A Walk Across the Sun

by Corban Addison

  At last the nun collected herself enough to deliver Thomas’s message.

  For the second time that morning, Ahalya fell to her knees, but this time her eyes didn’t fill with tears. Instead, she gazed toward the east and the rising sun. She turned her face upward and felt its light burrow into her like a seed in the soil. The light spread through her, and her skin began to tingle. She started to laugh and remembered at once how good it felt. Her laughter echoed across the yard, filling the forest and silencing the birds.

  The dream was true. Sita was alive.

  And she was coming home.

  Two days later, Thomas stood in the cold rain outside an upscale apartment complex in D.C., gathering his courage. He had been to the exclusive Capitol Hill neighborhood on only two occasions, both of them at night. He remembered the visits with disturbing vividness. He gripped his umbrella and stared at the lobby door through the curtain of rain. The entranceway was empty. It was eight o’clock in the morning on a Sunday—the only time of the week he knew she would be home.

  He took the elevator to the sixth floor. Her apartment was down the hallway on the right. Number 603. He stood outside her door for at least a minute, his nerves on edge. Finally he knocked.

  He listened carefully for footfalls. At first he heard nothing, and he had the thought that perhaps she had gone to the Caymans for a weekend getaway or, better yet, found a new boyfriend and stayed over at his place. But then he heard her come to the door. He steeled himself and looked into the peephole. The anger he had felt in Goa was a distant memory; its residue was anxiety and remorse.

  A long moment passed before the door opened. Then Tera stood before him, wrapped in a terrycloth bathrobe, her hair wet and pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted in surprise. She looked at him without speaking. His heart pounded, but he made no move toward her.

  “Thomas,” she said at last. Seconds ticked by. Then something shifted in her and she opened the door wider. “I thought I’d never see you again.” She stood aside.

  He took the invitation and entered her flat. The decor was avante garde—everything in black and white with hard edges, abstract artwork on the walls, directional lighting, bric-a-brac from around the world. She had majored in art history at Columbia before heading to Chicago Law. In that respect—indeed, in many respects—she was similar to Priya.

  He walked into the living room and took in the view from the tall windows. The rain had let up a bit, and he could see the faint outline of the Capitol Building in the distance.

  “Where did you go?” she asked, standing a few feet behind him, hands in the pockets of her robe. “It’s been almost three months.”

  He faced her again. “I went to India,” he said without preamble.

  Her body stiffened. “India,” she repeated.

  “You were right about what happened at the firm,” he said. “They gave me an ultimatum and I took a sabbatical. One year in the trenches in Bombay.”

  “So you didn’t go because of Priya?” she asked, a trace of optimism in her voice.

  “I went to work with CASE. But I also went to find my wife.”

  She thought about his choice of words. “Did you succeed?” she asked eventually.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “But I want to.”

  Tera angled her head. “Then why are you here?”

  “Because I did this the wrong way before. I owe you an apology.”

  She sat down on the edge of the couch. “I don’t regret any of it.”

  “Just hear me out,” he said, opening his hands. “And judge me at the end.”

  She waited, noncommittal.

  He forged ahead. “You were there at the darkest moment of my life. I needed help, and you offered it. I will never forget that. But I was foolish. I shouldn’t have let things go so far. Maybe Priya still would have walked out, but I should have honored my vows. Coming here that first night was a mistake. I was completely unstable. I don’t blame you for it. It was my fault, and I hurt all of us. You, me, Priya. You deserved better than that. Please forgive me.”

  Tera stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the sodden city. She pushed a lock of hair over her ear. He thought that perhaps he should leave, but he didn’t. He couldn’t walk out on her again.

  At last she looked at him. “I don’t need your apology,” she said. “I’m a big girl. I knew what I was getting into.” She paused. “Priya was a fool to leave. I hope she knows that now.”

  Thomas stared at her and tried to think of an appropriate response. She was beautiful in the wan light of the rain. He had a fleeting instinct to console her, as she had done for him. But he saw it for the temptation it was and resisted it.

  “Goodbye, Tera,” he said.

  When she didn’t respond, he shrugged and walked down the hallway toward the door. He reached for the doorknob and heard her call his name.

  “Thomas,” she said, appearing at the entrance to the hall. “Do me a favor, will you?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Whatever you do, stick with it this time.”

  He nodded and mustered a small smile. It was a softer rebuke than he had a right to hope for. He opened the door quietly and left her there, framed by the window and the rain.

  He drove south out of the District and reached his parents’ neighborhood in twenty minutes. With the exception of church traffic, the streets were empty. He pulled his Audi into the driveway and stepped out. The rain had turned into mist, and he left his umbrella in the car.

  He knocked on the front door and heard plodding footsteps. His heart raced and he wondered again how he would explain himself to his father. The Judge opened the door and stared at him. He was decked out in a pinstripe suit and a paisley tie. Mass was in half an hour.

  At once the Judge’s eyes came alive. “Thomas! Come in, Son.”

  Elena appeared in the foyer, dressed smartly in a mauve dress and a black cardigan. She embraced him for a long time.

