Charlie Chan Is Dead 2

by Jessica Hagedorn

  “No,” Miranda said. “Thank you, no.” She wandered through the store, studying shelves lined with unlabeled packets and tins. The freezer case was stuffed with bags of pita bread and vegetables she didn’t recognize. The only thing she recognized was a rack lined with bags and bags of the Hot Mix that Laxmi was always eating. She thought about buying some for Laxmi, then hesitated, wondering how to explain what she’d been doing in an Indian grocery.

  “Very spicy,” the man said, shaking his head, his eyes traveling across Miranda’s body. “Too spicy for you.”

  By February, Laxmi’s cousin’s husband still hadn’t come to his senses. He had returned to Montreal, argued bitterly with his wife for two weeks, packed two suitcases, and flown back to London. He wanted a divorce.

  Miranda sat in her cubicle and listened as Laxmi kept telling her cousin that there were better men in the world, just waiting to come out of the woodwork. The next day the cousin said she and her son were going to her parents’ house in California, to try to recuperate. Laxmi convinced her to arrange a weekend layover in Boston. “A quick change of place will do you good,” Laxmi insisted gently, “besides which, I haven’t seen you in years.”

  Miranda stared at her own phone, wishing Dev would call. It had been four days since their last conversation. She heard Laxmi dialing directory assistance, asking for the number of a beauty salon. “Something soothing,” Laxmi requested. She scheduled massages, facials, manicures, and pedicures. Then she reserved a table for lunch at the Four Seasons. In her determination to cheer up her cousin, Laxmi had forgotten about the boy. She rapped her knuckles on the laminated wall.

  “Are you busy Saturday?”

  The boy was thin. He wore a yellow knapsack strapped across his back, gray herringbone trousers, a red V-necked sweater, and black leather shoes. His hair was cut in a thick fringe over his eyes, which had dark circles under them. They were the first thing Miranda noticed. They made him look haggard, as if he smoked a great deal and slept very little, in spite of the fact that he was only seven years old. He clasped a large sketch pad with a spiral binding. His name was Rohin.

  “Ask me a capital,” he said, staring up at Miranda.

  She stared back at him. It was eight-thirty on a Saturday morning. She took a sip of coffee. “A what?”

  “It’s a game he’s been playing,” Laxmi’s cousin explained. She was thin like her son, with a long face and the same dark circles under her eyes. A rust-colored coat hung heavy on her shoulders. Her black hair, with a few strands of gray at the temples, was pulled back like a ballerina’s. “You ask him a country and he tells you the capital.”

  “You should have heard him in the car,” Laxmi said. “He’s already memorized all of Europe.”

  “It’s not a game,” Rohin said. “I’m having a competition with a boy at school. We’re competing to memorize all the capitals. I’m going to beat him.”

  Miranda nodded. “Okay. What’s the capital of India?”

  “That’s no good.” He marched away, his arms swinging like a toy soldier. Then he marched back to Laxmi’s cousin and tugged at a pocket of her overcoat. “Ask me a hard one.”

  “Senegal,” she said.

  “Dakar!” Rohin exclaimed triumphantly, and began running in larger and larger circles. Eventually he ran into the kitchen. Miranda could hear him opening and closing the fridge.

  “Rohin, don’t touch without asking,” Laxmi’s cousin called out wearily. She managed a smile for Miranda. “Don’t worry, he’ll fall asleep in a few hours. And thanks for watching him.”

  “Back at three,” Laxmi said, disappearing with her cousin down the hallway. “We’re double-parked.”

  Miranda fastened the chain on the door. She went to the kitchen to find Rohin, but he was now in the living room, at the dining table, kneeling on one of the director’s chairs. He unzipped his knapsack, pushed Miranda’s basket of manicure supplies to one side of the table, and spread his crayons over the surface. Miranda stood over his shoulder. She watched as he gripped a blue crayon and drew the outline of an airplane.

  “It’s lovely,” she said. When he didn’t reply, she went to the kitchen to pour herself more coffee.

  “Some for me, please,” Rohin called out.

