by A. X. Ahmad
The Senator follows his gaze, and the snarl vanishes. “I was just … staking down the shrubbery. Thanks for your offer, but I’m pretty much done.”
The hole is too far from the hedges to be of any use, but Ranjit has learned never to contradict rich, powerful people.
The Senator wipes his face in his sleeve and flashes a bright smile. “Hey, why don’t you come up to the house? We can talk about the job.”
Without looking back, he begins to walk across the lawn to the wooden deck.
“Sir, is it all right if I bring my daughter with me?”
The Senator turns and frowns. “Your daughter?”
“She’s in the truck. It’s just that it’s getting cold, and—”
“Sure, sure, bring her in, I’ll open the front door.”
The Senator walks away, the muscles in his broad back rippling through his worn sweatshirt. Ranjit looks again at the deep hole that the Senator has dug, the layer of dark topsoil giving way to the sandy earth below.
Then he shrugs and hurries back to his truck.
* * *
When the Senator lets them in, he has changed into a pale blue linen shirt and crisp white trousers, regaining some of his television presence.
Shanti stands silently in the huge living room, staring through the sliding glass doors at the wide wooden deck and the view of the open ocean. On one side of the vast room is a sunken seating area with gray leather couches and red silk pillows, ending in a prowlike bay window with an oak dining table. On the other side is the kitchen, its gleaming stainless steel appliances separated from the rest of the room by an island of polished black granite.
What captivates her most is a floor-to-ceiling glass cabinet set between two sets of glass doors. Inside, arranged on transparent shelves, are dozens of dolls, their pale porcelain faces glinting in the wash of halogen down-lights. They wear ball gowns of yellowed lace and dark brocade, their porcelain hair swirled into ringlets and glossy buns.
“You like the dolls, sweetheart?” The Senator points and Shanti nods, her face flushed with excitement.
“Do you have a little girl who plays with them? Why are they in a case?”
The Senator’s face darkens. “Oh, nobody plays with them. They’re antiques, they belonged to my wife’s family. Go ahead and look at them.” He turns away. “Hey, Ran-jitt, want a beer? I’ve got orange soda for the little girl. What’s her name?”
Without waiting for a reply, he walks behind the granite island and pulls open a sleek stainless steel refrigerator.
“It’s Shanti. Thank you, sir.”
“Shanti means ‘peace,’ right?” The Senator’s voice is muffled as he busies himself with bottles and cans. “And your last name—Singh—you’re from Punjab, correct? Which city? Chandigarh? Ludhiana?”
Ranjit is surprised. “Correct, sir, Chandigarh. You know a lot about India.”
The Senator chuckles and hands him a chilled bottle of beer, then goes over to give Shanti a glass of orange soda.
“I’ve spent years on the Foreign Relations Subcommittee. Even went to India, back in oh-two, when your country almost started a nuclear war. Well, cheers.”
Standing on opposite sides of the granite island, they both drink. The beer is dark brown and delicious, and as Ranjit drinks it, he wonders why the Senator is being so hospitable.
The muscles in the Senator’s thick neck work as he downs most of his bottle. “Yeah, I went to India as a special envoy, to negotiate between India and Pakistan. And let me tell you, it was tough going, talking some sense into your generals. Your army seems to think it’s no big deal to lose a city or two in a nuclear attack.” He chuckles. “But I don’t suppose any of this interests you.”
“Well, sir, actually I was—”
“Right, right. You want to talk about the job.” The Senator turns and gestures out at the cliff edge. “Let me ask you something. You did a fine job building those stairs. Yet you were cheaper than the other landscapers. How did you do it?”
The Senator sounds casual, but Ranjit knows that the job interview has begun. He thinks about saying that he bought granite in bulk, or that he saved money through a clever design. Then he decides to tell the truth.
“Sir, I lost money on the job. I was just starting out, I underbid it.”
The Senator chuckles. “You’re an honest man. Ted Kennedy always used to say to me—I served in the Senate with him, you know—that an honest man is the hardest person to cut a deal with.” He gulps down the rest of his beer. “So, Ran-jitt, what’s your story? What brings you to the Vineyard?”
