If Today Be Sweet

by Thrity Umrigar

  But before she could move, she heard Tara making her way swiftly through the yard. “Oh, shit,” she heard Jerome breathe, and then the woman was upon the two young boys. Tehmina heard the rustle of the bush as Tara parted it and then sounds that made the hair on her hands stand up—the mad thuds as Tara brought some mysterious object crashing down on her children’s small bodies, a boy’s bloodcurdling screams, Tara’s heavy, erratic breathing—even her breathing sounds angry and mad, Tehmina thought frantically—and Jerome’s urgent, hot pleas for her to stop, she was really hurting Joshy. Tehmina looked around, waited for the neighbors to come running from all directions as they would in Bombay, waited for herself to draw herself to her full height and roar out a warning to Tara to stop her madness at once. But nothing happened. There were no urgent footsteps; no tall, strong man came and pulled the object of her violence out of Tara’s hands; no neighborhood woman came and held the sobbing boys to her breast; no neighborhood child looked at Tara with big, accusing, shaming eyes. And even more inexplicably, she, Tehmina herself, did nothing, kept hiding behind the fence as if she was the one who had committed a shameful deed, as if she was the sinner.

  “Now get in the house,” she heard Tara say to the blubbering boys. “And stay in there until I get back. I’ll be back in two hours, tops. And if those dishes aren’t done by the time I return, you better not even be alive.”

  “Mom,” Jerome said urgently. “Josh’s lip is bleeding.”

  “Serves him right for hiding in the bushes. Probably cut himself on something. Now git, both of you, before I lose my temper again.”

  Through the crack in the fence, Tehmina saw Tara stand in the driveway with her hand on her hips while the boys flew into the house and shut the door behind them. She heard Tara muttering under her breath as she went to her car and got in. She heard her gun the car and then peel out of the driveway and down the street. Incredulous, she stayed in her hidden position for a full minute. Surely Tara was bluffing. Surely she wouldn’t leave two injured boys at home all alone.

  When Tehmina finally allowed herself to stand up, her legs were shaking. At first she thought it was from the cold and the uncomfortable half crouch she had held herself in in order to avoid being seen by her neighbors. But then she noticed that her whole body was trembling and she realized, with a kind of amazement, that she was angry. Coldly, murderously angry. Angry enough to spit in Tara’s hideous face if she saw her again.

  She paced in the yard, unsure of what to do, of how to get rid of this anger that was making her body rattle like the leaves on the ground. The thought of entering her comfortable, quiet home while there were two sobbing, hurting young children next door was out of the question. But if she went to the front of their house and rang their doorbell, Susan would find out. Surely some nosy neighbor—probably that old man Henderson who lived across the street from them and who was out in his yard day and night regardless of the weather—surely he’d mention something to Susan the next time he saw her.

  Think, she yelled silently to herself. Do something. While you’re pacing around here like an old cow, those two boys could be bleeding to death. And that wicked woman will be back home in no time—you heard her say that yourself. In desperation, she eyed the fence. It was about six feet high, she judged. But the wooden deck would help. If she stood on one of the lawn chairs that were on the deck, surely she could climb over the fence and into Antonio’s backyard. She could knock on the kitchen door, undetected by the prying eyes of Mr. Henderson or any other neighbor, and just make sure that the children were all right. Even before the thought had fully formed in her head, an agitated Tehmina pulled the chair close to the fence. Climbing gingerly on it, she stood still for a moment, finding her balance. Then, she cautiously reached out and slipped her left leg over the fence, shifting her weight until her other leg was dangling above the chair and she found herself in the improbable position of sitting with her buttocks hanging in the space between the two stakes of the fence. The rounded top of the fence poked uncomfortably into the small of her back, so she knew that she couldn’t stay in this position for long. She was also afraid that the fence would give way under her weight. For the first time in her life, Tehmina wished she was even thinner than she was. This was all she needed—for a section of the fence to come crashing down and having to explain the cause of its collapse to an accusing, indignant Tara and a tight-lipped Susan. She wished Cookie was home so she could have used his swift, lithe, athletic body to jump over the fence and act as her messenger of comfort and hope to the other two boys. Instead, here she was, with her stupid, lumpen, middle-aged body, stuck on a fence with a leg dangling on either side of it.

