The Orphan Keeper

by Camron Wright

  Down another step.

  He could swim to Rux—it seemed safe enough. But in this tiny square of a stagnant river, what was the point? There was no destination: no trees, no rocks, no cliffs, no plants. Nothing but a large box of water.

  It was up to his chest now, lapping at him.

  “Come on!” Rux called again.

  Chellamuthu filled his lungs with a long, deep breath as he would have done back home. Instead of leaping, however, he stretched out toward the deep end, pushed off, and then let the water swallow him whole.

  It was peaceful, almost like a dream, floating motionless beneath the surface. It shut out all the noise and chattering that had been making him crazy. He pretended that if he surfaced, he’d find the deep blue Indian sky welcoming him home.

  The water here stung his eyes, and so he closed them. That was even better. He could almost hear his friends laughing, feel the river’s pull, smell a hint of curry drifting in the breeze to join the fun.

  And then a childish notion once again echoed in his head.

  If only I were a fish.

  If he could choose to hide somewhere, he’d hide down here beneath the surface forever, let the water protect him from the threatening snakes: fear, frustration, isolation, loneliness.

  If only I were a fish, I could swim back to India.

  His lungs were beginning to burn. He didn’t move.

  Then, as in the river back home, someone grabbed his arm. He was yanked to the surface, pulled in a panic to the side, and then plopped to the safety of the concrete shore by his American father.

  Never a choice. Always being rescued.

  He motioned to Fred that he was all right and then signaled the same to Rux, whose face dripped with distress. When Rux realized that Chellamuthu wasn’t drowning, that there was nothing to worry about, he coaxed his brother to jump back in.

  Chellamuthu shook his head. He’d had enough. He headed toward the room where they had dressed, all the while feeling the stares of strangers tracking him, watching, wondering.

  There was a man at the train station in Erode who had trained a monkey to strum a small guitar, making music for the passing crowd who would gather, giggle, and clap.

  Maybe I should find a guitar.

  But tonight it didn’t matter. He was too busy considering another thought that had leaked in between his ears.

  Why did he always have to come up for air?

  When Chellamuthu walked in from school, Linda was holding a radio, though it wasn’t playing music. “Come!” she said, as she beckoned him to sit beside her at the kitchen table.

  She pressed two buttons and then bent down toward the machine. “This is a recorder. It’s used to record your voice. We want you to speak to it.”

  She poked it a second time with her finger and then turned to watch his reaction.

  “This is a recorder. It’s used to record your voice. We want you to speak to it.”

  Chellamuthu could hear her talking, but her lips weren’t moving—instead her words were spilling from the strange little box. His own lips parted. His forehead furrowed. He watched as she repeated the demonstration.

  “You speak into this machine, and it will record whatever you say.”

  A few more button pushes, and it once again repeated her words perfectly.

  Her drumming fingers meant that she now wanted him to try. Her nod told him she was ready. He leaned toward the device and opened his mouth but hesitated, unable to collect his words.

  “Just say anything,” she encouraged as she again pushed the buttons.

  He started by trying to remember a few of his best English words.

  “Hello . . . I talk . . . now.”

  “No, no. Speak in Tamil,” she said.

  “Tamil?” he asked with astonished eyes.

  For Chellamuthu, whose every waking hour consisted of brothers, parents, teachers, classmates, and even total strangers asking him to try to speak in English, her request for Tamil was like jerking away debris from a clogged and swollen river.

  What would he say? Where would he start?

  It wasn’t just the relief of being able to speak without the shackles of strange words, it was that he could say anything—and the machine would remember.

  Chellamuthu sat up, scooted forward. He might even have giggled. For all he knew, this machine might speak Tamil back. His eyes glowed.

  He would start his story at the beginning. It would take some time, but neither the mom-lady nor the machine seemed in a hurry.

  He breathed, then reached out and clutched the table with determined hands.

  “Ennoda appa amma kitta erundhu enna kadathitanga . . .”

  Chapter 18

  When swimming didn’t seem to take, Fred decided it was time to introduce Chellamuthu to the world’s greatest sport: amateur wrestling.

  “Quite simply,” he’d often repeated to Linda, even when she had left the room and was no longer listening, “there is no better way on earth to teach a boy self-discipline, mental toughness, and sportsmanship.”

  And who better to tackle the task than the high school’s own wrestling coach?

  At the end of each day, Fred picked up Chellamuthu from the elementary school and hauled him back to the high school gym for team practice. For the first two days, he made Chellamuthu observe from the bleachers. On day three, he let the boy suit up and invited him to step onto the mat. With Fred instructing, Chucky Hogan, the best lightweight wrestler on the team, helped Chellamuthu practice basic moves.

  To Fred’s surprise, and perhaps Chellamuthu’s, he was a natural.

  Chellamuthu was still smaller than any of the boys on the team—even the featherweights. But by the end of the week, he had mastered take downs, tie ups, rolls, and switches. It turned out he could Double Leg Snatch with the best of them.

  Chellamuthu didn’t say much when wrestling, but as Fred observed, when wrestling, not much needs to be said.

