The Weight of Heaven

by Thrity Umrigar

  “You ate that at Khyber last night,” Frank chided. “In any case, this is an American picnic. I want you to try some American food.” He stopped, struck by a thought. Ramesh was a Hindu and didn’t eat beef. What on earth would he eat here? But as they walked toward the grills, he noticed that one of the cooks was grilling chicken.

  They were halfway through their meal—chicken, hamburgers, hot dogs, potato salad, baked beans, corn on the cob—when they saw a flurry of activity and sensed that the U.S. ambassador to India had arrived. Frank groaned. “Guess I’d better go stand in line to say hello.”

  “Just sit here and finish your meal,” Ellie said. “What do you care about the stupid ambassador?”

  “It’s good for business, Ellie. Some face time.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. But the line’s gonna be so long, you may as well keep eating.”

  He eyed the jostling that was going on around the tall, silver-headed man, and decided Ellie was right. He took a big bite of his hot dog and closed his eyes in pleasure.

  “What’re you thinking?” Even with his eyes closed, he could hear the smile in her voice.

  “Detroit Tigers,” he said promptly. “Best seats in the house, right behind home plate. Scott buying me one of those big stadium dogs with mustard, ketchup, the works. The Tigers beating the pants off the Yankees that day.” He sighed. “I was fifteen years old.”

  “My dear Frank,” Ellie said. “You sound homesick.”

  And suddenly he was. He wanted to feel the cool, summer breezes off Lake Michigan, wanted to walk with Ellie on their Ann Arbor street taking in the mad, riotous colors of October, wanted to celebrate, as always, Christmas in New York with Scott and his mom and New Year’s Eve with Ellie’s family in Cleveland. Suddenly, he wanted baseball games and movie multiplexes and spotlessly clean malls. He wanted art house movies, good theater, poetry readings at the U of M. He was dimly aware of the fact that his nostalgia was for a life he had not actually lived in a long time. But he didn’t care. He was happy missing the Michigan of his youth, of his college days, of his early life with Ellie when he had graduated with an MBA and gone to work for a small company while she worked on her Ph.D. They had planned on waiting until she was done with her degree before getting pregnant, but life had a different plan for them, and Benny had been born two weeks after Ellie had earned her doctorate.

  “Remember Alex?” Frank now said, and Ellie spluttered with laughter. “Oh, boy, do I ever,” she replied.

  “What, what?” Ramesh asked, looking from one to another. “What is LX?”

  “Not LX. Alex. It’s a person’s name. He was a babysitter—he used to come watch our son when we were at work. He was this goofy musician guy—he could do all these tricks. He used to play music using our broom and dustpan.”

  Ramesh was excited. “How he do that, Frank?”

  “I dunno. It’s hard to explain. He could also make these noises that sounded like a whole band was playing.”

  Ellie grinned at him. “Remember my mom’s face when we first introduced her to Alex? You know how he used to dress, in those pink and purple jeans. And that hair. Jesus, that hair. I think she was this close to reporting us to Children’s Services.”

  “Yeah, I’ve always thought Delores had something to do with Alex deciding to seek his fortune in Alaska.”

  Ramesh pulled at Frank’s sleeve. “Stop talking about old things,” he said. “I’m feeling alone.” His tone was peevish, but it tugged at Frank.

  “Sorry, bud,” he said. “We’re losing our party manners.”

  “My dada and ma do this, also,” Ramesh said. “Talking about things before I was born. It’s boring.”

  For a moment Frank pictured Edna and Prakash discussing their youth, the early days of their romance, before life coarsened their love. He remembered Ellie telling him that Edna had eloped with Prakash and that her family had disowned her as a result. He felt a sudden flash of sympathy with the couple but fought the temptation to soften his hostility toward Prakash.

  “Okay. What do you want to talk about instead?”

  The boy didn’t have to think. “About me,” he said.

  Ellie burst out laughing. “I diagnose a budding narcissist in the making,” she said. And before Ramesh could react, “Now, calm down, Ramesh. Remember, we’re at a party.”

  The boy was about to respond when a young man with a harried expression trotted up to the tent where they were eating. “Excuse me,” he called. And when no one paid him any attention, he raised his voice. “Excuse me,” he said again. “The Honorable Bill Richards is here. He would like to say a few words, starting in two minutes. Can you kindly follow me into the house?”

