Pieces of Happiness

by Anne Ostby

  Why doesn’t her daughter look out for her? Or Madam Kat? Why do they let her go out alone when she doesn’t know where she’s going? She could get lost, or end up by the side of the road with a broken leg. Or she could get so scared that her heart stops and she dies. I’ve seen the fear in her face, Lord. Madam Maya isn’t afraid of sea snakes or owls screeching. The fear in her eyes is the one that can summon death.

  Madam Maya sometimes goes walking after dark, Lord. Please watch over her. I don’t think the other madams understand that they need to gently guide her home with an arm around her shoulder.

  In Jesus’ holy name. Emeni.

  12

  Kat

  What have I done? I can’t sleep, the sheets are sweaty and bundled up around me, as twisted as my thoughts. What have I gotten myself into? Evy’s plane hasn’t even landed in Norway yet, and all I want to do is shout for her to come back. What was I thinking, not telling the others? Why have I smiled and hidden and covered up Maya’s condition these past two weeks, and interrupted Evy every time she wanted to bring up the subject? And now that she’s left her mother here and I’ve assured her everything will be fine, I’ve sent away the only ally I had. Why didn’t I bring the others into this from day one? Did I imagine that Maya’s problems would disappear as soon as she got to the South Pacific? That they’d melt away in the sun, dissolve like ice cubes in a glass?

  —

  She dozed in the passenger seat for most of the way back from the airport. When we saw Evy disappear through security, Maya seemed calm and carefree, smiling widely as she waved goodbye to her daughter. She was tired when we got in the truck, but before she fell asleep, leaning her head against the window, she turned toward me and exclaimed: “The women’s commune was such a great suggestion! What a wonderful idea you had!”

  She woke up as I stopped the truck in front of the house, and I saw it then right away. The fumbling hands, the hesitation as she slowly climbed out. The way she paused and stared down at her legs, trousers, sandals—bewildered, as if she’d never seen them before. How she raised her head and listened for the waves before following the sound with uncertain steps between the bare trunks of the palm trees, down the soft slope to where wiry tufts of grass border the sand. I followed her and spoke gently, keeping my voice soft and low: “Where are you going, Maya? Isn’t it a little late for a walk on the beach?” A blank stare, her face twitching in horror. Her tongue working slowly, struggling to form words. I waited, even though my arms were crying out to pull her back to safety, to tear her away from the abyss she was teetering on. At last she found my name. The shadows drained from her eyes, pulling back in a long tidal wave and bringing her onto solid ground again. “Kat,” she said. Her voice was frail, the words muddled. “What are you doing here?”

  I managed to lead her up to the house without too much trouble, avoiding her frightened eyes by focusing on getting her ready for bed. Luckily the others were occupied elsewhere, so I could help her get undressed and put her to bed. I swallowed my own nauseous fear, turned a deaf ear to her confused babbling, her questions about where Evy was. She’s asleep now; I just peeked in the door and heard the faint snoring. But I might as well get up. The sheet will have to serve as a bathrobe; I can wrap myself up in it in the hammock eventually. Maybe rocking in rhythm with the waves will make sleep finally come.

  —

  Everything gets turned upside down. When we’re old and we think we can’t handle any more, we’re left with no goddamn choice. What was up goes down; the oldest becomes the youngest. And people like Lisbeth, who have gambled everything on being watched, have to take their final strut down the catwalk in front of an audience who can’t find their glasses.

  A black stream of ants marches with determination from a crack in the wall that branches out toward the overhang of the porch. I can’t take my eyes off them: so sure of where they’re going, although the goal is out of sight. What was my goal, what did I want to achieve with all this? Did I just want a group to assemble with me around the campfire? Was I afraid of sitting there alone at night? Because no one from my own bloodline is beside me, ready to take over?