  She returned to the living room. “Some what?”

  “Some coffee. There’s enough in the pot. I saw.”

  She walked over to the table and sat opposite him. At times he nearly stood up to reach for a new crayon. He barely made a dent in the director’s chair.

  “You’re too young for coffee.”

  Rohin leaned over the sketch pad, so that his tiny chest and shoulders almost touched it, his head tilted to one side. “The stewardess let me have coffee,” he said. “She made it with milk and lots of sugar.” He straightened, revealing a woman’s face beside the plane, with long wavy hair and eyes like asterisks. “Her hair was more shiny,” he decided, adding, “My father met a pretty woman on a plane, too.” He looked at Miranda. His face darkened as he watched her sip. “Can’t I have just a little coffee? Please?”

  She wondered, in spite of his composed, brooding expression, if he were the type to throw a tantrum. She imagined his kicking her with his leather shoes, screaming for coffee, screaming and crying until his mother and Laxmi came back to fetch him. She went to the kitchen and prepared a cup for him as he’d requested. She selected a mug she didn’t care for, in case he dropped it.

  “Thank you,” he said when she put it on the table. He took short sips, holding the mug securely with both hands.

  Miranda sat with him while he drew, but when she attempted to put a coat of clear polish on her nails he protested. Instead he pulled out a paperback world almanac from his knapsack and asked her to quiz him. The countries were arranged by continent, six to a page, with the capitals in boldface, followed by a short entry on the population, government, and other statistics. Miranda turned to a page in the Africa section and went down the list.

  “Mali,” she asked him.

  “Bamako,” he replied instantly.

  “Malawi.”

  “Lilongwe.”

  She remembered looking at Africa in the Mapparium. She remembered the fat part of it was green.

  “Go on,” Rohin said.

  “Mauritania.”

  “Nouakchott.”

  “Mauritius.”

  He paused, squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, defeated. “I can’t remember.”

  “Port Louis,” she told him.

  “Port Louis.” He began to say it again and again, like a chant under his breath.

  When they reached the last of the countries in Africa, Rohin said he wanted to watch cartoons, telling Miranda to watch them with him. When the cartoons ended, he followed her to the kitchen, and stood by her side as she made more coffee. He didn’t follow her when she went to the bathroom a few minutes later, but when she opened the door she was startled to find him standing outside.

  “Do you need to go?”

  He shook his head but walked into the bathroom anyway. He put the cover of the toilet down, climbed on top of it, and surveyed the narrow glass shelf over the sink which held Miranda’s toothbrush and makeup.

  “What’s this for?” he asked, picking up the sample of eye gel she’d gotten the day she met Dev.

  “Puffiness.”

  “What’s puffiness?”

  “Here,” she explained, pointing.

  “After you’ve been crying?”

  “I guess so.”

  Rohin opened the tube and smelled it. He squeezed a drop of it onto a finger, then rubbed it on his hand. “It stings.” He inspected the back of his hand closely, as if expecting it to change color. “My mother has puffiness. She says it’s a cold, but really she cries, sometimes for hours. Sometimes straight through dinner. Sometimes she cries so hard her eyes puff up like bullfrogs.”

  Miranda wondered if she ought to feed him. In the kitchen she discovered a bag of rice cakes and some lettuce. Sh
e offered to go out, to buy something from the deli, but Rohin said he wasn’t very hungry, and accepted one of the rice cakes. “You eat one too,” he said. They sat at the table, the rice cakes between them. He turned to a fresh page in his sketch pad. “You draw.”

  She selected a blue crayon. “What should I draw?”

  He thought for a moment. “I know,” he said. He asked her to draw things in the living room: the sofa, the director’s chairs, the television, the telephone. “This way I can memorize it.”

  “Memorize what?”

  “Our day together.” He reached for another rice cake.

  “Why do you want to memorize it?”

  “Because we’re never going to see each other, ever again.”

  The precision of the phrase startled her. She looked at him, feeling slightly depressed. Rohin didn’t look depressed. He tapped the page. “Go on.”

