by Cary Groner
It was later that year that Alex started cutting herself. Peter hadn’t realized the connection at first, but after he got her into therapy, the shrink had pointed it out. Somewhere along the line she’d invented impossible standards for herself. It was partly hardwired and partly a reaction to Cheryl, the therapist suggested, an attempt to do whatever it took so she didn’t end up like her mother.
Ironically, when it all started, it had been Cheryl who noticed that Alex was keeping her sleeves down all the time. She’d seen it before with people she knew who were heroin addicts.
Now, in the house in Kathmandu, the phone rang. Peter grabbed at it, his heart pounding. It was Mina. The clock read 2:00 A.M.
“Something’s happened,” she said, and he could tell it wasn’t good. The adrenaline swirled up and his heart fluttered, then the dizziness came. He sat up on the edge of the bed, his lungs suddenly feeling so shallow he couldn’t get air. “Tell me.”
“They found Adhiraj’s compound day before yesterday,” Mina said. “They went in yesterday before dawn, but they hadn’t allowed for the dogs. When they scouted the place they only saw a couple, but there turned out to be a whole pack that was let out just at night.”
“His great Gurkha mercenaries couldn’t account for a pack of dogs?”
“As soon as they were in the village the dogs attacked, and the guerrillas came out.”
“Alex,” Peter said, trying to get some air under her name. “What about Alex?”
“Listen, you’d better sit down.”
“Tell me!”
“According to the men, she was fighting alongside the guerrillas.”
It was so bizarre he wondered if he was dreaming it. “She doesn’t even know how to fire a gun!”
“The three soldiers who got her out of there were crazy with rage. They swore she’d shot one of their men. On the way back, they stopped by the road and raped her.”
He was on his feet then, shrieking. He would find them, her father included, he would kill them all.
“Peter—”
“Tell him!” he panted. “You tell him I’ll cut his fucking balls off! Where’s Alex?”
“She’ll be here soon. I’ll bring her over. Listen—”
“You told me I could trust him!” he said. “You said he was just the man for the job!”
“Peter—” she began, but he didn’t want to hear her voice. He slammed the phone down and got dressed, then began walking circles around the upper hallway as the images played like film before his eyes. What they’d done to her and what he would do to them. He saw himself bashing their heads in with a crowbar. Shooting them, first up the ass, so they could suffer awhile, then in the mouth, to finish them. Beating Pradhan, then dousing him with gas and setting him afire.
None of that really seemed like enough, though. When he was done with them he would move on. He would go home and find Wayne Lee and his friends. He would track down all the rapists, the thugs, the molesters; he would find them all and empty clip after clip after clip, mow them down by the thousands, until the world was cleansed.
Mina was there a couple of hours later. When Alex saw Peter she ran to him, and he wrapped her in his arms. She was bony. He apologized to her, over and over, as she cried. Mina stood off to the side, her eyes downcast. Peter was so furious he could barely look at her.
Finally he thanked her, coolly, for bringing Alex, and took his daughter inside.
THIRTY-ONE
Peter made the next few days as easy for her as he could, but there were things they had to do, many of which were far from easy: get her checked out by a doctor at the CIWEC clinic, give a statement to the Nepali police (who seemed utterly uninterested in what she had to say), make plane reservations, pack, and generally manage the chaos of sudden departure. Sangita came and helped as much as she could. Alex was desperate for food and sleep, and she needed more Flagyl for whatever she’d picked up from the mountain streams. She would be distant and disengaged, then suddenly flare up in a fury, and she was deeply upset that she couldn’t see Devi. Neither she nor her father wanted to discuss what had happened until they had more time, so they put on their armor and got through it.
Mina phoned. Peter was vaguely aware by now that what had happened was not her fault, that if anything he was far more to blame; but paradoxically this hot guilt only intensified his wrath—the way softer metals, when molten, alloy themselves into steel—and in this furnace of rage and shame he became all but incapable of talking to her. He asked her to call him in California a couple of weeks later, when they’d be settled and he would have had a chance to collect himself.
