Three Ways to Disappear

by Katy Yocom

  She caught the manager watching her. Without thinking, she smiled at him, and he started a bit. In all her years traveling, she had never fully trained the smile out of herself, the moments of eye contact. They were dangerous habits.

  The manager turned away to greet a pair of elderly women, probably a couple of aunties he’d known all his life. That’s how it went in India. Everybody knew everybody. Everybody was related to everybody. It was all weddings and graduation parties and baby’s first haircut. A family celebration for every imaginable rite of passage.

  Some of the moviegoers stared at Sarah with undisguised curiosity. Even under normal circumstances, she would stand out in India, just for being tall and blond and white. Never mind the stitches. Never mind that people were calling her Tiger Woman. She turned her back to the room and studied a poster for a Bollywood romantic comedy coming soon to this theater.

  She would never know what made her look up when she did. But she turned and scanned the crowd, and of all the people in Sawai Madhopur, Sanjay Prakash came walking through the arched entryway, his shoulders pulled down and head bent to his left. Sarah could only see him from the chest up, but she could tell he was holding hands with two children and listening to one of them talk. His face looked animated and relaxed, nothing like the frowning, stiff man he had been with Sarah lately.

  Closer now, she saw the two young boys flanking him. Nephews, maybe. When she had asked William about Sanjay’s status, William had described him as a devoted uncle. Whoever these boys were, their heads swiveled as they tried to take in everything at once. But the focal point of their universe, the one they kept returning to, was Sanjay. The younger boy tugged at his forearm, talking nonstop. Sanjay stopped to point something out. Ah: the bathrooms. Very practical.

  A pack of teenaged boys brushed past Sarah, one of them knocking into her. She saw the sidelong glances they gave her, the looks they exchanged among one another, and knew that if she were a tourist—if she weren’t living locally and known in the community for the tiger rescue—they’d be surrounding her right now, jeering at her, grabbing her body. She had lived through variations on that encounter all over the world.

  If they came back, she’d tell them, “Jao, you little micropricks.” She’d say, “Get lost before I tell your mommies on you.”

  They hadn’t even bothered her, yet her skin prickled. It was nasty stuff, unused adrenaline.

  Breathe, Sarah.

  Your anger is one of my favorite things about you. She hadn’t expected Sanjay to say something so generous, especially after all his disapproval.

  She turned back to study Sanjay and the boys. There was something about them, the way they looked, holding hands like that, as if together they formed a single entity: a triptych, hinged by their fingers. A house with a tall, pointed roof.

  His face, listening to those boys across the lobby. What would it feel like to have Sanjay Prakash look at you that way?

  .

  That night, she called Quinn. “I’m cooking up an idea,” she said. “And I need your help.”

  Quinn

  I need your help. When was the last time Sarah had said something like that? It must have been before Marcus died. She certainly hadn’t said it since.

  Textiles. Quinn thought about it while she picked up Nick from a slumber party. He climbed into the back seat and buckled himself in. “What was your favorite part of the party?” she asked as she backed out of the driveway.

  “When we played Donkey Kong Country,” he said. His tone told her he didn’t want her asking whether he’d taken his medicine. She didn’t need to ask; she’d verified it with the other mother.

  She turned the car onto Bardstown Road. She could picture three possibilities: Set up a shop to sell to tourists in Sawai Madhopur, find a retailer in a nearby big city like Jaipur or Udaipur, or else figure out the import-export business and sell the textiles in the States. Regardless, they would use fair-trade practices.

  “There are two angles,” she told Sarah on the phone the next evening as she stood in the kitchen, sorting through the mail. Bills, coupon circulars, a donation solicitation from Oxfam International. “One, the women. Supporting women who otherwise have no power in their lives. Giving them the means to make financial decisions for their families, including sending their daughters to school. And two, the tigers. If we help the women support their families, there’s less incentive for the men to try to poach tigers or the tigers’ prey. So here’s what I’m thinking. Use your journalism skills. Write a profile of each of the women in the group. You could attach a photo of the maker to each piece, so buyers can literally look into the faces of the women they’re supporting. Oh! And you can also do a photo essay on the women and see if you can’t get it published somewhere.”