  And so she drew the items as best as she could—the sofa, the director’s chairs, the television, the telephone. He sidled up to her, so close that it was sometimes difficult to see what she was doing. He put his small brown hand over hers. “Now me.”

  She handed him the crayon.

  He shook his head. “No, now draw me.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “It won’t look like you.”

  The brooding look began to spread across Rohin’s face again, just as it had when she’d refused him coffee. “Please?”

  She drew his face, outlining his head and the thick fringe of hair. He sat perfectly still, with a formal, melancholy expression, his gaze fixed to one side. Miranda wished she could draw a good likeness. Her hand moved in conjunction with her eyes, in unknown ways, just as it had that day in the bookstore when she’d transcribed her name in Bengali letters. It looked nothing like him. She was in the middle of drawing his nose when he wriggled away from the table.

  “I’m bored,” he announced, heading toward her bedroom. She heard him opening the door, opening the drawers of her bureau and closing them.

  When she joined him he was inside the closet. After a moment he emerged, his hair disheveled, holding the silver cocktail dress. “This was on the floor.”

  “It falls off the hanger.”

  Rohin looked at the dress and then at Miranda’s body. “Put it on.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Put it on.”

  There was no reason to put it on. Apart from in the fitting room at Filene’s she had never worn it, and as long as she was with Dev she knew she never would. She knew they would never go to restaurants, where he would reach across a table and kiss her hand. They would meet in her apartment, on Sundays, he in his sweatpants, she in her jeans. She took the dress from Rohin and shook it out, even though the slinky fabric never wrinkled. She reached into the closet for a free hanger.

  “Please put it on,” Rohin asked, suddenly standing behind her. He pressed his face against her, clasping her waist with both his thin arms. “Please?”

  “All right,” she said, surprised by the strength of his grip.

  He smiled, satisfied, and sat on the edge of her bed.

  “You have to wait out there,” she said, pointing to the door. “I’ll come out when I’m ready.”

  “But my mother always takes her clothes off in front of me.”

  “She does?”

  Rohin nodded. “She doesn’t even pick them up afterward. She leaves them all on the floor by the bed, all tangled.

  “One day she slept in my room,” he continued. “She said it felt better than her bed, now that my father’s gone.”

  “I’m not your mother,” Miranda said, lifting him by the armpits off her bed. When he refused to stand, she picked him up. He was heavier than she expected, and he clung to her, his legs wrapped firmly around her hips, his head resting against her chest. She set him down in the hallway and shut the door. As an extra precaution she fastened the latch. She changed into the dress, glancing into the full-length mirror nailed to the back of the door. Her ankle socks looked silly, and so she opened a drawer and found the stockings. She searched through the back of the closet and slipped on the high heels with the tiny buckles. The chain straps of the dress were as light as paper clips against her col larbone. It was a bit loose on her. She could not zip it herself.

  Rohin began knocking. “May I come in now?”

  She opened the door. Rohin was holding his almanac in his hands, muttering something under his breath. His eyes opened wide at the sight of her. “I need help with the zipper,” she said. She sat on the edge of the bed.

  Rohin fastened the zipper to the top, and then Miranda stood up and twirled. Rohin put down the almanac. “You’re sexy,” he declared.

  “What did you say?”

  “You’re sexy.”

  Miranda sat down again. Though she knew it meant nothing, her heart skipped a beat. Rohin probably referred to all women as sexy. He’d probably heard the word on television, or seen it on the cover of a magazine. She remembered the day in the Mapparium, standing across the bridge from Dev. At the time she thought she knew what his words meant. At the time they’d made sense.

  Miranda folded her arms across her chest and looked Rohin in the eyes. “Tell me something.”

  He was silent.

  “What does it mean?”

  “What?”

  “That word. ‘Sexy.’ What does it mean?”

  He looked down, suddenly shy. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a secret.” He pressed his lips together, so hard that a bit of them went white.

  “Tell me the secret. I want to know.”

  Rohin sat on the bed beside Miranda and began to kick the edge of the mattress with the backs of his shoes. He giggled nervously, his thin body flinching as if it were being tickled.