  I’ve planned and pondered. Considered the responsibility if someone gets sick: there’s a hospital, or at least an outpatient clinic, in Rakiraki. I’ve thought of the inevitable stomach bugs: Ateca knows all about boiling the water and washing the vegetables. I’ve thought of security. Niklas never wanted to have a security guard, as other kaivalagi do; “If having local neighbors isn’t protection enough, we don’t belong here,” he always said. Still, with only women in the house, I hired Akuila to patrol outside at night. I may have caught him dozing off in the hammock once or twice, but I bet his thick strong neck, his military background, and his reputation as a sturdy, decisive guy is enough to keep people with dubious intentions away. And he doesn’t bother the ladies with unnecessary small talk: “Yes, ma’am” is his standard response to most questions.

  Sickness, food, security—is there more I could have done to prepare? I’d pictured the sun, the friendly bula smiles, the calm shuffle of daily life on “Fiji time”—how all this would softly envelop my friends like a warm tropical blanket. How it would get them away from winter and arthritis and electric bills and the dreary evening news, free them from telemarketers and frozen vegetables. I had pictured togetherness, laughter, and mutual benefits. Was it irresponsible to invite them to form this fellowship with me?

  Still—Maya’s eyes. Their gaping terror when she had no idea where she was. The flailing hands, before they held on to mine for dear life. Can I do this? Maya, who’s taken care of children her whole adult life, now becomes the child we have to care for. Niklas would have known what we should do. But there’s no “we” anymore. There’s only me, me alone. Kat alone. Who doesn’t dare reveal her secret to the others, even though they could be valuable supporting players in the enormous game I’ve taken on.

  I know Akuila makes the rounds at night; still, I’m startled when he suddenly appears before me in the darkness on the steps of the veranda: “Everything all right, ma’am?”

  “Yes, everything’s all right, Akuila. I just couldn’t sleep.”

  His gaze is concerned, but curious. “Nothing to worry about, ma’am. I’m watching out; you can sleep safely.”

  I feel bad that I’m momentarily annoyed, and hide my irritation behind a smile.

  “I know, Akuila.”

  He stays standing for a few more seconds at the foot of the steps, looking as if he might say something more. Then he reconsiders and nods “Yes, ma’am,” before he continues his patrol around the house. I follow his fleshy neck under the cap with my gaze until he vanishes around the corner.

  Maybe I should go check on Maya again. Is this what it’s like to have a child? Always having a small part of your brain occupied with worry? Trying to stay one step ahead by anticipating problems and looking for solutions?

  It’s impossible to get out of the dangling hammock without producing a thud that sends a shooting pain up into my bad knee. While I rub it, trying to regain my balance, the screen door slides open, and there’s Sina. We cry out in unison: “Are you awake?” When she responds that she couldn’t sleep, I can’t decide whether she sounds tired or embarrassed.

  I pat the sun-bleached cushion in the chair next to my hammock and ask her to come and sit down. She takes out a cigarette and lights up. I recognize Lisbeth’s leather cigarette case and don’t know whether to laugh or cry—is Sina stealing smokes from Lisbeth? I suddenly see them in front of me, in the smokers’ corner in the high school parking lot: Lisbeth elegantly flicking her cigarette between pink fingernails, Sina standing beside her waiting, until she was handed the butt and smoked up the last few drags.

  She leans back in her chair and blows a white cloud out into the darkness. “I should quit,” she says. “It’s bad for my health, and I can’t afford it either.”

  There’s nothing to say to that.

  She starts talking about
her son.

  “I was disappointed when Armand started, but I thought, if that’s the worst of it…” Her face hardens, she leans forward and taps the ash over the edge of the porch. “If his smoking was the only thing I paid for, I wouldn’t complain.”

  Wow. I give her a minute, but nothing happens. The moon pokes its crooked crescent face out from between the clouds, illuminates the gently swaying palm fronds. Sina hasn’t mentioned money since her outburst at the airport that first night, and I’ve left the subject alone. Both Ingrid and Lisbeth have asked me how we’re going to manage the division of costs, but so far I’ve brushed it off and said we’ll work it out eventually. I’m sure Sina won’t be able to pay as much as the rest of them, and I have to figure it out somehow. It can’t be that hard—the food expenses are negligible here, and I’d have to pay the electric bill regardless.

