Nineteen
Curtains fluttered, discrete. Doors creaked by the crack. Only two stood and watched Wyatt’s arrival to Dunberry Street. Did they notice the absence of his mother? Edy would. Or all the weight he hadn’t meant to lose? As his father wheeled him up their plowed path, straining and huffing beer breath, the short steps came into clear focus and the question of how to handle them with it. How. Wyatt scoffed out a grunt of frustration and paid for it in pain.
“Let me help you,” said a voice. Except Wyatt wanted no help from that voice. He wanted nothing from anything attached to Hassan Pradhan, because it all, no matter the dressing, brought pain in the end.
“Don’t—” Wyatt attempted to twist and ignited with the shift. That pain was an atrocity, blinding and paralyzing, contorting like a form of demonic possession, sweeping out all rationale thought with it.
“Listen,” Wyatt’s dad said. “I couldn’t trouble you to help me get him to his room, could I? I’d planned on keeping him downstairs, but I know he’d rather be around his own things.”
He said ‘sure.’ Sure! As if they weren’t embattled enemies. As if the whole world wasn’t their battlefield and they weren’t locked in the midst of a death match that second.
On three they lifted the chair and bumped it with every nook and cranny from stairs to door. At the door, a new problem emerged.
“It’s too narrow,” his dad said. “These old houses, they aren’t really handicap compliant.”
Hassan paused. “Well, we can fold the chair, right? I’ll bring it in and you can carry him.”
Wyatt’s dad coughed out a laugh. “Not me. Unless you want to go back in time fifteen years.”
A beat of silence followed. Realization dawned and Wyatt went limp with dread.
“No,” he said.
“Let’s get this over with,” Hassan said. “Hold the door for me, Mr. Green.”
“No!” Wyatt cried.
Two massive arms came down and ripped him from his chair. They stepped into the house like newlyweds, the world’s ugliest bride and groom.
Wyatt blinked at his living room. A clean living room. There was his dad’s old recliner from Building #19 in the corner and the flat screen he loved. There was even his dad, staring down at him as if he were some puzzle.
“Hold on to me,” Hassan said. “Or not. Whatever.”
‘Or not’ was the correct answer, because there was no way Wyatt would be made to wrap his arms around Hassan’s neck.
“Take him up to his room,” Wyatt’s dad said.
Wyatt’s brain vaulted to catch up. His room? As in Hassan visiting, occupying, eyeballing his private place? The place where he kept an endless assortment of Edy sketches, some—no, many on the wall?
“Dad, I—”
“Let’s go,” Hassan said and started for the stairs.
How had this happened, that Wyatt had become a passenger, a mere bystander watching his own life? He had no say; he had no choice; only love, get shot, be humiliated.
The jerk didn’t even pause or breathe heavy while carrying Wyatt upstairs. How far off the main road had Wyatt veered if he wanted Hassan to drop him, just to prove he had weaknesses? He even figured out how to dodge bullets. That was the joke Wyatt like to tell himself. One day, he promised, it would even make him laugh.
Once at the top of the stairs, they found the light blown. Wyatt’s dad squeezed ahead of them, found the room, and waved them in. Hassan carried him as delicately as wet crepe paper and set him on the bed.
At least he didn’t fluff the pillows.
In life before getting shot, Edy littered Wyatt’s wall in a kaleidoscope of sketches, some hurried, most painstakingly created. Stark walls stared back in unnatural gaps where Wyatt’s father had made a belated attempt to protect him. Corners of paper still stood mounted to the walls, while whole middles had been ripped away, trashed, destroyed. A variation of Edy gone forever.
Wyatt knew his dad. He drowned facts in Budweiser and faced nothing. How long before he’d come in this room and saw Edy everywhere? How long before the wheels churned and he thought of Chaterdee? How long before the old man got to shredding evidence to shield his boy one more time? One last time? And here Wyatt was about to drown in humiliation. He was to die at the thought of Hassan seeing a million smiling Edys, there in his most private of places. They were his Edys, in his room, and he really couldn’t—
One. He’d missed one. Over by Wyatt’s desk was a drawing done up in blushing anime style, with Edy’s hair flowing over in pigtails and her eyes wide with innocence. She sat in a garden of butterflies, only the top button on her shirt fastened, with cleavage from the top and bottom jutting out.