On the morning of their flight, Sangita came over before dawn to say goodbye. They hugged her, then she tied a small red cord around each of their necks.
“These from very great lama, for protection,” she said.
Alex began to cry and put her arms around Sangita. “When you see Devi, tell her goodbye,” she said. “Tell her I love her.”
Sangita wept too. “I this doing, fair okay,” she said. She held Alex tightly for a few moments, then let her go. The cab came down the block and pulled in at the curb. They loaded their bags. Peter kept enough rupees for the cab fare, then handed the rest of his money to Sangita. At first she refused, but he reminded her that he couldn’t use rupees in America. She thanked him and tucked them into the pocket of her skirt.
As they drove away, Alex turned to wave. Sangita waved back briefly, then stood and watched them until they turned the corner and were gone. The last Peter saw of her, she was wiping the tears from her cheeks.
Alex fell asleep before the plane even left the gate, then slept off and on for ten hours. Peter dozed, read, and watched the clouds passing like great sea waves beneath them. He had come to feel alienated from America, but now he felt even more estranged from Nepal. It was as if their only home was on the plane, with each other, but that would end soon enough, and then they’d have to figure out something new.
They’d made arrangements to stay with Peter’s sister, Connie, who lived in San Anselmo, across the bay from Berkeley in Marin County. She met them at SFO and drove them north across the Golden Gate Bridge. Alex didn’t say much; she seemed content to look out the window at the ocean and the headlands, at this blue world that was familiar and newly exotic too.
Connie’s house was cool and quiet, nestled on a narrow street that curved among oak-covered hills. Her fifteen-year-old son, Ben, hauled his stuff up to the finished attic so Alex could have his room. Peter had planned to sleep on the couch, but Alex wanted him with her, so that first evening he lay on the bed and held her.
“You can tell me whatever you want,” he said, as she wept.
She just shook her head. “Not now.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Try to make things normal, if you can. Normal is what I want.”
“We’re going for a lot of normal around here, don’t worry.”
After she dropped off, he stayed awhile to be sure she didn’t wake up again. Peter felt as if he’d spent the past few days in a fast-moving car, a vehicle built of rage at both himself and the world. Now he’d blown through the windshield and could feel the ground rising up to meet him, and he knew the landing was going to hurt. His savage impulses—toward Adhiraj, toward Pradhan and his men, toward Mina and himself, all three sides of the lethal triangle that had joined in this catastrophe—had not abated much, but he was adjusting to his anger the way you adjust to a mean dog that lives in your house, a creature that you know is essentially wild, full of teeth and dark appetites. You keep the dog under control and pray that it doesn’t learn the full extent of its power and tear you apart.
The next morning was Saturday, so Connie and Peter cooked a big breakfast—eggs, pancakes, sausages, everything Peter knew Alex liked. Alex remained withdrawn and quiet, though, and picked at her food. She sat next to Peter at the table, and every few minutes she touched his arm, as if she had to make sure he was really there.
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Peter took her back to see her old shrink from her cutting days, Andy Edelstein. Alex wanted Peter to stay nearby, and she opened the door about every ten minutes to make sure he was still in the waiting room. It reminded him, of course, of when he wasn’t there, and every time she shut the door and went back inside he felt as if a great fist had encircled his heart and begun to squeeze.
She was in there for three hours, after which she emerged, pale, with tearstains on her cheeks, her arms wrapped around herself. Edelstein briefly met Peter’s eyes and gave him the slightest of nods.
