A Certain Exposure

by Justin Ker

  Mabel fixed her gaze on the lit figure of the red man at the crossing, mentally tracing and re-tracing its tiny outline. Emptying her mind. When the lights shifted it took her a few moments to respond.

  The hall in the Community Centre was high-ceilinged and airy and shuttered. The boys rapidly shed bits of gear, their unzipped racket covers sliding to the floor, and assumed their stations at opposite ends of a court, two magnetic poles straining apart with competitive energy.

  Andrew was the more technically competent player, but not by much, and after the dengue Brian was in better shape. Brian felt good: he’d forgotten how much he liked these games. At first his grip on his racket was too tight, and he had trouble matching his feel for the dimensions of the court to his sense of his own pace and strength. His shots went out, wide, into the net—he lost five early, easy points. But he was enjoying the pure pleasure of motion, and he grew steadily more relaxed and controlled. Suddenly he placed a series of assured safe shots. He began propelling himself to difficult returns with cunning bursts of energy, prolonging the rally at unexpected points. Andrew, run tired, a little confused, mishit an easy shot out of the court.

  Success. Brian seized the service and pressed forward, cautiously, but keeping up the momentum. They were rapidly level. Brian became excited: his approach worked. If he could just take a good lead now. He paused to wipe his face with his T-shirt—was surprised to find it soaked—and moved to serve again, the same motion, again, but this time he had been thinking too much about the score, and his wrist action was mistimed. The shuttlecock went into the net.

  With this piece of luck, Andrew caught a second wind. He knocked the shuttlecock into an awkward high spot in Brian’s backhand, pulling a point ahead that way, then two, three, in quick succession. Even after Brian managed to break the pattern, he remained on the back foot; by the time he struggled back into service, the game felt as good as over. He crawled up a half-hearted two points before control returned to Andrew, who made fifteen with ease.

  “Play again?”

  “Yah.”

  Mabel had found herself a bench by the courts and was trying to read. Today she had with her a tract on prayer, written in breezy American, which had been loaned to her by a friendly woman at church. But the lighting in the hall was poor, and the metallic ring of shuttlecocks in sweet spots, the sharply muffled squeak of trainers on wood floor, kept cutting across her attention. The bench was of an inconvenient width, too—if she sat with her back up against the wall, her knees came short of the end, so that her shins stuck out; if she sat forward, with her feet on the ground, most of her weight came uncomfortably down on one wooden slat. She shifted and shifted, keeping the book open, though the text dissolved and re-formed into a blurred, irregular geometry. Now and then she tuned in to the twins’ game, but she had no interest in sport; she didn’t understand what she was meant to look for.

  She closed her eyes against the noise. Dear Lord God. Please. The thought had no end. She decided to buy herself a packet drink. There must be a vending machine somewhere. She wandered out of the hall and into the entrance lobby. There it was, boxy, humming. She dropped two coins in and pressed the button under the display for Yeo’s chrysanthemum tea. The machine gave an electric purr and the yellow packet fell heavily. She retrieved it, returned to her unstable perch on the bench, stabbed the little foil circle with the straw, drank. The tea was sticky sweet.

  She managed to drag the performance of drinking out for a good ten minutes, but at the end of it the boys were still pivoting and circling on the court, about their common axis of eagerness, and it was necessary to find something else to do. Reluctantly, at last, she considered the problem of Andrew. There was a good half of the June break left, which she did not want to spend at home. Home was difficult. Her little sister Jasmine was far too young to be of any use, her mother had been even angrier than usual lately, and—most importantly, of course—she ought to seek activity. A purpose-driven life was part of God’s design for those on earth. It was rather unglamorous to tag along behind a younger cousin—the girls at school would surely sneer if they knew, the trendy clique with their streaked hair and their junior college boyfriends. But, Mabel told herself, the Lord worked in mysterious ways; she must have been directed to Andrew’s care for a reason. And he was fairly grown-up for twelve, wasn’t he, and seemed to like her—not that it mattered, her task was her task.