He had forgotten how beautiful she was—even in caricature. He had forgotten the sudden way she hit his heart—like a blow to the chest. And Wyatt was the man to talk blows to the chest. How had he ever forgotten her beauty? Or the peace he felt when alone with her?
He hated her though.
“Is that Edy?” Hassan squinted, went wide eyed. He marched over and snatched the paper; it shook in his grip.
“Listen,” Wyatt’s dad said, careful and easy. “We’ve all been through a lot. Let’s stay calm and remember it’s only a drawing.”
Hassan folded the sketch and shoved it in his back pocket; his orbs flecked with flames. A second passed where Wyatt thought he’d leap on him, beat him flat, something like that. Then Hassan started for the door.
“It’s her,” Wyatt said quietly. “Feel free to burn the picture, though. I really am over the both of you.”
Hassan left without a word.
Twenty
The weeks marched on and spring ushered in. Hassan’s mom and Edy looked tight again. Cooking in the kitchen, heads together over dance magazines, Hassan could hear their giggles from the next room daily. He’d hear the phone calls with aunts from Chandigarh to Chino. He’d see the thousand temple visits; he’d watch her talk to the Bathlars, too. ‘Mala’s doing well,’ she’d say, as if answering some private question.
He watched his mother, waiting for some sign, some explanation about what she was doing. The older he got, the less he understood her. Or was it that he shut the door to certain explanations, leaving only confusion in their absence? He knew his memories were real. He knew his mother had loved Edy. But he saw her smile collapsed when Edy left, a visible weight gone when the second she ceased pretending. ‘Pretending what’ was the question that needed to be asked. Pretending to still love Edy or pretending not to care that the two of them were a couple?
He never had the courage to ask his mother these questions. Not as she hugged and fussed over Edy, not when he sat with his mother in stony silence alone. His courage didn’t flag because he feared what she might do to him; Hassan’s courage weakened because he feared her answer. He wasn’t ready to consider what sort of person might manipulate affection for their own end.
Hmm. That was the other puzzle piece that dogged him. What would be the point of his mother petting and preening Edy? She’d been so angry about their relationship that Hassan hadn’t bought her change of attitude. Given how well Edy knew her, he expected her to see through the looking glass, too. Each time she didn’t, Hassan’s heart cracked a little more, fracturing for Edy. Who’d believe his hunch about an insincere mother, anyway? Not Edy, not Edy when she wanted sincerity most of all.
Hassan’s dad never managed more than a distracted frown whenever his mom brought up stories of this obedient cousin or son of a friend. Always, he’d cap it with an impatient wave of the hand, before pointing out that their son was Hassan Pradhan.
In his entire life, he could count the times he’d seen his parents really argue. He didn’t mean mild disagreements over whether there should be lamb or chicken for dinner or whether they’d have company that night; he meant an all out spat where his father raised his voice and his mother challenged with that soul scorching gaze.
She won all the arguments all the time.
Not because she raised her voice—she would never do that. Not because she humiliated or outwitted or bullied his dad into submission either. Hassan’s dad lost every argument because he cooled off the second he got hot. Quick to get pissed and quick to forgive, that was Ali Pradhan. Once he cooled off, he’d concede just about anything. He hated fighting with loved ones.
The house felt strange to him and stranger still as the days passed. He and his mother talked little and looked at each other even less. Since they rarely had moments alone, the awkwardness stayed bearable.
His house wasn’t the only one with weird happenings. Rumor had it that Sandra had stopped collecting homework for Wyatt to do. Though Hassan would see him standing out on his porch some days, he never made it to school. He never made it anywhere. He only glared.
The year marched on. Edy kept busy with ballet while Hassan hit the gym hard double hard, emboldened by the honor of joining the summer program. He spent his free time studying football alone, with the guys, or Nathan, and without fail, he worked to keep his grades stellar.
