The Wild Wind

by Sheena Kalayil

  And I nodded, a chill settling into my heart that she would mention this, that which we never spoke about: the little sister I should have had, some years before Danny. I should have told her then that I remembered everything, even how my father had flung her carelessly into the lake in Thattekkad, and how I knew that was the reason for the terrible occurrence and her illness those months after. How I knew that my father had done something wrong then, that there had been something in the water, some black sadness that she must have swallowed which had made the baby die inside her and my mother’s spirit wither. That I remembered how a witchdoctor stood in our back garden even if she had not known, and how, secretly, even though I knew it was not rational, I believed he had helped us; because it was not long after his appearance that my mother roused herself and began to regain her previous self.

  ‘When I needed to stay in hospital,’ she was saying, ‘do you know we had to borrow money from Rahul’s father because we had nothing in the bank? How do you think that made me feel?’ She shook her head and mumbled something under her breath. What did she say? I seem to remember something like ‘He’s not what you think,’ or maybe it was ‘It’s not what you think,’ but maybe I am projecting to, weeks ahead, when I would watch my mother take a path she determined for us.

  I did not speak. I felt that we had entered deeper waters than I could navigate. She shook herself, tried to smile, offered to shuffle the cards, and I agreed. Danny was by now mewling, and so we let him join in, but he refused to let us hold any cards, angrily snatching them from our grip, and so we admitted defeat, allowed him to monopolise the pack, which he did with an unencumbered selfishness, the thought flashing through my mind: like father, like son. I was allowed another piece of cake, and Danny, too, my mother wrapping the remainder in some tin foil she had brought. She would ask Miss Munroe round for a cup of tea later if she were available.

  And when we returned and we found her, Miss Munroe produced a gift. A book, Little Women, bought for me by a friend on a visit from Dublin, at her request. I was touched by her thoughtfulness, and raced through the rest of the evening, so that I could lie down in bed, with the candle for a nightlight, and lose myself in the words. Miss Munroe stayed for an early dinner, taking her leave before the curfew began, so she could ready her own house for the darkness. And when, the next morning, Rahul appeared at our door, his face flushed – his mother had said he should drive us to church – I could detect some satisfaction when mine informed him that, in fact, we did not need the lift, Miss Munroe had offered already to take us. Then my mother softened her pose and she touched his arm, while he blushed further before catching my eye: ‘Hi, Sissy.’

  He turned to my mother, asked quietly: ‘Anything I can help with, Aunty?’

  ‘No, we’re fine,’ my mother replied. ‘Thanks anyway, mon.’

  He said: ‘Just ask, Aunty.’ And then mumbled, ‘Amma doesn’t need to know.’

  ‘She’ll find out!’ My mother laughed, throwing her head back as she said the words, and Rahul smiled back, his eyes glancing down to her throat before he squared his shoulders and stood up straighter.

  ‘Can I go with Rahul, Mama?’ I asked, suddenly aching to win some of his attention, and my mother shook her head, still smiling at Rahul while absently patting my shoulder.

  But when she turned away to retrieve Danny from the kitchen where he seemed to be finding the dustiest, stickiest space under the sink, Rahul bent forward and whispered, ‘I’ll take you for a drive one day, Sissy. Your mother doesn’t need to know. And she won’t find out.’ And he winked.

  The exchange kept my spirits lifted all through the monotonous church service with the saintly Miss Munroe, who I had heard say to Mr Lawrence not long ago: now why would I want to be going to Mass when there’s no one here to tell on me? And as we were leaving the church, I felt a hand on my arm. It was Bobby, who had grown it seemed like half a foot since I had last stood next to him. He looked down at me as I blinked up at him, the sun in my eyes. Ahead of us, I saw my mother exchanging bright smiles with the other Malayalee ladies, all of the adults luminous in their falseness. Miss Munroe was talking with the older boys; I saw Rahul among them.

  ‘Uh . . .’ Bobby’s voice sounded deeper as well. I waited and then he pulled something from his pocket. ‘I made this at school. You can have it.’ He cleared his throat. ‘For your birthday, you know.’

  It was a small wooden box with two brass hinges, an inlay of patterned leaves carved into its top. I took it from him, ran my fingers over the surface. It felt smooth and luxurious and the box rested in my palm with a pleasant weight.

  ‘For your earrings I thought,’ he muttered.

