The Bracelet

by Roberta Gately

  “Are you acha?” Zara asked, caressing her back.

  Mariyah nodded and raised her head. “It give me shame to talk, to tell this.”

  “Do you want to finish another time?” Nick asked gently.

  “No, I try to finish.” She smoothed her dress and ran her head scarf through her fingers. She closed her eyes as if to gather her strength. “At house, we have to work all the time. At night with men we do that work; in daylight, we clean.” Something in her comment made a small tinkling laugh escape from her lips. “For such dirty house, we clean all time.” Her scar stretched with the hint of a smile that blossomed on her face.

  Mariyah’s laugh created a momentary lull in the tension that hung low in the room, and Abby smiled with relief.

  Mariyah shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I stand.” She pulled herself from her chair. “Back of me give pain. Scars.” She twisted this way and that as her mouth curled down.

  Zara stood and rubbed gently at Mariyah’s back. “Do you need to rest?”

  Mariyah shook her head and turned to Zara. “Too much pain. Some days, my skin feels as though it is tearing apart.”

  “Can you continue?” Zara asked.

  Mariyah stretched and walked around the periphery of the tent, nodding as she took her seat. “Inshallah.”

  Nick prompted her gently, “Cleaning, you were telling us you had to clean the house.”

  Mariyah nodded. “Clothes washing too. Boss woman take in laundry. She get the money, but we do the work. Scrub clothes and press wrinkles away. Clothes for rich women who no do own laundry. At night, husbands of rich women come to us. Rich women do nothing.”

  Zara suppressed a giggle. “You were taking care of the whole family.”

  Mariyah nodded, a half smile at her lips. “Night come, boss paint my face and give me whore’s clothes. The men come after that, and all night, every night, it the same. Men groaning and pulling at me. They make me sick, but I make believe I not there. One night, man complain to boss. He say I no good. He want money back. Boss beat me—I think now I die and that okay, acha, but I not die. She use leg of chair and her bundle of keys to hit me and cut my skin. She cut my back. She no want mens to complain about girl with scar.”

  “Mariyah,” Nick said, “do you know her name, this woman who ran the house?”

  Mariyah shook her head. “She say we must call her maa, she our mother, but we call her bandar, monkey.”

  Abby laughed nervously, and Mariyah smiled in reply, though her good humor was fleeting.

  “We the real bandar,” she said, her manner subdued. “We do what she say, we never fight, but one day I tired and say no mens no more. Big man come and beat me, he hit me all over and lock me in room. But I alone, no mens, no washing. I think acha, this okay. But it not last. Big man come back, he do sex to me, and then beat me with stick. I bleeding all over, back, front, everywhere. I hurt too much. He leave, and I hear key turn in door. I locked in.”

  Abby watched, expecting Mariyah to crumple at the memory but she seemed to gather strength instead.

  “I no care. I finish with that place. I want to leave, and when man come back, I tell him. He hit me again and again, and then he laugh and tell me I stupid whore. That night, they bring men in, they have bad sex with me, front, back, all over. I hurt, I bleeding. No one care. No one help.”

  “Did you talk to the other girls about what was happening?” Nick asked.

  Mariyah shook her head. “No, they have trouble too, I alone there. They alone too. But I make plan. Men stupid when they in room with me, and I see coins fall from pockets. Twenty-five-, fifty-paisa coins, once a ten-rupee note. I take them all and hide in hole in mattress. Every night, I have more. I know someday I rich and I run.”

  “How much in US dollars is that?” Abby asked.

  Nick looked up. “Not much. One hundred paisa equals one rupee, and one rupee equals two cents.”

  “To me,” Mariyah said, “it is money, my money, but not for long. The mattress spill my secret. One day, fat man fall down on mattress and hole grow. Coins tumble out and onto floor, making ping noise. Man jump up and point to tear in mattress. He yelling. Say I steal from him, but he steal from me. He take it, he take my money, and leave room shouting in big voice. I know what coming. He tell boss, she come and hit me, and lock me in again. Next day, beatings start. I never get out, I think, but I not cry. I not cry again I say to myself.”

  Nick looked up. “How long had you been there by then?”

