Arranged Marriage

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  His mother.

  I’d made myself decide he didn’t have a mother, for surely she would have stood between him and that burning cigarette, as mothers are supposed to. But she appeared in my dreams almost every night, weeping as she looked around, bewildered, for her son. Sometimes her eyes would meet mine, accusing. I would stare back defiantly. You should have been more careful, I’d tell her. You shouldn’t have lost him.

  “I can keep him holed up for a long time if I need to,” I told Richard, though even then I must have known it wasn’t possible. I lifted my chin. “And now I’d like to go home. I don’t like to leave Krishna alone this late at night.”

  I heard the patter of his feet even before I turned the key, and when I opened the apartment door, he was waiting. He took my hand and pulled me to the couch and put into my hands the book we’d been reading earlier. When I’d picked up the book, a simple story about a mouse family that lived in a vegetable garden, I’d been afraid it would be too childish for Krishna, but he loved it. He’d sit for long minutes tracing the bright vegetables with his finger—eggplant, zucchini, beans, lettuce—as though he knew the feel of them intimately. And when we came to the part where Baby Mouse wanders off and gets lost and doesn’t hear her parents calling for her, his entire body would grow still with tense attention.

  We settled ourselves on the couch, Krishna leaning over the book so he could turn the pages for me. (Somehow he knew just when to do it, though I was pretty sure he couldn’t read.) Usually I enjoyed reading to him, but tonight I found it hard to concentrate. I kept thinking of what Richard had said when he dropped me off.

  He’d offered to accompany me upstairs, and when I’d refused (somehow I couldn’t stand the thought of his eyes, cool and critical, traveling up and down Krishna), he’d gripped my shoulders and pulled me to face him. “You’re obsessed with this boy, Meera,” he’d said. In the flickering light of the street lamp I could see the lines around his mouth, sharp and deep like cracks in porcelain, before he bent to kiss me hard on the lips. The violent press of his mouth against mine, so unlike his usual suave embraces, startled me. Was he jealous? Was he, perhaps, not that different after all from the heroes of the Hindi screen whom I’d left behind in Calcutta?

  “Maybe what you need is a child of your own,” he said, trying to kiss me again.

  I thought of Krishna waiting upstairs. The way a faint line would appear between his brows when he concentrated on something I was saying. “Maybe what I need is to not see you for a while,” I’d snapped, pushing Richard away.

  But what he said had struck deep.

  Sitting on the sofa now, I tried to imagine it. My child—and Richard’s, for that was what he meant. But somehow I just couldn’t picture it. The details confused me. Would the baby have a thick dark mop of hair, like Indian babies do? Or would it be pink and bald, like American babies? What color would its eyes be? I couldn’t picture Richard in the role of father either, hitching up his Armani pants to kneel on the floor and change diapers, walking up and down at 2 A.M. trying to quieten a colicky baby who burped all over his satin Bill Blass dressing gown.

  It was much easier to picture Krishna. He is running in the park. While I cheer, he pulls the kite up in a tight purple arc until it hangs high above his head, as graceful as any bird. On the first day of school, I drop him off at the gate, hand him his lunch money with a kiss, watch him follow the other kids in. He turns at the door to offer me a tremulous smile and a wave, scared but determined to be brave. At Disneyland, we scream with delicious terror as the roller-coaster car plunges down, down, down, faster than we ever imagined anything could ever be. At baseball games I clap for him till my palms are sore. I take him to buy his first car. I help him to fill out his college applications. Late in the night we sit as we’re doing right now and talk about life and death and girls and rock music or whatever else it is that mothers and sons talk about. There is no Richard in these pictures, and (I feel only a moment’s guilt as I think this) no need of him.

  Krishna was looking at me inquiringly. Glancing down, I saw we’d reached the end of the book—probably several minutes back.

  “It’s time for bed, young man,” I said. When I leaned over to give him a hug, his skin smelled of my jasmine soap. It pleased me that he no longer flinched away from me, not even when, after his bath every morning, I rubbed face cream on his scars. (They were probably too old for it to do any good, but it made me feel better.) And now, though he didn’t hug me back, he did tilt his cheek toward me for his customary goodnight kiss.