They were on to spring’s freezing rain and already Hassan looked to summer. Steely skies, thunder knocking lightning, and bone chilling rain had Edy darting in and out of his Mustang as she zipped from home to school and school to ballet practice. She didn’t train in the old building with the old girls every day, not as she prepared for Westside. No, his girl stood among the eagles with steel in her eyes and toughness in every fiber. Every time he dropped her off, he thought that.
Hassan sat outside, car idling, as he waited for Edy one Friday evening. Most of the school year had whittled away, the skies were gray, and he floated on memories of spring training, which always snatched him back to sanity. Practice, study the game, work out, repeat, football nourished the body while Edy fed his soul.
She jumped in the car as the second one of those meter maids approached.
“Working late, isn’t she?” Edy muttered.
Hassan reached over and brushed the wet bangs out her face. The kiss came. Lush, wet lips, and wow, she tasted sugar sweet. With her fingers tugging at his coat, he threw a palm to the opposite window for balance. Then…the tap on his windshield.
“You prefer to be ticketed or towed?” said the muffled voice outside his car.
Neither. So he’d double parked a little too long. Hassan yanked the duffle bag from his back seat, dumped it in her lap, and pulled off. The meter maid looked disappointed.
“What’s this?” Edy said and yanked on the bag’s zipper.
“Spare stuff you had at my place. A present or two from Chloe. I thought we could get away. This is an escape, buckle up.” He made a left on Tremont and flashed a smile.
Those oversized eyes bore into him and he tried not to laugh. One corner, one corner and half, three streets later and he ruptured.
“You’re serious?” she said. “We’re going somewhere where I’ll need an overnight bag?” He nodded. “How can that be? What about our parents?”
Hassan sliced into the next lane, got cut off, and gave the driver the finger.
“You’re spending the night at Chloe’s place,” he said. “She called your dad’s office and left a message with the secretary as if she were you. I’m crashing at the Dysons’ studying football film and stuff.”
Edy frowned. “Where are we going?”
“To New Hampshire. The twins have the keys to their parents’ weekend cabin. It’s an hour away. I thought we’d meet up with them and get away from the drama for a bit.”
She chewed on her bottom lip. “You’re still having problems with Rani?”
Somewhere along the way, their problem with his mom had become his problem with his mom. Nice.
“Sure,” he said and turned his attention back to driving.
The concrete and blaring horns of Boston gave way to narrowed interstate and skeletal trees on either side, still naked from their winter’s loss. With the worst of the traffic behind him, Hassan let loose on the gas and cranked Flo Rida through the speakers, ready to spoil his girl for a little while.
~~~
Edy rummaged through the duffle bag for the umpteenth time, looking for nothing, she knew. Little things had been forgotten, toiletries, things like that, but she knew if they were heading to Steve and Tessa Dyson’s cabin, she’d find all she needed within it. Edy clutched the bag, teeth grinding, worries far from soap, lotion, deodorant and the like. Where would she practice while holed away for the weekend? When would she practice? There was homework she’d left behind. Her seven-day exacting schedule had been finessed to an art, ground down to a science. Still, he seemed so excited about whisking her away, she couldn’t possibly back out.
“You’re driving me crazy digging through that bag,” Hassan said. “If I forgot something, say so. We can stop along the way.” They passed a sign for I-95.
Edy froze, hands in the bag. “No, we don’t need to stop. I just—”
Worry. Fright. Nerves seized her belly and yanked. She didn’t want to explain what it was to be a cub among lions each day. He wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t understand. He’d sympathize, yes, but never understand.
“So, Doodley comes to me today,” Hassan said. “And you know Doodley, right? Kind of smallish guy?”
Edy gripped her headrest and drew up a leg. She couldn’t not know Doodley if she tried. They knew the same people and lived the same lives, in the same little gilded square of space. What else existed beyond privileged Boston? She wondered. She craved to know.
“I know Doodley,” she said.
