Haunting Jasmine

by Anjali Banerjee

  I reach out to hug Auntie. I love her scent of Pond’s cold cream, her deceptively fragile shoulders. “Thank you for telling me the story.”

  “The spirits are beginning to fade for me,” she says, not looking at me. “I was hoping you might stay.”

  “Me?” I step away from her, the room suddenly shrinking. “But you belong here. You always have.”

  Her eyes begin to water. She looks away. “I understand, Bippy. The store is not doing as well as it once did. Perhaps Ganesh’s legacy has ended. Perhaps I will have to sell.”

  My throat goes dry. “You can make the bookstore turn a profit. I’ve tried to help things along.”

  Auntie is silent a moment. “I will stay for as long as I can, and we will see.”

  Chapter 41

  Back in Los Angeles, I stride into the Taylor Investments conference room, set my briefcase on the table, and pull out my proposal for the Hoffman account. The air smells of cologne and coffee beans. I’m surrounded by four men in pressed suits and a woman with collagen lips. White walls, gray conference table, straight lines, and sharp corners. On one wall is my boss’s signature abstract painting—a splash of blue and silver like spilled oil on a wet highway. Sunlight filters in through a full-wall window, but the dark glass tempers the effect. Fluorescent lights lend all the faces a greenish tint.

  “Henry, are you still playing golf down at the club?” a balding man asks the man next to him, who looks vigorous and artificially tanned.

  “I shot seventy-eight yesterday,” Tanned Man says. “Can’t wait to get back out on the course.”

  Bald Man presses his forefinger to the table. “Best score for a four-round tournament—seventy-two holes played—was 254 by Tommy Armour III at the 2003 Texas Open.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Tanned Man says. The others are sipping coffee, shuffling papers, looking at me expectantly.

  Scott Taylor clears his throat. “Gentlemen.” He glances at Collagen Woman. “Ladies. I believe we’re about to begin. Jasmine?”

  I stand and clear my throat. “With the new Green Futures retirement funds option at Taylor, you can invest to help the environment. We seek competitive returns while we put your money to work for cleaner air. . . .” And on I go.

  Outside the window, a scantily clad woman jogs by, and the male eyes shift. Bald Man taps his pen on the table. Tanned Man casts a quick, sheepish smile at Collagen Woman. She frowns at him. Her face has been lifted, her skin pulled back to keep her future at bay. She gives me an odd sense of sadness.

  “. . . Our Balanced Fund seeks to promote responsible corporate behavior. . . .” I go on. I find a rhythm. I’m good at this.

  Scott keeps a smile fixed on his face.

  Collagen Woman raises her hand.

  “Yes?” I say.

  “This sounds wonderful.” She grimaces, and I realize she’s smiling. “How do you make sure the firms aren’t importing goods from China?”

  “We do our best to monitor the companies in which we invest,” I say.

  “I must say I’m impressed with your presentation.”

  “Thank you.” I’m beaming, and so is Scott.

  “Jasmine is brilliant,” he says. “She’s put in many hours of overtime.”

  Warmth spreads through me. Collagen Woman nods with approval.

  I finish my presentation, shake hands with everyone, and say my good-byes.

  “Good job,” Scott says, patting my back. “Now we get back to work and play the waiting game.”

  In my office, I’ve added a bookshelf full of a variety of novels and nonfiction, a bowl of fragrant potpourri, and plants. But the effect is diluted, piecemeal. I wish my windows opened. I try to focus on work.

  An hour later, Scott shows up at the door, grinning. “We did it. They decided right away. We got the account.”

  I nearly fall out of my chair. “We got it?”

  He strides over to shake my hand. “Welcome to the big time. Excellent presentation. Vacation was good for you. This is unprecedented, a client making a decision so quickly.”

  “Wow. Thanks.” My mind is spinning.

  “We need to get you a bigger office.”

  “Really?” I grin at him, surprised. “Thanks.”

  “Let’s talk about strategy. We’ll have a company meeting in half an hour. Good to have you back.”

