The Prayer Room

by Shanthi Sekaran

  He described to her what was happening to Stan. He told her about Marla’s funeral, and what had happened with Victoria. He’d never told a soul about that night he spent with Victoria. He scarcely dared remember it himself. “It was a natural thing to happen,” he said. “I mean, it didn’t feel wrong.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I don’t want you to think—”

  “I don’t.”

  He also told her about the earrings, how he’d been hiding them like a shameful secret when really, there was little to be ashamed of. Kamla had little to say in response. What could she say? She wasn’t a psychologist. She hardly knew Stan. “Have you told Viji?” was all she asked. The name came breathlessly from her.

  “About the earrings?”

  “About Stan.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s hard to talk about that sort of thing. About Stan, I mean.”

  “You don’t want to worry her.”

  “No.”

  “George.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you and Viji happy?”

  “Maybe you should ask her.”

  He looked at Kamla, and she looked back, not smiling this time. His breath seemed to echo through the car, drowning out any other words he might possibly try.

  “Do you want to walk?” she asked.

  Clumsy raindrops pelted his shirt, and he didn’t have an umbrella. Kamla held a newspaper over her head. They wouldn’t go too far. This could be a Tamil film, George thought ruefully, watching Kamla scurry for the shelter of a willow tree. Minus the singing, of course, and the rainsoaked sari.

  The idea to walk had been a misguided one. Moments after they left the car, the steady drizzle swelled to an angry torrent. The rain was too loud to talk over, and they found themselves leaning pointlessly on a willow tree, with little to say.

  He dripped onto his seat on the drive home, already regretting the wet-animal smell the rain would leave on his upholstery. He could feel Viji in the car, hissing and spraying like an agitated cat. Beside him, Kamla shivered.

  He pulled into her driveway. “Do you want to come in?” she asked. How often he’d heard this question, always after dates, evenings at the movies, and late-night drinks.

  “I’m quite wet,” he said.

  “I have clothes. Men’s clothes.”

  “Probably shouldn’t.”

  “George? Are you sure?” Her eyes were liquid, slack around the edges.

  He paused. “I’m sure.”

  “Bugger,” he said as he drove away. He sputtered the words again, “bugger bugger bugger,” and they made him feel better. He spent that afternoon in his study, tracing a finger over freshman final papers that he had yet to grade, of which he had yet to read a single sentence. He was through more than half the stack of papers, all graded irritably, with lower marks than he was used to giving, when he heard a shuffling past his door.

  “Dad?”

  Stan’s head. “What?”

  “Have you been feeling all right lately?”

  “Yep.” He gazed slack-jawed at George’s pile of papers. “Getting enough sleep?”

  “Yep. What is it you want, son?”

  “Sit down, Dad.” He kicked out the chair on the other side of his desk. To his surprise, Stan sat. “It’s just that… well, I guess what I want to ask is, why are you here?”

  “Why am I here? Well, that’s a bit of a question, isn’t it? Why are any of us”—he circled his arms in the air— “here?”

  “What I mean is, why’d you pick up and come here after all this time?”

  Stan was quiet for a long while, picking at the stubble on his chin. “If I’m not welcome, George, all you’ve got to do is say.”

  He sighed. “That’s not what I mean. Don’t be silly. I guess I’m just wondering—are you all right? Is everything all right, you know, with you?”

  “Bloody hell, George.”

  “It’s just that you seem to be…sleepwalking. Did you know you were sleepwalking?” His father had come to him for help, he was realizing. His father was not well.

  “How d’you mean, exactly?”

  George explained, in almost the same words he’d used with Kamla. He reminded Stan of the pine-tree incident. Stan eyed him incredulously as he spoke, as if George were the one behaving strangely. George finished, sighed, and waited for an answer.