  Frank looked at the food on his plate longingly. “Lousy timing,” he whispered to Ellie, but he was already rising to his feet, his eyes imploring his wife to get up also.

  Ellie eyed all the abandoned plates as everyone around them rose and followed the young aide. “Our tax dollars at work,” she muttered but accompanied Frank and Ramesh as they crossed the front lawn and climbed the marble steps again.

  The ambassador had already started speaking as they made their way into the foyer and stood against the doorway. A light breeze blew in from the open front doors and played with the corners of Ellie’s cotton skirt. Thinking of the burger getting cold on his plate, Frank prayed that the speech would be short. Judging from the periodic bursts of laughter from the crowd surrounding the ambassador, the speech was funny. There was a moment of uncertainty after Richards got done speaking, a low rumble rising from the crowd as people resumed their conversations and shuffled on their feet, unsure of protocol. Frank was about to turn to Ellie and ask whether they should return to their tent when they heard it—a voice as clear as glass singing words as familiar as a loved one’s name. “Oh, say can you see?” the voice sang and they all turned their heads to see a slender young boy, no older than eighteen, dressed formally in a white linen shirt and dark pants, strolling toward where the ambassador stood, parting the crowd with the clarity of his voice, with the sincerity on his face. In a moment, the crowd joined in, singing the words in a low pitch, careful not to douse the sweet flame of that single voice. Frank found his spine straightening, felt goose bumps covering his arms. His right hand automatically made its way to his heart. He felt Ramesh tug at him, but he ignored the boy, swept up in the delicacy of the moment. And at his favorite juncture—that juncture when the anthem took that delicious turn and became a poem and a prayer, that plaintive, wistful moment when it asked the question of the ages, “Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave?” he turned toward Ellie, wife and fellow citizen, his heart aching with love for his country, for all the people gathered here. And was shocked by her posture. He noticed immediately that Ellie stood with her hands by her side. And that there was a curious, academic look on her face, as if she were studying a natural phenomenon. Dammit, Frank thought. She looks like a goddamn anthropologist or something. More than anything she had said earlier today, this passivity, this silent irony, offended him. He knew she found expressions of patriotism to be simple and easy, almost farcical. But there was nothing cheap or easy about the powerful emotions that had coursed through him at the first recognition of his country’s national anthem. He felt defensive and hated her for making him have to defend his pride in his country.

  “Could you at least pretend?” he hissed at her.

  “Pretend what? That we’re not committing terrorism in the world? That we’re really the land of the free? Do you ever read the newspapers?”

  She had done it. She had succeeded in shocking him, repelling him in a way she’d never been able to do when she’d engaged in spirited debates with his brother, when she’d denounced the very idea of business management while having dinner with the dean of U of M’s business school, when she had chastised him for what HerbalSolutions was doing to Girbaug’s economy. Their marriage had been a long intellectual conversation—over the years he’d argued with h
er, sometimes been scandalized by her, often been amused by her, had called her a damn Communist when she went too far. Mostly, he’d agreed with her, and even when he didn’t, had been proud of his independent, rebellious wife. But he’d never felt the kind of seething anger that he felt right now. All these years, Ellie’s critiques and criticisms of America had felt tolerable because they felt like the angst-filled laments of a mother whose brilliant child was not living up to its promise. But this was something different, something new. He didn’t recognize this cold, ironic Ellie. And he knew that it was their location, the soil they were standing on, that made all the difference. India had done more than radicalize his wife. It had embittered her and positioned her differently. She now saw America the way the rest of the world did. It was no longer a critical but maternal look at a wayward child. Now, it was the accusing, harsh look of a stranger.

  “What?” she said. “You have nothing to say?”

  He turned away, apprehensive of the resentment that he was feeling. He had only hated her like this one other time—the day Benny had died. Now, all his old feelings from that day came rushing back. “Let’s just drop it,” he said brusquely. “There’s no point in talking to you when you’re in this mood.”

