

  —We di need im toh stay alive, my mother confides to me. Toh fix it, e hah toh stay alive.

  Three sisters meet with my grandmother at her apartment.

  My mother reveals to them the will in her possession. One of them pulls Arya aside.

  Arya, we hah toh make ah will ah we own, she says.

  We kyant, my mother responds, it eh right.