“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The judge sighed. “You think everybody in this county isn’t following every detail of your colorful personal life?”
“You can leap to conclusions but that doesn’t make them right.”
The judge made a great show of pulling down one corner of his mouth, rolling his eyes upward and studying the ceiling.
“For God’s sake, Judge, she’s a lab tech.”
“And what is wrong with marrying a lab tech? I’ll save that question for the next time you need a blood test in short order.”
“Look, Judge, I’ll be honest. I’m looking for a wife who’s prominent. Visible. Somebody who shares my vision. Somebody—”
“—as ambitious as you are. Sounds like a recipe for disaster but whatever, marry some girl, any girl sooner rather than later and preferably shorter or at least no taller than you—this will look better when you’re together on stage. If I may presume on your ambitions, as a bachelor you have no political future in this state. You may philander all you want, but you have got to have a wife so that when you’re caught, and you will be, she can extricate you from the mess of your making. Now try to enjoy spring before it turns hot.”
The judge lived in a sprawling old home near the county attorney’s office, and on these spring afternoons he enjoyed seeing the town—his town—leaf out. Anything seemed possible, even prosperity, for a place that had steadfastly resisted it for so long. Leadership, which he had once so eagerly sought, seemed a struggle and a burden, as young men did what they must do and snapped at his heels, and as the manners that had once governed the process vanished. “Sir,” “ma’am,” grace before meals, dances on Saturday evenings with Paul and His Privates on the bandstand, every band member a decorated veteran and the music with a syncopated beat to steps you had to learn and practice; Benediction for the Catholics on Sunday afternoons, and though his Presbyterian soul had nothing but disdain for all that smoke and mirrors, it kept their idle hands occupied—better smoking incense than smoking pot.
The day was somber and gray to match his thoughts. On the two-block walk to his house he found himself reconsidering the notion of a new home. Maybe he should buy a lot in Ridgeview Pointe as a peace offering to Harry Vetch. And who knew, maybe in a couple of years he’d build a nice little low-maintenance one-level ranchette with a guest room for the kids when they came to visit. He would miss their old house but the time had come—was past, really—to leave. The water pressure was lousy, the bathroom was downstairs and the bedrooms were upstairs, Ginny Rae’s knees were going, and sometimes—he’d never told her this—he had to pause on the landing to catch his breath. A nice new house all on one level and with a golf course at hand—yes, that was the thing, and he would have the pleasure of knowing that he had left his mark on the place—left the town more civilized than when he’d been born.
But then his heart grew hot, he wished he were young again at the thought of federal attorneys, who knew everything about the ever-changing law and next to nothing about the enduring heart, come to tell him what to do, how to run his county—and at the thought of the county attorney, his county attorney, collaborating instead of closing ranks.
Chapter 8
On certain days in early summer some last gasp of winter sneaked down from the vast north we call Canada and the air was clear and dry. At night the stars were close enough to pluck from their blue-black velvet case while on earth every hollow and ravine pulsed with the yellow lamps of an infinitude of fireflies. During the day the town was a palette of every shade of green, from the gray-green of the sycamores lining the creeks and rivers to the chartreuse of the locust trees dripping long cones of honey-scented white blossoms to the emerald maples with their whirligig seeds to the green-black magnolias, whose glossy leaves and creamy white flowers recalled to Dr. Chatterjee the jungles of her childhood.
The building that housed the doctor’s offices formed a shallow U—its wings embraced a cement pad where mechanics had serviced vehicles too large for the interior bay. Someone had painted the slab lime green and supplied it with second-hand patio furniture, and in the evenings the doctor enjoyed a moment outdoors between the day’s work of seeing patients and the night’s paperwork. On such an evening, sitting with a cup of bitter American tea, the doctor received her first social call from her most locally famous patient.
Matthew Mark was a thin little boy with great dark circles under his eyes, a full and pouting lower lip, and a high rose blush in his pale cheeks that emphasized his delicacy while making him seem older than his years. He had approached as a small waif peering around the corner, wearing the shirt Dr. Chatterjee had left with his mother, his eyes larger and darker in the evening light. He edged forward to some invisible line perhaps twenty feet distant, then halted and stood, tentative in his boldness. “Thank you for the shirt. But now you owe me a story. You said so, I heard you tell my mamma.”
She waved at a chair. “Would you care to be seated?”
He nodded and climbed into the chair. His legs, thin sticks ending in oversized shoes, dangled above the cement. She went inside and took some biscuits from a tin and arranged them on a chipped china plate that she found in a cabinet and that bore a stencil of a floppy-eared rabbit wearing a threadbare vest.
Matthew Mark took one biscuit. “Someone has taught you manners,” the doctor said.
He pointed to the figure on the decorative saucer. “I’m too old for Br’er Rabbit.”
“Of course you are, but I don’t know the story of Mr. Rabbit and I brought him out so that perhaps you could tell it.”
“I know lots of Brer Rabbit stories,” he said, taking a second biscuit.
“Then tell me your favorite.”
At this he paused and twisted his lips, thinking. “No, not Brer Rabbit,” he said. “I have a better favorite. But you have to go first.”