“Well, sir, we lived in Boston for a couple of years, but I’d like to stay on here. I mean, I have my own landscaping business here, and people in Boston—it was not easy for us there.”
The Senator’s deep belly laugh is very different from his polite politician’s chuckle.
“I know all about Boston. Another beer?”
The alcohol is making Ranjit light-headed, but before he can decline, the Senator opens two more beers and hands him one, gesturing to him to drink. Ranjit finds himself complying; it is clear that no one refuses the Senator.
The Senator waves at the room. “You may find it hard to believe, but I didn’t inherit any of this. I grew up in Roxbury, on Blue Hill Avenue. My father worked in a funeral parlor.” He leans both elbows against the granite island and grows expansive. “He used to say it was the best job to have. No matter what happened to the economy, people were always going to die. And I would have joined him, if I hadn’t gotten a football scholarship. Yeah, I know all about Boston.”
Ranjit looks away. Any more self-disclosure, and the next time the Senator sees Ranjit, he’ll be distant and aloof. That’s just how rich people are, their bursts of fellowship followed by a great remove.
“Sir, thank you for the beer. I really must be going, it’s late for Shanti, and we have a long drive back.”
The Senator sets his beer down with a clink. “Of course, of course. The caretaker position. Anna says you’re trustworthy?”
“I can provide references. I built an arbor for Mr. Phillips in Edgartown and—”
The Senator looks at Ranjit steadily, then seems to decide. “No, that’s not necessary. Anna speaks highly of you, and I need someone reliable. The island isn’t what it used to be … there has been a rash of break-ins, people looking for alcohol and prescription medicines and so forth.”
“Sir, I can swing by here every day, if need be. I have my own truck. And I see you have a new alarm system. In addition to calling the police, the alarm signals can be forwarded to my cell phone—”
“Good, good.” The Senator seems reassured. “You know the rest of the drill? Rake the leaves, close down the house, et cetera? Our housekeeper, Mrs. Green, will clean the house before you close it up. Let me just get the spare keys.”
The Senator heads down a spiral stair in the corner, and Ranjit motions to Shanti. She is still peering into the glass case of dolls, the glass of orange soda tilting in her hands.
“Beti, please don’t spill that soda. Not now. Please.”
She carefully holds the glass upright. “Papaji, these dolls are so beautiful. That one has a real pearl necklace—”
The Senator reappears, waving a ring of keys and some printed sheets of paper. “Couldn’t find the spares. You know how women are, they put things away. How much shall we say? Six hundred a month sound good to you? You just need to sign the standard contract.”
Senator Neals switches on a bank of overhead halogen lights and sits at the granite island, uncapping a fat ink pen.
Six hundred a month. Listening to the scratching of the pen, Ranjit feels relief flood through him. That will help a lot, and if he can get a few other odd jobs …
Ranjit signs two copies of the contract, and the Senator gives him back a copy, along with a stiff white business card, a golden federal eagle engraved in its corner. On its back are scrawled some names and phone numbers.
“Send
a monthly invoice to my office in Boston. The address is on my card. And I’ve written down some other folks who are looking for caretakers. You know Ray Clarke, over at the Red Heron? Call him.”
Ranjit is stunned at the Senator’s generosity. Clarke started Black Entertainment Network and owns the Red Heron Estate in Chilmark, the place where the President vacationed this past summer.
“Sir, I really appreciate the leads, it’s very kind of you—”
“Don’t mention it.”
Ranjit had wanted to ask for an advance, but there is no way he can bring it up now. He nods and prepares to leave, but just then Shanti wanders over. She stares up at the Senator, her head barely clearing the top of the granite island.
“You were on television,” she says. “I saw you. You were in Korea.”
The Senator caps his ink pen and beams down at her. “Hey, smart little girl. Yes, I was over there.”
“Why did they let that woman go? The one they said was a spy?”
“She wasn’t a spy, honey. The whole thing was a flimflam.”
