Radha thought of her brief chat over the phone with Mumtaz earlier that week, when she had called out of the blue to invite them to dinner. Hadn’t she said something about accepting a managerial position at one of the Tea Store’s new outlets? Maybe this was a celebratory dinner, though she couldn’t imagine Mumtaz making a show of such a thing, even at the best of times.
She wondered why she had been so quick to assume that Mumtaz was just in survival mode. Maybe the work meant far more to her than a paycheque, after all. Had she not taken great pride in the fact that she had the highest sales record in the province? And why had she diminished Mumtaz’s work as the kind of “survival job” any immigrant could get? Was it because she assumed that only the kind of work that demanded credentials and qualifications was hard to come by? She had read that even retail jobs were few and far between these days. After everything she had gone through to find work in years past, Radha wasn’t convinced that she’d be any more employable as a store clerk than as a teacher—or anything else, for that matter.
Thinking back on their first encounter at the Tea Store again, Radha realized that Mumtaz had looked anything but miserable in her job that day—she was thriving, laughing, and talking to co-workers and customers alike. Was it because she was discovering a new side of herself and her talents, or was it because she was away from the doom and gloom that Tariq must have cast over the Akbar household? Whatever the reason, it was doing wonders for her. Even during their brief conversation over the phone, she had seemed so much more … Radha could not quite put her finger on it: Animated? Spirited? Free?
The car was encased in snow but in a way that was strangely pleasant, Radha noted for the first time that night. It felt more like a cocoon than a sarcophagus. She loosened the shawl around her shoulders, realizing that the car had generated enough heat while it was in motion to keep her warm now that it was stationary. The stillness and quiet made Radha mindful of her breathing in ways that generally eluded her, no matter how much the yogi had coached her. In and out, in and out, she watched her vaporous breath appear and disappear in the space before her. As her breathing grew steadier she became aware of how motionless she had been, frozen and dormant like the pine trees dotting the Akbars’ lawn. But unlike the trees that worked hard to keep their roots strong and sturdy for the inevitable spring thaw, what had she been doing? What was she preparing for?
Radha looked out at the haze of lights outside the car. The snowstorm was easing up, moving eastward where it would meet the coastline and either lose steam and dissipate or gather even greater strength as it crossed the formidable Atlantic.
For a moment she could not remember why she was still in the car when the Akbars’ house was only a few steps away. Focused, instead, on Mumtaz, who was likely anxious about dinner getting cold, she took another deep breath and exhaled. She hiked up her sari and slid over the central console, managing to manoeuvre herself into the driver’s seat without ripping the silky material or getting it tangled up around the gear stick. Just as she reached for the lock on the driver’s side, she heard a whirring sound, like a fan, emanating from outside the car.
“Don’t worry, Radha! You’ll be free in an instant!” she could hear Tariq call out to her from the passenger’s side of the car.
The whirring continued and she could vaguely see Tariq holding some contraption up to the door handle. It was attached to a long cord that trailed all the way from the open garage, which now sent a clear beam of light down the length of the driveway. Later that night she would learn that the hair dryer was Mumtaz’s idea; apparently, she had seen a neighbour perform this bizarre operation on more than one occasion. Of course, Tariq had taken full credit for it up until that point, joking that he was ready to resort to “whatever measures” the situation required, since he could well imagine Krishna suing him for damages should any harm come to his beloved wife or his equally precious “ten-thousand dollar door,” on his property.
As foolish as Tariq felt about standing out in a snowstorm with a hair dryer, he was happy to come to Radha’s rescue at Krishna’s expense. Anything to bring him down a few pegs, he sneered. If it weren’t for Mumtaz getting on his nerves about the invitation, asking who else they could count among their friends in this country, he would never have agreed to the dinner. After all, when was the last time they had received an invitation? He knew from the grapevine that their social life was busier than ever, and surely Krishna was well aware that Tariq could have benefited from an introduction to some of his new business contacts. For this reason alone, he had begrudgingly conceded to the dinner, concluding that if Krishna had gone up in the world, then he might as well keep that door open and use it to his advantage.
“Open Sesame!” Tariq said smugly, turning off the hair dryer and cranking open the door.
“Radha, what on earth are you doing there?” Krishna bellowed upon seeing his wife in the driver’s seat.
“Well, it seems your wife managed to cross over, after all!” Tariq piped in, disgruntled for being imposed upon for nothing.
“If you had just bothered to ask me if I was all right before you turned on the hair dryer, I could have told you I had crossed over!”
“So why didn’t you come out from the driver’s side to save Tariq the trouble?”
“Because you both took so long to come out here that this door is frozen now!”
“Oh, that’s it! We’re going home!”
“Come, come, Krishna, it’s no trouble at all. We wouldn’t want Radha to cross over again, now would we?” Tariq mollified, remembering why he never cared much for Radha. He would never permit Mumtaz to talk to him like that. As pompous as Krishna was, he sympathized with any man who had to tolerate such an impious wife.
In a few minutes, Tariq thawed out the driver’s side and chivalrously offered his hand to the waiting damsel in distress.
