Oh, but be careful what you think, Savitri. Be careful.
So instead of telling Doug Naples the truth about Ravi, Savitri took a deep breath. She said, “Ravi is doing yoga. Yoga, Doug. That is, you know, one of the things we do in India. A very good thing.”
Doug raised his eyebrows and exhaled an impressed “Huh.” He nodded and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Yoga, isn’t that something. My doctor says I should do it, too. Good for my sore back. You know, I smelled that Indian food you were cooking, and there’s old Vee doing yoga. Isn’t that something.”
“Come over sometime, Doug,” said Savitri. “We’ll show you how to do yoga, too.”
“Sure,” Doug said. “That would be something. It sure smells interesting. And when he’s disposed, tell Vee anytime he wants to take another crack at that fence, let me know. My nephew is here for the holiday, we would have an extra hand.”
“Thanks, Doug,” said Savitri. “I’ll tell him.”
She shut the door and watched Doug walk back to his house, where he sat at home all day, unemployed, and waited for his fat wife to come home. He was just the type of American her husband would attach himself to. Like her husband, Doug had the air of someone who had been dropped here from another planet, fascinated but flummoxed by the most basic practical processes, like how to fix a fence or find a new job.
Savitri walked out to the garage and parked the car. She took the milk and the turkey from the trunk and brought them inside. She put the milk in the fridge, and she wrapped the turkey’s cellophaned and bagged flesh in an additional plastic bag, cleared a space at the margin of the freezer, and slid it in, careful that it touched nothing else.
She saw now that she had the capacity to carry on as normal, that her guilt was not plainly visible on her face. She had only to pretend that nothing had happened, put it all out of her mind. No one knew that Ravi was dead, no one suspected that she might have killed him. If she allowed herself to ponder her situation, then the thoughts would overwhelm. Better to try not to think too much about it at all.
She walked to the living room, stopped, and drew a breath, but couldn’t avoid looking down again at her husband. Oh, she couldn’t bear to see him lying there, his mouth agape, his eyes wide open in the same naïve, uncritical, awestruck gaze he’d had in life. He was staring at the living room, as if to take in all the furniture, the old and ugly things. As if to say, I bought this all for you when we were young and dumb and content with each other, and this room was enough for us.
She had killed this innocent man, her husband, who loved her. She had thought of it, and it had come to pass.
Savitri walked hurriedly past him and into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She stripped all her clothes off onto the floor, had the fleeting thought of taking a hot, hot shower, but instead crawled directly under the covers of her bed. She was so tired now, tired of thinking, of cooking.
Savitri remembered the only other dead relative she had seen, her grandfather, when she was ten or eleven. He had died of a heart attack at an old age in the old house in the village, and they had stretched him out on the bedroom floor to clean him. Then they wrapped him in white cotton and covered his forehead with sandalwood paste and white ash and red kumkum. They moved him to the sitting room floor and laid him there. His sons didn’t shave, the stoves remained unlit. The neighbors brought over simple foods. A vadhyar came to the house to pray over the body and prepare the soul for its journey. All her grandfather’s friends and neighbors came to pay respects, coworkers and former students, before they took him away to be burned.
Savitri had not witnessed her own parents’ deaths. Those had been “phone deaths” that happened while Savitri was in the United States. And now Ravi slept with his head on the carpet, still in his dirty clothes from work. Even death has become less, she thought. Was it her fault?
Where was Radha? She picked up the bedside phone and dialed her daughter again. The answering machine played some song, black music, as Savitri called rap music, and then Lisa’s and Radha’s voices, alternately. “Hi, this is Lisa … and this is Radha,” and then simultaneously, “do your thing at the beep and we’ll get back at you. Peace.”
“Hello, this is a message for Radha,” Savitri said. “It’s her mother calling. Hi, sweetie. It’s me. Listen, I’m not mad at you. Okay? I am not anymore mad. Call me. I just want to talk to you. I love you. There is one thing I need to talk to you, an important thing. Don’t be worried, okay? Something happened, wanted to ask your advice about it. Not—” She got just this far when the beep of the machine cut her off. Savitri hung up the phone and closed her eyes.