  “I don’t know about that last part,” Sarah said. “Most of the news outlets where I have contacts wouldn’t buy a photo essay I shot of a project I’m involved in running.”

  In the living room, Pete turned on the TV. Quinn set down the mail and stepped out onto the deck into the warm summer evening. “Then we do an art show here in Louisville. I can talk to some gallery owners I know. And you could see about getting a show in India somewhere.”

  “That’s a good thought. The cub rescue was national news.”

  “So piggyback on it. And when you have a photo exhibit, you have the textiles displayed right at the show, and people can buy them then and there.”

  They lapsed into silence, considering the possibilities.

  “What do you know about import-export?” Sarah asked.

  “Not a thing.” She thought for a second. “But I know somebody I could ask.”

  Sarah

  They filed into Geeta’s office. She sat at her paper-strewn desk, a letter in her hand and a grim set to her face.

  “Wildlife Conservation Society,” she said, indicating the letter. “‘We receive many requests for funding,’ et cetera. ‘Unfortunately, your proposal has not been selected.’” She looked up. “Sarah, your little romp in the park has cost us twenty percent of next year’s budget. And yet much as I’d love to, I can’t lay this at your door. I chose to keep you on after what happened. Perhaps if I’d sacked you right away, I’d have a different letter in my hand.” She smiled a wholly unamused smile and picked up a stack of opened envelopes. “I suppose you know what these are?”

  “Private donations,” Sanjay said.

  “They’re modest amounts. But.” She held up the pile. “Sixty-seven envelopes. It’s extraordinary. In less than a month’s time, we’ve gotten enough donations to cover a third of the shortfall from losing the grant. And this from school groups, women’s clubs, private citizens all over the world.” She shook her head. “It’s shocking. Do something stupid on film and suddenly the whole world loves you.”

  “How long do you expect the checks to keep arriving?” William asked.

  Geeta sat back in her chair. “We all know the answer to that. As long as the media keeps covering the Tiger Woman story.”

  It dawned on Sarah that perhaps she wasn’t fired just yet.

  “I don’t see how that can go on much longer,” William said. “Surely the news media are already onto the next thing.” Except, Sarah thought, for the tabloid articles: Tiger Woman Prowls Ancient Fortress. Tiger Woman Caught on Film Nursing Litter of Cubs. But that kind of publicity seemed unlikely to help the cause, no matter what Drupti said.

  “I’ve looked at the numbers,” Geeta said. “If Project Tiger funds us, we can make it through the next fiscal year. But I’m not expecting that grant to come through. I’d advise you all to start thinking about your next career move.”

  Sarah stole a glance at the others. William wore a stoic expression. Sanjay studied his hands.

  Geeta shifted some papers on her desk. “When I was a girl, my father brought me along on a trip,” she said. “Jim Corbett was film
ing a documentary, and he’d invited Dad along. It was one of the highlights of my life. For six weeks, we camped in the foothills of the Himalayas, tracking tigers, filming all kinds of behaviors. Fights. Mating. Kills. Even then the population had been decimated, but Corbett and Dad had been around in the days when there were tigers round every corner. And now look what we’ve done to them.”

  No one spoke.

  “I’ve spent my life doing this work,” Geeta said. “And as hopeless as it may seem, I have always said that there is never no hope. There is never. No. Hope. But now? With the Indian population past a billion, and the Chinese slaughtering our tigers for medicine for every last ailment and moral shortcoming? Acne and laziness. The cure for limp willies.” She rubbed her temples wearily. “This is the worst possible time for this organization to come crashing down.”

  She stood, so they all did, but she didn’t dismiss them. She picked up the Wildlife Conservation Society letter, stared at it—or perhaps through it—and asked softly, “What’s my life if I’ve failed at this?”

  William said, “If Tiger Survival closes its doors, you go to work for another agency. You keep at it till you’re dead, that’s all.”