“Did you make them let her go?”
“It was a negotiation. You know what that means?”
She shakes her head, her large brown eyes fixed on the Senator.
“It means they wanted something, and I wanted something, and we worked it out.”
“Huh. So what did you give them?”
Ranjit can see that the Senator is getting irritated. “Shanti, enough talk, let’s go. Senator, sorry for taking up so much of your time.”
The Senator stands up slowly, bracing himself with both hands. “No, no. Smart little girl you have there. She’s going to be a lawyer, no doubt.”
The Senator accompanies them out to the truck. He leaves the front door open, and light spills onto the tall hedges, casting long, inky shadows across the driveway.
Ranjit boosts Shanti into the truck and turns around. “Sir, I appreciate your trust, I’ll take good care of the house.”
“Don’t mention it. Hey Ran-jitt … one more thing.” The Senator is half turned away, his voice barely audible above the roar of the ocean.
“Sir?”
“You know, I haven’t been around much this summer. I usually spend a few weeks up here at the house with Anna, but with all this North Korea stuff … so, anyway…”
Ranjit stiffens.
“… so anyway, while you were working here during the summer? Building the steps and so forth? My point is, did Anna—Mrs. Neals—did she seem okay to you?”
The Senator takes a step backward and is silhouetted against the lit doorway. Ranjit cannot see the expression on his face.
So this is why the Senator has been so hospitable all evening; he wants some information about his wife. What exactly is he asking?
“Well, sir, Mrs. Neals seemed fine. From what little I saw of her.” He pauses and starts again. “… I mean, she spent her days by the pool, from what I could tell. And sometimes she would go running. She seemed fine.”
“Hmmm. Did she have any visitors?”
“Visitors? No, I don’t think so.”
“Good, good.” The Senator’s voice is businesslike again. “I’m off tomorrow, and Betty will have the place cleaned in a few days. Send the invoices to my office.”
He turns and walks abruptly back into the house, his hand raised in dismissive farewell.
* * *
As they begin the long drive back to Oak Bluffs, Shanti looks up at Ranjit.
“Papaji, did the Senator just give you a job?”
He nods, concentrating on the dark, winding roads.
“Yippee. Can I have a new jacket? I saw a pink one in the L.L.Bean catalog.” She gives him a wide-eyed look. “My jacket is too small and it’s blue. It’s a boy’s coat, not a girl’s.”
He glances down at her parka and sees that it is too short, the blue faded and dirty. He remembers finding it at the Goodwill store in Boston, and thinking it was a good deal. How the hell was he supposed to know that in this country only boys wore blue?
“I have a job, but he hasn’t paid me yet. When I get a check, the first thing I’ll do is buy you a new jacket, okay?”
“You won’t forget?”
“I promise. And you know I never break a promise.”
“That’s great. I want the pink one. It has a pink lining, and a hood, and this fleece inside that you can unzip and…”
She chatters on for a few minutes, then rests her head on his shoulder and dozes off, tired from her long day at school. He drives on, the dark ribbon of road unfurling in front of him, the shuttered towns passing by, each with their white-steepled church and darkened library.
Six hundred dollars a month seems like a lot of money, but some of it will go to repaying Preetam’s uncle, Lallu Singh, for their tickets to America. The rest will be eaten up by gas for the truck, heating bills, and the rent on the house.
But the Senator has given him Ray Clarke’s number. Ranjit has heard that Clarke collects buildings the way other people collect paintings, hauling old barns and farmhouses to his estate and converting them into guest cottages. The Red Heron Estate has six buildings, including the main house, and if Ranjit can land a caretaking job there, it will mean a lot more money.
The Senator has been incredibly generous with his contacts and Ranjit feels a hot flush of guilt. What does the Senator know? Has Anna told him anything? From the outside they look like the perfect couple, but …
He thinks of the first time that he saw them together. It was a Sunday morning at the beginning of the summer, and Linda Jean’s coffee shop was full. Ranjit and his family were waiting patiently for a table when a couple by the window caught his eye: a muscular black man in a pastel blue golf shirt, sitting silently across from a much younger woman. She wore a daffodil-yellow cotton dress and her short, boyish haircut emphasized her slender neck. They were clearly not father and daughter—Ranjit could sense that—but he could not understand their relationship.
