by CK Collins
No TV or computer, just this warbly old cassette deck. For entertainment there was what we bought at the second-hand (third-hand) store next to Domino’s — some board games, the chess set that Dad still plays on, this huge stack of Popular Mechanics, comic books and paperbacks with no covers. Those books, mostly science fiction and westerns, I liked how the old, yellowed pulp paper smelled, and some of the stories were okay. For homework, I had a 1970s World Book Encyclopedia set that was missing M-N and S.
Cheapo cereal, cheapo peanut butter, cheapo noodles and hot dogs. Which was fine by me. But the place had this smell we could never figure out, and the toilet was always needing a plunger, and there was this mold that didn’t care how much bleach I used on it. And our neighbor, this guy Ray in the other half of the duplex, that guy so skeeved me out — this creepy Motörhead tattoo and a wasteland of Milwaukee’s Best in the yard and always laughing loud and yelling louder at his skanky girlfriends. Little Callie did not like being home alone when Ray was around.
Behind us there was this concrete culvert and a chain-link fence that separated our street from the subdivision. The kids in the development had busted a hole in the fence because it gave them a shortcut to the shopping center. My friend Amanda and I used to play juvenile delinquent in the culvert sometimes, listening to hip-hop on her Walkman and smoking the Camels she stole from her brother. Sometimes we’d slip through the fence.
The subdivision had this house, it was just one street over from the fence, with a backyard trampoline. Amanda was crazy for trampolines, and they had skateboards and a slip-and-slide and all that good stuff. There were three boys and they were always cool with letting us hang out and play with their stuff.
Summer break. It was great being out of school but it also sucked because I was so lonely and bored. There was this one afternoon, it was early August, and the whole world was away on vacation but us. I decided to go hit the trampoline. One thing led to another — unlocked basement window, me a skinny little thing — and there I was inside the house.
It was nice. And the next day I went back. Nothing bad: I watched cable, played the Nintendo, replaced the battery on their kitchen clock. The thing that was best: they had English muffins. Thomas’ English Muffins, the good kind. Dad, it was one of our struggles, would never buy them — and here these people had two whole packs in their freezer. I let myself have one of those packs and tried all kinds of different jams.
In their garage, they had all these folding chairs stacked up, really nice ones and not being used. Compare that to us: we had three chairs total and they were all three of them rickety junk. So I took two, just two, and told Dad that I got them at a yard sale. For the first time in forever we ate dinner without spinal bruising.
How Mrs. Kaplan found me out, I don’t know. One day I walked in the door and there she was. Sitting in a chair that belonged to her, having a very pleasant conversation. Dad introduced us. Said Vicki lives in the development and she’s wondering if I might be interested in a job. Some light housework. I said okay and she said how about if we get started now. We said bye to my dad and took the long route to her house. Chatting about the weather and what I liked at school (not much but I said different).
There was nobody else home. We sat at two stools in her kitchen. She never said anything directly, but we both knew the score. My heart was pounding. “Darlin’,” she said, “how’d you like to do some work starting from today till the first of November?”
“Okay.”
“You know how to run you a vacuum?”
“Sure.”
“Dishes?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Darlin’, you’ll get along best with folks if you say, ‘Yes ma’am’ or ‘No ma’am.’ Some free advice, one lady to another.”
“Yes ma’am. I can do whatever you need. Free.”
The way she smiled was so sympathetic that it was hard not crying. “That sounds real fair, darlin’.”
The first couple times I came over, I tried to finish my chores fast and scurry out of there, but Mrs. Kaplan wasn’t having that and asked me for supper. Except for being Jewish, Mrs. Kaplan was as straight southern as okra and biscuits, both of which I got real familiar with in her house. She was of the (correct) opinion that I was too darn skinny and needed to do something with that hair of mine.
She never did ask me to explain what I’d done. And she let us keep the chairs. In November, she started paying me. I liked having the cash, but I liked the coming over even more.
Mr. Kaplan was retired from the army and traveled a lot as some kind of consultant, so I didn’t ever see him much. In addition to Aaron, there was David, who was seven, and Noah who was nine. I was nine months older than Aaron, but he was a year ahead of me in school. He helped me with how to study and write like not-an-idiot. He also did a lot to expand my knowledge of Mario Bros. and college basketball.
It was almost time for Aaron’s Bar Mitzvah and I learned a little Hebrew with him. They belonged to a reformed synagogue, this place in Raleigh, and Dad and I got invitations. I remember sitting there during the ceremony, which was pretty cool, and thinking I might convert. It’s the closest I’ve ever gotten to believing in God.
That was in January. And then in May, at the end of the school year, Mr. Kaplan took a new job in Oklahoma. It was Vicki who told me about it, that they had to move, and she cried when she did it. Which didn’t keep me from being a brat. I said they never saw him anyway, so what did it matter if they moved? She said that a family needs to stay together and that just made me madder. They all said I should come visit and I was mean about it. When they left in July, I didn’t go to the party. Or answer the sweet note that Mrs. Kaplan wrote. It makes me sick. But like mother like daughter I guess.