  Mariyah’s brow furrowed, and she shook her head. “Maybe one year, maybe two. I know for sure I miss two, maybe three, planting seasons. I gone long time, and I think my family forget me.”

  “What happened after the money incident?” Nick asked. “Did things get better?”

  “No. Boss lady tell me I stupid one. She say my family not want me—they have sell me to her. She laughing when she tell me. She say no one want me now—I whore. Lies, I think, but she right—I am whore. I never get escape.” Mariyah looked away for a minute, seeming to compose herself for what lay ahead.

  “I going to Mumbai, they say. That the city I going to when I leave my father’s house. I think, acha, this good. I and other girl put in crate. You know—big packing crate? They nail it shut. We locked in good. Other girl—well, I see her sometimes at house. She big.” Mariyah held her arms wide to indicate the girth of the woman. “Her name I know. She called Zeinab, and she work in kitchen, but something not right with Zeinab. She have eyes so far apart, it look like she seeing things sideways. She just not right and I know she not whore. No man buy that. I think this good for me. Maybe, we both work in kitchen.”

  Mariyah looked straight at Nick, her coal-black eyes flashing. “But it not good. Not good at all. Mumbai more dirty. I smell city through holes in crate. Bad smells—people and animals and tutty.”

  “Tutty?” Abby asked.

  “Slang for ‘shit,’ ” Nick said, his eyes on Mariyah. “Right?”

  Mariyah nodded. “Shit smell everywhere, even at new house. I want to cry. House big, and dark, and dirty. Man there say he know I bad in past, and if I not good, he cut me.” She lifted her chin and made a cutting motion to her throat. Abby saw then the long scar that ran along the crease in Mariyah’s neck, and Abby held back the gasp that hovered at her lips.

  “I in dirty room, but they give me pretty dress and tell me clean myself for mens. I not want cuts so I do it. That night, mens come. They rough and mean, and I cry. I get beat for crying. Every day the same. I see big girl, but she no talk to me. No smile, she dead in her eyes like she not in there. I not sorry for her. I sorry for me. My eyes not dead yet.”

  Abby swallowed the knot in her throat.

  “More time go by, more mens complain. I bad at sex. I get beaten. One night, man say I bit his man part.” She covered her mouth, but her smile peeked out from behind her hand. “It true. I bite him, and I know what coming. I be locked in, but I be alone and that better than dirty mens. But this time, they beat me on back with chains, and man cut my neck. Here.” She pointed to the scar at her throat. “My neck, my back bleeding, I sick with fever. I have bad scars here and on my back now.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat as if to soothe the scars on her back.

  “She never received medical care for the infections, and she still has trouble,” Zara said. “Inshallah, with the antibiotics she takes now, she will get well.”

  “Cuts on back give me pain every day, and when mens get on top of me, I want to scream with pain in my back, but I not. I keep my mouth shut, until one day, man scratch at my back to give me more pain. He crazy and mean, and I scratch his face. He take out knife and cut me here.” She pointed to the long, winding scar that slashed across her face. “I think my face fall off, and I try to hold it in. I screaming. Boss come in, and this time, he not mad at me. He go after man with knife and hurt him. I on floor afraid to scream now, afraid my face will fall away, afraid boss will hurt me too, but boss have midwife wallah come. She nic
e to me, she sew my face back so it not fall off, but it look bad. I cry when I see in mirror, but boss say, keep your veil over your face, and no let mens see. And there I am—back to work.”

  “What happened to the man?” Nick asked.

  Mariyah shrugged. “I not see, I only think about my face.”

  “Did you know that man? Did he have a name?” Nick scribbled as he spoke.

  “No name, all mens—no names. We told to call them honey, so they all honey to me.” She giggled. “They not sweet like honey, them mens mean. They see my face, they want their money back. Boss mad at me and hitting me all time. I know I have to get away, and one day, I see window open. I look out and see we are on second level. I think I can climb down and run. I looking and trying to be brave when boss man see me. He shout and come running, and I know this my only chance, so I close my eyes and I hold my breath and I pull myself through window opening, and then before he can pull me back, I jump. I free, I feel air and sunshine on my face for first time in long time. I flying, but then I land. Hard, and I see man looking out window. I know he coming after me so I pull myself up and I run. I feel pain like fire shoot through my leg.” Mariyah bent and massaged her leg while she spoke.