  When Sina is done smoking she gets up and walks into the yard, toward a hibiscus bush with blood-red blossoms. Fiddles with a long, curious, pollen-laden stamen and addresses me with her back turned.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be finished with your offspring at some point? You support them, help them, pay for them, encourage them—but it’s supposed to be over at some point. They’re supposed to make it on their own…I guess I’d imagined that he would be the one to help me one day.” Her voice fades as she speaks, but now she collects herself and turns up the volume. “But it never ends, dammit!”

  “Sina…”

  I don’t know what to say. I hurry down the stairs and put my arm around her, feeling clumsy.

  Sina shrugs my arm off. “You wouldn’t understand. You don’t have kids.”

  I jump back, but only slightly. I’ve heard this before. The smug disqualification. Still, it prickles in my throat, and I want to hit back. “No,” I respond. “I don’t. But I know a thing or two about responsibility.”

  Maya’s frightened face appears in my mind’s eye.

  “And responsibility goes both ways.”

  Hypocrite, the voice in my head echoes as I walk back up the four steps to the porch. Unless I decide to call Evy right away when she lands and ask her to come back and get her mother, I’ll have to let the others know. Let them decide whether they want to share the burden.

  I turn toward Sina, and the thought crumbles in my mind. Her bare legs are gray in the dim moonlight; her scalp shows through her wisps of hair. A roll of resignation and disappointment bunched up around her waist; her fingers curl; soon they’ll turn into claws. Sina is sixty-six years old, broke, and worried. I can’t say anything about Maya.

  13

  Sina

  From: armandg@noria.no

  To: sina.guttormsen@hotmail.com

  Subject: Problem

  Hi Mom

  I hope you can check email so you see this. Things have gotten complicated since you left, especially with my finances. As you know, my back has been acting up, and all the lifting and carrying at work made it worse. But my idiot doctor won’t clear me for medical leave, so I had to ask my boss to give me easier work. That moron just didn’t get it, so I had to show him I wouldn’t put up with just anything. I’m sure there are plenty of other places who will appreciate my skills.

  I don’t want you to worry. I can get a new job whenever I want. I’m looking around at several projects right now. I have a buddy who’s working on a major deal of imports from Lithuania. He says there’s an opening for me, but I have to go in with 50,000 kroner cash. Since you don’t need the car anymore, I figure I might as well put it up for sale. It’s in pretty good condition, so I’m sure I can get a decent price. I just need you to sign over the title.

  You have to remember that it wasn’t my idea for you to leave. I’m here all alone with all this stuff and I’m doing the best I can.

  I hope you’re doing great down there with the other ladies. Let me know if the car stuff is okay with you. I’ll get you a good price.

  Armand

  14

  Ingrid

  She’s heard from both of her brothers. Kjell writes his emails from work; Ingrid can picture him in his office, with the door open out to a large warehouse where thousands of new tires are stacked up against the wall. Short emails in the pompous style that suits him, inquiring about her health, her security, poorly disguised warnings to keep a close eye on her money. Ingrid has written him back, promptly and dutifully. She’s in good health, all is well and peaceful in Korototoka. No crime, nothing to fear. Give my best to Gro.

  She’s only heard from Arve once since she came down here, but then again, he’s never been one to fill her in-box. In fact, she’s not even sure he remembers where she is—his email was mostly about a conference paper he’s writing for a trip to Bratislava next month.

  Ingrid takes a slow morning stroll around the house. It rained last night, as it does most nights, and the soil in the roughly dug rows in the back garden is muddy and moist. Her bare feet tread heavily between the beanstalks, pressing the soft, warm earth up between her toes. A fresh morning breeze lifts her thick hair from her neck. As she gets to the front, the sun gleams across the surface of the ocean, making it impossible to fix her eyes on the horizon. Ingrid smiles, her mouth widening gradually into a gleeful grin. She gathers her sulu around her legs; the floor-length piece of floral fabric flutters in the wind. Wildrid gives her a quick wink before she bends down to pull a dark green pumpkin out of the shade and into the sun.

  —

  Wildrid has always been ready for this. She’s been there, waiting, hiding under the white blouses and navy-blue trousers, biding her time in the pocket of her winter jacket. Wildrid has walked barefoot on the beach before; she knows how to navigate the shallows and gather mussels in a bucket. She’s emptied the bilo of kava, said bula, and clapped three times; she’s stomped her feet in a passionate meke. Wildrid was there with Kat when she planted mangroves on the shore in Kiribati, stood beside her and heaved bricks to build a children’s hospital in Kashmir. She knows Ingrid, and Ingrid knows Wildrid.