“Dear boy, stories are like tropical flowers—bring them to a new and foreign place and they wither and die. I have left my stories on the far side of the world, where they are at home.”
“That’s not true.”
She frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“I hear stories from places I never been all the time. They’re my favorites. You come from some place I never been.” He gave her an accusing look. “You promised.”
“And I promised myself that I would leave all that behind.”
Silence, born of stalemate. He spoke first. “You saved my life,” he said. “That’s exactly what my mamma said to my daddy. ‘She saved his life.’ So now you have to do what I tell you to do. I read it in a story.”
Dr. Chatterjee knitted her brows and pursed her lips. “Someday, little man, you will be a great barrister. Very well, one story only. This is the story of the goddess Durga, who was the patron of my country as the Virgin Mary is the patron of yours. Durga was married off at a tender age, just like Mary, except that she married Shiva, Lord of Destruction. Like so many boys Shiva was not ready to grow up—he would never grow up, not in ten million skandas.”
“I’m ready to grow up. I can’t wait to grow up. What’s a skanda?”
“A very, very long time. Shiva grew his hair long and spent his days drinking and his nights smoking ganja—”
“You mean, like Johnny Faye.”
The doctor tucked down her chin and looked carefully at the boy. “How do you know about Johnny—Mr. Faye?”
Matthew Mark waved a hand dismissively. “Everybody knows about Johnny Faye. He’s a character. Least, that’s what my mother calls him. I’m not allowed to say what my father calls him.”
“And what does your mother mean when she says, ‘he’s a character’?”
“Well, you know. A character. Somebody everybody talks about.”
“Then yes, I think you could say Shiva was a character. Exactly like Johnny Faye. Shiva hung out at the burning pyres—in my country we do not bury the dead but we burn their
bodies on big stacks of wood—”
“That’s creepy.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Creepy. You know. The feeling you get when you’re wading in the creek when it’s muddy and something skitters under your feet and you can’t see what it is.”
“Ah, yes, creepy, exactly so. Well, for most of the year Durga stayed home, waiting patiently for Shiva’s drunken returns, preparing his meals and raising their children. But once each year Durga returned to her homeland, to the villages and to the great city of Bengal, to Calcutta, her city, and oh, what rejoicing among her blood kin, the familiar places, the foods of her childhood!
“But the year came when her return was barred by the evil demon Durgo, who was running rampant, destroying the world. The gods had thrown all their might against him to no avail because Durgo was invincible to any man. But the goddess Durga was not a man and so she came astride her rampant lion, her ten arms brandishing ten weapons, her loyal children at her side. The demon Durgo took many forms. First he tried to trick her, then, once things started going badly, he tried to escape. But she won every battle until she ended his life by piercing the water buffalo—the last form he took—to his blue demon’s heart.
“And every year to celebrate her victory there is a great festival. The priests of each village and neighborhood of Bengal select one girl from among all Brahmin girls according to rules set forth in instructions handed down from the gods. She must be flat-footed, thin-lipped, possessing enough curvature of the spine to be graceful but not so much as to be sensuous. You see?” Dr. Chatterjee stood to demonstrate. “Durga, virgin daughter of the Himalayas, chooses one girl as her incarnation for that particular year. And I was that girl—chosen from the girls in my dance class as one destined to lead an extraordinary life. In the same way as she has chosen you.”
“She chose me?”
“Yes, of course. You have died and come back to life. Nothing could be more extraordinary than that.”
“I like that story,” Matthew Mark said. “Can I keep it for my own?”
“Of course, but you must learn the magic words that end it.”
He sat up straight, serious. “OK.”
She recited then the incantation with which her father ended all his stories and that she recalled as effortlessly as a prayer.
Thus my story endeth,
The Natiya thorn withereth,
“Why, O Natiya thorn, dost wither?”
“Why does the cow on me browse?”
“Why, O cow, dost thou browse?”
“Why dost the neat-herd not tend me?”
“Why, O neat-herd, dost not tend the cow?”
“Why dost thy daughter-in-law not give me rice?”
“Why, O daughter-in-law, dost not give rice?”
“Why does my child cry?”
“Why, O child, dost thou cry?”
“Why does the ant bite me?”
“Why, O ant, dost thou bite?”
Koot! Koot! Koot!
This formula Matthew Mark found especially thrilling, and he asked her to repeat it several times. “That story might be my new favorite,” he said.
“Oh, and what did you like about it?”
“I am the mighty Durga!” he cried, jumping from his chair. He lifted his shirt and pointed to the bright splotch of scar on his skinny stomach. “And this is from my battles with the evil demon.”
“Matthew Mark, it’s an hour past your bedtime.” Dr. Chatterjee looked up to see Mrs. Smith peering around the corner. “More’n an hour.”
“Please forgive me, Mrs. Smith. I didn’t realize it was so late and here I have been filling his head with stories.”
“Oh, ma’am, you should call me Rosalee, like everybody else.”
“A lovely name. But then you must call me Meena.”
Rosalee took her son by the hand. “I’m sorry if he’s been bothering you.”
“He is quite the barrister. He tugged a story from me by charm and eloquence.”