  Her eyes snapped into focus. “Damn it, William, I’m not talking about this organization. What do we do if we lose them? What if in another ten years, the only tigers left on this planet are living in zoos and rescue centers and circuses? And chained up in the odd basement by a bloody drug dealer? Would you want to keep on living in a world like that? Because I wouldn’t.”

  Sarah and Sanjay exchanged a glance and filed out of the room. As she turned to shut the door, Sarah saw William step toward Geeta and take her into his arms. Geeta let herself slump against him.

  “Hush that.” William petted her hair. “Don’t you let these thoughts win.”

  Geeta stepped out of the embrace and ran a knuckle beneath each eye. “Forgive me, William. It won’t happen again.”

  Sarah quietly pulled the door closed.

  .

  She lay awake that night, trying to think of some way to offer comfort. But that was ridiculous. Geeta didn’t need cheering up. She needed more funding.

  Sleep finally came in the early hours. She awoke to a new idea and thought it through as she showered. At work, she found the office empty, as she’d hoped. She stepped into the back room, dialed the Times of India, and asked to speak to the reporter who’d covered the tiger rescue.

  A few clicks and she picked up. “Anjali Ghosh.”

  Sarah identified herself. “I can’t speak on the record. But I thought you’d like to know about an interesting phenomenon we’re seeing here at Tiger Survival.”

  She heard papers shuffling, the click of a ballpoint pen. “Go ahead, Miss DeVaughan,” the reporter said. “I’m listening.”

  .

  The story appeared two days later:

  DONATIONS, REPUTATION ON THE RISE AFTER TIGER RESCUE

  By Anjali Ghosh

  DELHI, August 6—The recent dramatic rescue of a wild tiger cub is having financial effects for the tiger tourism industry.

  American conservation worker Sarah DeVaughan is well on her way to becoming the most talked-about person in India, thanks to her daring rescue of a drowning cub last month at Ranthambore National Park. While DeVaughan has stayed out of the spotlight, an investigation by the Times of India shows that the incident—which earned DeVaughan the moniker “Tiger Woman”—is reaping rewards for DeVaughan’s NGO employer and the tiger tourism industry as a whole.

  Tiger tourism inquiries are up 12 percent when compared to this time last year, according to R.K. Gupta at the Ministry of Tourism, and DeVaughan’s heroics seem to be the reason.

  “Our phones haven’t stopped ringing since the story broke,” said V.H. Mistry, director of Delhi-based Bengal Tiger Eco-Tours. “We’ve had twice the usual inquiries for this time of year, and we’re fully booked for the next six months. It’s quite spectacular.”

  Meanwhile, donations from wildlife lovers around the world have been pouring into the coffers of DeVaughan’s NGO employer, Tiger Survival. Geeta Banerjee, herself a well-known tiger advocate and the founder of the organization, said it has received “a very significant amount of support” in the form of private donations from around the world.

  “What Sarah did in rescuing that cub shows that one person can make a difference,” Banerjee said. “And, in fact, all the people who’ve been inspired to donate to our cause are making a difference too. We at Tiger Survival are humbled by their generosity and grateful for their support.”

  Sarah wished she’d been able to hear Geeta offer that blandly optimistic quote.

  Among DeVaughan’s admirers is eminent Bollywood film actress Radhika Bhagat, a regular supporter of environmental causes who visits Ranthambore regularly. Bhagat said she hopes to meet DeVaughan the next time she is there. Bhagat commented, “I have played my share of heroines in the movies. But Sarah-ji is a real-life heroine, and everyone who cares about the future of the tiger should be grateful to her.”

  The four of them gathered around the paper at the Tiger Survival office. “The reporter wouldn’t tell me how she sniffed out this angle,” Geeta said. “Brilliant journalistic skills, I can only assume.”

  “I take it the media embargo is off,” William observed.

  “It no longer serves our interests. One of our company is a real-life heroine, after all.” She folded the paper. “Put it to good use, Sarah-ji.”