The man sat with his legs spread apart, cutting rapidly into a pile of pancakes and bacon, and when he crooked a finger, the waitress hurried over to refill his coffee cup. The woman picked at her soft-boiled eggs and smiled apologetically at the waitress, as though to offset her husband’s brusqueness.
They made a compelling couple, and as they left the restaurant, many of the other customers stared at them. The air of privilege the woman exuded—the yellow dress was expensive, as was her carefully sculpted hair—was counteracted by her athlete’s easy stride, her muscular arms and legs no doubt the product of many hours on a tennis court.
The man beside her was a few inches shorter, thick chested and broad shouldered, walking canted slightly forward on the balls of his feet. She stood to one side as he greeted people on the way out, boisterously slapping high-fives, and only when he was done did they walk away together. Ranjit learned only later that the man was a U.S. Senator, and the woman—young enough to be his daughter—was his second wife.
The Senator had seemed so youthful then, but the last few months had aged him. Tonight his eyes were bloodshot, his dark skin was ashen, and deep creases had appeared on both sides of his mouth.
Ranjit feels the sick guilt again when he remembers the Senator’s halting question, and his own lying response.
The truth was that he had talked to Anna almost every day that summer. At first, she spent the mornings by the empty swimming pool, her face shaded by a large straw hat, staring at the same paperback, its cover illustrated with a golden Buddha. In the afternoons she went running, wearing blue-and-gold running shoes, shorts, and a white tank top. Once, driving into town, he saw her at least ten miles from the house, drenched in sweat, her long legs straining, her arms moving in short, choppy motions. He waved, but she seemed to be in a daze; running, he realized, not tennis, had accounted for her slim, muscled build.
While he was demolishing the rotten wooden steps down to the beach, he passed by the pool three or four times a day, pushing a wheelbarrow of deb
ris. It was mid-August when she finally seemed to notice him, and smiled distractedly.
“Hot day,” he said, not knowing what to say.
“Yes, it is very hot,” she replied, and later that afternoon—he had just started building the new steps—she brought him a jug of iced tea. He was shirtless in the heat, hacking into the hillside, when he heard the tinkling of ice cubes and looked up.
She was freshly showered, her hair damp, and wore a white halter top and a rustling yellow skirt. Her eyes were hidden behind aviator sunglasses, giving her high-cheekboned face a blank, expressionless air that unnerved him.
“I hope you like it sweetened,” she said.
“Why, thank you, Mrs. Neals,” he replied, putting down his pickax.
“Mrs. Neals was my mother-in-law. Call me Anna.”
“Well, thank you … Anna.”
She sat down on the last finished step and poured him a glass of tea. When he took it from her, he saw his own reflection in her dark lenses, his face burnt nut-brown by the sun, his long hair twisted into a topknot and covered with a sweat-stained red bandanna.
He was afraid that he smelled, so he stood a few steps below her as he drank the sweet tea, feeling the cool liquid run down his throat and coil into his stomach.
That first day they talked, or rather, she asked him questions and he tried to answer them. She asked about life in India, and what it meant to be a Sikh. She had read a lot of books, and Eastern religions interested her, she said, especially their recurring cycles of life and death, so different from the linear beliefs of the Western world.
He was half dazed by the sun, and at first he stumbled over his own words, but soon her quiet, attentive presence calmed him. He found himself telling her about the Sikhs, how in the fifteenth century Guru Nanak had conceived of Sikhism as a reform religion. Instead of the elaborate caste system of Hinduism, or the fanaticism of Islam, the Sikhs expressed their faith simply, through their everyday life. They believed that work, and not pilgrimages or rituals, was the path to enlightenment. He explained to her how Sikh philosophy had been developed by ten successive Gurus, till finally it was all collected into a single holy book, the Guru Granth Sahib.