  The chair screeched. Stan stood. “If you think I’m touched, soft in the head, I’m not.” The shake in his voice was surprising. “I’ve not gone soft in the head, George, and I’ll thank you not to tell me I have. I may be an old bugger, but I’ve not gone soft yet!” Stan leaned on the desk. “What is it you want? Your inheritance? Well, there’s not bloody much of that, I’ll tell you now.”

  “Dad—”

  “Don’t interrupt me, you knob.”

  “Dad that’s not what I want at all.”

  “Then you’d best not meddle.”

  George groaned, audibly exhausted. “As long as you’re all right,” he muttered.

  “I’m all right.” Stan tapped the desk absentmindedly. “Nothing else, then?”

  “No,” George replied. “Nothing.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  He found her again that day.

  “Happy New Year,” he said.

  “Same to you.”

  They sat side by side without saying anything. The

  sun was muted in the beige sky that afternoon. Rarely did she see a blue sky here. A skittish breeze lifted sand off the beach and made it hard to sit still without shielding her eyes. Viji pulled her sari around her to keep the flapping fabric from exposing her middle.

  “You have a lovely church,” she ventured.

  “Thanks. They say it dates back to St. Thomas, but actually it’s pretty new. Nineteenth century. Looks old, is all.”

  “Why would they say such a thing?” She turned to him. “Why would they say it was a church of St. Thomas if it wasn’t?”

  He shrugged. “I guess it makes it seem more credible.”

  “Older things are more credible.” She wished this notion applied to humans as well.

  “Do you have a husband?” he asked.

  This startled Viji. She looked at him, shielding her eyes, which for some reason made him laugh. “Yes, I do.”

  He shrugged. “Just curious. You’re wearing a ring. So where is he?”

  “At home in California. He had teaching to do,” she lied.

  “So he’s a teacher?”

  “He’s a college professor.”

  “Nice. This sand’s kind of harsh on the eyes.”

  Silence.

  “Do you have a swimsuit?”

  She looked up, surprised again. What kind of question was this?

  “Well, I mean, it’s kind of a shame to be at a beach and not go in, right? It might be a good day for it, too, since sitting’s a pain in the butt, with the sand and all.”

  “No thank you.”

  “No?”

  “I don’t swim.” She did in fact have a swimsuit and she did technically know how to swim, though she rarely went in the pool, only dangled her legs in on the hottest evenings. She’d seen a science show once about a sea cow. She reminded herself of one whenever she swam, the way her bottom seemed to drag behind her. Eyes stinging, spitting into blue water, threads of saliva. These things were not for her. She hated the feel of water creeping up her nostrils.

  “That’s too bad. Do you body-surf?”

  She thought of standing up and walking away and never speaking to him again. Why had he taken an interest in her, this young man? There were other ladies he could talk to, other ladies who, she assumed, knew how to “Body- surf.” It was because they were both American, she told herself. Nothing more than two friendly Americans in a country far from home.

  Never in her life had she so clearly been an American. He lay back and let his arm fall over his eyes. His underarms sprouted like alfalfa. His nip
ples were precise, small, amid the hairless plain of his chest. He had the body of a prophet—lean, ascetic.

  “Where’s your walking stick?” she tried to joke. But he’d fallen asleep or was ignoring her, knitting his thoughts on some private beach. He said nothing, though his lips parted unconsciously.

  Like a jagged nail, a longing drove through her. She would have to leave, quickly. But when she stood, a crown of vertigo spun around her head. She blinked hard into the afternoon sun and hoped the dizziness would pass. She would go to her room and watch the children from the balcony. As she stalked off, she thought he mumbled something to her. But it was too soft to hear, and too late to ask again.

  A chill set in that evening, for which Kovalam Beach was not prepared. It was New Year’s Eve, and she could hear the hushed beat of disco in the distance. At home, they would have watched the ball drop over Times Square, counting to midnight with the man with the square head. Two out of three triplets would have fallen asleep before midnight. George and Viji would have had to coax the children awake—they were too big now to carry.