  By the end of week three, Chellamuthu had made so much progress that Fred called in a favor and signed up his son to wrestle in an exhibition club match the following weekend.

  Linda, Rux, and Josh all cheered from the stands as Chellamuthu wrestled in his first competition, and while he didn’t take first, he scored points in two close matches and won a third, to receive an overall third-place ribbon.

  For the first time, Linda noticed a gleam of contentment in her oldest son’s eyes.

  On the way home, Chellamuthu spoke Tamil in the car, asking questions and then waiting, as if expecting an answer. When none came, he tried to use his English words. He was holding up his ribbon.

  “Show . . . mother?”

  Linda turned. “I can see it,” she replied. “You did so well!”

  Chellamuthu drew the ribbon close. “No . . . home, India!” he said. “Show . . . India mother?”

  Fred tapped the brakes. He glanced toward Linda. “What did he just say?”

  Linda was already twisting in her seat. “India mother? You have a mother in India?” she asked with wide-eyed words. She nudged him with her hand to make sure he was watching. “India mother?” she repeated.

  “Mother. Yes. India. Show . . .” He was holding up his ribbon alongside a rusty smile.

  “Father?” Linda asked.

  The boy’s head was nodding like a bobble-head doll. “Father, yes. And Anna, . . . err . . . brother . . . sister.”

  Linda glanced at Fred. His hairline couldn’t have gone any higher. Plenty was being communicated with their few peppered words.

  Their newly adopted son wasn’t an orphan at all.

  Linda began typing the moment she walked in the door. She’d been kicking the words in their shins the entire drive home. This couldn’t wait. When she finished, she had Fred check for mistakes and then climbed into the car and drove directl
y to Western Union.

  Dear Mr. Manickam,

  When we adopted Chellamuthu, you told us he was an orphan. You have not been honest again. He has told us that he has a mother, father, sister, and brother in India. We love him and consider him our adopted son, but we need to immediately know his background and if there is truth to what he has now told us. Any information you can provide is important. We insist on your immediate reply.

  Fred and Linda Rowland

  “Come fold clothes!” Linda hollered, speaking like a caveman—though doubting the words were in a caveman’s repertoire.

  Chellamuthu ignored her. Playing trucks with Rux was way more fun. If he pretended he didn’t understand, it would buy a little more time.

  A minute later she was back. “Please, boys.”

  Why did they have so many clothes, anyway? Life was so much easier in India, where a boy needed only a pair of shorts.

  “Come. NOW!”

  Rux dropped his truck and headed up the stairs. Chellamuthu was still considering his options. While his two mothers lived on opposite sides of the world, they were the same in many ways.

  “No swimming in the river until you help Uncle.” “No TV until you make your bed.”

  “Eat your curry.” “Finish your peanut butter sandwich.”

  “Hold Manju.” “Watch Jarem.”

  “We’re going to temple.” “We’re going to church.”

  “Where’s your father?” “Where’s your father?”

  Mother working late in India. Mother working late in America. Rushing here, driving there, cooking this, cleaning that.

  It was worse with his new mother, since she was so . . . stubborn. Always insisting she was right. Why did she have to be that way?

  Even when she came home late and both she and Chellamuthu were tired, she’d still make him study his words. When he was hungry after school and wanted cookies, she’d make him wait until after dinner, or worse, try to give him carrots.

  It always had to be her way.

  Fred, his dad, was more fun. He was teaching Chellamuthu how to wrestle. But even that really didn’t matter. If they took him away from this family tomorrow, so what? He would get used to it quickly enough.

  Experience had taught him well. Whoever he got close to was taken away, and it always cut deep.

  No more—the scars were finally growing thick.

  When he heard Linda’s footsteps coming down the stairs, he stood. As he’d said, she was always so stubborn.

  “I . . . coming! Coming!” he called out, a touch of disgust trailing in his voice.

  When Eli wouldn’t respond to Linda’s telegram, she tried a registered letter.

  When he ignored the letter, she picked up the telephone.

  It turned out calling was both expensive and fruitless: Mr. Manickam was always busy, often away, never willing to come to the phone.

  If Eli wouldn’t address the problem, she’d find someone who would. She’d call a United States senator, again—or at least the sister of a senator.

  Linda spoke with Jessica, who spoke to her brother the senator, who agreed to again have his office contact the consulate general’s office in Chennai. He wasn’t hopeful they could help, but he was prepared to try.

  A week later, at five in the morning, the phone rang. The voice was distant, but familiar.

  “Mrs. Rowland? Sorry for the early hour again, ma’am. It’s Matt Conway. We spoke briefly several months back when you adopted your son.”

  Linda sat up.

  “Sure, Matt, sure. How could I forget?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Well, I’m following through on your request to the senator’s office to track down information about your son.”

  “Yes, yes. Thank you so much.”

  “We will do all we can, but like my Alabama grandma used to say, these guys can be slicker than an oyster soup sandwich. Unfortunately, all we can do is make an official request to the Indian authorities for the matter to be investigated and . . . well, many of the laws here turn out to be mere suggestions, depending on who pays whom, if you know what I mean? I just wanted you to be aware.”