  “Tell me,” Miranda demanded. She leaned over and gripped his ankles, holding his feet still.

  Rohin looked at her, his eyes like slits. He struggled to kick the mattress again, but Miranda pressed against him. He fell back on the bed, his back straight as a board. He cupped his hands around his mouth, and then he whispered, “It means loving someone you don’t know.”

  Miranda felt Rohin’s words under her skin, the same way she’d felt Dev’s. But instead of going hot she felt numb. It reminded her of the way she’d felt at the Indian grocery, the moment she knew, without even looking at a picture, that Madhuri Dixit, whom Dev’s wife resembled, was beautiful.

  “That’s what my father did,” Rohin continued. “He sat next to someone he didn’t know, someone sexy, and now he loves her instead of my mother.”

  He took off his shoes and placed them side by side on the floor. Then he peeled back the comforter and crawled into Miranda’s bed with the almanac. A minute later the book dropped from his hands, and he closed his eyes. Miranda watched him sleep, the comforter rising and falling as he breathed. He didn’t wake up after twelve minutes like Dev, or even twenty. He didn’t open his eyes as she stepped out of the silver cocktail dress and back into her jeans, and put the high-heeled shoes in the back of the closet, and rolled up the stockings and put them back in her drawer.

  When she had put everything away she sat on the bed. She leaned toward him, close enough to see some white powder from the rice cakes stuck to the corners of his mouth, and picked up the almanac. As she turned the pages she imagined the quarrels Rohin had overheard in his house in Montreal. “Is she pretty?” his mother would have asked his father, wearing the same bathrobe she’d worn for weeks, her own pretty face turning spiteful. “Is she sexy?” His father would deny it at first, try to change the subject. “Tell me,” Rohin’s mother would shriek, “tell me if she’s sexy.” In the end his father would admit that she was, and his mother would cry and cry, in a bed surrounded by a tangle of clothes, her eyes puffing up like bullfrogs. “How could you,” she’d ask, sobbing, “how could you love a woman you don’t even know?”

  As Miranda imagined the scene she began to cry a little herself. In
the Mapparium that day, all the countries had seemed close enough to touch, and Dev’s voice had bounced wildly off the glass. From across the bridge, thirty feet away, his words had reached her ears, so near and full of warmth that they’d drifted for days under her skin. Miranda cried harder, unable to stop. But Rohin still slept. She guessed that he was used to it now, to the sound of a woman crying.

  On Sunday, Dev called to tell Miranda he was on his way. “I’m almost ready. I’ll be there at two.”

  She was watching a cooking show on television. A woman pointed to a row of apples, explaining which were best for baking. “You shouldn’t come today.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have a cold,” she lied. It wasn’t far from the truth; crying had left her congested. “I’ve been in bed all morning.”

  “You do sound stuffed up.” There was a pause. “Do you need anything?”

  “I’m all set.”

  “Drink lots of fluids.”

  “Dev?”

  “Yes, Miranda?”

  “Do you remember that day we went to the Mapparium?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you remember how we whispered to each other?”

  “I remember,” Dev whispered playfully.

  “Do you remember what you said?”

  There was a pause. “ ‘Let’s go back to your place.’ ” He laughed quietly. “Next Sunday, then?”

  The day before, as she’d cried, Miranda had believed she would never forget anything—not even the way her name looked written in Bengali. She’d fallen asleep beside Rohin and when she woke up he was drawing an airplane on the copy of The Economist she’d saved, hidden under the bed. “Who’s Devajit Mitra?” he had asked, looking at the address label.

  Miranda pictured Dev, in his sweatpants and sneakers, laughing into the phone. In a moment he’d join his wife downstairs, and tell her he wasn’t going jogging. He’d pulled a muscle while stretching, he’d say, settling down to read the paper. In spite of herself, she longed for him. She would see him one more Sunday, she decided, perhaps two. Then she would tell him the things she had known all along: that it wasn’t fair to her, or to his wife, that they both deserved better, that there was no point in it dragging on.