Radha wrapped the shawl tightly around her shoulders, a gesture that prevented her from taking Tariq’s hand. She ignored her husband’s grimace, hiked up the sari pallu to prevent it from getting wet, and walked sure-footed across the snow-covered driveway to the Akbars’ front door, where Mumtaz stood waiting with a piping hot mug of freshly brewed chai.
OUTSIDE PEOPLE
“TRACY JUMPING Meena bed, Tracy breaking Meena head!” the new one we call Cat-Face shout. She call Cat-Face because she eyes green like real-life cat. Miss Benedict say there is cat so black only he green-green eyes make we know he really there.
“And you know what happen to them who go in the bush at night where the cat live?” Miss Benedict stop gathering the dirty sheet and place she-self on the edge of Meena bed.
Tracy stop jumping and we crowd round Miss Benedict. “Whathappen? Whathappen?”
“They never come back out the same way they go in,” Miss Benedict say, looking deep into we eyes.
“Why?” I ask, grabbing Tracy hand because I know a “nansi story” coming.
“Because you can’t see your shadow in the bush at night. You think you can, but is only the light of the moon playing tricks on you. Is only the branch of a jacaranda waving in the wind, or a spider monkey walking above you through the tall-tall trees. But the big black cat—the jaguar—is a special kind of animal. He see everything with eyes like magic lights that switch on in the dark. And he see what you can’t see.”
“What you can’t see! What you can’t see!” Tracy parrot Miss Benedict.
“If you cross the jaguar in the night…” Miss Benedict raise one of them sheet she gather and throw it on Tracy head. “Look out! He steal your shadow before you even know you had one!” All ah we scream so loud we pee with laugh.
Miss Armstrong get up to go but I follow her. “Why we have to see we shadow, Miss Benedict?”
“Oh, Constance girl, you make me tired with all your questions. Your shadow is part of you, of course. How you know you really there if you can’t see your shadow? I
f your shadow there beside you, you never alone. Is important to know you not the only little thing in this world.” Since Miss Benedict tell we about the bush-cat what no one can see, Tracy stop jumping on Meena bed and start jumping on she shadow, saying the jaguar going to steal it.
“Lord have mercy! How many times I got to tell the Ministry about visiting hours! They think they can send anyone anytime,” I hear House Mother voice like loud-speaker outside we room. Miss Benedict roll up the sheet and shuffle she big self into the next room where all them baby lie.
“Why they don’t send some help instead, eh? Why they don’t let them pickney kin take them home? How many times Meena grandma come round looking to take that child but the paper work not done? How many times Ministry say they not ready to release her? How many times I tell them about the others who get no visit since they been here—neither from they father nor they mother nor auntie nor uncle. Miss Tousignant and company sitting nice and comfy in them air-conditioned office sipping Coca Cola, while we is here sweating with more pickney coming every day. And still no help. Even Devon up and leave. ‘I rather beat clothes by the trench than chase after them little devils!’ That what she say to me before she go!”
“Clothes-washing work don’t sound so bad to me neither sometimes,” Miss Benedict say all quiet-quiet.
“What you say?” House Mother mutter, while she hurrying to put some kind of bouncy spider thing over one of them baby bed. A little bell tinkle and I hear the baby make the happy noise, like he eat soap and bubble popping out of he mouth. House Mother smile too, giving the baby belly an extra rub so he make that happy noise again.
“Mrs. Armstrong!” I hear Paper Man call from the paper-room.
“Lord, them people here already!” House Mother say with a sigh so big it like hurricane pass through we rooms.
I can see the Outside People in the main hall. A man tall and thin like coconut tree stop to put down a big bag. The bag have a sticker on it with two red stripe and one white stripe and some kind of pointy red flower in the white stripe. It not like any flower I see before.
Paper Man come into the hall. “Mrs. Armstrong, please take these visitors to the girls,” he call to House Mother again. “And don’t forget to take the donations.”
“Well, it was nice meeting you. And thanks for letting us in to see the girls on such short notice. We’ve travelled a long way….” I see Outside Lady shaking Paper Man hand.
“Yes, yes,” Paper Man say. I can tell he making big-big effort to sound nice, but that only make him sound more impatient. “Here’s Mrs. Armstrong. She’ll show you around. And remember that it’s very overwhelming at first.”
O-wail-men. I try to repeat the word but it too hard for me tongue. Paper Man use too many big word I don’t understand. So many big word Paper Man know, but he still don’t know we name. He never say hello neither. He never ask how we is. Even House Mother and Miss Benedict always nicer when Paper Man not around. And they say all kind of funny thing about him that don’t sound too good neither, though it take me a long time to understand that the man they calling Abdul is Paper Man. Once I hear Miss Benedict talk about Paper Man after he leave for the day: “What her-highness Mrs. Deoguardi think she doing sending that Abdul to us? He don’t even know how many mouths we got to feed here! Why she don’t hire a real manager to run this place proper?”
House Mother suck she teeth the way she do before she get vex with we. “How long I been telling Mrs. Deoguardi I been hired to run the school downstairs? How long that blackboard and chalk gathering dust and them desks fill-up with spiders? I got training to teach, you know, and all-of-it wasted on cleaning babies’ bottoms and spending the live-long day tracking down this person to come fry plantain or that person to scrub them toilets. And what going to become of them girls running wild like so?”