  As I watched him bring over his sheets and blankets (all carefully folded—he was a neat boy) to the sofa where he slept, I noticed that he’d put on a few pounds. It made me ridiculously happy, more than the time, even, when I straightened out the Von Hausen account which had been missing several million dollars. He was getting taller, too. Or maybe it was just the way he walked nowadays, shoulders pushed back, head up high.

  Tomorrow, I promised myself as I helped him with the sheets. Tomorrow I would start making discreet inquiries into the California adoption laws.

  Sitting across the desk from Ms. Mayhew while she went through my papers one more time, I was struck again by how cheerful the Foster Homes office was. I’d expected something drab and regulation gray, with lots of metal furniture. Instead, the room was bright with hangings and rugs, and through the big window the afternoon sun lit up the play corner, which was comfortably crowded with stuffed animals and bean bags and big, colorful blocks. They had books too, even the one about the mouse family that Krishna loved. I wondered if I could take that to be a good omen.

  Ms. Mayhew herself was quite different from the witch-like figure I’d conjured up, complete with horn-rimmed glasses, a thin pointy nose, and gray hair pulled into a tight, unforgiving bun. She did wear glasses, but they had thin gold rims that gave her a rather thoughtful look, and her short, fashionably bobbed hair curled attractively around her face. She was pleasant in a businesslike way—no wasting time or getting around rules with her—which I appreciated because that’s how I too was at the bank. When the county office I’d called referred me to her, she had explained that adoption was a lengthy and complicated process, but the State of California was always looking for responsible foster parents. It would be a good thing for me to try while I figured out if adoption was really for me.

  Though I had no doubts about that issue, I agreed. It was the best way of keeping Krishna with me legally until the adoption could be arranged.

  Surprisingly, Richard too liked the idea. I suspected that deep down he was hoping that the novelty of having a child in the house would wear out for me long before the adoption papers came through. I knew better, of course, but I didn’t want to argue. Richard had been making a real effort to be nice. When I finally invited him over to meet Krishna (I was still reluctant, but I figured I had to do it some time), he’d brought him a baseball and a catcher’s mitt. When Krishna refused to come out from behind the curtain where he’d hidden himself at the first sound of a male voice, he said he understood. He even offered to take him to the park to practice “once we get a bit more used to each other.” I appreciated that. It didn’t make me change the pictures in my head, which were still just of me and Krishna, but I started going out with Richard again.

  “Well, Ms. Bose”—Ms. Mayhew was looking up with a smile—”your papers look good so far. The recommendation letters are all very positive, your fingerprints indicate you’ve lived a crime-free life, and I see from the social worker’s home visit that you’ve child-proofed your apartment as required and are changing the study into an extra bedroom. Just one more week of the parenting class you’re attending, and you’ll be ready to be a foster mother. So now it’s time for us to discuss further the kind of child you want to take in.”

  This part was going to be tricky. I had to say it just right.

  “In your papers,” Ms. Mayhew continued, “you mentioned that you wanted a boy of about seven or eight—which i
s a good idea since you have a full-time job. But you didn’t mention ethnicity—or doesn’t it matter?”

  “Actually, you don’t need to look for a child for me. I have one in mind already.”

  Ms. Mayhew’s brows drew together. I’d deviated from regulations. “Where is he staying now? With relatives?”

  I swallowed. “He’s staying with me.”

  “And are you related to him?”

  “No.” Seeing the look on her face, I hurried to explain Krishna’s situation. “I knew I probably should have turned him in,” I ended, “but he was so small and so scared….” Even to my own ears, my reasoning sounded weak and sentimental.

  “Where was he when the social worker came to check your apartment?”

  “With friends,” I said guiltily. I’d deposited him at Sharmila’s early that morning, not wanting to take a chance.

  Ms. Mayhew was shaking her head. “What you’ve done is quite illegal, Ms. Bose, even though your motives may have been altruistic. I’m afraid we must ask you to bring the child in at once. We need to make every effort to locate his parents….”

