The Weight of Heaven

by Thrity Umrigar

  And suddenly Ellie felt something darken the sun, as if a shadow had leaned across it, and she became acutely aware of Benny’s presence. Her stomach dropped and, unable to help herself, she looked to her right, knowing that Benny was sitting right there. But when she looked, there was nobody on the red and green blanket, just the sandals Ramesh had kicked off before heading for the water. Still, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that Benny was right next to her. “Ben?” she whispered, staring straight ahead now, not knowing whether Frank could see her lips moving from this distance but not wanting to take the risk. “You here, Benny?”

  There was no answer, just the low hum of the universe, which always seemed more audible on clear, cloudless days at the beach. The afternoon air shimmered like cut glass. But even as Ellie felt foolish, she couldn’t let go of the feeling that, like her, Benny was watching the antics of the man and the boy in the water. Her heart ached for her dead son. Did he believe that his dad was replacing him with another boy? Did he feel forgotten, ignored, neglected? Did he feel—dead? Or was he aware of how sharply, excruciatingly alive he was in their minds and lives? Did he know that they thought about him a hundred times a day, that each of them had a picture of him beside the bed that they kissed first thing in the morning? That there were certain foods that they could not eat to this day because they were his favorite foods, that neither one of them had eaten a watermelon or Chinese fried rice since his death, that they turned off the radio if “Yellow Submarine” or “Octopus’s Garden” came on, that they never entered a Nike store because that was his favorite brand of shoe?

  Ellie felt her throat tighten as another thought struck her: Did Benny, oh, dear God, did Benny hold her responsible for his dying? Did he think—as Frank had occasionally let slip he believed—that she had been a neglectful mom? That he would still be alive if only she’d rushed him to the ER at the first sign of fever? Did he blame Frank for being away in Thailand, convinced that his pragmatic, eagle-eyed father would’ve spotted the danger signs faster than his more relaxed and easygoing mother? Oh, but what about the scores of times when she’d nursed her boy through fevers and sore throats and head colds while Frank was away? How could she have possibly known that this time was different? She’d followed the doctor’s instructions—she’d put the wet rags on his head, given him the baby Tylenol, brought him a Popsicle for his sore throat, checked his temperature every two hours. And more: she’d put on some soothing music on the portable CD player in his room, opened the windows to let in some fresh air, sat holding his hand and telling him how much she loved him. Did he remember all this? Didn’t he remember this? That she’d only left him after his fever was down to normal and he was asleep, his sweet chest rising and falling gently as he breathed? That his skin was smooth and flawless, without any of those purple blossoms that would bloom just a few hours later? That his eyes were shut and he was smiling in his sleep as he often did when he was having a funny dream? That he had his fingers locked together across his chest as he slept and she’d noticed the perfect fingernails and as always, her heart had swelled with love at the sight of those tiny, smooth hands, brown as a small loaf of bread?

  She did. She remembered all of it. The single, strangled cry from Benny that had woken her out of a deep sleep so that she was in his room before she could even remember waking up. The turning on of the night lamp and the horrific first discovery of the rash. The sweaty, disoriented look on Benny’s face. The terrified phone call to Dr. Roberts. The longest five minutes in the world waiting for him to call her back. She had already used those five minutes to get out of her nightdress and into clothes, knowing that Dr. Roberts would ask her to take Benny to the ER. The shakiness of her hands as she dialed 911. The cool, calm efficiency of the paramedics. Riding in the front of the ambulance—despite her pleas, they wouldn’t let her ride in the back, where they’d already started Benny on an IV—and watching the Mott Children’s Hospital building looming like a spaceship in the night as they approached. The resident doctor talking to her, asking her questions, barking out orders at a nurse, asking her to page Dr. Masood, the infectious disease specialist. Dr. Masood had arrived a short while later. After Ellie had answered all his questions, he had touched her shoulder lightly. “We will do our best for your son, Mrs. Benton. We are running some tests right now. But I’m ninety-nine percent sure this is meningococcus. There’s nothing you could’ve done to prevent this. So I want you to understand, you did nothing wrong.”