  “It’s good to be back.” I did it. I’m good at my job. Maybe I made partner. I can’t wait to call everyone I know. Auntie, Tony . . . I wish I could call Connor.

  On his way out, Scott glances at the books on the shelves. “I like to read on the plane. Thrillers. ’Course, with the new account, you may not have much time for reading.” He winks at me and walks out.

  No time for reading with the new account. For some people, reading means the difference between happiness and grief, hope and despair, life and death.

  I listen to the office—the whir of the copy machine outside my door, the soft hum of the air circulation and conditioning systems, the metallic ring of the telephone. Voices pass now and then, discussing clients and accounts. The sounds are comforting, familiar.

  I got the account.

  I try to peruse performance numbers, percentages, line graphs, and pie charts, but I’m distracted. I get up and stand at the window. A white California gull alights on the concrete bench in the manicured corporate garden, a small Eden beneath the palm trees and bougainvillea bushes.

  “I got the account,” I tell the gull. He looks at me and then takes off. He has a bit of gray on his wings, like the gulls on Shelter Island. Maybe he’s looking for the way north.

  I imagine the rushing sound of the surf on the island, the changeable sky. Here, a solid block of blue stretches away without end.

  Tears come to my eyes. Stupid, silly, unwanted tears, for no good reason. I’m supposed to be thrilled. Now I’ll be able to save for retirement, maybe buy another condo.

  I rummage through my giant handbag for a tissue to blow my nose. At the bottom, my fingers touch something fuzzy. I quickly withdraw my hand. No movement in my handbag. I reach in and pull out the rabbit ears from the children’s book room. Someone must’ve slipped them in here. The ears are wrapped around the old thin paperbound volume that Connor gave me. Tamerlane and Other Poems, by a Bostonian.

  Young heads are giddy, and young hearts are warm . . .

  My eyes fill with tears.

  At the bottom are the words Calvin F. S. Thomas . . . Printer. 1827. Was Connor trying to tell me something?

  While I work, the poems drift through my head. The spirits of the dead, who stood / In life before thee, are again / In death around thee.... The tone strikes me as familiar. I need a professional appraisal of the book.

  I check the Yellow Pages for antiquarian book dealers, and on my third call, I reach a husky-voiced man who seems to know old books. “What did you say it’s called?” he asks, his voice trembling with excitement.

  I read the title aloud to him.

  “And where did you say you found it?”

  I tell him.

  “Can you read what’s inside? The first page?”

  I open the cover with great care. “ ‘Preface,’” I read. “ ‘The greater part of the Poems which compose this little volume, were written in the year 1821-2, when the author had not completed his fourteenth year—’ ”

  “I’m going to call another expert. Can you bring the book to me right away? Be very careful with it.”

  I hang up and glance at my watch. I’m going to miss the company meeting. I tuck the book into my purse and leave the office, turning off the light on my way out.

  Chapter 42

  I stride off the ferry on Shelter Island on Thursday afternoon. A brisk November wind pushes me down Harborside Road to the bookstore. I’m light on my feet as familiar landmarks rush past me. I’m bursting to tell Auntie what I’ve discovered.

  At the bookstore, she’s already at the door in a red sari and Santa sweater, waiting to embrace me.
“Bippy, come in quickly.” Her face is tight and drawn.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Such trouble.” She pulls me inside, into the comforting smells of dust, mothballs, potpourri.

  “What trouble? What’s happening?”

  “We’ve got a problem. Ay, Ganesh.”

  “What problem?”

  Lucia, Virginia, Tony, and Mohan are sitting in the parlor. A hefty, blond policewoman in a blue uniform paces on the creaky floor. Everyone looks worried.

  “We have police in Fairport?” I ask, flabbergasted. “What’s happening here?”

  “Officer Flannigan,” the blond woman says, shaking my hand in a vise grip.

  “Jasmine Mistry.” I let go and flex my fingers. “Is someone going to fill me in?”

  “He just disappeared,” Mohan says, balling up a tissue in his fist.

  “Who?” I say. “Who disappeared?” Did Sanchita come back and then run away again?

  “Vishnu. We looked everywhere. He was just here.” Mohan blows his nose. Virginia pats his back. Lucia pours a cup of tea and hands it to him.