  I wanted to tell her about the burns, but I didn’t. Later, I thought. It would be my weapon if she really did find them.

  “If they can’t be located, we’ll try to place him with you once you become a registered foster parent. But for now he must stay with someone else.”

  “It’s just a week.” I leaned forward, gripping the edge of her desk. “Can’t you make an exception, please, just for one week? He’s doing so well with me. He’ll be terrified if he’s moved to a strange place….”

  “I’m sorry. I have to follow certain rules, and this is a very important one. Actually, what you’ve done is quite serious. It could even prevent you from becoming a foster parent.”

  The edges of the room turned black.

  “But I’ll put a note into your file saying that you acted out of ignorance and in good faith,” said Ms. Mayhew, not unkindly. “That’s the best I can do.”

  I knew it was no use arguing any further. I answered the questions she asked me about Krishna’s background the best I could, and then I said, “I’ll bring him in tomorrow.” I looked at her and added, “Please?”

  For a moment I was afraid that Ms. Mayhew was going to insist that I bring Krishna in that very afternoon. Then she glanced at her watch and gave a sigh. “Oh, OK,” she said, “since it’s after three already. But mind you, be here at 9 A.M. sharp tomorrow, as soon as the office opens.”

  “Sharmila, what am I going to do?” I tried to keep my voice calm and low, not wanting to frighten Krishna, who was building a Lego tower in the corner. But his head jerked up sharply.

  “I don’t see that you have a choice. You’ve got to take him in tomorrow.” Sharmila’s voice over the phone line was sympathetic but firm. “You’ll get in a lot more trouble if you don’t.”

  “I shouldn’t even have started this whole process. I should have just taken Krishna and gone back to India….”

  “Meera!”

  “I was a fool to tell her about him! I should have just pretended I wanted them to find me a child, at least until I got the license….”

  “And then what? Call and say, ‘Oh, by the way, guess who turned up in my apartment yesterday?’ That would never have worked, Meera. They would have seen through it right away. I think telling the truth was for the best. And this Mayhew woman seems quite positively inclined toward you….”

  “How can you say that? She’s the one who insists that I have to turn him over….” Though I’d avoided using Krishna’s name, he made a sudden movement. The Lego tower fell over with a crash. On Sharmila’s end I could hear her baby crying, and I wondered if he had picked up on the tension as well.

  “She’s just doing her job. If you were in her place, you’d probably have done the same.”

  “Never,” I said hotly, but I knew Sharmila was right.

  “I’m sorry, Meera, I’ve got to go. Baby’s screaming his head off in his crib. He’s been real cranky all day. I don’t know what’s wrong.” Sharmila sounded anxious.

  I felt guilty. I’d heaped all my troubles on her without even asking about her son. “You go take care of him. I’ll be all right.”

  “Don’t worry too much. It’s only a week, after all. Explain to Krishna—he’s a smart boy, he’ll understand. Listen, I’ll come with you tomorrow if you want.”

  “Would you?” I said gratefully. “That would make me feel so much better.” I dreaded, most of all, the ride back alone, the stepping into my empty apartment.

  The crying in the background had given place to angry shrieks. “Sure thing!” said Sharmila hurriedly as she hung up. “See you in the morning!”

  That night I cooked Krishna’s favorite dish, spicy fried chicken served over hot rice. It was one of my favorites, too, but I couldn’t eat more than a few mouthfuls. A feeling of dread pressed down on me, and though I told myself I was being foolish, I couldn’t shake it off.

  After dinner was our regular reading time. But when Krishna brought the mouse book over to the sofa, I took a deep breath and shook my head.

  “I have something to tell you first,” I said.

  When I explained to him where we had to go in the morning, and why, the blank expression on his face didn’t change. When I told him that he must have faith in me, that I’d do my best to get him back as soon as I could, he waited politely, and when he was sure that I was done, he put the book in my lap.

  As I read to him about how Baby Mouse’s parents find her again, I wasn’t sure what I felt more deeply, relief or hurt. Had Krishna not understood me? Was he autistic? (Richard had suggested that once, and I had denied it hotly.) Or did he just not care?

