by Mira Jacob
“Doesn’t matter. His brain will be stimulated.”
“By Anguilla?”
“Amina, I do not have all day. Someone has to make the dinner and set the table, and you can either shut up your mouth now or you can go to your room!” The last part came out in a yell, and Akhil’s eyes cracked open. They blinked twice in the land of the awake like a sea mammal penetrating the surface of the ocean and then shut again. Kamala watched and turned to the encyclopedia with renewed fervor. “The British established the first permanent European colony on Anguilla in 1650.”
Amina stared at the glossy green cover of Heart of Darkness. She did not want to go to her room. She did not want to listen to her mother read about Anguilla.
“Despite a few invasion attempts by the French, Anguilla has remained a Crown Colony ever since. Then in 1969 the British Royal Marines were going to go in and kill everyone for order and it would have been a bloodbath, but those people treated it like an independence day parade.”
“It says that?”
“No, I just remember that part.”
Amina put Heart of Darkness down. She listened to the brief history of Anguilla, watching the lines on her mother’s face soften, her cheeks grow fuller, suddenly plump with purpose.
“The currency is the Eastern Caribbean, though the dollar is widely accepted,” Kamala said, closing the book with a muffled thump.
Amina looked at her. “That’s all?”
“That’s all for now.” Kamala struggled to lean over Akhil’s legs and placed the unwieldy book at the foot of the couch with a thump.
“Legs,” she said. Amina stood up and walked over to the couch, wedging her arms under Akhil’s legs and lifting them up. Kamala slid out, stood up, wobbling a little. She took off her reading glasses and smoothed down her sari, pulling it tight over one shoulder.
“Now what?” Amina asked, dropping her brother’s legs. He rolled farther into the couch, burying his face in the seam.
“Now dinner. Come and set the table.”
The next night was asteroids. The next was Athens. Amina went to her room for Australia (she had done a report on it in fourth grade, using the same encyclopedia) but came back the next night armed with her camera.
“The Aztec calendar utilized a 260-day year and a 52-year time cycle,” her mother read, and Amina crouched so that she was taking in the full length of her brother, his feet growing like strange roots out of Kamala’s sari.
By John Wilkes Booth, Amina was on her sixth roll of film, and the family had entered an entirely new phase, one that would fill her with peace when thinking about it later. It wasn’t just the muzzle on Akhil’s vitriol that sent calm down the hallways like the scent of summer, it was the soothing sound of Kamala’s reading, the triumph that bloomed in her eyes with each finished passage. January’s snowstorms began, settling thin white blankets over the cottonwoods and ice over the ditches, and Amina wandered outside to get pictures of her mother and brother through the living room window, tight in their coziness. The days began to grow fractionally longer, Kamala moved on to Catholicism and cicadas, and, as though responding to the incantation of a spell, Akhil’s eyes began to crack open for increasingly longer intervals. He would listen wordlessly, watching the ceiling as though it were another galaxy.
CHAPTER 3
Akhil woke from the Big Sleep during da Vinci. Kamala was just launching into the sad account of the rapidly eroding Last Supper when he said his first full sentence.
“I want to paint a mural.” His tongue darted out, licking dry lips.
A mural? Amina leaned forward to see if his eyes were really open. They were.
“On the ceiling,” he clarified. “In my bedroom.”
It was early February. Outside, the prairie grass had flattened into grayish yellow slicks, and a northern wind blew against the tin roof, making the house creak. Kamala put the book down and turned to him.
Akhil looked at her. “Can I?”
“Okay.”
“Really?”
Kamala nodded slowly. When he smiled at her, she patted his legs and he lifted them. Open sesame. Kamala stood and walked toward the hall with a sleepwalker’s disregard for her surroundings. “Let’s go, then.”
“Now?” Akhil asked.
“Now?” Amina echoed.
“Ben Franklin’s closes at eight.”
In the store, under the glare of fluorescent lighting, Kamala and Amina pushed the cart forward while Akhil gathered big tubs of powdered tempera paint. He strolled the aisle ahead of them, pants hanging slack around bony hips, three inches of sock exposed at his ankles.