  Ellie wished she could say those words to Benny now, plead her case while at the beach on a blindingly bright afternoon. But the strange thing was, she could only feel Ben’s presence if she looked straight ahead at the water. If she glanced in the direction where she was sure he was sitting, she felt nothing, saw only the blanket and the sun shimmering on the grains of sand that Ramesh had deposited when he’d tossed his sandals off. Besides, no time now to explain anything because Frank and Ramesh were climbing out of the sea and heading toward her, shaking their heads to shake off the water, looking like two happy dogs as they did so. With every step they took, the sensation of Benny being nearby left her. Now they were almost upon her, and even though the wetness had darkened Frank’s blond hair, she noticed how it glistened in the sun, took in the long, angular face, the big, wide grin, which was also her son’s grin. The grin took her breath away because for the first time she saw what others had always commented upon—Benny’s strong resemblance to his father.

  But no time now to ponder this because Ramesh’s wet, dark body was shivering uncontrollably despite the sun. She threw him a towel, but Frank grabbed it and roughly rubbed the moisture off the boy’s slender body before wrapping it around him. When they sat down, Frank kept his arm around the still-shivering boy, occasionally rubbing his back to breathe more heat into him. The gesture reminded Ellie of Frank bathing Benny when he was a toddler. Ben hated baths, used to scream holy murder every night when Frank carried him into the tub. But once he was in the water, he would settle down and splutter with laughter as he splashed around. Father and son would inevitably look like they’d both had a bath, as a soaking, dripping Frank would rub his son down and then carry him in his towel into his bedroom to change into his pajamas.

  Ellie marveled at how effortlessly Frank was performing the same task with Ramesh. For the past two years, she had believed that Frank was the one stuck in the muddy cesspool of grief, that she was the one who was coping with the death of their son. Now, she wasn’t sure. While she sat on the beach talking to her dead son, Frank had found a new son to love.

  Something of her shock at this last realization must have showed on her face, because she saw Frank stiffen as he said, “He’s cold.” She heard the defensiveness in his voice, as if her husband was fighting back some unspoken accusation.

  “I know,” she said mildly. Smiling at Ramesh, who sat beaming, oblivious to the sudden tension, she added, “And they say the perfect meal after a swim in the ocean is—potato chips.”

  “Yessssssssss,” the boy said, and they all laughed. Frank had a habit of pumping his fist and exclaiming every time he scored a point at basketball, and Ramesh had picked up the gesture from him.

  “Hey, I’m hungry, too. Can I get something to eat?” Frank said.

  Ellie smiled. “Who are we kidding? May as well break into the food right now.” She rummaged through the picnic basket, taking out each of the dishes Prakash had packed for them. “Wow. Prakash must’ve thought we were taking half of Girbaug out on the picnic with us.”

  Ramesh suddenly slapped his knee and squealed with laughter. “Half of Girbaug,” he said. “You’re funny, Ellie.”

  Frank and Ellie eyed each other quizzically. “It’s not that funny, Ramesh,” Frank said finally. “Now stop laughing or you’re gonna choke on your sandwich. “

  But that only made Ramesh laugh even more. “Ignore him,” Ellie murmured to Frank. “Best thing to do when they get like that.”

  Ellie’s hand touched something squish
y at the bottom of the basket. Removing the small piece of wrapped aluminum foil, she unwrapped it. There was the lime pickle relish that Ramesh had requested from his father.

  “My dada didn’t forget,” Ramesh yelled with delight. The boy opened up his sandwich and spread the relish on top of the chicken salad. Then he took a big bite.

  “Ugh,” Frank and Ellie said simultaneously.

  “Hah?” Ramesh said.

  “Ramesh, that’s gross. How can you ruin the taste of the chicken with that?”

  Ramesh smacked his lips. “The pickle makes the sandwich good. Otherwise, it’s too boring.”