  “When?” I say. “What happened?”

  Officer Flannigan steps into the hall to answer a call.

  “We came over for story time this morning,” Mohan says.

  Auntie sits next to him. “Vishnu isn’t happy without you, Bippy. When I began to read aloud, he pouted. Then suddenly, he was gone.”

  “Have you checked everywhere?” I should have explained to Vishnu, said good-bye to him. He has already lost his mother.

  Auntie nods. “We looked in all the rooms. We’ve had everyone out searching the streets.”

  Mohan clasps his white-knuckled fingers together. “He’s become more and more morose.”

  “How long has he been gone?” I ask.

  “Two hours,” Lucia says. “Nobody saw him leave the store. One minute, he was sitting in the children’s book room, the next minute, he was gone. He was reading Dr. Seuss.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Dr. Seuss? In the children’s book room?”

  Lucia nods. “The Cat in the Hat.”

  I was Vishnu’s age when I ran down the hall, that very book tucked under my arm. I pressed a special spot on the wall, and a door sprang open beneath the stairs. I climbed into the cubbyhole, sat on a pile of old boxes, and pulled the string to turn on the overhead light. I could read in peace, with a sense of wonder. The sun did not shine. It was too wet to play....

  Dr. Seuss spoke to me then.

  “Come with me.” I lead everyone down the hall and stop in front of the cubbyhole under the stairs. The invisible door blends into the woodwork.

  “What are we doing here?” Mohan says. “You think Vishnu disappeared in the walls?”

  I press the edge of the door, and it swings open. Lucia gasps and steps back. Mohan sucks in a breath, and Auntie laughs. “Ay, Ganesh,” she says.

  “Vishnu?” I call into the darkness.

  At first nothing happens, and then, slowly, Vishnu’s face appears, moving into the light of a stark lamp that hangs from the ceiling of the cubbyhole. For a moment, he is me, the way I was as a child.

  “I knew I would find you here,” I say.

  “You came back,” he says.

  He steps out and tucks a book under his arm. A cobweb is stuck in his hair.

  Mohan grabs his hand. “Don’t do that again. You had everyone scared.”

  “Sorry, Dad. I needed a time-out.”

  “Time-out!” Mohan laughs.

  Auntie is shaking her head. “We didn’t think to look here. I’d forgotten about this hidden place.”

  “I didn’t forget,” I say.

  “You go, girl!” Tony says from behind everyone else.

  We all file into the foyer, and after everyone has left—except Auntie and Tony and me—I produce Tamerlane and Other Poems from my purse. I’ve encased the slim volume in plastic. “A surprise for you,” I tell Auntie.

  “The Bostonian book!” Tony says.

  “What’s this?” Auntie asks.

  “Not by a Bostonian,” I say. “Edgar Allan Poe.”

  “Poe!” Auntie exclaims.

  “Who?” Tony says.

  “This is an extremely rare volume,” I say. “Connor gave it to me. Poe wrote these poems early in his career, and nobody took any notice. No copies were known until 1876, when one was found in the British Museum. Only twelve surviving original copies are known to exist, and this is another one.”

  Auntie gasps. “Only twelve!”

  Tony is staring at me. “Girl, Connor gave you that book for a reason.”

  “I’ve had the authenticity verified,” I say. “At auction, this little old book could sell for over two hundred thousand dollars.”

  Auntie grabs the back of a chair for support, as if she might faint. “Ay, Ganesh.”

  “Unbelievable,” Tony says, letting out a low whistle.

  “And so you see, Auntie, we won’t have to sell the bookstore anytime soon.”

  “No, we won’t.” She presses a hand to her forehead.

  I glance at my cell phone display, and there is Poe’s face—wide forehead, mustache, wild hair. He smiles at me.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to him.

  “I have but one hope,” he says. “I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.”

  Chapter 43

  Auntie stands at the threshold of the bookstore she has nurtured and cherished for so many years. Resplendent in a purple printed sari and clashing snowman sweater, she hunches against the wind, waving at the crowd in the garden. Half the town of Fairport has braved the blustery weather to see her off.