  He had never before treated me like a girl; I had never thought Bobby and Aravind regarded me as such. That was why his crass imitation and insinuation those weeks back had felt so unfair and hurtful. But much had shifted over the last weeks. He had not only grown taller, and my father had not only left: I had also changed. I could feel the cotton brassiere brushing against the fabric of my dress, which was shorter now as my legs had grown longer. I breathed my thanks and he shrugged, his face reddening. And then, as if he were in collusion with Rahul, he added, ‘Just let me know if I can help in any way.’ He did not, however, add that I could play with him and Aravind, or join them later that afternoon, as if he too could feel that we had outgrown each other.

  Alongside my bracelets, anklets, the book from Miss Munroe, the box from Bobby and the promise from Rahul – I did not think to count the underwear – my birthday haul was looking highly respectable. I realised that the phone call from my father had been his present, even if we had both forgotten to refer to the occasion. The well wishes and the warm thoughts I could feel emanating from all around me sustained me well into the next week and my return to the Coopers’. The return to the routine of school, the days bright and full, then the stilted atmosphere at the house, Ally’s reticence and Mary-Anne’s company.

  It was after one particularly stiff dinner of the dreaded meatloaf, with Mr Cooper commenting, ‘Delicious, Cindy,’ to which she laid her cutlery down, ‘Good God, Sam,’ – an exchange which perplexed me, but which seemed to drive the Cooper girls to an even earlier bedtime – that I was left lying in the bedroom surrounded by the beautiful things, but sleepless and restless. I tossed and turned helplessly and then crept out to use the bathroom, and only then did I hear the voices coming from the main bedroom: rising and falling, like moans. My cheeks grew hot. It was embarrassing hearing my friends’ parents making love. But I quickly realised the noises were not amorous; the cadences were different. They were having an argument.

  I flushed the toilet, washed my hands, all in the light of the candle each of us had been given for night-time prowls, then padded back down the corridor. I could feel my feet tingle with curiosity and as much as I knew I shouldn’t, I couldn’t stop myself from slowing down until I was positioned outside their door and could hear Mr and Mrs Cooper.

  ‘. . . who you fetishise . . .’

  ‘That’s an unpleasant word to use, Cindy.’

  ‘But you do. You fetishise them. Because you can’t accept that there might be dishonesty and sloth and slovenliness just as anywhere else. Because you love being this white explorer guy . . .’

  ‘Jesus Christ. Where is this coming from?’

  ‘Just admit it, Sam. Just admit that this is not going how you expected—’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing.’

  ‘Don’t hang your head like that, Sam. Don’t play the browbeaten husband.’

  He must have raised his head, because his voice was suddenly clear. ‘Listen, I thought we were talking about Ezekiel.’

  My heart jumped into my mouth and the candle tumbled from my grasp, extinguishing itself as it thudded onto the rug, and then I was in darkness, on my knees, my hands scrabbling around until they met the stick of wax and I stood up again. The darkness seemed to magnify the words.

  Then, there was a silence, so deep and s
o long that I was sure they had heard me, or if they hadn’t, could hear me now, my heart thundering in my chest, my hand covering my mouth so that my breathing would not betray my presence. But then I heard a creak and Mr Cooper spoke, his voice coming from lower down; he had sat on the bed.

  ‘Treat me like an idiot,’ he said, low and measured, ‘and take me step by step through what’s in your head.’

  But when she spoke Mrs Cooper’s voice was strangled with tears. ‘I just don’t recognise you any more, Sam. And I hate myself as well for hating it so much here.’

  ‘Cin, baby, you don’t have to feel that way.’ His voice was suddenly gentle. ‘It is difficult to live here . . .’ he tailed off. Then, ‘You’ve given up a lot for me.’

  She made a barking sound, a rasp more than a laugh. ‘God, listen to yourself, Sam! Where do you get these lines from? It’s like living in some third-rate movie set or—’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Cindy.’ Now his voice was like a whip. ‘Try to be nice, will you? You seem to mock every fucking word I say these days—’

  ‘I didn’t give up anything for you, Sam,’ scathing and trembling at the same time. ‘I did this for me. And for the girls. Not for you. I thought it would be enriching.’ Then, her voice breaking, ‘But it’s just not . . .’