  “Good morning! Are you checking on breakfast?”

  Lisbeth smiles faintly behind her sunglasses. She’s doing her best, Ingrid thinks amicably, shutting her ears to Wildrid’s irritated outburst: “Why don’t you get a bucket and make yourself useful too!”

  “Just checking how the beans are doing,” Ingrid replies. “I think we’ll have some nice pumpkins here soon as well.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Lisbeth flashes a distant smile. She’s probably never had anything but coffee and cigarettes for breakfast, Ingrid thinks, feeling a smirk form in the corner of her mouth. At least she’s stopped asking Ateca for low-fat milk and yogurt.

  Kat comes down from the porch, heading for the small truck. “I have errands to run in Rakiraki today, so I might as well go now,” she says as she climbs in behind the wheel.

  “Where are you going?” Ingrid is embarrassed by her own cry, the clingy voice as she hurries toward the truck. Kat hears it too and stops in the middle of closing the car door.

  “We need some more pots for the seedlings,” she says. “And I have to see if I can find some linoleum. The floor in Ateca’s house is falling apart.”

  Ingrid nods and quickly looks away. Wildrid would never have asked her like that, would never have sounded needy or whiny.

  When Kat has turned the truck around and is ready to go, she stops and waits, idling the engine. The front door opens; Maya hurries out and plops herself down in the passenger seat. She fixes her straw hat and fastens her seat belt before Kat puts the truck in drive and they roll away.

  —

  Ateca greets Ingrid with a smile of approval when she places a bunch of long green beans by the sink. “Very nice,” she nods, satisfied. “How do the pumpkins look, Madam Ingrid? Vilivo could help you pick some today if you’d like?”

  Ateca has begun offering her son’s services here and there—climbing the ladder when something gets stuck in the drainpipe, carrying the heavy storm shutters that have to be
fixed to the windows when the meteorologists forecast a hurricane. Ingrid sees Kat slipping him a few dollars for his help; that makes her sad. The boy is big and strong and neither dumb nor lazy; it’s a shame, she thinks, that he can’t get a proper job. To hang around here like a dutiful houseboy for five old ladies in between running barefoot across a field, throwing his dreams around with an egg-shaped ball. Ingrid thinks of her great-nephews, cheerful, scruffy Simon and solemn Petter; unemployment is not something she sees in their future.

  “Maybe,” she says, and looks over at Lisbeth and Sina. They’re standing there with coffee cups in their hands, only halfway listening. “What do you think, roasted pumpkin for dinner?” She barely succeeds in keeping the smugness out of her voice; she knows Lisbeth prefers to eat only grilled chicken and salad. She always examines the labels on jars and boxes, and won’t take a single bite of something before she knows exactly how much butter or oil or—God forbid—sugar is in it. Lisbeth wrinkles her forehead uncertainly before Sina chimes in: “That sounds good. I can try to make it if you’ll help me, Ateca?”

  Ingrid looks at her, surprised—Sina’s not usually one to embark on a culinary adventure—but new things are happening in Vale nei Kat every day.

  “Great! I’ll check if we can get some fresh fish as well.”

  —

  Mosese’s younger brother Jone owns a boat and is one of the regular suppliers of fish to Korototoka. The bright red boat isn’t difficult to spot on the beach, with the proud name Vessel of Honor painted in sturdy, straight white letters under the gunwale. Ingrid walks slowly down toward the boats and lets it all sink in, giving her eyes the time they need: men lugging boxes of today’s catch, women in sulu jabas, the floral two-piece outfit. They squeeze the fish to evaluate it before haggling to get it down to an acceptable price. The old man in the shade has a rainbow of fish hanging from a curved metal hook—a few golden yellow, one orange-red, one shiny black and blue. His T-shirt has a big tear on the shoulder and his face wrinkles as he smiles at her, holding up his bouquet: “Fish, ma’am?”