  That night I couldn’t sleep. I lay there watching the shadows thrown onto my wall by the street lamp outside, thinking how strange the nature of love is and how strangely it transforms people. The street noises quietened. The shadows shivered on the wall and across the vast white expanse of my bed, making me shiver too. Then I noticed that another shadow had joined them.

  It was Krishna, his pillow tucked under his arm, his face as unreadable as ever.

  “Can’t you sleep either?” I asked.

  He said nothing, of course.

  “Oh well,” I said, raising the corner of my blanket even though I knew that this was probably the number one taboo in Ms. Mayhew’s book, “climb in.”

  He settled himself with his back toward me, the mattress hardly dimpling under him, he was still that thin. I touched his hair with a light finger and tried to think of something that would comfort him, maybe one of the lullabyes that my mother had sung for me when I was little, an impossibly long time ago. But I had forgotten them all. The only thing I remembered was how my mother had held me. And so I tried to do the same for Krishna, looping an arm over his body, not with my mother’s easy confidence but hesitantly, fearfully, as though he might break. That’s how I lay all night as his breathing deepened and his body slumped against mine in trustful sleep, his scarred spine pressed to my chest, his skin giving off the mingled odor of jasmine and spicy chicken.

  The phone jangled me out of a sleep I must have just fallen into. My eyes burned with tiredness, and my body ached as though I were coming down with something. Still, as I groped for the phone, I noticed how in his sleep Krishna had moved until his head was snuggled under my chin, and how right it felt.

  “Meera.” Sharmila’s voice sounded like she too hadn’t had much sleep. “It’s my baby. He cried all night. I’ve given him his gas medicine and his gripe water and even some baby Tylenol, but none of it seems to do any good. And now he’s throwing up. I’ve got to rush him to the clinic.”

  I wanted to say something to express my concern, but all I could manage was a “Yes, of course you must.”

  “Meera, wake up! This means I can’t go with you to the Foster Homes office.”

  Remembrance struck like a stone between my eyes.

  “Oh God,” I s
aid. I wanted to crawl back into bed and pull the covers up over myself and Krishna. Forever.

  “I’m really sorry to let you down,” said Sharmila. “But I have no choice.”

  I wanted to tell her that I understood perfectly. The needs of children came before the needs of adults, I had learned that already. Mother-love, that tidal wave, swept everything else away. Friendship. Romantic fulfillment. Even the need for sex.

  “Meera, are you listening? I don’t want you to have to go there alone. Will you call Richard, please? See if he can go with you.”

  “OK,” I said, partly because Sharmila sounded so distressed, and partly because I was still dazed. When she hung up after having made me promise once again, I obediently dialed Richard’s number.

  “In a few minutes I’d like to introduce you to Mrs. Amelia Ortiz,” said Ms. Mayhew, smiling. In a warm brown skirt and matching jacket, she looked both efficient and charming. I felt neither and didn’t smile back. But Richard, who was sitting next to me holding my hand, did.

  “We tried to find someone quickly so that the child wouldn’t have to go into the Children’s Shelter, which isn’t the most pleasant experience, and she was kind enough to agree at such short notice.”

  “I’m sure Meera and little Krishna appreciate that,” said Richard, squeezing my hand.

  I wanted to snatch my hand away and inform him that I was quite capable of voicing my own opinions, thank you. But I knew I needed to save all my emotional energy. At the sound of his name, Krishna had looked up, his eyes moving from face to adult face till they came to rest on mine. He didn’t look particularly anxious, but he clutched tightly at my other hand and pushed in closer to my chair.

  “I can tell the little boy is very attached to you,” said Ms. Mayhew. “I’ll make every attempt to place him back with you as soon as it’s legally possible. Meanwhile Mrs. Ortiz—here she is—will take good care of him.”

  I swung around to face Mrs. Amelia Ortiz, a plump, middle-aged woman in a floral print dress who was dabbing at her face with a handkerchief. “Sorry to be late. The traffic was worse than I expected,” she said in a pleasant, slightly Out-of-breath voice and held out her hand to me with a smile. She looked kind and wholesome and motherly, and I hated her.