  They fell silent again, and when Mr Cooper finally spoke his tone was calm but persuasive, and because of this, I imagined him standing like Jonah had stood, his arm pinning the cook into place. ‘Tell me about Ezekiel.’

  ‘I know you want to give him a break,’ she said. ‘And God knows Grace needs a break. But I don’t like it, I don’t like him.’

  ‘Has he not been doing any work?’

  ‘No, that’s not it. He fixed the gate. He cleaned up the backyard . . .’

  My heart was thumping. So Ezekiel had been working for them? Here? And then I understood: the Coopers had arranged it so that he would only come on the days I did not, to avoid our meeting.

  ‘You’ve seen him. He’s sick, there’s something wrong with him . . .’

  ‘It’s his epilepsy, Cindy. He’s on medication now.’ His voice was almost stern, and Mrs Cooper must have heard the same inflection for she snarled, ‘Don’t patronise me, Sam.’

  Mr Cooper did not respond, and I heard Mrs Cooper continue: ‘And he’s strange. I don’t like having him around. I don’t like having him near the girls—’

  ‘I think you’re being a little—’

  ‘I can’t believe that the Olikaras left Sissy alone in the house with him. I can’t believe they just left her with him like that. I mean he could have done anything to her. How do we know that he didn’t . . .’

  I turned away. Just as I had run that afternoon, when Ezekiel had fallen to the floor, clutching his chest – get your mother! – I knew with a scorching certainty that I had to run again. I had to reach my mother, all alone in the bungalow. That was where I belonged, not here. Danny would be fast asleep, too vulnerable himself to offer her anything: support, aid, protection. He could offer her nothing.

  I returned to my room, packed my bag, changed out of my pyjamas. As I went back into the dark hallway I saw Mary-Anne’s door open, and there she stood, in her spotted nightshirt, her eyes as wide as saucers, and her mouth forming a perfect circle of surprise. We stared at each other.

  ‘Mommy and Daddy are fighting,’ she whispered.

  I said nothing.

  ‘Is that why you’re leaving? They’ll stop soon.’

  I shook my head. ‘I need to go back to Mama,’ and as I spoke I thought how babyish was the sentiment.

  She nodded, her mouth still open.

  ‘Will you tell your parents where I’ve gone, please? In the morning?’

  She nodded again, her eyes huge.

  I slid back the latch of the front door and stepped out into the night. I walked quickly down their path and onto the road, past the roundabout. It was surprisingly easy to see my way; the curfew had meant that the interiors were dark but outside the moon shone brightly, albeit intermittently between the scudding clouds. The temperature was cool and I was glad I had pulled on a jumper. My bag flopped against my back as I passed the blackened tree, then walked along the long straight road. No one was in sight.

  Often, I think of how I must have appeared that night: a slight figure, with long plaits framing a small face, my dungarees flapping loose against my legs, my tennis shoes clumping against the path. I was lost in my thoughts. Each step I took, each beat of my heart, underscored the urgency I felt: the conviction that I had to be there, with her, rather than in that house behind me. I could never have imagined Mr and Mrs Cooper speaking in that way to each other, just as I can never forget, all these years later, what I heard; it remains a stark reminder of the child I was, how I only ever saw a fraction of the adults’ true selves. And I deserved to have heard those words, a fitting punishment for listening at the door. But they had not only wounded me, they had startled me out of a slumber, shone a light as if exposing a darkness that had until then been beyond my view. My feet slapped against the compacted earth, the tarmac of the road, unhemmed now, with no kerb or edge, no pavement, only a messy margin, melting into pebbles and sand. To my side, the silent trees. Not the majestic oaks and beeches of my later life, nor the sinewy giant coconut trees of my past, but low and flat-topped, respectful, some with bursts of flowers in the branches.

  When the hand grasped my elbow I yelped, then screamed, but the voice calmed me, even if it was not calm, overladen as it was with incredulity. Child, it said. Child. Her face was dark in the night, but I saw the whites of her eyes and teeth, her lips stretched wide as Mary-Anne’s had been. I realised I had reached the cluster of tin-roofed houses. I was more than halfway home. The woman had a bucket in her hand, and had braved the curfew for some errand. Now she put it down and grabbed my shoulders, peering at my face, the smell of her evening meal on her breath. Her hands were strong, but I realised she was old, older than Grace. She stared at me for many minutes, and then, beckoning but without releasing her grip, led me away from the road, down the track that she had walked along earlier, towards the houses. I could not resist. Her grip was vice-like, but neither did I feel in danger. Her voice had been full of concern and it had prompted a realisation of the foolishness I had shown; it could easily have been someone else to have jumped out at me in the dark, a man. It could have been Ezekiel, with his crooked smile, the monster. He could have reached out and pawed at my small breasts. My stomach turned over at my thoughts and the erosion of my loyalty.