“Okay, so Doodley hunted me down for yet another article in the paper.” He rolled his eyes a bit. “When he did, I said to him, ‘hey, it’s basketball season. Shouldn’t you be covering them?’” Hassan laughed. “Doodley tells me, ‘are you crazy? I’m making career moves. In a few years, I’ll be an expert on you. Guess who else’ll be in ESPN Magazine? Me. As a columnist.”
Edy skated a look at him. “Oh,” she said before she could stop herself. “More stuff about you in the paper, huh?” She used to cut out everything that anyone wrote about Hassan, but it lost its flair once he began to point out which articles she’d missed or quote an admirer or two.
“Doodley probably should cover the basketball team though,” she added belatedly. “Or someone should.”
Hassan shrugged and switched lanes. “I suppose playing better is the answer to that.”
Edy rolled her eyes. She’d leave the silence to hang between them.
“I’ve had some scouts contact me,” he said.
She looked at him. “Really?” They were sixteen and sophomores. Did colleges really glance his way?
She bit down on her thumb. “Who?”
“Boston College. Nebraska. Georgia.”
He’d stacked too much in those words. BC meant he could stay at home. Nebraska was far away. Georgia was in the South Eastern Conference, the most contentious, competitive football conference in the nation. To be courted by any one of those schools senior year brought prestige. To be eyeballed as a sophomore by all three must have been unheard of.
She knew the big names would come for him. She had no doubt they’d descend as delicately as a wrecking ball. But the suddenness of this blinded her.
Hassan glanced her way. “It’s a long way off, Edy. Any sort of decision is a long way off.”
“Well what do you think?” Edy said, in as calm a voice as she could manage. “Anyone pique your interest?”
He shook his head. “Too early to say.”
They pulled to a slow behind an eggplant VW Beetle littered with bumper stickers. What didn’t fit on the rear fender got jammed on the paint instead. An adjacent 18 wheeler in the right lane had Edy reading slogans. ‘support local farms,’ ‘eat your veggies,’ ‘hybrid rocks,’ ‘frack is whack,’ and her favorite: ‘get off my ass, save gas.’
“So which should it be for us?” he said with a smile. “Assuming no other colleges contacted me and we had to choose from the three: Boston Colle
ge, Nebraska, or Georgia? It might be fun to follow the twins.”
Edy glared at him.
“Uh, or not,” he said. “I could get how you might want a break.”
“Or maybe you shouldn’t assume I’d follow you like a dog.”
“Follow me—” He shook his head. “Did you or did you not say you wanted to be with me beyond high school?”
“Unbelievable! And that means follow you?” Edy demanded. “And not the other way around?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He raked a hand through his hair. When his cell phone rang, he snatched it up. “What? No, I’m not on way,” he spat sarcastically. A shaky exhale later, he apologized. “I know, I know. Maybe ten more minutes? Okay.”
Disquiet hung heavy as an accusation in the air. Edy wanted to scream. It was like Rani said; the men in their lives took ballet for a joke.
Her passion was no one’s joke.
Hassan looked at her. “You okay, Cake?”
No. She refused to look at him. But she wasn’t about to spit that out just yet. Not when she wanted to blow his head off with sheer lung power. Not when she knew her voice would shake. She remembered rushing palms, fingers, soothing words for Hassan as he vomited before every game. His football made up their moments, but the fear and anxiety of ballet belonged to her alone.
“So, let me get this straight,” Hassan said. “I get the silent treatment because I want to be with you? The feeling’s supposed to be mutual.”
Edy groaned. He had a way of pushing when he needn’t push, of never leaving well enough alone. “I don’t where to start with this.”
His green eyes flashed in impatience. “Start by opening your mouth.”
“Do yourself a favor by shutting up; less we have to hear how wonderful you are once again.”
She’d done it. Hurt sparked in his eyes, there, and gone again. She hadn’t known she’d been digging for it until the flood of satisfaction found her.
They made the rest of the drive to New Hampshire in silence.
Edy recognized the twins’ black Land Rover in the cabin’s open garage. Next to it sat a navy one of identical make and model. Hassan pulled up behind them, parked, and killed the engine.
Bittersweet Page 10