  “You’re wet,” she said, pointing at his hair and drawing him toward the kitchen. “Let me make you some tea.”

  While Elena scurried about around the stove, Thomas found a stool beside the tiled island and sat down. His father took a seat at the breakfast table. The arrangement—his mother serving, his father waiting to dispense advice—was as familiar to him as an old pair of shoes. How many times they had sat like this when he was growing up.

  “How is Priya?” Elena asked over her shoulder. He had sent her an e-mail in Paris with a vague but generally upbeat summation of his progress. But that had been before Goa.

  “Things aren’t going so well right now.”

  His mother looked crestfallen but didn’t pry. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  He shrugged and glanced at his father. “I’m not sure I’m going back to Clayton.”

  The Judge’s eyes narrowed. “Did you get my e-mail?”

  Thomas nodded.

  “Max is going to roll out the red carpet for you. He’s talking partnership in a year.”

  “I’m not sure I want it anymore,” Thomas said.

  His father was speechless, a rare event.

  Elena spoke instead. “What do you want, dear?”

  Thomas gripped the edge of the island. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

  The Judge stood up. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. When you were fifteen, you told me you wanted a seat on the bench. I did everything in my power to make it happen. I put you through Yale and Virginia Law. I got you a clerkship. I greased the wheels at Clayton. After all that, you’re going to walk away? Just like that?”

  “Rand,” his mother interrupted, but the Judge silenced her with a glare.

  “I want a straight answer,” he said. “I deserve it.”

  Thomas took a deep breath and looked his father in the eye. “I know what I wanted, Dad. And I know the sacrifices you’ve made. But things change. If you want an answer, I’ll give you one. I want to finish my year
with CASE, and I want to find some way to convince my wife that she’s better off with me than without me.”

  The Judge threw up his hands, exasperated. “You’re talking about one year of your life, two at most. What about your future, Thomas? What about ten years from now, twenty years from now? Where are you going to be then?”

  Thomas felt the anger rise within him. “I have no idea. But I’m certain about one thing: I don’t want to go back to the rat race.”

  “Beautiful! Now you’re comparing my life to vermin.”

  Thomas’s eyes flashed. “This isn’t about you, Dad. This is about me. You want to know why I’m back in the States? It’s because a girl was trafficked here from India. We rescued her sister from a brothel in Bombay. Sita’s going home in a few days, and I’m going with her. I’m not questioning the choices you’ve made. I’m just saying I might not want the same thing.”

  He took a sip of the tea his mother had set in front of him. He watched his father think. He knew the course this would take. The Judge would end the conversation abruptly and deliberate until he reached a decision, at which point he would deliver it in a windy monologue, just as he did in the courtroom.

  Sure enough, the Judge glanced at his watch. “Mass is in fifteen minutes,” he said, steadying his tone. “We’ll finish this later.”

  Elena looked at Thomas, an apology and a question in her eyes. She spoke the question.

  “How long are you staying?”

  “Long enough,” he said. “I dressed for church.”

  His mother’s eyes widened. He hadn’t attended Mass with them since college.

  “I’m full of surprises today, aren’t I?” he said, taking her arm.

  Later that afternoon, Thomas returned to the District. He had one more matter to attend to before the day was done. After a brief stop to buy flowers—daisies in honor of the coming spring—he entered Glenwood Cemetery by the rear gate and followed the curved path through the trees to the gravesite. He took his keys but didn’t lock his car. He didn’t have far to walk.

  He inhaled the crisp air and enjoyed the solitude of the place. Though the morning rain had passed and the sun had reappeared, the cemetery was largely empty. The gravesite was situated at the top of a rise overlooking the angel garden. He saw the headstone, and the sorrow returned as if it had never left. Dear, sweet Mohini. She was far too young to die.

  The burial of the little girl had been the subject of bitter dispute. His parents—as good Catholics—had objected to cremation, but Priya had been equally opposed to interment. “Pick your river, I don’t care,” she had said. “But let me give my child a proper burial.” He had spent all of his rapidly diminishing relational capital brokering the compromise. They had cremated her and sprinkled her ashes at the mouth of the Hudson. But the urn they had interred in the Clarke family plot at Glenwood.

  He stooped down and placed the daisies before the gravestone. He had expected that the marker, too, would generate controversy. But Priya had deferred without comment, allowing the inscription his mother preferred: “In sure and certain hope of the resurrection.” He wondered as he knelt before the grave what the resurrection of an infant would look like—if she would be given a body and a personality full grown or if she would have to develop to maturity as if her death had never happened. Whatever else it was, faith was full of mystery.

  “It’s been a while, sweet girl,” he said, feeling the first tears forming. He choked up and waited until the feeling subsided. “There’s a girl I wish you could meet. I think you would like her. Her name is Sita, and she is from India, like Mommy.” He talked for a while longer, saying anything that came to mind. He told her about Bombay, about Priya’s family, and about Ahalya and Sita.

  When he could think of nothing more to say, he kissed the gravestone tenderly. “I have to leave now, little girl,” he said. He closed his eyes and anguish washed over him again. “I love you, Mohini.” he said.