“Better you than me. That boy done memorized every story I know to tell and all the ones from the books at school.” Rosalee pointed Matthew Mark across the road. “Go on, now, you’ve had your story for the night. I’ll be back there in ten minutes and I want to see you with the covers pulled up and the lights out and the sink still wet from where you brushed your teeth.”
Matthew Mark stood and jumped off the concrete pad, shouting as he flew through the air, “Koot! Koot! Koot!”
Then they were alone, the doctor and the mother, and the silence prolonged itself until finally Rosalee spoke. “You done your best and I have thanked you already and if you don’t raise another finger I’ll be thanking you ever time I lay eyes on that boy. He is smart as a whip, you can see that. Fearful smart. I caint keep up with him and the teachers at the school don’t like to admit it but they caint keep up with him neither. I half think my husband is so hard on him out of plain jealousy.
“And I don’t know what the Lord wants me to do. A few days after I got him home from the hospital I saw him playing in the yard—I was inside, making custard on the stove and before I could so much as knock on the window he had picked up a switch and was whaling away at this little girl, Paddlefoot Medley’s girl that had come over to play, you know Paddlefoot, rings the bell at church, sets out the chairs, a good heart but none too bright but that’s the Medley in him, they’s all good farmers, those Medleys, could turn thistles into gold but they was slower than me in school and that tells you something. I left my custard to curdle and went outside and put a stop to that, let me tell you. I gave Matthew Mark a good dressing down, but I aint been able to put a stop to where he learned it. And I don’t know what to do. But then you come halfway around the world, scared the living daylights out of me at first but now it seems to me like you are the answer to my prayers, somebody to tell me what to do. Somebody to help my boy.”
Rosalee stood unmoving, her head bowed. After a moment Meena said, “Long ago I decided to place my faith in human action, the gods having been of little assistance. Of course I will help in whatever way I may. Let me give the matter some thought. Shall I speak to your husband’s superiors?”
“Oh, no, ma’am, not that, please, no, anything but that. I didn’t mean to ask—”
“Speaking with discretion, I assure you. I am aware of the delicacy of your situation.”
“I trust you, ma’am. But not that, please, dear Mother in heaven. It’s just—my husband—” Her hands opened, then closed. She clutched her arms to herself. “I guess what has to happen is what has to happen.”
Meena followed her to the cement step to watch her cross the road.
Chapter 9
Sunday afternoons were an agony of solitude, a long stretch of time with a million things to do and no energy to do them. Meena found herself on the road, a small woman in a large car driving to the monastery, walking to the statues to watch the light that changed so rapidly at this latitude—even now, with the sun slowing to the peak of its solstice, in every wood on every day there was a different green. By way of proving to herself that she was dauntless she sat on the Virginia pine above the hollow where she’d been startled by the snakes. The jungle surrounding her childhood village had sheltered more lethal creatures, after all, the lithe leopards invisible against the jungle’s striping of light and shadow, the kraits and cobras coiled amid tree roots, and yet she sought out that jungle as a source of consolation and strength much as she sought out the grove where she now sat, a clearing in a forest in a country where she had no relatives or friends.
Since Johnny Faye had rescued her from above the pit of writhing snakes, she was conscious that she was no longer alone. The quality of being watched—how to name this feeling? Creepy. She never saw him watching but her skin felt his eyes as surely as sunlight. A certain thrill in knowing she held his attention—she who had never been courted or allowed to court. An annoyance in the extreme that even in this new world she could not take a walk without a man th
rusting himself upon her. The memory of his forearms presented itself against her will.
At first she sat with her back to where she presumed he must be, but the day came when she turned her head to peek and before long she was facing head-on the thicket from which he’d emerged on that day when she had perched above the snakes. She saw no one. She knew he was there.
Until an evening came when she discerned him sitting at some distance—fifty yards or more, far enough that she had to squint to be certain it was he. He sat so still and was so nearly invisible against the forest that the thought came to her that he had always been there but was only now allowing himself to be seen. He gave no sign of seeing her.
Now the midday heat enforced evening visits, but each time she sat on the fallen log she saw him, always accompanied by a shaggy mongrel of a dog. He never moved closer and never acknowledged her until an evening came when he stood and took a deliberate stretch, unfolding his lanky frame and turning his head to the sky in a gesture that conveyed as clearly as a handshake that he knew she was there and that he knew that she knew he was there. Her pulse quickened, her skin grew warm. He took something from his pocket and bent to tap it on a stone, then stood and struck a match. Sweet-scented smoke drifted through the still evening air. He sat again to stillness.
In this way they kept company, each aware of the other, until the first hot evening of summer, the air as close and breathless as the last evenings before monsoon. She stood and strode across the clearing. He was staring into the trees.
“Mr. Faye.”
“Now you hush up.”
“I understand that anyone may visit—”
“I said hush up.”
“Sir, I will not hush up. I am well aware that anyone may visit this place of meditation but I must express my extreme discomfort at being watched. As if you are a spy and I am your quarry.”
He turned to face her. “I’ll be damned. You don’t think I been watching you.”
“That is precisely what I think.”
“Now why in the hell would I go and do a dumbass thing like that.”
The Man Who Loved Birds Page 7