  She made her way to the STD office, which was open and crowded. “Yes, you can talk to Dad this time,” she assured Kieran.

  Several seconds of static, and then the phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Oh—hello? Hello, this is Viji.”

  “Hiya, duck. Calling from India?” Stan was practically shouting now.

  “Yes, hello, how are you?” She tried to sound cheerful. “Happy New Year!”

  “Yes, Happy New Year. Is George there?”

  “George?”

  “Yes, is he there?”

  “Naw, he’s out. Gone down to your lady friend’s house. Whatsername.”

  “Kamla?” She had only one lady friend.

  “That’s the one. He went down to hers about an hour ago. Should be back soon, I reckon.”

  “Okay,” was all she could manage.

  “Kids all right?”

  Without a word, she dropped the phone into Kieran’s waiting hands (“Hi, Grandad!”) and stood by as the triplets wrested the phone from each other, ramming frantic words into the receiver. She couldn’t help shivering, though the office was muggy and warm. She felt that something had gone, or was about to go, very very wrong.

  And she was right.

  George knocked on Kamla’s door that afternoon. It was the natural end to a winter’s walk that was meant to clear his head. The door opened, but he didn’t enter until Kamla took a step back. There were no offers of tea this time. Kamla turned and proceeded down the hallway, into the back corridors of the house, where George had never been before. On the walls hung framed photographs of flowers, one of a swan. An Indian tapestry hung next to a door, and through this door Kamla passed, wordlessly, to her bedroom.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  She had indeed brought a swimsuit. It was a reflex that she’d picked up somehow in America. Vacation equals swimsuit. Hers was brown, with yellow Hawaiian flowers, a one piece, nothing flashy. It hid her tummy and she didn’t look foolish. This was all she asked of a swimsuit.

  She put it on the next morning. And then took it off. She put it on again, standing before the bathroom mirror with a hand raised instinctively to cover a hint of cleavage. Between her breasts rested the pendant of her wedding necklace, its thick gold chain skimming her chest. She took it off. Avi’s voice—come on!—impatient to run to the sun. She put it on again, and wrapped a towel high around her waist. Why was she doing this?

  Because of the sun, of course. And the sand. And the sand dollars chipped by running feet. Frisbees, bonfires, and seaweed, splayed like dead, bulbous monsters on the shore. These, for Viji, were the sea. Shuffling through the sand, wearing only her swimsuit and towel, she would now be part of it. Resolutely she ignored the stares of the men around her. The hisses and clicks of the tongue she let ping off her invisible armor. They didn’t do this to the white women, not as far as she could tell.

  From the beach she stepped into the sea. Without a word she’d dropped her towel next to Aaron, unable still to look him in the face. It was hot. She would go first to the water. Far off to her right, the children were digging. Another child, blond and pudgy, had joined them.

  The waves settled around her feet and rushed back into the ocean, giving her the sensation of moving backward. On her back was the heat of the sun and a hundred eyes. Before her coursed the blind ocean. She saw herself, darkening in the day, hair wild with wind and salt. A spray of sand brushed her calves and the top of her thigh. She was aware of her buttocks, peeking from her suit as frankly as a child’s.

  Soon the water reached her knees. With a new wave it crept up her thighs and a tremor passed through her groin. She walked willfully farther, until the water reached her waist, and then with a leap she dove to the stony seabed, pushing back to the surface with her palms.

  Behind her, through watery eyes, she saw him on the shore. He waded out. “Ready to get out there?” he called.

  She furrowed her brows, shook her head. Soon he stood beside her, the breeze and water raising goose bumps on their skin. Unsure of what to do, she fingered the bicolored border of her arm, the upper part of it where the skin stayed pale, and the lower part, nearly black now from exposure to the sun. “Let’s jump some waves,” he coaxed. She was shivering and ready to get out of the water. “Come on!” His smile was so electric, so ludicrously happy, that she had to grin back. “Right on!”