  He returned to his car and sat for a long moment in the driver’s seat before reaching for his backpack. He took out a single sheet of notepaper and a pen and poured his pain onto the page, writing for the benefit of a woman who was a stranger in every dimension except one.

  Dear Allison,

  My name is Thomas Clarke, and I was there on the day Abby disappeared. A friend told me about what happened, and I had to write you. I can offer you little in the way of consolation. Your suffering has no antidote, nor will you ever find an explanation to make sense of it. The world failed you and it failed Abby. When evil rose up, good was powerless against it. For that I am truly sorry.

  What I can offer you is a promise grounded in personal experience. Though it may not seem possible to you now, tomorrow will come. On the other side of this darkness, a new day will slowly dawn. I know because I lost a daughter not long ago. I went to her grave today. Every time I see her name on the headstone, my heart breaks again. I couldn’t protect her any more than you could protect Abby. But Mohini and Abby have something that we do not. Death no longer has power over them.

  Wherever they are, they have found peace.

  After signing his name, he folded the pages and slid them into an envelope addressed to Andrew Porter at the Justice Department. Once again stretching the limits of protocol, Porter had given Thomas her name and had made arrangements with Detective Morgan for the letter to be hand-delivered by the Fayetteville police.

  Thomas took a last look at the gravesite and then drove back to the gate. He looked at the angels as he rounded the circle, their trumpets perched on silent lips, heralding a day when every tear would be wiped away. He fingered the envelope in his lap and wished the day would come.

  A week later, Thomas sat in the boarding lounge at Dulles airport, waiting to catch the early evening Delta flight to Atlanta. He had spent the past six days tidying up his affairs and addressing the damage from a leak that had sprung in the pipes at his brownstone over the winter. A large puddle of water had formed on the dining room floor and seeped into the basement. The nightmare hadn’t ended until the last contractor left the house, payment in hand.

  Thomas took out his BlackBerry and checked his e-mail. His found an assortment of spam in his inbox along with queries from friends, but nothing from Priya. In fourteen days, she had made no attempt to contact him. She had every right to be disgusted with him. But their weekend together had proven the fact of their love beyond doubt. Wasn’t that enough?

  Out the window, he watched the clouds play on the wind and remembered the poetry she had read to him in Goa from the little book Elena had given her. She had initiated the reading sessions after they made love. He had rolled his eyes at first, but she had insisted, and the cadence of the words had won him over. Or maybe it was the fact that she had read the poems lying naked on the bed. He smiled at the memory, despite himself.

  He was struck then by an idea. What if he wrote a verse for her? Not some Byronic love sonnet, but a few lines of honest poetry, something like Naidu or one of the Sufi mystics she was always quoting. He shook off the thought. Why would the sophomoric attempt of an amateur matter to her? She would laugh at it, if she even read it.

  Looking toward an overhead monitor, he listened to the news until he grew bored. Then he turned back to the window and watched a plane take off. The plane climbed into the sky and traced a path across the setting sun. At once a string of words appeared in his mind: We walk across the sun. For some reason the image arrested him. What did it mean?

  He opened up his BlackBerry notes and exercised his imagination. He wrestled with a few ideas and fashioned a broader theme. Before long, the words turned into lines, and the lines into a stanza. He stared at the poem.

  We walk across the sun

  And our shadows fall

  Upon the dial of time

  In names spoken by the light

  That gives us birth.

  He saved the file and stood up, stretching his legs. Boarding would commence in twenty minutes. He visited the restroom a
nd returned to his seat, feeling restless. He took out the photograph of Priya from his wallet and read his poem again. It wasn’t Tagore, but it wasn’t bad. He put the picture back in his wallet and threw caution to the wind. He typed until his thumbs began to hurt. When the last word was written, he read the e-mail again. He had written:

  Dear Priya,

  I wish I could say this to you face to face, but e-mail will have to do. I left Goa a complete wreck. I didn’t want to hurt you. I’m a world-class idiot. I don’t know how to say it better. I’m sorry for deceiving you. I’m sorry for the mess with Tera. You deserved to know the truth, but I was ashamed.

  I’m in the United States. We found Sita. I’ll tell you the story someday if you like. But I won’t force it on you. I don’t know what to do right now except bring her back to India and finish my year with CASE. I can’t see beyond that. Except that I hope—please believe me—I hope that you are a part of it.

  I wrote a poem a few minutes ago. I don’t know precisely what it means, but somehow it makes sense of my life like nothing else. I’m attaching it to this e-mail. Whether you write me back or not, know that I love you.

  He sent the message and heard his flight being called. He looked out the window at the clouds high aloft, reflecting the last light of day. He collected his laptop bag and headed to the boarding queue, relishing the thought of chasing them again.

  Chapter 33

  Let not your heart be burdened with what is past and gone.

  —THE RAMAYANA

  Atlanta, Georgia

  On the morning of March 24, the Fulton County Juvenile Court entered an order granting leave for Sita to return to India. Both the American and Indian governments agreed that Agent Dodd, the victim specialist, should serve as her guardian on the trip home, and Thomas was deputized as their official escort.