  The wind kicked in and got under the khameez she was wearing, making it billow like a sail on a boat. She shifted a fraction of an inch on the fence and the next second she heard—or perhaps felt—a tear in her loose, baggy pants. She was mortified. How was she going to go over to her neighbor’s home now, with a tear right near her bottom? Of course, the khameez was probably long enough to cover the ungainly sight of her underwear sticking out from under the torn shalwar. Still, she eyed the recently vacated chair longingly, contemplating the urge to abandon this crazy mission and go back into the warm comfort and safety of her home. What if someone caught her now, a sixty-six-year-old woman perched atop a fence that might give way at any minute? Surely they would lock her up in some American asylum where grim-faced doctors would eye her as if she was a species from some other planet. The boys were probably okay, were probably used to occasional whackings from their mother. And really, she had done nothing yet that was irreversible—she had not called out to Tara to stop her mad beating, had not consoled the sobbing boys, had not yet knocked on their door like she intended to. No, all she had done was impulsively put herself in a situation where she was sitting atop a fence like a flag planted on a mountain.

  The memory of Jerome’s tearful voice drove her on. She forced herself to shift her body as she brought her other leg slowly around he fence. Despite the bitter cold, her face was sweaty from the physical and mental effort this took. What had happened to her? she wondered. In high school she had run track and had been a hurdler. Was no part of that athletic, strong schoolgirl still alive in her? Was that girl totally buried under the mounds of time, under the shrill complaints of arthritis and muscle pain? Had she been rubbed out completely by the pungent layers of Tiger Balm and Iodex?

  Because she needed the help of that girl now. Tehmina knew this as she eyed the six-foot drop from where she sat on the fence to the bottom of Antonio’s yard. She had forgotten that there was no deck on his side of the fence, no built-up area that would soften her fall as she dropped onto the other side. A bitter gust of wind blew and froze the sweat on her face. Her eyes watered because of the cold and because she was afraid. What if she twisted her ankle? She, who was here on a rescue mission, would have to be rescued herself. She would go from being savior to victim in a moment’s time. Instead of her checking in on them, poor Josh and Jerome would have to take care of their ungainly visitor who would have dropped into their yard much like a heavy, clumsy bird with a broken wing.

  Tehmina, Rustom called out to her. For heaven’s sake, jannu. Just bloody jump. She startled at the sound of his voice, so clear it might have come from someone standing behind her. And for the rest of her life she believed that Rustom had actually stood behind her on the deck and that her beloved had not so gently given her rumpus a helpful push. Because the next thing she knew, she had loosened her tight grip on the tip of the fence, and even as she let go her feet were struggling to position themselves correctly for the landing. She half landed on her feet and half on her knees. The ground was so cold that she immediately used the heels of her hands to push herself off the ground, thereby leaving thin scratches on them. She stood still and upright for a moment, willing her body to not betray her now, to not surprise her with any new, sharp pain. But she was fine.

  Quickly, she made her way toward the bac
k of the house. Climbing the two wooden steps that led to the kitchen door, she knocked on it. There was no response. Cupping her eyes in order to keep the sunlight out, she rested her face against the glass door and peered inside. There was no sign of the boys. If she didn’t know better, she would’ve thought nobody was home. Her eyes took in the large brown stain on the light ceramic floor, the dirty dishes in the sink. But no sign of the boys.

  She knocked louder this time. “Josh. Jerome. Open the door. It’s Tehmi—it’s Cookie’s granna. From next door.”

  No answer. She felt panic rise and tried her best to squelch it. She tried the doorknob. It turned easily under her hand. Feeling like an intruder, she entered the disheveled kitchen. The voice in her head was clanging like a fire alarm. You shouldn’t be here, she said to herself. You can go to jail for this, breaking into someone’s house. Maybe you should turn back right now and no one will know that you were here.