  The problem of Andrew was really, of course, the problem of Brian. Quite apart from his tiresome hostility, her accidental knowledge about him disturbed and disgusted her. But she didn’t want to dwell on it unduly: such thoughts corrupted, and the Lord must have His own plan for punishing sin. At any rate she could also see how it might be useful. Brian would be away now and then, and there was her opportunity. Today was not the pattern of things; he could not want to play badminton all the time.

  And maybe Andrew wouldn’t either. He might not be a believer as yet, but with him the door to fellowship was at least ajar; he seemed to have an inkling of the possibility of God’s love, a faint appreciation of the merits of her Christian life. Perhaps he would ask her for a book on Christ. This idea was not so dangerous, was it, when he had liked her selections from the library so far. He might have questions, and then—this must be what God intended—it would fall to her to take him through the parables, patiently and carefully, like Pastor Hong did with the Sunday school class. Andrew was smart. He would recognise wisdom when he saw it. She had a vision of Brian approaching one morning, rackets in hand, and his brother waving him away in favour of hearing more about the Lord. Preferring to share in the secrets of righteous knowledge with her, Mabel.

  Some minutes passed before she looked up, suddenly aware of silence. The court was empty. She got to her feet, turning this way and that, but there was no sign of the boys in the dim hall. Their gear had vanished. They wouldn’t be in the showers—they hadn’t brought towels with them, or any change of clothes. Could they have gone to the toilets? Perhaps they were in the lobby, for packet drinks of their own? She padded quickly over. The only person there was a thin old man, sweeping the floor and grumbling to himself in Bahasa Melayu. Outside, the sky was white.

  They set off for home in high spirits, each with a game under his belt to glory in. Less than two minutes from the last shot and already they were reminiscing about moments of prowess or luck, and vowing greater future victories. Brian wondered when he could schedule another match. It would have to wait for another opportunity like today’s, when Priya had been spirited away by a family event. It was a good problem to have: too many pleasant things to arrange around one another. They made it to the foot of their block before Andrew remembered Mabel.

  “Oh, shit,” they said as they turned back, but laughingly, still charged with adrenaline. Both were still trilling with amusement as they reappeared in the Community Centre.

  Brian spotted Mabel first: she had just replaced the handset on the small, orange-topped plastic payphone, and was reinserting the coin it duly spat out. They moved toward her, and he realised as he watched that she was frantically punching the number for their flat.

  “Hullo, Mabel,” he said, gaily, in her ear. She started, and dropped the phone. The boys burst into laughter.

  Her face was flushed red, her mouth set with effort. “You left without me.” She wanted to sound stern, accusatory. She wanted to look calm.

  “Sorry,” Andrew said, grinning.

  “We forgot you were there.”

  “We were so excited by the game.”

  “And then we almost got home and then we were like, shit, where is Mabel?”

  “So we came back.”

  “Were you calling us? Special delivery, we came super quickly.”

  The twins laughed again. Mabel bit her lip. “It’s not funny, okay.”

  “Sorry,” Andrew repeated. “But we’re here now, yah?”

  “And come on lah, Mabel, it’s not that far, we only went a short while ago, at most twenty
minutes only.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s very inconsiderate.”

  “Aiyah,” Brian said. “You should have known we finished already what! Next time pay attention lah.” He paused. “It’s allowed, right? Bible doesn’t say cannot watch badminton?”

  At this, despite himself, Andrew let out a thin giggle. Mabel’s heart contracted with a cold stab. “Shut up, Brian.”

  “Aiyah, relax a bit lah!” Brian said, enjoying himself. He picked up the book Mabel had placed by the phone. “How to Talk to God: A Guide for Teens.” He began to flip through it. “See, I’m sure it doesn’t say anything about—”

  Mabel grabbed at the book. They tussled briefly; and there was a loud ripping sound, as the pages in Brian’s fingers came apart. “Oh. Oh, shit.” He let go. Jagged-edged flaps of paper fell to the floor.