Ravi should have been in the bed next to her now, or in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. She thought of his face, smiling. About two months ago, she remembered, they had been invited to a dinner party. Savitri had made Ravi change his entire outfit before they could leave. She made him wear one of his few nice shirts, told him to comb his hair with oil. And when she was through with him, she had been struck by how handsome he looked. Even Ravi seemed to enjoy the attention she gave him, despite the nagging that came with it. And at the party, Savitri found herself doing small things for him—refilling his coffee cup unbidden, complimenting him in front of the other husbands.
Why had she asked for his death? She still smelled his odor lingering in the sheets. When she went to the toilet, she should have found the seat wet from his washing, evidence of his presence. She missed his five-dollar haircuts and fifteen-year-old suits. She missed walking on Sundays side by side through the department stores, sullenly vetoing each other’s choices, the quiet but certain understanding they shared. She missed his messy way of eating, food oozing from his fist, his relish understated but evident. How other times he might take one bite and say, with simple sincerity, “Nice food, dee.” Why had she ever wanted more than this?
At one time in her life, Savitri cried if Ravi came home late from the office. Staring out the window, waiting to see the headlights of his car, she had longed so much to be with her family and friends back in India, where there was always someone in the house to talk to, where you could walk to people’s houses. Savitri realized then that if they were going to stay in America, things would have to change. She would have to learn to drive. She needed to start meeting people, Americans. She couldn’t sit alone in the house forever. She wanted even to take a job like some of the women she had met at temple. But then, for years, she had given up so many things to stay at home for Radha.
Now, finally, Savitri had begun a career. She still hoped to have more education, more money. She wanted to see things and to travel. Ravi didn’t seem to share these ambitions. Savitri knew that her husband still harbored dreams of moving back to Madras. But she thought there was so much more to be had in America, so much they hadn’t even understood yet. Was she wrong to think this?
Savitri felt she had to ask someone for advice; the situation was impossible otherwise. But who else could possibly understand such a predicament? Take Poornima. Poornima lived a life like Savitri’s but, Savitri felt, with so much more grace and ease, so much less struggle. Poornima had a way of willing things to fall into place. It sickened Savitri to think of having to confess to such a person, such a perfect person. But maybe it was her best option. Maybe there was some easy way out of this, maybe Poornima would tell her this unwieldy problem wasn’t a problem at all. Yes, Savitri thought. She would go to Poornima’s luncheon. Then, if she could master her guilt and embarrassment, she would confess to her friend.
Savitri didn’t fall asleep until early in the morning. When she woke up, the radio newsman was reading the weather report as if it were any other day. It was already past noon. She got out of bed, a dull pain in the back of her head, and showered for twenty-five full minutes. Then she wore a blue petticoat and blouse, and a silk sari embroidered with gold. A little bit much for a luncheon, perhaps, she knew.
Leaving the bedroom, she caught an unwanted glimpse of Ravi’s body, and, although
she expected it to be there, Savitri gave a short cry of surprise. It seemed to have softened a bit and sunken into the carpet, to have lost its tension. She hurried past it to the garage, took the Tercel, and drove to Poornima’s subdivision, a new one where a security guard in a redbrick kiosk took down her license plate number as she passed.
Poornima’s house leaned high in creamy brick at the end of a cul-de-sac, edged by a neat lawn, accented by young azaleas and crape myrtle in red mulch freshly laid by the lawn men. Poornima’s lanky son, Arun, greeted Savitri at the door, his black hair gelled down to a shiny, cropped shell. He held a glass in his hand.
“You’re looking awfully beautiful, Auntie,” Arun said, smoothing down his hair, making Savitri smile despite herself.
“So polite you are, Arun,” Savitri said. “When did you suddenly get old enough to drink wine?”