  Her feet followed their own dictates. They led her into the living room. Tehmina noticed two things simultaneously: one, the living room looked like someone had fought a war in it. There were papers and pizza boxes everywhere. All four of the couch cushions were on the floor. Two overflowing ashtrays spilled their contents onto a filthy coffee table.

  Two, she noticed a movement in the corner between the wall and the TV cabinet. Josh and Jerome were crouched in that corner, huddled close to each other and as quiet as mice. They are the only beautiful things in this catastrophic room, Tehmina thought.

  Tehmina was watching the boys sipping hot chocolate in her kitchen, a worried expression on her face. The enormity of what she had done was beginning to dawn on her. She had talked the two frightened boys into leaving their house. On their way out she had grabbed a bar stool and they had each stood on it to leap over the fence and onto the chair on the deck that waited for them on the other side. In other words, she had snuck two children out of their own home. Their mother would be home any minute and how long before she discovered the bar stool near the fence and figured things out? And now she was sitting with two boys whom she had kidnapped, in a house that didn’t belong to her, a house that belonged to a woman who had expressly told her that she wanted nothing to do with her troublesome neighbors next door.

  “What time will your mom be home?” she asked, and noticed how Jerome’s face darkened.

  “I dunno.” He shrugged. “She’s gone over to Ernie’s house. Could be two, three hours.”

  She saw the boys looking at her expectantly, waiting for her to do something. But she felt heavy, sluggish, unable to think, as if she had used up all her energy in her earlier, manic adventure. “How is your lip?” she asked Josh. She had already cleaned it, and had noticed how Josh’s eyes had glistened with tears when she had put some antiseptic on it. The boy also had a nasty bruise above his left eye, which Tehmina had bathed with a washcloth and warm water. Gazing at it now, she longed for the iodine that occupied a permanent place in her medicine cabinet at home. As far as she knew, nobody in America kept iodine at home.

  “It’s okay,” Josh mumbled. “It just hurts when I smile.” He looked so subdued that Tehmina’s heart broke. That wicked woman has damaged the spirit of this beautiful boy, she thought. Like trampling on a flower.

  “Well, if it hurts to smile, then don’t smile, dummy,” Jerome said, and there was something malicious and cruel in his voice. It’s already happening, Tehmina thought. The mother’s meanness is trickling into the veins of another generation, drip, drip, drip, like the fresh coffee that drips into the pot every morning.

  “Don’t talk to your brother like that, sonny,” she said automatically, and was unprepared for the angry look that she saw on Jerome’s face.

  “I want to go home,” he declared. “My mom will be home soon.”

  Tehmina panicked. There was no way she was letting these boys back into that house, she thought. The knowledge of this propelled her into action. “How about something to eat?” she asked. “Would you like some fruit? No? Some spinach pies?” She peered into the fridge and silently cursed her rotten luck. They had been eating out so much because of the holidays that the fridge, which was always overflowing with her cooking, was virtually bare. No mutton cutlets, no chops, no curry rice. Not that these boys would’ve liked any of these things, anyway. She had a sudden inspiration. “I know,” she said. “How about a grilled cheese sandwich? With chips on the side?”

  She left the boys munching on their sandwiches while she went into the living room to use the phone. She hesitated for a moment but then dialed the number for Sorab’s secretary. “Janet?” she said, “Is Sorab there? This is his mother.”

  “Oh, hi, Tammy,” Janet replied. “He’s in meetings all afternoon, I’m afraid. But I can interrupt him, if it’s an emergency.”

  Did the fact that she had two young boys sitting in her kitchen without the permission or knowledge of their mother constitute an emergency? Tehmina imagined the look of horror on her son’s face when she broke the news to him. In this country, did they send people to jail for what she had done—entering someone’s home and whisking two young children away? And how could she possibly tell her son how she’d done it—how she’d jumped over a fence like a jewel thief? She might as well confess that she’d walked over the rooftops of all the homes in the neighborhood and slid down the chimney. Suddenly, inexplicably, she felt the urge to giggle. I’m going mad, she thought. “No,” she told Janet on the phone. “Don’t disturb him. It’s nothing much, really. Just had a question for him. Well, Merry Christmas to you, dear.”