  We stepped through the silent dark shapes. It was harder to see here, but each home gave off its own heat, its particular aroma of earth and wet leaves and stewed meat, as we passed. I saw her lips moving soundlessly, as if she were chanting or praying. We stopped in front of a small dwelling, no different from the others, with a doormat, a clean porch and a red tin door. She rapped on the door, calling something, and I heard voices inside, murmurs, a man’s voice and then a woman’s, and the old woman called again, sharply. Footsteps, and then the door opened. It was Jonah, in trousers not fully buttoned and an open shirt, as if he had hastily thrown on his clothes, and behind him I glimpsed a low bed, and the arm and shoulder of the woman he had been lying with.

  I was then pushed forward, and as his eyes fell on me I saw his astonishment.

  ‘Sissy.’

  I tried to smile but my eyes filled suddenly with tears. Those deep notes, and this coupled with the mixture of surprise, admonishment and concern in his tone, only made the tears spill out onto my cheeks. I wiped them away. The old woman now released a stream of talk, to which Jonah listened, respectfully at first, but as her litany continued and continued, his expression began to wane, and eventually he blew out a sigh of exasperation. Finally, she gestured to him and to me, even to the bed behind him, chastising, as he closed his lips and nodded, and then with a quick backward glance, pushed the door half-shut, to reach behind it. I heard a woman’s soft voice in query, his own brief resp
onse, and then the door reopened and he was lifting his bicycle out, clicking the door shut behind him.

  The old woman turned and left without a word, and Jonah said softly, ‘Come, Sissy.’ He wheeled his bicycle to the path, I followed in his wake, and when we reached the top where the road began again, he threw his leg over his bicycle and sat on the seat. When I stood staring at him stupidly, he reached forward, took my bag and slung it over his shoulder, leant forward again to put his hands under my arms and lifted me like a bag of sugar onto the bar spanning the frame of the bicycle. Then, keeping one hand on my back to steady me, he used the other to button his shirt, but not before I glimpsed the taut muscles on his chest and stomach, the thin gold chain around his neck with its delicate, tiny pendant shaped like a hand. He leant forward to grip the handlebars, we glided off together. I knew to lean back into his chest so my head was tucked under his chin, to stop myself from falling off. I felt safe and enclosed, and he felt warm and strong behind me. He smelled of wood smoke and soap. The sky was clear now and the stars shone. The night air was fresh and we zipped past many dark shapes.

  ‘Are you married, Jonah?’ I asked. ‘Was that your wife?’

  ‘Be quiet, Sissy.’ His voice was curt but I could hear a smile.

  Somehow, he stayed on the road. Perhaps it was a journey he knew so well he had no need for a light, for now the moon was less bright and the night seemed blacker. When we reached the hill leading up to the staff bungalows, he stood up on the pedals, his body arching over my head, but we climbed the incline without any apparent effort.

  Of all the men in my life at that time, and it seems that there were many, it was Jonah who made my heart sing, my twelve-year-old heart, thudding in my chest as I leant against him, my protector. In short, the man who filled the hole that my father had left. He even had a thin gold chain around his neck like my father. Did my mother feel the same way? Certainly, when Jonah told me, on arriving in front of our bungalow, that we should try not to alarm her, that we should knock firmly but not bang on the door, when my mother came to the window, pushed aside the covering, her expression when she saw Jonah first did not hold any fear, disgust or disdain, only an assumption that if he had arrived in this way at night there would be a good reason. But then her eyes dropped down to me, her mouth shaped my name, and her face blanched. I can only imagine what went through her head when she saw me standing outside in the dark with Jonah, when she had assumed I was tucked up in bed at the Coopers’. The door rattled; she could not turn the key. I heard her sobbing, and I realised with a chill how much anguish I was causing her. The noise was not loud but it was terrible to hear, and awful to witness, the key for some reason sticking, the door shaking with her efforts.