  Stoic, patient, and impeccably dressed, Subhas waits by the black limousine he rented in Seattle, to transport his bride on the ferry to the airport. Might as well leave in luxury, he said. Four giant suitcases weigh down the trunk. Ma and Dad and Gita are already in the backseat, perhaps helping themselves to the wet bar.

  I’m staying here, where I need to be. If I leave for too long, the bookstore gets cranky. Auntie has left me many of her antiques; smaller pieces have been shipped to India by sea.

  At the bon voyage party in the parlor last night, island residents took turns paying tribute to the woman who helped them, who so often mysteriously handed them healing, life-changing books. Auntie thanked them for supporting her store, for giving her cause to celebrate. She introduced me as her successor and assured everyone that I would carry on the legacy of her bookstore.

  “Don’t let the name change fool you,” she said to the crowd, while we all drank wine and feasted on Lucia’s baked cookies and scones. “Jasmine’s Bookstore will be everything Auntie’s Bookstore was, and more. A new era begins.”

  Everyone clapped and hooted. Ma and Dad beamed, Ma looking triumphant. I’ve finally come home, where she wants me. Dad wandered off to browse the engineering textbooks, and Gita rearranged displays and decorated the rooms with plants and flowers she’d brought from Seattle. Dilip is away on another business trip. If it weren’t for the massive engagement ring on her finger, I could believe that he, too, is a ghost.

  Tony got drunk, made a rambling speech, and broke down in sobs. We all comforted him, and he fell asleep on the couch in the tea room, where he is sleeping now. For once in his life, he stayed overnight in the bookstore.

  The spirits are behaving themselves, perhaps worried that I may still decide to sell the store. After all, Auntie has paid her debts, still managing to keep some cash from the sale of Tamerlane, and she has left the business to me. I hope I can live up to her fame. The town loves her; the tears flow freely as she bids everyone a final good-bye.

  “Ruma,” Subhas calls, “we’ve got to go now. We’ll miss the flight.”

  She turns to me and grabs my hands tightly. “Bippy, you must be sure. Are you sure?” Her eyes search mine, perhaps for a hint of indecision. “You don’t have to stay.”

  “I moved in already, didn’t I?” I smile at her, but I can’t hide my nervousn
ess. “Okay, I’m scared to death. But I’m here.”

  “You will never be entirely sure of anything,” she says, still squeezing my hands. “But we must act anyway, nah? Subhas is not perfect. He is prone to fits of pouting, and he has acquired many other bad habits over the years. I’m not sure, you see, but I must go with him anyway. He is a good man. He loves me.”

  “You can always come back,” I say. “We’re here for you.”

  “Acha. I will write you many letters. Your ma and dad are already planning a long trip to India. I have to put up with them for three months, bah!”

  “You’ll have fun together. I’ll miss you so much.” My voice breaks, and I wrap her in a tight hug. Somehow I know she will not come back.

  “And I you, Bippy. You’re the proper successor for the bookstore. You must keep the spirits alive.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I nearly forgot.” She hands me her bundle of keys. “The bookstore no longer belongs to me. You must make it your own.”

  Through the haze of my tears, Auntie becomes a mirage as she lifts the hem of her sari and walks daintily down the steps.

  Chapter 44

  The attic apartment affords me a spectacular view of the ocean, the mainland, and majestic Mount Rainier. In the garden, a winter towhee flits through the fir branches. My new cats, Monet and Mary, sit on the windowsill, tails flicking, their green eyes reflecting the light.

  I give the kitties breakfast, then make my own. The rituals—feeding the cats, brushing them, and tending to their needs—lift me out of my lonely space. I open the windows to let the rich air fan through the rooms.

  “I’m supposed to be here, waiting to become a sister-in-law, right?” I tell the cats.

  They purr.

  “Connor has gone to heaven or wherever he was supposed to go. And I hope Robert and Lauren are happy in the condo. Maybe I should have asked for more money, huh?”

  The cats keep purring.

  “They paid me well. Anyway, this house is better than the condo, right?”