17 October
* * *
Liashe, Masalay
Brother Carodai is not in his office.
After waiting, Tchori queries the Middlers in the stacks if they’ve seen the High Librarian. But of course they’re oblivious to anything that doesn’t concern them. They look at her oddly. She’s come straight from the mending room, she realises, and the flower scent is on her.
She leaves through the side stairs and avoids the plaza. Kistulo is out and she’s immediately to the shower — two shampoos and a thorough scrubbing with sponge and exfoliant. Finally satisfied that the odour is gone, she towels off and attends to her clothes, rubbing them through with detergent and stowing them in a plastic bag for special washing.
Twenty messages in her Gmail, most from family: Forwarded jokes, election talk, promises of a couch to kale on if she wants to come south for a job interview. Paado apparently has inside position on a post at the University of Jaya. Once he’s in, getting her through the door will be no problem. (Brother would be appalled, but it’s how things work.) Never comfortable letting messages from family go begging, she dashes quick replies.
She’s feared a message from the rental agency dunning her for the unconscionable wear on their vehicle — almost as much as she feared a letter from Brother Carodai confessing that everything he shared was a senile lie. (To which she would reply of course that she never truly believed it all.)
Come 3:30 and still no Kistulo. Likely down at the Redway watching Premier League and having a pint. He’ll come in boisterous and smelling of smoke. He’ll bring curry. And if he’s a true dear a snuck pint for her.
She sniffs her shirt, paranoid now. And headachey. She ought to go for yoga — that’s part of what’s nipping her, she’s off her routines and not getting exercise.
Yesterday had two hours spent in scouring flower websites, reviewing interminable pages of thumbnails. There was the occasional specimen with slight resemblance but nothing that approached a true match.
Persevering through ridiculous user interfaces, she registers on the two most popular sites and uploads images. She keeps her posts short: Newbie looking for help, recently come upon an unfamiliar flower, any notion what it might be? Thanks much.
Two Motrin and a glass of water. She rings Brother’s office to no avail. Not entirely considerate, is it, his disappearing like this? She puts on her shoes and has just pocketed her mobile when it rings. “Addi.”
“Hello? What’s that? Yes, someone has just done. Hello yes, I’m calling after Miss Vidaayit.”
“Yes, it’s me, Brother.”
“Oh is it? Yes, it’s she — many thanks. Pardon, dear. So happy to have reached you.”
“Where are you, Brother?”
“They’ve been forever finding your number.”
“I can barely hear you Brother. Where are you?”
“Oh, well there’s been an incident. They tell me I over-exerted myself.”
“You’re not in hospital?”
“Quite that, I’m afraid.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ve been round your office and no one’s one told me. No one called.”
“Yes well I believe they couldn’t find your number.”
“That’s unacceptable.”
“I was not communicating well.”
“I’ll come straight away. Pray tell me it’s not Union Clinics, they’ll kill you.”
“They’ve not done yet. It’s an attractive room . . .”
“We’ll get you to Municipal straight away. They wash their hands there. What’s the room?”
“No, no, I’m quite well. They’ve given me medication and . . .”
“You’ve read the label, one hopes.”
“Whatever it was, it’s done the trick quite nicely. I’m to be let out tomorrow. But right now you must do something for me. What’s the time then, I seem to have misplaced my watch.”
“It’s gone four.”
“Lovely, I feared it was later.”
“Do you need me to run by your flat?”
“No no. I’ve an errand for you. It will involve a walk.”
Afternoon
Jaya, Masalay
Not having money or a passport sucks, but what I really wish I could have back is my iPod. Their CD library, this feels mean, but it is really un-good. Celine Dion, if she walked in and saw their Celine Dion collection, would say, “Christ, you have way too much Celine Dion.” There’s like four good albums that I guess they bought by accident. As much as it helps to hear familiar music — and it does help a lot — this many doses of Rumours and The Bends can’t be healthy.
I want to get on the internet. I mean, I do but I don’t. The thought of looking at Facebook and my e-mail gives me butterflies. I’m scared of what people are saying about me. And even more scared that they’re not saying anything. I already know how not-essential I am, but vivid evidence is not something I can take right now. And it’s moot anyway — their computer wants a password and for some reason they haven’t written it on a sticky under the monitor.
Time to tackle the freezer. Not like I’ve got high hopes of finding anything delicious, but you never know. It’s one of those fancypants modern freezers with a big drawer that you pull out, which makes it pretty easy to deal with. I dump all the dingy ice and the junk that’s obviously freezer-burned, which is most of it. There’s an okay bag of edamame, a couple packs of pork spring rolls, and a metal canister of coffee. Probably past its prime but prime coffee is wasted on me anyway and I could go for a cup.
I kick the freezer shut — and just stand there staring at the wads of cash in the coffee can. Okay. Alright. I get down on the floor and spread it all out.