  The phone rang. The Rajasthan Patrika, one of Sawai Madhopur’s daily newspapers, wanting an interview with Sarah. Five minutes later, it was the government-run TV channel’s local affiliate in Delhi. Next, Good Morning India with an invitation for Sarah to be interviewed by their most popular host.

  “Well, Sarah. Ready to become an ambassador?” William asked. They looked at Geeta, who humphed. Which was how Sarah found herself, later that week, seated on a living room set across from a beautiful and very famous morning-show host in Mumbai, two cups of tea on the low table between them, talking tigers. She felt completely at ease engaging the host’s questions, turning the conversation effortlessly from the details of the now-famous rescue to a larger discussion of the plight of the tiger. The facts rolled out of her mouth as if she’d been doing this all her life.

  Later that week, Geeta emerged from her office and sat on the edge of Sarah’s desk, thwacking a pencil against her thigh. “You like being an ambassador,” Geeta observed.

  “I do,” Sarah said. “It feels like important work.”

  “It must have been hard for you, giving up journalism. You’d become accustomed to seeing your name in print all the time. Now you’re back in the spotlight.”

  Sarah waited to see where this was headed.

  “You know, ambassadors get assigned to diplomatic posts,” Geeta continued. “They’re not always so glamorous.”

  Earlier in the week, Sarah had told Geeta of her idea for a women’s collective. Now she eyed that thwacking pencil. “Do you have a post in mind for me?”

  “I’m working on it,” Geeta said.

  Quinn

  Quinn had intended to rehearse for her meeting on the walk down Bardstown Road, but her phone rang as she crossed the street. It was Mother, announcing she had bought a new car and needed to borrow some money. She named a figure almost twice Quinn and Pete’s monthly mortgage payment. Quinn told her they didn’t have that kind of money sitting around unspoken for. Mother countered, “I thought you had a line of credit. And it’s just for three weeks. You won’t even get charged interest.”

  Damn it.

  A motorcycle rumbled by, spewing exhaust. The day had turned hotter than she’d expected; she should have driven the four blocks from home. As it was, she would arrive sweaty and disheveled. “I’ll have to talk to Pete,” she said. And Pete would get angry with her for not standing up to her mot
her. And then she’d have to convince him to go along with something she didn’t want to do in the first place. Her stomach hurt.

  “Don’t tell him.”

  “Look, Mother, I’m walking into a meeting. I’ll call you back.” She hung up and took a deep breath. Standing in the coffee shop was Jane Spencer, trim and accomplished and dressed in flowing fabrics, perfect for her role as owner of a funky-but-upscale import boutique. After they got coffee and settled at a table, Quinn stammered through her explanation. It had all seemed so possible when she and Sarah had brainstormed on the phone, but she felt her certainty waning. Jane intimidated her; she always had, ever since college. They’d both been art students, but Jane possessed that small-business-owner confidence. She’d won Louisville Entrepreneur of the Year, arts category, three separate times. The plaques hung in her store.

  Jane asked questions. Quinn couldn’t answer them.

  “You seem nervous,” Jane said. “What’s up?”

  Quinn ducked her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You just don’t know what this is going to be. From what you’ve told me, your sister hasn’t put anything in place yet. Before we can talk about imports, we need specifics. The type of goods, the cost of the products, how the workers would get paid, all that. Percentages. Fifteen to thirty percent of the retail price goes to the makers if you’re talking fair trade. You also have to think about whether you want to apply for certification. I have a few contacts. I can introduce you, but the plans in India need to be firmed up first.”

  Quinn felt herself flush.

  “It’s fine,” Jane said. “You’re information-gathering.” She gave Quinn a close look and asked about her art.

  Quinn grimaced. “I’m blocked. Everything I try is DOA.”

  “What’s that about?”

  She found herself confiding her worries about Nick, Pete’s resentment.

  “And your sister’s back in India,” Jane observed. “Life’s gotten scary. What you need is a project. And you know what? You’ve got one, right here, with this women’s collective. You’re going over there, right?”