At home she shadowed Peter, always staying within a few feet of him, though she rarely spoke. She didn’t leave the house except to go to the doctor for follow-ups, or to see Edelstein. In both cases, Peter drove her and waited just outside the door of the room she was in. At least she wasn’t pregnant, and the labwork showed that she hadn’t gotten HIV.
| | |
Dear Lama Padma,
You have written about compassion and forgiveness, but I wonder how such things are even possible. As you may have heard by now, Alex was raped by three soldiers. The Tibetan nuns we met had undergone things even worse, and I still can’t understand how they achieved any sort of equanimity about it. I wake up raging every morning, I’m furious all day, and I go to bed that way. I work straight through the nights sometimes, because at least when I’m exhausted I don’t have any energy left over for anger, and then I can sleep a little, and if I sleep soundly enough I don’t remember my dreams. I fantasize about revenge. I feel like I’m becoming some kind of savage animal and I’m powerless to stop it.
I know you have already told me things one should do in a situation like this. Meditate. Contemplate the terrible karma these men have made for themselves. Forgive. It all seems superhuman to me. But on the other hand I have no peace; I feel like I’m living in hell.
My fitful efforts at prayer have had very mixed results; I got my daughter back but not quite in one piece, as if there were a price for intercession. I don’t know if I believe in prayer or not, now. Pray for us anyway, if you would. I get the feeling you’re better at it than I am.
—Peter
| | |
One afternoon when Alex was asleep, Mina called Peter from Kathmandu.
“I never should have told you to trust him,” she said. “I’m sorry. I really thought he could do it.”
Peter stood in the living room, staring out the big bay window at the hills.
“So that’s it? You’re sorry, tough luck, hope it goes better next time?”
There was a pause. “Peter, you gave Bahadur’s computer to the Nepali Times.”
“It was obvious the cops weren’t going to do anything otherwise.”
“Well, it worked. The whole story came out, and my father and the others are in jail.”
“Good,” said Peter. “When you talk to him again, tell him the day he or any of his men get out, I’ll be waiting for them. I don’t care if I spend the rest of my life in some shithole Nepali prison, I’ll be there. Tell him that.”
Mina’s voice wavered. “Don’t say things like that. Please.”
“Why the fuck shouldn’t I? I mean it. I’ll do it.”
“Peter, this is going to be hard enough for Alex. She’s going to need you. You can’t let it destroy you too.”
“Nothing’s destroying me.”
“It will, if you go on like this,” she said. “I’ve wanted to kill him too, I’ve been so angry. But if he was younger, if he’d been there himself, it never would have happened. They would have known about the dogs, no one would have died, Alex would be fine. His men weren’t as good as he thought they were, and that’s his fault. But he tried, and in fact he did get her out. He didn’t do this to her.”
“Oh, and I did? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I didn’t say it, Peter, you did.”
These words, spoken simply and honestly, sucked the breath right out of him. He knew, of course, that she was right. That without his idiocy, his pride, his foolish gullibility, none of this would have happened.
“Are you there?” Mina asked.
His voice was a reptilian croak, primitive and broken. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m here.”
There was another pause. “I don’t want to stay in Nepal anymore,” Mina said. “Our family has been wrecked.”
“I did that,” he said, as stupidly as a confessing child. “I did it on purpose.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Forgive me.”
Mina began to cry. “You know I would never have done anything to hurt your daughter. Tell me you understand that.”
He looked out the window. There were tears on his face too. He wiped at them with the back of his hand, but they kept coming.
“I understand,” he said.
“I’ll come there if you still want me to. I love you; I love you both.”
He took a breath. “Give us some time, okay? We just need time.”
He looked out the window; a hawk was riding a thermal high up over the oaks on the hill, its red tail fanned out and twisting to adjust to the breeze. Up still higher, twenty or thirty yards away, flew its mate. They rode opposite sides of the updraft, turning circles around each other at a distance, a dance of elegant, patient hunger.
“How’s Usha?” Peter asked, at last.
“She’s still staying with me,” Mina said. “She really wants to come to the U.S. and be a doctor. She’s so smart, Peter. You picked the right girl.”
“Yeah, I’m good at that,” he said, and heard her laugh a little through her tears. And then, almost without knowing the words were coming, he said, “The visa will be hard to get, you know.”
She hesitated a moment, as if to be sure he meant by this what he seemed to mean. “Do you remember Alice Finley, at the American consulate?”