“So much of white?” Kamala asked, peering into the basket.
“It’s for mixing.”
“Ah.” She smoothed her braid down one shoulder, glancing at the tubes of oil paints hung like bats from the displays on either side of them.
“I’ve got to find the brushes,” Akhil said, turning left abruptly and wandering into the fluorescent haze.
“Ma,” Amina said anxiously when he was gone.
“Mmm?” Kamala had pulled one of the tubes down and now cradled it in cupped palms. “Cadmium yellow! Should we buy it?”
“What? No! That’s oil paint! It’s expensive!”
Kamala turned over the tube, eyebrows shooting up at the price tag. “My God, no jokes!” She placed it back on the shelf. “Oh well.”
“Ma, what are we doing?”
“We’re buying Akhil paint for his mural.”
“Akhil doesn’t have a mural.”
“Because he doesn’t have any paint.”
Amina moved the cart to the left as a woman with half a cart full of pink yarn passed. “But he’s never painted anything in his life!”
“So? First time for everything, nah?”
Amina bit a little of her thumbnail off, spit it into the aisle. “Well, can I get more film?”
“We just bought you film last week.”
“One roll. I need more.”
“You’re using it too fast.”
“No I’m not! Ma, seriously.” Amina pulled into the model-plane aisle. “And besides, how do you know he’s even going to do anything with this stuff? That he’s not going to fall back asleep tomorrow until June?”
Kamala didn’t answer her, marveling at a bin of sea sponges.
At the register, they bought one full set of tempera paint, three extra tubs of white, six paintbrushes in various sizes, a stenciling kit, and a sea sponge.
“Really, Mom, I don’t need it,” Akhil protested about the sponge.
“You might!”
“For what?” Amina glared at the entire contents of the basket.
“For effects, dummy!” Kamala handed the clerk at the register her credit card, smiling in a conspiratorial way. “My son is an artist.”
“I told you why Guevara, right?”
“Yes.”
They were taking a detour across the west mesa, driving at a thundering pace, the graded dirt road under them making Akhil’s voice vibrate.
“Because, you know, the prophecy wasn’t totally clear on who to pick. So that part is up to me. And I recognize that Che comes with certain complications, but I think it’s important to recognize the spirit of a true revolutionary.”
By “the prophecy,” Akhil was referring to a recurring dream he had had during the Big Sleep, giving him a glimpse into a future in which he was destined to be “a great leader among other greats.” (“Like Madonna?” Amina had asked. “Like Mandela,” he had answered.) While the hard details of exactly what Akhil saw in his future were never revealed (Was he strolling through the U.N.? Flying Air Force One? Sitting in an expensive leather desk chair that swiveled?), the way he would reach his destiny was clear: He would paint a mural of the Greats. It would harbinger change. And now, one week later, he had already fashioned a collage that would serve as the basis for the mural, reimagining the Sandias as a sort of Rushmore-esque homage to Gandhi, Che Guevara, Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, and Rob
Halford.
“I told you why Mandela, right?”
“Yes.”
“It’s just such a crime, what they’ve done to him. I mean, if you really think about—”
“You told me. I have.”
Contrary to Amina’s belief that he would buy all the paints and pass out from sheer exertion, Akhil had woken up with a bang, rejoining the Mathletes, rephrasing his political convictions, and stalking from one end of the campus to the other with newly hewn limbs. He was big now, man-sized, a fact that was not lost on Mindy Lujan, of all people.
“Hey, Amina, is that your brother?” she asked one afternoon as they sat on neighboring benches in the quad. Amina, startled by being personally addressed for the first time all year, almost didn’t understand the question. She looked where Mindy pointed. Akhil was striding out of the science building in the first pair of jeans that had fit him since November and a leather bomber jacket, recent gifts from an overjoyed Kamala.
“Yeah.”
“He’s fucking sexy. Like, the Indian James Dean or something.”
Akhil dug his hands deeper into his pockets, appearing to mutter to himself.
“Gross,” Dimple said.
“What?”