  “Guess it’s no different than mustard on a hot dog,” Frank said to Ellie. He let out a sudden groan. “God. What would I give for a nice, juicy hot dog right now?”

  “You eat dog?” Ramesh looked so outraged that Ellie burst out laughing.

  “It’s not a dog. It’s just called that. It’s actually a—” Her mind went blank. What exactly was a hot dog? Beef or pork? “It’s just meat,” she added lamely.

  “And boy, let me tell you. On a hot summer’s day like this, nothing tastes better.” Frank was still waxing nostalgic.

  Ramesh chewed with his mouth open. “Let’s cook it for Christmas this year,” he said. “I’ll tell my dada to make it.”

  “No, no, no. You don’t have it for Christmas. It’s summer food.” Frank closed his eyes. “It’s what you have on the Fourth of July. A nice, cold beer, a fat, juicy burger, and a hot dog.”

  “Stop,” Ellie smiled. “You’re making me homesick.”

  “The Fourth of July is American independence day,” Ramesh declared. “I learned at school.”

  “Right-o,” Frank said.

  “When is Indian independence day?” Ramesh asked. “You know?”

  Ellie and Frank looked at each other, startled. Did they know? They remembered being in Bombay last year because it was a bank holiday and the factory was closed. “I know it’s in August,” Ellie stammered, little embarrassed. “Is it August seventeenth?”

  “August fifteenth,” Ramesh yelled. He glared at them. “I know America’s independence day, but you don’t know India’s,” he said.

  “Okay, buckaroo. You’ve made your point,” Frank said. “Now let up.”

  Ramesh’s ears perked up. “Bukaroo? Like a kangaroo?” He bent his hands at the wrist and held them toward his chest. “Want to see me hop, hop, hop?” Before they could reply, he was struck by another thought. “Ae. Let’s cook hot dogs for your independence day. I’m sure Dada knows how to make them.”

  Frank shuddered visibly, and Ellie knew that the thought of Prakash making hot dogs was sacrilegious to him. But to Ramesh, he merely said, “Afraid not, bud. We’re going to be in Bombay for the Fourth of July.”

  Ellie looked at him inquiringly and then remembered. The American consulate was throwing a bash for American expatriates in and around Bombay. Knowing of her reluctance to attend such gatherings, Frank had bribed her with a boat trip to see the Elephanta Caves if she agreed to go. She’d said yes mostly because she knew he wanted her to.

  “Bombay?” Ramesh screamed. “You’re going to Bombay? Can I come?”

  Ellie watched as Frank’s face went through several contortions at those last words. First, he looked startled, as if the thought had not occurred to him. Then, the prospect of Ramesh’s company made it light up. Immediately, though, the light vanished, dulled by the reminder that Ellie would probably not look too kindly at this intrusion. This realization was followed by a sharp, stabbing resentment at having to sacrifice his pleasure out of a sense of duty toward his wife. Finally, he threw a blanket of blankness over it all and turned to face Ramesh. “I wish you could, buddy,” he said. “But not this time.”

  But Ellie had seen the wistfulness on Frank’s face. And beneath his cursory denial of Ramesh’s request, she heard the anguished regret at refusing not only the boy but also his own heart’s desire. She couldn’t bear the thought of being the reason for that refusal. That much she loved him. That much she owed him—the right to occasional happiness that only a bright Indian boy, who belonged to other people, seemed to bring him. Also, she felt an immense sadness as she watched the suddenly downcast Ramesh, saw his bent, disappointed head. She remembered all the places Benny had seen by age seven—Disneyland, New York City, Florence, Captiva Island, Boulder, Cape Cod—and compared that to the fact that Ramesh had never left his hometown, had never seen the giant metropolis that lay less than a few hours away. And who knew what seeing Bombay might do for the boy, what lurking dreams it might arouse, what horizons it might expand? Ellie remembered how going to Barcelona when she was eleven had affected her. “You all go home,” she’d said to her parents when it was time to leave. “I’m gonna stay here.” They had laughed, and of course she’d gone to Shaker Heights but some part of her—the ambitious, cosmopolitan, worldly part—had been shaped forever by that trip. And she was the daughter of a history professor, had grown up in a home with maps and atlases and books, no stranger to the glories and splendor of the wider world. How now could she deprive Ramesh of his one chance to step outside the confines of his life? What she and Frank could provide for Ramesh without the slightest sacrifice, with a mere flick of their wrist, would take Prakash and Edna a lifetime of scrimping and saving and hardship. A trip to Bombay was the least they could do.