“The woman who couldn’t do anything for me.”
“I’ve spoken to her,” said Mina. “She was so horrified by what happened to Alex that she said she’d make it happen, for me and Usha both, if we decide to come. She just needs a couple of weeks’ notice.”
“Okay. We’ll let her know.”
After they hung up, he decided to take a walk. He strolled along block after block of beautiful houses, tucked back into shade. When he got downtown, shiny, late-model BMWs and Lexuses and Mercedes filled the parking spaces and the crowded roads. The stores were full of expensive kitchen goods and linens and furniture. The restaurants had lunch entrées starting at fifteen dollars. Everyone was white or Asian American, well dressed, healthy-looking. There were no beggars, no panhandlers, no spent old people lying on the sidewalks, no shit in the streets. This had been home, and now Peter wasn’t sure where home was. He passed a woman wearing diamond earrings that were probably worth more than most Nepalis would earn in a lifetime, and he was possessed by a sudden impulse to rip them right out of her ear-lobes.
He wondered who that other Peter was, the cardiologist who’d lived in a nice house in the Berkeley hills and driven a Land Rover. What did he like? What did he want? Mainly he seemed to have lived a life of desperate waiting—to get out of his marriage, to find some sort of meaning or direction. Cheryl had once said she’d rather be dead than live with the dead, and now he finally understood what she meant. He was as perplexed by his own identity as if he’d unearthed the yellowed diary of some ass from an earlier century who bled his patients with leeches, prescribed mercury for the clap, and felt very fine about himself indeed.
He remembered the evening in Kathmandu when he and Alex were out walking Wayne Lee and saw the plane flying in. Alex said she’d switched sides, that she used to think the plane was normal and now she could relate to the goat. It seemed that whichever place Peter inhabited, the other felt more like home, as if hereafter he would live always in exile.
When he thought of Alex, his eyes grew hot again. He stepped into an alley and walked to the end, where there was a dumpster. He leaned against the grimy wall across from it a
nd lowered his head. The trash smelled of ether from rotting vegetables; that was a little better. The alley’s walls rose up like canyons to a bright band of sky, but between the walls it was dark and cool. All it lacked to make him feel more comfortable was a pack of feral dogs.
Everything had been an emergency lately, and even though he’d worked enough ERs to know how to function in emergencies, he was not functioning well anymore. All these years of waiting and he would have to wait longer still; it was excruciating, like waiting for pain to stop and not knowing when or if it would.
After a few minutes a metal door by the dumpster swung open and a busboy brought out a bag of restaurant trash. The kid had pimples and long, pale arms. He looked at Peter and his eyes narrowed a little, in disgust or confusion or fear; then he put the bag in the dumpster and went back inside. Peter figured the next person to come through the door would be the manager, asking him what the hell he was doing, so he walked out of the alley and onto the street.
He found a park and sat down in the grass under an oak. He wanted to sleep, to just keep sleeping, but he knew sleep would be hard to come by for a while. A tabby cat was stalking the birds in the next tree. The cat wore a collar and a tiny bell, but it had learned to move so that the bell stayed quiet.
Peter didn’t want to see the cat catch a bird, so he got up and left the park. On the way home, he came to a clot of traffic in the street, two cars together in the middle, others crawling out and around to pass. A fender bender. A couple of guys in their thirties had climbed out of the crumpled cars and were screaming at each other, raising their arms like enraged chimps. They looked demented. They had new cars, they had insurance, they had money, everything would be fixed. Peter couldn’t figure out what the hell there was to yell about.
He walked up the hill to where the road ended. A cable was strung thigh-high between bent poles, and a trail began on the other side of it. He climbed over and followed the trail up to the ridge. From there, he could see the bay to the east, blue under a blue sky, two bright mirrors with a strip of land between. He sat down, but he was restless and soon got up again. He thought about calling Mina back, but he wasn’t ready. Anyway, it was the middle of the night in Kathmandu. It hadn’t been that long since her call, so apparently she wasn’t sleeping either.