Arun retreated into the crowd and Savitri wound her way through the party, finding Poornima in the kitchen, assembling a tray of hors d’oeuvres with manic accuracy, bhajis and chutney and samosas and murukkus. “Done. Take this, Tina,” Poornima said, handing her tray off to the maid, and turned to Savitri.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Savitri.
“Hello, dear. Don’t be sorry,” said Poornima. “Where are Ravi and Radha?”
“Not coming,” Savitri said. “Didn’t I tell you?”
“Of course. Very bad. They’ll hear from me.”
“I didn’t tell you.”
“You told me. Here, take this.” Poornima handed Savitri a glass of white wine from a collection of several on a tray.
Savitri took half the wine in a gulp. “I didn’t tell you,” she said. “Ravi is dead.” There, thought Savitri. Just tell her. Easiest like this.
“What?” asked Poornima. Her son wandered into the kitchen just then, with a girl Savitri had never seen before.
“Did you say hello to Auntie?” Poornima asked her son.
“Yes, I did,” replied Arun, and indicating the young woman, “This is Nira.”
Savitri shook the girl’s hand and turned back to Poornima, but she was already gone, attending to other guests.
“How is Radha doing?” Arun asked Savitri.
“She is fine,” Savitri said. “I don’t know, really. She says she wants to take off from college one year and be an airline hostess. See the world and all.”
Poornima turned from her conversation on the other side of the room and called, “Nira goes to Harvard with Arun, both of them premed. Look, I’m embarrassing them. Sorry.”
Savitri turned to the girl, Nira, and took her measure. Taller than Radha, somewhat slimmer. Lighter complexion. Obviously smart, probably has rich parents. I see how it is, thought Savitri.
“You going to marry this girl?” Savitri asked Arun, and then immediately apologized. “Sorry, that was not a right question.”
“That’s all right, Auntie,” Arun said, diplomatically.
“Because I always wanted, you know … I always thought that you and my Radha together would be good. You grew up together and all. And you’re doing so well. I don’t care that you are not Brahmins. You have to make compromises. Uncle didn’t understand that, you see? He could be a stupid man sometimes, Arun. So stupid.” Savitri felt a catch in her throat. She paused to regain her composure.
“But now you’ve got this girl, good for you. And Radha, well … There’s only so much I can do, right?”
Arun stared for a moment, blinking. Then he smiled. “I think my mother might need some help,” he said. He took his friend by the hand and left.
Savitri replaced her empty glass of wine and grabbed another from the tray. Then she veered into the party, almost running into Poornima’s husband, Vasanth, himself holding a wobbly glass of scotch in one hand.
“Hello, lovely lady,” he said, pushing his oiled locks out of his face with one hand. He had hair thick as an eighteen-year-old’s and too long, licking down over his eyebrows, curling over his ears. “Where’s the captain?” he asked. “Where’s the young lady? Younger lady I should say.”
“Both of them indisposed,” answered Savitri.
“Indisposed? What is this? Working even today, the slave. It’s Thanksgiving, I say, and he’s left his wife all by herself.” Vasanth smiled. “Someone should tell him.”
What must it be like, Savitri wondered, to be his wife, to have his money? Did Poornima ever wish for Vasanth’s death? Is this the sort of life Savitri had wanted?
Savitri heard the tinkle of ice in glasses, the gibbering voices of tiny demons all around her. Immediately she regretted her thoughts.
“Would be so much better if my wife were looking as young as you,” Vasanth said, grinning wide. “She’s not nice, Savitri. Every time I open my mouth she is giving me bad looks.” Vasanth was so close that Savitri could see the thin red shaving cuts on his cheek and note the odors of sweet aftershave, hair oil, and hard liquor. Savitri felt sickened by his flesh, the smell of his potions, the slick wetness of him. She longed sharply for the plain, dusty familiarity of her husband.
“No!” Savitri said fiercely, shaking her head. “I don’t want this. You hear me?” she called out to the room.
“Eh?” Vasanth asked.
“You hear me?” Savitri yelled.