  “Why can’t he go with us?” she asked.

  Frank’s head jerked up, and there was a light in his eyes that Ellie had not seen in two years. “I…I just assumed…I guess…no real reason why he can’t…”

  “I mean, do you think the embassy people might object?” she said, enjoying this power to make Frank happy, prolonging it.

  “Hell, no. I mean, the invitation said children were welcome. It’s just a picnic, anyway, a casual affair.” Frank’s left eye twitched, and Ellie watched in fascination. His eye generally twitched only in times of stress. How badly he wants this! she thought in wonder. And how hard he tries to hide this need from me! For the first time, Ellie felt grateful for Ramesh’s presence in their lives. Perhaps this boy could be the rope that pulled her drowning husband out of his grief. Perhaps he could be the silken thread that reconnected her to Frank.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the whoops of joy emanating from the boy sitting next to her. “Yessssssssssssssss, Ellie,” Ramesh yelled. “Thank you, thank you. Always I’ve wanted to see Mumbai. I am wanting to meet Shahrukh Khan.”

  “Who’s Shahrukh Khan?” Ellie said and heard Ramesh’s gasp.

  “You don’t know Shahrukh Khan? He’s the bestest actor. My own favorite.” Ramesh leapt up from the blanket, and striking his best macho pose, began to recite dialogue from Khan’s latest film. They listened to the boy for a few minutes, and then Frank turned toward Ellie. “Thank you,” he said simply.

  She squeezed his hand. “It’s no big deal. Besides, it will be fun to have him around.”

  “I wonder if he’ll like the city? Or be afraid of it?” Frank smiled. “Do you remember when we took Ben to New York? How he wanted to go into the peep shows because he thought there would be chickens there?”

  She smiled back. “Sure. Remember the visit to Saint Patrick’s?”

  They had wandered into the magnificent cathedral on Saturday afternoon. Despite their Catholic childhoods, neither Frank nor Ellie was particularly devout, and as they walked down the aisle and took in the stained glass windows, the high ceilings, and the ornate altar, they scarcely noticed the small clusters of people who sat in the pews with their heads bowed and eyes closed. Ellie lit a candle on behalf of her mother and then turned to her five-year-old son and asked if he was ready to leave. “But we haven’t prayed yet,” Benny replied. And before they could react, he raced ahead and sat in a pew next to a disheveled-looking man, who was wearing a tattered coat and staring into space. His eyes tightly closed, Benny sat beside the man, who reeked of alcohol and urine, for close to ten minutes. Occasionally, his lips moved. Finally,
the boy opened his eyes, said a loud, “Bye,” to his ragged companion, and joined his parents. “Okay, I’m done talking to God now,” he said.

  For the rest of that day, Ellie had looked at her son with something approaching awe, realizing that the whiny boy who only wanted fried rice for dinner that night and wanted his dad to carry him back to the hotel was also a mysterious, spiritual being whose individuality was already beginning to assert itself.

  She had thought about that strange incident many times, especially since Benny’s death. “You remember?” she now asked Frank.

  He nodded. “Of course.” He paused, looking out to where the sea spread before them like a large banquet table. “He was quite a little man, our Benny.”

  They both looked away, eyes stinging with tears, afraid to speak until the moment passed and they could control their voices again. Ellie covered Frank’s hands with hers. “I bet you Ramesh will love Bombay,” she said at last. “How could he not? It’s fast, busy, exhilarating—just like him.”