“He’s my cousin.”
Mindy crossed her legs. “So you can introduce us.”
“No way.”
“What, you want him for yourself?”
Dimple snorted. “Dis. Gus. Ting.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that I’m not doing it.”
“Fine.”
Three days later Amina found them sitting on the hood of the station wagon, Dimple with legs and arms crossed, Mindy with bare legs in front of her, as though it were not February and barely warm in the direct sunlight. She waved as Amina approached.
“Hey! Where’ve you been?”
Amina scowled at Dimple. “Getting my prints from the darkroom.”
“Oh yeah, Dimple said you’re totally into your photography class or something.” Mindy eyed her notebook. “Can I see?”
“Amina is sort of private about her work,” Dimple said, flashing Amina a look. “I haven’t even seen them, right, Ami?”
“Here.” Amina handed Mindy the notebook.
“Cool.” Mindy thumped the small space between her and Dimple, who looked visibly uncomfortable. “Come on up. Let’s see.”
The hood of the car was warmer than Amina thought it would be, pressing into the backs of her thighs with the promise of spring and soft grass. She opened the notebook. The first photo was all hands and feet: her mother’s gnarled fingers clutching the B–Bi volume; Akhil’s feet oddly flexed forward and backward, like he was performing a ballet in another world; Akhil sleeping with a pillow over his head; Akhil eating dinner with his head in his hands. The last picture was Akhil in what Kamala had called the “Our Lord and Savior” position, head hanging over the edge of the couch, mouth open, back arched over the armrest, arms flung apart as though to embrace the ceiling. The hollow of his stomach disappeared into jeans that Amina now realized were unzipped.
“Shhhhhhhit,” Mindy breathed.
“He’s got a breath issue,” Dimple said. Mindy flipped the picture over. “So, I can have it?”
Amina felt herself warm, though she wasn’t sure if it was because she was pleased to be asked for the picture or because she didn’t want to give it away. Mindy leaned closer, her eyes reflecting the burgundy hood of the car, the shadow of Amina’s head. Her glossy lips parted to reveal rows of curiously small teeth, and Amina felt an astounding urge to rub noses with her, or purr, or roll over.
“Fucking finally,” Dimple said. Amina turned to see Akhil walking across the parking lot, head ducked to his chest, one hand dug deep into his jeans pocket. He looked up suddenly and came to a halt.
“What are you doing here?” It wasn’t exactly clear whom he was asking, as he looked from Amina to Mindy to Dimple and back to Amina.
“Looking at pictures of you naked,” Mindy said.
“Not naked,” Amina said quickly. “Just sleeping. I have ones of Mom, too. And Dad,” she lied.
“Pictures?”
Before Amina could protest, Mindy grabbed the photo from her lap, thrusting it at Akhil. Amina watched her brother take it in, her gut sinking as his brow furrowed. He looked up at her again but didn’t say anything. He unlocked the car door, threw his books into the back.
“I told you he’s a freak,” Dimple said. “He flips out all the time for no reason.”
Mindy slid off the hood as the engine started. She opened the passenger door and leaned down. “Can I get a ride?”
“To Corrales?” Dimple asked.
“Yeah.” Mindy swayed slightly. Akhil’s gaze, trapped in the crease between her breasts, swayed with her. Mindy smiled, drawing his eyes to her face.
“Do whatever you want,” he said, and Mindy eased into the passenger seat. She unlocked the back door for Amina, who got into the car, feeling a little sick and thrilled with the oddness of it all. Dimple’s mouth was a hard slash through the window as they drove away.
Amina wasn’t totally sure where one should be when one’s brother was being seduced, but she was pretty sure the backseat was not the right place. She stared into the rearview mirror, trying to catch Akhil’s eye, but her brother wasn’t looking back or even at Mindy. He was slouching behind the wheel, his right knee at an odd angle, as though it were being magnetically drawn to the passenger’s seat.
They weren’t two minutes into the drive when Mindy reached into her bag and pulled out a cigarette. She turned to Akhil. “Do you mind?”