  Mabel gave a short, furious cry, and began picking up the pieces. The boys joined her in subdued silence. She accepted the scraps they handed her without meeting their gaze, her thin frame held away at a defensive angle. Her eyes were wet, reddened.

  “Sorry, Mabel.”

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  She stood up and methodically folded the last of the torn pages into the back of the book. When she finally spoke it was in a tight and withering voice. “Take me back. Now.”

  They complied. Mabel deliberately stayed a few paces behind the boys, refusing to look at or speak to them. Neither really tried to engage her, or to speak to each other.

  Despite the signs promising heavy fines, someone had urinated in the lift. As they rode up in the cramped space, the dank smell seemed worse than ever. Brian did his best not to gag. He felt some small relief as they reached their front door, and Andrew undid the various locks. He was mildly ashamed of his part with the book, but it didn’t look like Mabel was going to shout at them or make a scene, and perhaps after sulking for an evening she would forget about it. He moved to follow Andrew into the flat, and was startled when his cousin gripped his elbow to keep him back.

  “I’ve seen you,” she said quietly.

  “What?”

  “I’ve seen you,” she repeated. “With that dirty—fat—apunehneh. I can’t believe you would—it’s disgusting, you’re really disgusting.” She met his plain surprise with a look of hard satisfaction, and stepped past him into the flat. When he had recovered himself enough to go in, Mabel and Andrew were peaceably arranged on the sofas, watching television. Mabel ignored Brian for the rest of the day—which made little difference, as he, in any case, could not think what he should say.

  That was the last of Mabel’s visits. Over dinner she cheerfully informed everyone that, in her opinion, Andrew was so much better now, and no longer needed her help, so if Auntie and Uncle didn’t mind, she wouldn’t come round any more.

  Brian later assumed that Mabel had drawn his parents aside, unnoticed. In fact, she said nothing to them. A dry mention to her mother was enough to do the trick. Auntie Poh Lian, all aflutter, called her sister the next day: prompted only, of course, by her deep concern for the family’s well-being. She didn’t enjoy talking of such shameful things, but she knew Poh Ling would realise how serious it was, and how bad it must look. If it were her own daughter who had behaved in this way, she would feel so ashamed; and the worst thing was, if Mabel had seen Brian doing hanky-panky with this fat Indian in public, who knew how many neighbours must have seen it too? Everyone knew boy-girl relationships were a danger in secondary school, but you didn’t expect it to start so early—and in Brian’s PSLE year some more, Poh Ling must be especially worried. She mustn’t think it meant they were bad parents who didn’t know how to control their kids properly, oh no, it was probably the fashion to give your children a lot of freedom these days; although Poh Lian herself had always thought it was important not to just blindly follow fashion. When it came to her own girls, even though she taught them good Christian principles, she thought it was better to restrict them a little bit—better not to take chances, because once children began to rebel, it was very hard to get them to come back to you.

  Poh Ling said very little. She was disoriented by the idea of her son “doing hanky-panky” with anyone—an essentially inconceivable idea, given unwelcome solidity by the fatness and Indianness of this mystery girl. These were distracting, almost mesmerising, facts. She wondered how best to communicate them to her husband. She considered herself a practical parent, and a flexible one, too. This business with Brian must stop, of course, but preferably without drama—something she worried Kim Seng had an occasional tendency to indulge.

  She was roused by a high edge in Poh Lian’s voice. “…you know, some of these Malay and Indian girls are very advanced one, thirteen, fourteen, already having babies. And you better be careful, when he is older, make sure he meets some good Chinese girls, otherwise next time you get an Indian daughter-in-law, then you know. I asked Mabel if this one was one of the fair-skinned type, you know some of them are not so dark, but Mabel said no, she was one of the very black-black ones.” She bubbled over into nervous laughter. Poh Ling felt a surge of irritation.