  “Finally, I just fall. I have no more run in me. I fall to street, and holy women, nuns, find me. They bring me to their hospital and they so good.” Mariyah began to cry. “I think in my whole life, no one else that good to me.”

  A car horn beeped loudly somewhere outside, startling Abby, who’d been so absorbed in Mariyah’s words. She glanced sideways at Nick and saw that he too seemed to flinch at the sound. He placed his notebook down. “What about your leg, your other injuries?” he asked.

  “I have broke leg and bad infection in my face and back cuts. But at hospital, I have doctor nun who take care of me, who make my leg so I can walk.” She stood and took a few steps, walking slowly to ease her limp. “See?” she proclaimed proudly before taking her seat.

  “Did the nuns send you here?” Nick asked.

  “Nuns want for me stay in India, want me to learn trade, but I want come home. In India, I alone, I a tree without leaves, a night without stars, a house without windows. You understand?” She nodded toward Nick and Abby. “You know?”

  “Yes,” Abby murmured, though she knew she’d never understand that kind of aloneness.

  “I belong here, in my country.” Mariyah’s eyes lit up. “And so the nuns searched and searched and found this house, and then send me here.”

  “But, can’t you return home?” Abby asked.

  “No, my family would be shamed. I am dirty now, and my face full of scars. No one want me now, and what would they tell people? No, it is best if I stay lost.”

  “Mariyah, you are not dirty. There is nothing unclean about you. I hope you know that,” Abby said, struggling to keep her voice from breaking.

  “And we are happy to have Mariyah with us,” Zara said. “She is learning how to keep records in the clinic with you, Abby, so that she will have a trade and the means to support herself someday.”

  “Do you have the contact information for the nuns?” Nick asked. “I’d like to see where they work, get them some attention with an article, and maybe that attention will raise some money.”

  “They would appreciate that, Nick.” Zara rose from her seat. “I’ll see if I can get it for you.”

  “And you,” Nick said, turning to Mariyah, “you’ve shared an incredibly difficult story. You’re very courageous. Don’t lose sight of that.”

  Mariyah smiled, her scar pulling at her skin. “Shukria.”

  Abby blinked back the tears that lined her eyes. “You have a beautiful smile,” she said, her voice trembling. “Your scars can’t change that.” She leaned in and planted a kiss on Mariyah’s cheek.

  “I learning to smile, to be happy,” Mariyah said. “Someday, inshallah, I go all the way home, and then I really smile.”

  Chapter 14

  Nick and Abby drove to the American Club in silence. The hideous images of Mariyah’s life stuck in Abby’s mind, and not until they’d trudged upstairs and collapsed into seats in a dark corner of the bar did they finally speak.

  “I just feel sick,” Abby said, breaking the long silence.

  “It was pretty awful, and it’s probably not the worst story there is, you know?”

  Abby nodded.

  “Cheeseburger and beer?” Nick asked, rising from his seat.

  “No. Today, I’ll have what you’re having. I want a drink that will burn the back of my throat and slam into my gut before numbing my brain.”

  “Whoa. You sure?”

  “I am very sure. I need something strong to clear the misery from my head.”

  “What I’m ordering may not clear your misery. In fact, by tomorrow, it’ll provide you with more misery than you know what to do with. Do you at least want food?”

  “Peanuts will be fine. That’s all the protein I need today.”

  Nick shook his head. “You got it. Be right back.” He strode quickly to the bar.

  Abby fought the urge to bury her head in her arms and just cry. She didn’t know what the hell she was doing here. She’d come here to run away from things, but instead she’d run right into utter agony, and she knew that after today, she’d never be the same. For starters, there’d be no more whining about Eric or her shitty decisions, and she’d throw out his damned e-mail when she got home. God, there was so much sadness in the world. Why hadn’t she ever noticed? Well, she knew why. She’d been busy working, and planning her perfect life, which turned out to be not so perfect after all. But it was bliss compared to what she’d heard today.