Then Miss Benedict say, “Not just school-time cut since Abdul come. He cut out we staff too. First we lose Elsa. Then Devon. If they not fired they quit because they can’t take it no more. And what this Abdul can do that nice volunteer girl Miss Aimsley can’t do! Stupps! She better than Deoguardi and Abdul and all them Ministry people put together! At least she manage to get some babies out. At least she push Miss Tousignant to open she precious filing cabinet and look into things. At least she clean up the place good.”
“What rubbish you talking, Leona? That Aimsley-girl worse than Abdul!” House Mother raise she voice and then, after looking over she shoulder into the main hall, she lower it again. “I rather have Abdul. At least I know what he about and he know to keep out of we business. At least he don’t waltz in here for a day, turn we whole world upside-down and waltz back out, leaving we to put it all back together again. Them outsiders think they know everything, but what they know about life here, eh? What they know? The money we get to feed fifty children in one month they spend on one meal in fancy hotel. What they know about life in this place, eh?” House Mother start wiping one of the tables in the baby room hard-hard. Then she start up again: “And what about the mess Aimsley make before she go? I never seen Miss Tousignant so irate! Now the Ministry don’t even send their officers here to check up on things no more. Okay, Aimsley get one-two child out while she here, but how many times Mrs. Deoguardi blame we because that girl gone and done something she not authorized to do? Like that day she send Tracy to St. Mary’s without knowing is a private hospital and the child get send back by taxi that I had to pay for from me own pocket! And then what she do? She take Tracy back to the hospital she own-high-and-mighty-self and make all kind of threat that if they don’t treat the child she going to shame the Director in foreign newspaper.”
“But Tracy could have died. Miss Aimsley save she life!” Miss Benedict say.
“I not saying I not happy the child get attention. I just saying what good it do for the rest of them? What we got to show for it now? We been banished from St. Mary’s forever. At least before Aimsley cause all that botheration they would send one of them doctors every few months for check-up and what-not as part of they charity work. But when the last time Dr. Romano come round?” House Mother stop and point the dirty cloth she using to clean the table at Miss Benedict. “Better Abdul than Aimsley! Better we take care of we own.”
“But Abdul take care of no one but he own-self. And he take all the credit when Mrs. Deoguardi and them Ministry people come. Like he own the place. Like he own all ah we and have to make we feel small-small when them big-shot sniffing ‘round.”
“Abdul not perfect,” House Mother straighten she-self up and look into the main hall. “But every rope got two ends. I just saying he got bigger problem than this place. Even change his name when he come back.”
“You mean his name not Abdul?”
“No girl! He look like he born a’ Abdul’ to you? His real name is Cartwright. He change it after he come out of hiding from the bush.”
“What he hiding from?” Miss Benedict eyes turn big and round.
“He run away from that gold mining project in the interior. He don’t like what he see there. Nor what he had to do for the army.”
“What he have to do for the army?”
“Ah, child, you more innocent than all them babies! What you think happen when Outside money get invested here and the army part of the deal? Cartwright, I mean Abdul, say things get real bad up there. Amerindians been living on that land long, long before all ah we get here. Sitting on mountains and rivers of gold, they say. Abdul say women and children getting the worst of it. His own superior take one of them girls for he own pleasure. And that not even the half of it! Abdul see the company dumping all kind of poison into the rivers.”
“Why they need poison to get gold?”
“I look like scientist, child? What I know about these things! I just know the rivers getting poisoned and children being born with all kind of problem.” House Mother turn to look at the baby we call Paw-Paw because she head shape all funn
y. And she not like them other baby that make me ears fill-up with they tears. Paw-Paw never make no sound.
“You mean Clara one of them?” Miss Benedict look at Paw-Paw too, then at House Mother, then at Paw-Paw again.
House Mother say nothing and she and Miss Benedict go back to whatever work they doing till I hear Miss Benedict ask, “So why Abdul change his name? They is after him or what?”
“Why else! After he run from the mining project he hide out with them Amerindians who run deep into the bush when they get chase out from they land. He say he go mad up there. He don’t know how they get on surviving—some days without water, some days without light, some days with nothing to eat but cassava bread. He say he don’t want to swallow another morsel of cassava if Allah bless it himself!” House Mother and Miss Benedict chuckle.
Then House Mother continue: “Finally he and some Amerindian boy escape on the boat that go up there once every month to give the army they supplies. The boy have a piece of gold, Abdul say—not even big enough to make wedding band but enough to pay the boatman to smuggle them back here. And once them make it back the boy just disappear. Abdul don’t have nowhere to go neither till an old neighbour spot him at the market. That is how he find his way to the mosque. They treat him good, he tell me, like he their long-lost brother. He come to the faith on his own terms, he say, and then he come out of hiding. Don’t ask me how he end up here, but is a real good thing he did. No one think to look for him here. They not supposed to have no political allegiance, you know. Maybe they give him protection if someone come looking.”
Outside People and Other Stories Page 14