  “Okay,” she said. “Thanks, Lian, thanks for telling me about this. We must talk to Brian. Everything okay with you?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, it’s all fine, good to have Mabel back home also, I always get worried when she goes out so much. You just never know what kind of influence there will be on them, horh? But good that she told me this lah, shows she has good values. I just wanted to make sure you knew what your son has been up to—”

  “Yes, thanks, thanks,” Poh Ling repeated. “Okay. Don’t forget we have booked two tables at Jin Loong for Ma’s birthday.”

  “Yes, of course. Don’t worry ah, Ling, I’m sure it will be okay with Brian, he is still young, just talk to him firmly.”

  “We will. Okay, bye.”

  From the moment Mabel hissed at him on the doorstep, a small ball of worry had lodged itself in Brian. It tangled and grew as he tossed it about in what he knew of his parents. Anxious threads snarled themselves in his chest and in his throat. He was dismayed, but not surprised, when, two evenings later, his mother asked him to come to her bedroom.

  It was not a space in which Brian was generally welcome. He stepped nervously in—his mother closing the door against an incurious Andrew—and stood in the thick grave silence of his father’s scrutiny. Kim Seng’s eyes, behind the large lenses of his blocky plastic glasses, had a perpetual slight goggle, and his mouth tended to hang just a little open in the square of his face. (It was fair to say the twins owed their more decisive looks mostly to their mother.) Someone else might have found this gaze comical, but Brian did not. He returned it momentarily, and then looked away, already anticipating shame.

  “Brian. Your cousin Mabel says she saw you with this—Indian girl.”

  Brian could not have told you how he knew that his parents would disapprove of Priya. It wasn’t that he didn’t notice the clues—he absorbed them, bathed in them even. But isolating them was beyond his powers. He did not know, could not imagine, parents who did not stud every other conversation with talk of the ultimate danger—of children “distracted” from their homework and exams. In the context of their sons, girls were spoken of only in voices cloudy with shame: and shame, therefore, was the nature of girls. He saw nothing unusual in the persistence with which they itemised other people by ethnicity (“The salesgirl was a Malay”, “She spoke to the ang moh”, “There were five Chinese and two mangali”) or in their self-satisfied jibes, accompanying every drive through Little India, about the danger of knocking its dark-skinned inhabitants over at night. He had learned, in school, that a beneficent “racial and religious harmony” prevailed in Singapore; and since it did, this must be the face of it. This was simply how his parents talked, this was just what they laughed at. It was obvious to him, foundational. That it was also utterly incompatible with the fact of Priya, was something he grasped instantly, with all the certainty, all the analysis, and all the capacity for critic
ism or resistance, of a plant turning toward sunlight.

  Because he knew this, once his father spoke, the session that stretched before Brian seemed immediately, enormously redundant. He stiffened in dread of a dirty-fingered rummage through the details. He could learn nothing in the process; he could only be confirmed in his own humiliation.

  “Who is this Indian? Where does she come from?”

  “My friend Priya,” Brian began. And then stopped in confusion. He didn’t have answers to these questions, at least not the kind of answers his father sought.

  “What sort of friend is this? Cannot be at school, yours is a boys’ school. Where are you finding this type of friend?”

  Where indeed? he wondered, with miserable clarity. The impossibility of it was obvious now. The fantasy aisle of a second-hand bookstore, the inside of a playground’s make-believe animal, a closed grey stairwell to the stars: how could he have thought the world might contain enough secret passages in which to hide them? “We met in—” he tried, but he couldn’t go on, he couldn’t expose that afternoon and its laughter to the acid air of his father’s contempt.

  His silence annoyed his father. “Brian, your father is trying to be patient with you, but this is very serious. Who started this monkey business? Must be this girl’s family never teach her properly. Don’t let people say your father and mother never teach you properly. Mabel saw you doing all kinds of things in public. In front for everyone to see. With a fat Indian!”

  Despite himself, Brian let out a sob.

  “Brian,” Poh Ling said, in what she meant to be a soothing voice. “We just don’t want you to be led astray—”

  “—yah, these Indians are very good at talking, full of hot air—”

  “—when this girl tries to encourage you to misbehave, you must step back and think about your parents. We only want what is best for you. You are still too young for this kind of thing.”