  They walked back to the picnic area. Frank got a fresh plate of food, but the corn now tasted insipid and the meat was charred and chewy. He was suddenly self-conscious of the conspicuous consumption—the mounds of grilled meat, the steady flow of alcohol, the piles of discarded plastic plates and glasses—all around them, and he hated Ellie for forcing this awareness upon him. He pretended to listen to Ramesh’s nervous chatter, exchanged banter with Bob, the ruddy-faced businessman sitting next to him, but his heart was not in it. For an unguarded moment, his eyes lingered on Georgie, Bob’s skinny, peroxide-blond wife, who had the kind of hair and figure that he had lusted after when he was fifteen. As he grew into a serious young man, he had been turned off by women like Georgie, had felt a desperate loneliness when confronted by their empty, vacuous chatter, but today he thought—Jesus Christ, at least Bob never had to worry about his wife insulting the consul general. Ellie had satisfied him in every way—sexually, intellectually, emotionally—but for a moment he wondered what being with Georgie would be like, how it would feel to be in the kind of marriage where he could turn around after a good fuck and fall asleep instead of living with a woman who spoke of terrorism and genocide at a friggin’ Fourth of July picnic. He looked up and saw that Ellie was looking at him. As their eyes met, she raised one eyebrow and threw him a slow smile. He flushed, knowing she’d read his mind. He felt flustered and exposed. He wanted to wipe that smile off her face—wipe it off with the whack of his hand.

  He got to his feet abruptly, cutting Bob off mid-sentence. “I’m sorry, we’ve got to go,” he said.

  Bob stared at him. “You’ve got to be kidding. Man, the party’s just getting started.”

  “I know.” He pulled Ramesh up. “But we’ve got another engagement.” He looked at Ellie, imploring her to play along. She rose to her feet slowly, keeping her eyes locked onto Frank’s.

  “It was nice chatting with you’all,” she said. “Happy Fourth.”

  “Hopefully, next year we’ll all be celebrating in the good old U.S. of A.,” Georgie said. “I can’t wait to get out of this godforsaken—” she noticed Ramesh and amended, “lovely country.”

  Twenty minutes later, they had said all their good-byes, shaken hands with Tom and Elisa as well as the ambassador, and were in the Camry with Satish at the wheel.

  “Did you eat anything, Satish?” Ellie asked as soon as they were out of the gates.

  Satish looked bashful. “Actually, I did, madam. All of us drivers were out in the parking lot, but somebody came and gave us lots and lots of food. The chicken was tops.”

  “I’m so glad someone thought of serving you dinner,” Ellie responded. Frank noticed that she had not said a word to him since they’d said good-bye to Bob and Georgie.

  “Americans are good like that, madam.” Satish seemed unusually talkative, and Frank wondered if dinner had come with a glass of wine. “Always thinking of us. If this party had been at the Indian consulate, food only for the guests.”

  Frank smiled grimly. At last someone who appreciated Americans. He told himself to slip Satish a hundred-rupee note for his unexpected help in his silent argument with his wife.

  CHAPTER 13

  Ellie leaned her head against the car door and stared at the rain outside. Behind the dappled glass wall of rain, the trees were a blur of green. She had already told Satish to slow down a few times, chided him for driving so fast in these weather conditions, but to no avail. So she had given up, much as she’d earlier given up on making small talk with Frank. In any case, Frank and Ramesh were both fast asleep, Frank with his mouth open, Ramesh snoring softly, a trickle of drool running down his chin.

  Disappointment had a taste. She had never known that before. It tasted like ashes, feathery and dry. She had left Girbaug for Bombay three days ago with hope and was returning with regret, as if a fresh bouquet of flowers had withered in her hands. A simple gesture, a look that she was not even aware of at the picnic, followed by some intemperate comments, had unleashed a cold fury in Frank. And she couldn’t help thinking that it was merely the echo of an older, more repressed fury. The weather had not helped either. The outing that she had so looked forward to, visiting the Elephanta Caves just outside Bombay, had been canceled yesterday due to the rain. No boat operator was intrepid enough to carry a boatload of tourists from the Gateway of India to the nearby island that housed the caves that held the ancient sculptures. Instead, they had spent Sunday mostly hanging out at the Taj, Ellie reading a book in the room while Frank and Ramesh visited the hotel’s many boutique shops and then had lunch at the Golden Dragon. Despite Frank’s unhappiness with her at the picnic on Saturday, Ellie had been surprised to find that his anger had extended into the next day. She had tried to focus on the novel she was reading, but her heart leapt each time she heard a sound in the hallway, hoping it was Frank coming to get her, anticipating that any minute he would walk into their room to tell her how much he was missing her company, ask her to shut her book and come join him and Ramesh in whatever they were doing. At about four in the afternoon she was tempted to go for another bath, but she lingered, afraid of missing him if he poked his head inside their room. Finally, at five, she called him on the cell. “Hey. It’s me. What’re you guys doing?”