  “Thank you. Please let me know if you hear any news.”

  She was about to hang up when he interrupted. “Ma’am? How’s the boy doing?”

  Despite the fact that all this man had ever done was wake her up in the middle of the night with bad news, she liked Matt Conway.

  “The progress is slow, but it’s forward. Thank you for asking.”

  “Good to hear, ma’am. Give him my best. Y’all have a good day.”

  Linda shut off the alarm. It would be going off soon anyway.

  The dead ends were piling up. Options were running thin. Then she remembered one last avenue.

  Two days earlier, by sheer luck, she’d run into a woman she’d met twice before at gatherings for adoptive parents. The woman, who’d also arranged for a child through Lincoln Home, had recognized Linda waiting in the supermarket checkout line. As Linda rehearsed her newfound concerns with Eli Manickam, the woman had remembered receiving correspondence from the orphanage signed by someone else when they’d had a dispute about her final payment. She promised Linda she’d look for his name, and yesterday she’d called with his information. Linda was on her way out the door and had scribbled it down on a scrap of paper she dropped into her purse.

  She pulled it out now and placed it on the table. It was a long shot. She understood that. But what worthwhile thing in life wasn’t?

  A plan was taking shape as she examined the name. She would write a letter to this man, tell him Eli Manickam hadn’t responded, and plead to his goodness for some answers. Her questions were simple: Did Chellamuthu have a family in India? If so, why did Eli say the boy was an orphan? If their son had a family, why did they give him up? Could information about the family be provided, so her son would have it when he was older?

  This man was her last, best shot. Hopefully he’d take pity and help.

  She rolled a piece of paper into the typewriter and paused for a moment before typing the addressee’s name. “At least,” she mumbled to herself, “I finally have someone to write to besides Eli Manickam.”

  With a renewed sense of optimism, she pushed the keys.

  Lincoln Home for Homeless Children

  Attention: Mr. Maneesh Durai

  Chellamuthu knew from experience in India—three whole weeks in the public school in Erode—that paying attention to a teacher was trying. Sitting now for hours at a time, weeks on end, when he could only understand one in ten words, was excruciating. It was not that he didn’t want to learn. It was that when the teacher spoke, every sentence sounded like the syllables were jumping places on purpose just to tease and torture.

  There was, however, one word that he’d learned to recognize and appreciate early—a word that his ears trolled for whenever the teacher spoke, a word that all the students equally adored: Recess.

  When the weather was cold and snowy, the students spent their recess inside—a punishment, it seemed, for both the children and the teachers. However, when the days finally warmed and the snow that covered the matted grass melted and the flowers pushed their little yawning faces to the sun, the world tipped back into balance again and every breathing person attending Vineyard Elementary rejoiced—­including Chellamuthu.

  It didn’t take long for the boy to learn that outdoor recess in elementary school meant one activity: Kickball.

  The game was easy enough, having rules similar to cricket (with several notable exceptions). Instead of using a small, hard ball that could injure elementary schoolchildren when it hit them in the face, the game was played with a bouncy, overly anxious rubber ball about the size of a watermelon.

  Rather than pitching, the large red ball was rolled at home plate, bowling style.

  Instead of usin
g a bat, the person who was up kicked the ball with as much force as they could muster, usually toward the outfield.

  If the ball wasn’t caught in midair, which counted as an out, then the square box of bases would be run, and a point would be scored for the team.

  To get a runner out, whoever had the ball would either throw it to pummel the runner between bases, or chase them down and punch them with the ball before they reached the next base.

  When the kicking team reached three outs, sides were switched, and the game ended when the school bell rang.

  Easy.

  Since Chellamuthu was so much older than his first-grade classmates, at recess he stayed with kids closer to his size, mostly third graders. At the first outdoor recess of the spring, Chellamuthu watched as the captains selected their teams. He wasn’t chosen.

  The next day, he stood closer. He barely received a glance and was again overlooked.

  On the third day at lunchtime, Chellamuthu sat on the grass watching two of the better third-grade teams play. Minutes into the game, the ball glanced sideways off the kicker’s foot and bounced to Chellamuthu as a foul.

  “Here!” the boy at the mound screamed, before spitting in the dirt toward Chellamuthu. “Kick it here!”

  Chellamuthu was wiry but strong. He pretended he was back in India with Selvaraj, the time they were trying to kick tamarind pods against the wind. Only his target today was significantly larger. Chellamuthu’s foot connected with the ball square and solid. It not only soared over the pitcher’s head, it cleared second base and rolled into the far outfield.

  “Whoa!” the boy at the mound hollered, praise understood in any language. “That’s what I call a kick!” He was wearing a red T-shirt and must have been in charge, because he talked to the captain of the opposing team and an argument ensued. Chellamuthu was only able to pick out occasional words.

  “No . . . Yes.”

  “NO! . . . YES!”

  “Not fair . . . Fine!”

  One thing was obvious, they were arguing over him!

  “Yes!” the red-shirted boy hollered again. He’d evidently won the argument because he directed Chellamuthu into position on his team, aiming to a spot between first and second base—and the game continued.