  “Okay,” she said, “But I don’t know how to do this.”

  “Easy.” He pulled her deeper until the water braceleted her waist again. He showed her how he did it: how to wait for a wave to rise, then rise higher, and then higher, before ducking into its wall, tucking himself just beneath the crest. The wave scooped him up and lifted him to the sky, before handing him down again and rushing back into the sea. He held her hand.

  With his fingers strong around hers, it was easy, and as the wave swept her into its arc she squealed. She saw herself, helpless as an infant, cradled in giddy, open air, then dropped gently to the shore. She hoped the triplets were watching.

  It was important to be brave, to face a wave head-on. “If you trust the wave,” he said, “it’ll take you to heaven and back. If you run from it, you’re toast.”

  Feeling brave, Viji shook her hand from his grip. She waded farther, until the water pooled around her chest. In the distance the ocean roiled, thrummed itself into a wave, and headed inland. And then it was there, towering above, rushing white noise, so much higher now that she stood alone.

  This was when she turned. She tried to run, heavykneed, her feet leaden in the sea. And just like he said it would, the wave caught her.

  From behind it bulldozed her, forced her underwater, and held her there. She flailed against it. The ocean roared back, filling her ears and eyes and nostrils. Once, she bobbed up like a seal but was pulled back under. She could see her own arms, stroking. Before her eyes, the pendant of her wedding necklace, slow-motion floating, first to the left, then to the right. For a moment, all was still. This was what he’d meant by “toast”

  Then a kick and a splash, a sucking sound. She surged to the surface and was out. Coughing, retching, she spat water and wheezed in the open air. The fresh wind blew cold against her eyeballs, and stung the inside of her nose. She coughed, gagging, spitting a whip of saliva from her lips.

  Her right breast hung from her swimsuit, flung from its nylon casing. She rushed to cover it and looked around—no one had seen. In the blurry distance, her children continued digging. They’d seen none of it. A blade of pain sliced across her shoulder. She cried out and held her arm.

  Aaron was next to her now, his arm around her waist. He was saying words to her and guiding her to the shore.

  “My shoulder,” she gasped. She let Aaron guide her up the beach, past their towels that lay curled in the sand. They moved, dripping, farther up the shore to where the sand was dry. But once she caught her breath, a drum of excitement beat in her chest. O
nly her legs were tired, extremely tired.

  “Lie down,” he ordered, and dipped her to the ground. Her elbow still circled his neck. “Can you lift your arm?” he asked. She whimpered when he lifted it for her. With his thumbs he palpitated the flesh of her shoulder, down to her elbow. “I think it’s just a sprain,” he said. “I think you’ll be okay.” The pain began to fade, just slightly, then more as he stroked her arm. She let him lie with her, even as the sun bore down and she wished for water. She didn’t want to move, despite the piercing eyes of the fishermen, the shameless stares of the women passing by, superior in their saris and their tightly braided hair. She didn’t want to lift her head to check on the children. Aaron’s eyes fixed on hers, and she didn’t dare look away, not even when he slipped from her shoulder the strap of her swimsuit and a trail of sand spilled into her hair, not even when he laid his mouth on hers and she tasted there the ocean’s salty grit.

  She awoke minutes later, or maybe hours. Behind her lay a misty memory of what she’d done. Aaron was nowhere.

  She sat up. The children. They would be waiting for her, looking helplessly. She couldn’t see them from where she sat, and she envisioned a floating body, two triplets on tiptoes looking out to sea, straining to find the third, a useless lifeguard chewing paan and spitting onto the sand.

  She must have fallen asleep immediately on the warm ground. The sun was now high in the sky and she needed water. Her legs shook when she stood, and she felt sick with thirst. Bare-legged and without a towel, she ran across the beach and forgot about her shoulder. There they were, by their swimming pool. They had indeed been waiting.

  “Where were you?”

  “Where’d you go?”