  “Nothing much,” he answered. “Just sitting in the lobby talking to another guest.”

  “Is she beautiful?” she asked, half jokingly but the long, pained silence told her that her words had hit their mark. She took a sharp breath, the pain of being unexpectedly right stronger than she’d imagined. She heard Frank say, “Excuse me,” imagined that he’d stepped away from the woman, and then, “What do you want, El?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to see what you guys were up to. And whether we had plans for dinner. Unless you—you have other plans,” she stammered, suddenly unsure of herself.

  She heard the exasperation in his voice. “I’m on holiday with my wife and a nine-year-old boy. What other plans could I possibly have?”

  Despite his sarcasm, despite the fact that he sounded cold, she had felt a rush of joy. Obviously, Frank was not so mad at her that he was planning on staying away for the rest of the evening. She realized that this is what she had been dreading all day long.

  “Good,” she had said. “Well, I’d be happy to go wherever you want to go.”

  He must’ve heard the submission in her voice because his voice was gentler when he spoke. “No. Today was meant to be your day until these stupid rains ruined everything. You decide where you want to go to dinner.”

  “I don’t care.” She felt teary, wanting to end this horrible frostiness between them. “I just want to be with you.”

  “Let me go find Ramesh,” he said promptly. “We’ll be up in five minutes.”

>   She had hung up, relieved that there was still enough of the old spark—or at least, enough goodwill—left between them that he could detect and respond to her need for him. And sure enough, the door opened a few minutes later and Ramesh came bounding in, followed by Frank. The boy was carrying three new shirts for himself and a silk scarf for his mother that Frank had let him believe he had purchased from his twenty rupees. Ellie’s stomach clenched as she pictured Prakash’s reaction to these extravagant gifts. She doubted that the cook had ever been able to afford to buy his son three shirts at one time. And if they’d bought a gift for Edna, why not buy a small token for Prakash? She wondered if Frank was even aware of the slight. Prakash would surely be, would read all kinds of things into it. Any other time she would’ve pointed this out to her husband, her voice gently chiding. But not today. Instead, she determined to slip some money into Prakash’s hands, telling him they had not known what to get him. The money would evaporate like the vapors of the alcohol he’d surely purchase from it, but that couldn’t be helped.

  Frank was polite and attentive to her during dinner, and Ellie was miserable. His politeness stung more than his anger had—he was treating her like a stranger with whom he was compelled to break bread. She was thankful for Ramesh’s lively presence and nonstop chatter throughout dinner. A few times she wanted to chide him for talking with his mouth full, but each time she stopped herself, suddenly nervous, unsure of her role in this relationship. Watching Frank interact with the boy over dinner, she sensed a shift, realized that something had happened before her very eyes. If this had been another woman competing for Frank’s affections, she would’ve known what to do, how to compete. But as it was, it was a disarming nine-year-old who had stolen her husband’s heart. And it had happened on her watch, was happening even now, and she had no way of preventing the slow erosion of her status in this strange new dynamic that had sprung up between the three of them. With Benny, the effect had been the opposite—he had completed Frank and her, bound them to each other, welded them together. Then, she had felt important, vital, aware that it was her maternal, womanly body that linked her husband to her son. But sitting through this dinner, Ellie was miserably aware of how heavy and useless her body felt, how she could not use it to forge a bond between herself and Ramesh because she was not his mom. In fact, she was nobody’s mother and probably would never be again. Her one pregnancy after Benny’s birth had resulted in a miscarriage, and although no doctor had ruled out the possibility, she had never gotten pregnant again.