She turned and left Vasanth behind, perplexed but with an uncertain smile on his face, eager to find the joke in the situation. Savitri moved through the crowd until she found Poornima in the kitchen. “I’m leaving,” Savitri said to Poornima. “My husband’s dead.”
“What nonsense,” said Poornima. “You can’t leave before having lunch. I have to help Tina.” Poornima walked toward the young maid, who hovered over the oven. Together, Tina and Poornima pulled from the oven a glistening, honey-brown turkey, assembled all round with red potatoes and green beans. Savitri guffawed in surprise.
“What is this you’ve done?” Savitri said. “You’re a vegetarian.”
“But the kids aren’t,” said Poornima. “Vasanth isn’t. And the Nairs aren’t, the Bannerjees aren’t. It’s Thanksgiving, Savitri. And Tina taught me to make the turkey. Actually, you could say she did most of the making. Tina!” she called.
Tina returned with a carving knife, and Poornima stepped to the side, letting the young woman take the turkey toward the dining room.
Vasanth entered the kitchen, drunkenly proclaiming, “It’s Thanksgiving, but we have no Pilgrims. Only Indians, no Americans. Must have both for Thanksgiving, isn’t it so? Americans in big black hats.”
“You’re drinking too much,” Poornima said humorlessly. “And besides, we have Tina.”
“But she’s black!” screamed Vasanth. “Black doesn’t count.” Tina eyed him sharply, saying nothing. “Black is different,” Vasanth continued. “Did you ever see a black Pilgrim? Tina is on the Indian side with us.”
Arun stepped forward to put a protective arm around his father’s shoulders, and Vasanth seemed to go limp, instantly calmed by his son’s embrace. He looked up at Arun, who stood half a head taller. “Why don’t you be the Americans?” Vasanth asked earnestly.
“Me?” asked Arun.
“You kids,” said Vasanth. “Kids are Americans, parents are Indians.”
“But that’s wrong, Dad,” Arun explained. “You were the immigrants, after all, so you should be the Pilgrims. We’re natives, so we should be Indians.”
“Backward!” Vasanth laughed. “My son turns everything backward! Clever boy.” With one hand, Vasanth squeezed Arun’s cheeks together until the boy’s lips puckered. Arun took it amiably.
“Sweethearts, everyone, come to the dining room. We’re cutting the turkey. Sorry, carving the turkey, carving it,” announced Poornima to the living room, and the crowd moved toward her. Savitri followed them, and in the mirror-paneled dining room, she stared at the reflection of all her people, beaming and glittering, husbands and wives, parents and children. Enemies gathered in truce around a decorated table. Poornima, with Tina’s hand guiding hers, raised the c
arving knife aloft.
Savitri turned to the woman next to her, a casual acquaintance, someone she had seen occasionally at temple.
“My husband is dead,” said Savitri.
“What?” gasped the woman.
“My husband is dead. I think I have killed him, unintentional. Actually, unintentional, intentional—I’m not sure.”
“What are you saying?” the woman asked, a look of confusion grading into one of horror. She backed away from Savitri, farther into the crowd.
Savitri tried to explain. “I killed him, and he’s on the floor. I killed him, you see!” The people gathered in the dining room stopped laughing and stopped talking. Poornima looked up, her knife and her smile frozen. The guests clutched their empty plates and turned toward Savitri. “I killed him,” Savitri yelled to all of them, “and that’s all there is to it.” Savitri knew they understood. They understood, but she could see from their eyes they would never acknowledge it.
“Savitri, darling.” Poornima set down her knife, approached through the stunned crowd, and put her hand on Savitri’s shoulder, gripping it with gentle firmness. “What’s happened? Why are you upset?”
Savitri didn’t answer. She shrugged off Poornima’s hand, turned around, and went out the front door. She got in her car and drove until she was back at her house.
Her husband was on the floor—she bent down and pressed the lids closed over his cloudy eyes; she brushed his hair into place with her fingers—and Savitri was very sorry. The phone was ringing.
“What happened?” Savitri heard Radha’s voice through the receiver. “Lisa said something about Dad.”
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