  Nick slid a glass full of amber-colored liquid under her nose and set a bowl of peanuts between them. “I was going to order a double, but I nixed that idea and decided to start with a simple scotch on the rocks. Okay with you?”

  Abby nodded and raised the glass. “To saving the world.” She threw back the scotch and, in one long swig, swallowed it all.

  Nick’s eyes grew wide. “Jesus, Abby, take it easy, will ya? I know Mariyah’s story was hard to hear, but just take it slow.”

  Abby felt her eyes well up, and she gripped her lower lip between her teeth to stop the flood of tears she could feel forming behind her eyes. She took a handful of peanuts and licked the salt clean off before swallowing them. She could feel Nick’s eyes on her, and she took a deep breath and looked straight at him. “It’s not fair. Mariyah, who is quite literally scarred, is struggling to make some kind of life for herself, while I sit here with a relatively good life, struggling to drown my sympathies for her in scotch. Tell me, where is the justice in that?”

  “I don’t have any answers for you, Abby. It seems late in the game to remind you that life’s not fair. Hell, at any given moment, there are people living the hardest of hardscrabble lives. It doesn’t do them any good for you to drown your sorrows.”

  “Are you reminding me that I’m not just naive, but I’m a shallow, self-centered bitch as well?”

  A look of concern flickered in Nick’s eyes as he reached across the table and took Abby’s hand. “No, Abby. You’re none of those things,” he said, his voice calming. “You’ve just heard a story and seen scars that would make most people weak in the knees, and yet you stayed and listened and soothed Mariyah, and you treated her with respect and dignity. You’re inherently good, Abby, and you’re here for all the right reasons. You can’t change that.”

  A tear fell from Abby’s eyes, and she wiped it away. “I’m not as good as you think I am.”

  “Sure you are. Believe me, I know plenty of self-centered clowns, and you aren’t one of them. Far from it. As a matter of fact, I think you’re one hell of a dame.”

  For the first time all day, Abby felt a ripple of laughter surge to her lips, and suddenly she was chuckling. “Thanks, Nick. For the laugh too. Dame, huh? What a vocabulary.”

  “I’m sure you mean that in the best way possible. As you’re so keen to
remind me, I am a Pulitzer Prize winner.”

  “That you are, Nick. That you are.” He lifted his drink, and the fading tattoo she’d noticed when she’d first met him shimmered in the glass. “What’s . . . ,” she started to ask him about it, but caught herself. He’d think she cared, and she didn’t, or at least she didn’t want to.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay, so here’s the plan.” Nick pushed away from the table and stood. “I’m willing to get another round, but only if you’ll agree to a cheeseburger as a chaser.”

  Abby nodded and nestled into her chair as Nick headed back to the bar to put in their order. Her thoughts wandered to Mariyah, to her scars, her pain, and her quiet grace in seeming to accept it all. By the time Nick returned with the food and another round, Abby knew she had more to learn, and between bites, she peppered him with questions.

  “What did you think of Mariyah’s story? Is that the usual kind of trafficking?”

  “There’s no usual way, but I guess her story’s not so far off, though I’ll tell you I think it’s more likely a woman will be thrown to her death, and then the cover is ‘Oh, she jumped.’ ”

  “Thrown to her death?” Abby asked.

  “When the rapes and beatings are too much to bear, a girl might suddenly become bold—decide to go to the authorities or run away. What does she have to lose anyway? It’s pretty unpleasant—some are beaten so badly, they die, or they’re thrown into swimming pools where they drown, or they’re thrown from balconies and their employers—and I use that term loosely—say they jumped.”

  Abby’s jaw went slack. “Thrown? They’re thrown from balconies?”

  “More often than you might think.” Nick bit into his cheeseburger.

  Images of Geneva flickered in Abby’s head—the struggle on the balcony, the woman’s hideous fall, the sickening thud, the sparkling bracelet, and the shadowy figure of the man who just might have thrown that woman—all of it replayed in Abby’s mind, and she felt the room sway around her. She could see the woman so clearly, her broken body lying splayed on the street, the bracelet sparkling. Maybe she had been thrown. Should she tell Nick? She watched him out of the corner of her eye. He had turned to greet an acquaintance, and he laughed at something the man said.