  The doorbell rang just as she hung up and for a second she froze in horror. Surely that was Tara. She must have returned home while Tehmina was on the phone, and figured out that her sons were being held hostage at the house next door. Tehmina felt sick to her stomach. She knew she had no right to hold on to those boys. But she also knew, as sure as she knew anything, that Tara had no right to those boys either, that she had forfeited the exquisite privilege of motherhood with her cruelty and brutality. And that there was no way she, Tehmina, was giving up those boys to Tara without a fight.

  “Granna,” she heard the beloved voice yell, “hurry up and open the door. It’s cold out here.”

  She felt as if she could pass out in relief. Of course. It was Cookie, returning home from his playdate at Bill Steinberg’s house. But on her way to the door, she stopped, struck by another thought: under no circumstances could she let Mary Steinberg, who was undoubtedly dropping Cookie off, into the house. “Coming,” she yelled, but crept back into the kitchen.

  “You know how to play police-police?” she asked the startled boys, and when they shook their heads no, “When I say ‘freeze,’ you just stop whatever you’re doing and freeze in that position. You can’t move or talk or anything. Okay, let’s play a practice round. You can’t move until I say ‘unfreeze,’ okay?”

  She saw Jerome eye the last of his sandwich with regret, but both boys sat as still as statues while she pulled the kitchen door shut and headed to the foyer. She opened the door on Cookie and Mary, their faces red with waiting in the cold. “Sorry, sorry,” she said. “I was in the middle of something. So much work to do, getting ready for Christmas and all. I’m sure you understand.”

  Mary laughed lightly. “Well, we don’t exactly celebrate Christmas. But I do know what you mean.” She made a slight movement as if to follow Cookie into the house. “Do you need help with anything?”

  Tehmina didn’t loosen her grip on the front door. Nor did she concede an inch of ground. “Oh, God, no. Just stuff I have to do myself.” She held Cookie by the shoulder and moved him toward her so that he was blocking Mary’s path also. “And now that Cookie’s home I have one less thing to worry about. Thanks so much for dropping him off, Mary.”

  “Oh, yeah. No problem.” Mary was looking at her strangely. “Well, okay. I guess I should get back home, anyway.” She bent toward Cookie. “Bye, little guy. You come over for a playdate soon, you understand?”


  Cookie nodded. “Oh. I forgot to tell Billy. Can you tell him I’m going to get a Pneumatic Power Destroyer for Christmas?” He glanced at his grandmother. “At least, I hope so.”

  They stood in the doorway until Mary Steinberg got into her car and drove away. Then Tehmina turned toward her grandson. “Ae, Cookie,” she said. “We have some company.”

  “Company?” Cookie asked. “Who? Who is it?”

  “All right, calm down, calm down. They’re in the kitchen. It’s Jerome and Josh from next door.”

  “Jerome and Joshy? Yeeeeaaaaaaah.” Cookie went tearing into the kitchen.

  “Unfreeze,” Tehmina said, and Jerome immediately put the last of his sandwich into this mouth.

  “Hey. Did you come over for a playdate?” Cookie asked. Then, noticing Joshua’s bruised and swollen face, “Hey, what happened to you, Joshy?”

  “My mommy whupped me.”

  Cookie stared at him without comprehension. “You mean, you fell?” he asked at last.

  Jerome banged his hand on the kitchen table. “No, he means our mamma whupped him. She beat us for being bad.” His face was red and ugly with rage. He also looked as if he was about to burst into tears.

  “Boys,” Tehmina said. “No shouting, please. We must all be quiet. And think. Think.” She looked around the room and saw three young faces staring back at her, looking to her for guidance, looking to her to make sense out of their lives. She did not feel up to the task. I’m as confused as you are, she wanted to say to them. I don’t know what to do any more than you do. Instead, noticing the teary look on her grandson’s face, she barked, “Cookie. I want you to go up to your room and wash your face. All dirty you are.”