Akhil glanced down. “Is that a joint?”
“Yeah. Do you smoke?”
“Yeah.”
“No you don’t,” Amina said, but if they heard her, they didn’t answer. Mindy pulled out a lighter and sucked in, pinching the tip before handing it to Akhil. He took it.
“So, fucking Corrales, huh?” Mindy exhaled. The car filled with a rich, funky odor, and Amina coughed.
Akhil took a tiny puff and held it in, nodding. He handed it back to her.
“You want some?” Mindy turned around.
“No!” Akhil said. “She’s a fucking kid.”
“Oops! Sorry.”
“It stinks,” Amina said.
“It’s skunk,” Mindy replied, and Amina sat back, baffled.
“So how long you guys lived in Corrales?”
“I don’t know. Nine years.”
“Cool. I have an aunt that lives in Rio Rancho.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Rio Rancho sucks,” Amina said.
Mindy looked over her shoulder and laughed, her hand landing on Akhil’s knee. “Doesn’t it? It’s like the old-person capital of the state.”
“TB survivors,” Akhil said, taking the joint back.
“What?”
“A lot of them are tuberculosis survivors. The climate is easy on their lungs.”
“Fascinating.” Mindy turned so that she was leaning against the passenger door, her body facing Akhil’s. “So what else do you know?”
“About what?”
“About other things.”
“Other things?”
“About Indian things.”
“Indian things?”
Mindy squeezed his knee. “Kama Sutra?”
Akhil looked like he’d been hit with a bad smell. He knocked her hand away, and a nervous swell rose in Amina’s stomach. Would they pull over right there, on Coors Road? Would he yell furiously, or talk extra slowly to make each word hit harder? Would his speech be about racism or appropriation, or would he just tell Mindy she was a big fat nothing? Anything was possible. Amina imagined the heat-blurred silhouette of Mindy in the rearview mirror, waiting for some low-rider to pity her and give her a lift back to school.
Akhil said nothing. Mindy slid her hand to his upper thigh, squeezed again. He did not remove it.
“Where’s your broth
er?” Kamala asked, some forty minutes later.
“Dunno.”
“What do you mean don’t know?”
“I’m reading,” Amina lied. She fanned the pages of the book with her thumb. She hadn’t really been able to read at all, had only circled the words Kurtz, green, and river.
Kamala frowned. “Did he go somewhere?”
“He’s out.”
“Out where?”
Amina shrugged. After they dropped her at the head of the driveway, Amina had watched the car roll fifty yards down the dirt road.
“Hey! Idiot!” Kamala snapped oniony fingers in front of her face. “Where did he go?”
Amina sighed. “Jesus.”
“What Jesus? I’m asking you a simple question, and you’re sitting like some deaf-mute.”
“I’m trying to read.”
Kamala grabbed Amina’s left ear, twisted hard.
“Ow! God! He just went to Ben Franklin’s for paint! He’ll be back soon!”
Kamala let go. “Why didn’t you just say so?”
“What the hell does it matter? He’s out doing whatever he wants, and it’s not like we have to keep track of him every shitty second of the day!” Amina rubbed her ear.
“No cursing!”
“Leave me alone, then!”
Kamala scrunched her face and abruptly held a cool palm to Amina’s forehead. “You’re having a hormonal episode,” she announced.
Three hours later Akhil sat at the dinner table looking like he’d gotten a once-over from an industrial-strength vacuum cleaner. Hair stuck out from his head in charged puffs, a half-inch circumference around his mouth was swollen and pink, and his left ear glistened gooily. His hooded sweatshirt was oddly bungled around his throat, as though hurricane-level winds had whipped it into a knot. Kamala passed the potatoes.
“So you’re the team captain again?”
Akhil took a spoonful of vegetables. “Uh-huh.”
Kamala scooped two more spoonfuls onto his plate. She followed with a leg of chicken, three spoonfuls of yogurt and cabbage, and two chapatis. “How many people are on the team?”
“Can I have one?” Amina asked.
Kamala reached for the water pitcher, filling their glasses. “Ten? Twelve?”