Five American hundreds, but the rest is all Masalayan. I count it twice: 11,300 pounds. I take out four fifties, about 70 bucks if I remember the exchange rate, and put the rest back where it came from.
Safe bet that it’s not the cleanest money in the world. That’s how things work in Masalay — Rika said so, and I saw it first-hand with the Chowgules — paying bribes is just how you get things done. Doesn’t matter if you’re getting a building permit or doing jobs for the Prime Minister. Sucks but I’m not real inclined to stand on principle right now. And I’m not telling Pashi or any of them.
I decide to make dinner, and of course I make too much, which seems to be my pattern. Tons of rice, a pack of pre-marinated tofu that’s not too far past the expiration, the edamame and spring rolls I found in the freezer, and a ridiculous amount of mango chutney. All kind of mixed together. Enough for two, but I polish it off and still feel hungry.
I eat it all in front of the TV. CNN India — damn, now that’s entertainment. The Bollywood Oscars. Stampede at a Hindu festival. Nuclear testing. Cricket championships. And hey, cool, polio.
Microwave popcorn. Expired in April, but it’s not too bad.
I find an English re-run of ER. George Clooney breaking the rules. Carter making mistakes. Dr. Greene helping the married woman with HIV. Oh and that’s funny: polio. It’s like a drinking game.
The Masalayan commercials are strangely entertaining. And I hate to admit it, but I’m even starting to enjoy cricket. Not that the rules make any sense, but whatever. I make more popcorn and eat the chutney with a spoon.
* * *
Bizarre, but the fridge has fixed itself. Maybe it was nervous to be keeping all that money secret. The noise will probably start up again any minute, but right now the place is too quiet. Too empty.
I pull some books from the shelves in the living room. A whole stack of them, all classics like Madame Bovary, because my brain is turning to mush and I need to do something about that. I stack them on the coffee table and go to get some water — but I stop.
My reflection in the sliding-glass door: I’m changing.
I switch on the ceiling light and turn sideways. I lift my shirt and tuck it under my chin. I try different angles. No there really is a bulge. And the rest of me looks different too — I’m more full, in a really good way. I spread my palms on top of the baby.
The house ain’t empty. We’re here.
Afternoon
Liashe, Masalay
Tchori reaches the Riyain Bridge just as it’s turned. Ridiculous. A piddling barge near empty and proceeding about as slowly as the current will let it — and for this vital commerce hundreds of people are made to sit idle. The aarup kaam vendors are making a tidy business feeding the throng (likely they spug the barge driver a few quid to force turnings through the day).
So Brother’s urgent business: tobacco. Not from either of the two tobacconist she’s passed already, but a specific tobacconist right well into the low quarter. He’s promised to explain the value of it. It will need to be a good explanation indeed.
Someone has left a Sagaro Telegraph on the canal wall. Rubbish paper, but it’s better than chatting indolent nonsense like everyone else. Locating a patch of embankment free of capering monkeys, she sits, stretching her legs in the sun. The aarup kaam does smell appetising.
Fabulous, there’s to be a busman’s strike in Sagaro. Seems they’re not overpaid enough and are being compelled to do intolerable things such as arrive on time and drive only in the roadway. On to the international page. Naught about global warming or Iraq — no, instead we have fevered analysis of the Prime Minister’s courtship by a sultan of Abu Dubai. Seems he owns a Formula-1 team. A full-page spread of photos from Monte Carlo.
Some actual news has been allowed to slip in: Mrs. Daar’s long-anticipated trip to the States remains on schedule. A semi-annual tradition. The press and Congress will fawn over her charisma, her skilled confrontation of terrorism, her farsighted dedication to free-market development. And she will fly home with her handbag full of new investment and aid. In a few months’ time, London and Brussels will see her too and stuff a second bag.
Page 10 has a reprint from Der Spiegel, whose correspondent has been allowed to visit Ghaatasira. The first journalist there since Brother’s dear friend Sidaarik took possession. She skims the piece, all right dismaying — another foreign correspondent brought to orgasm by Hilm Hivaa’s propaganda kiss. We’re to believe that Ghaatasira has become a Talid utopia. Every soul in Northwest Anartha has overnight become h
appy and prosperous. A perfection that extends even to the weather: Instead of the usual September-October wind and overcast skies, it’s been constant sun with nary a ripple on the surface of the lake. Ashma showing Her approval of Hilm Hivaa, says Ghaatasira’s new mayor.
The barge has passed. Tchori stands, gives the paper its due by tossing it to a politer monkey, and waits while the warden recruits men to turn the bridge. There’s no shortage of volunteers, and they put their shoulders to the pike. A painful screech of metal grinding on metal and the span swivels round to reunite east and west.
It’s a narrow canal, but crossing it always feels like a transition betwixt worlds. The teeming commercial grubbiness of the low quarter contrasts so starkly with the timeless stature of the high city and University district. She’s down a half-dozen blind alleys before spotting the tobacconist’s sign. It’s a tiny shop, crammed with sundries that seem more like props than actual items for sale.