Peacock in the Snow

by Anubha Mehta

  Spontaneously, I asked, “Mrs. Lucas, it has been a few rough days for us at home. Would you allow me to take Diya back home with me?. I would also like to talk to her while this issue is still fresh in her mind.”

  I saw the principal hesitate at first. But then she finally said, “Yes, you may. Enjoy the day”

  And, just like that, the two of us walked out the same way we had walked in an hour ago. Except, something was different now. A weight had been lifted. On our way out, we saw a small red-haired boy and his mother sitting on an edge of the couch in the waiting room. I smiled at the mother but she looked away angrily.

  The morning air was still fresh on our way back. I was happy to have gained this one unplanned day from our lives to live.

  As Diya opened the front gate, she shouted with joy: “Mama, Papa is back!”

  ***

  I did not want to see Veer. We had been managing without him. Why had he come back now? Where had he been for two days? Who had he been with?

  I walked into the house, hung up my jacket, and avoided the kitchen and living room. The morning sun was surprisingly warm through our bedroom window. I called my work to inform them that I was taking some time off, and then I stepped into a hot shower to let the tension of the morning slip away.

  When I came out, Veer was lying on the bed. He was smiling. I looked away immediately. He got up and threw his arms around me.

  “Stop!” I almost screamed at him. He was a little taken aback.

  “What’s wrong, Maya?”

  “What’s wrong? I cannot believe you are saying that!” He looked absolutely dumbstruck. “Where were you, Veer? Two days? Not a phone call, not a single message…?”

  “Wait, what are you saying? Did Suzy not tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “I told her to let you know that I had to travel to Alberta to inspect one of our shipments that was being held at the port there. I would have called myself, except it was an emergency and I had to rush.”

  I sat down on the edge of the bed. “No, Veer, your Suzy did not tell me.” He sat down with me. “Veer, why did you storm out the way you did? I did not know what to think. I even called your office.”

  But he was not listening to me anymore. His lips were on mine, stroking my hair and my back. I gave in. The old Veer was back, the good Veer. My rollercoaster was heading to the sky. “I have taken a few days off,” he murmured. “Let’s go for a drive.”

  Diya entered the room. “Yes, Papa, let’s go. Let’s! Bella’s parents are driving to her grandma’s house. I really want to go. Papa, please…?”

  Veer looked at me. I shrugged.

  Diya ran to the phone to call Bella before we changed our minds.

  30.

  WITHIN AN HOUR, we were packed and following Jill’s van on the highway, and within a few minutes, we were gliding through the outskirts of the city. The tall buildings had given way to lush green open fields speckled with splintered barns, ebony horses, and rusting iron ploughs. The four-lane highway with multi-layered spaghetti junctions was now a narrow one-lane road with spruces and pines instead of streetlights. It had been an exceptionally warm winter and though there was still a few scattered patches of snow, the evergreens trees were still a beautiful dark green, and the promise of spring was in the air.

  After driving for a few hours, we reached a small subdivision with lofty Gothic churches that had large parlour windows and that towered over stone houses and backyards with no boundaries. The road dipped and soared until we reached a valley within another hamlet. A rickety footbridge led straight to the private driveway of one of the most spectacular country homes I had ever seen.

  Jill spilled out of the van with Bella and her husband, Brian. Brian was a tall scraggly man, with uncombed brown hair, a matching moustache, printed pyjamas under snow boots, and a broad smile. He gestured for us to follow him inside the house. Diya had already sprinted after Bella and gone inside.

  A woman with the same green eyes as Jill came out. She had flaming, carrot-coloured hair that complemented her natural flamboyance. “Hello, I am Edith, Jill’s mother,” she said and extended her cheek for a quick peck. She smelled of cinnamon and warm spice. Her cheeks were firm and bony, and her hands cold. She was my mother’s age, so I felt odd calling her Edith without using a respectful title like “aunty.”

  We entered a room made out of pine and teak. It had a stone fireplace with freshly piled logs. I opened my small attaché and got out a present that I had packed in a hurry before leaving. It was one of the few things my mother had given me before I left Delhi.

  Edith thanked me and then absentmindedly left the gift-wrapped box on the side table as she gestured for us to make ourselves comfortable on the couch. “I hope you don’t mind meeting my Thursday afternoon knitting group. We were just finishing up some last-minute pieces for the orphan charity fundraiser.”

  Then, turning to Jill, she added, “You know, it’s our special “dress-up Thursday” party, when we all have to dress like we did thirty years ago, except for the host of course. Thank God for that! Wait until you see what everyone is wearing, Jill. And Uncle Andy is dying to finally see you again….”

  Jill’s face lit up. “How nice, Mother! All feathers and nets! And did Uncle Andy bring his fiddle?”

  “Come and see for yourself!”

  Veer looked relaxed and held my hand occasionally. I prayed inwardly for these moments to last. I knew that this was borrowed time.

  The next room opened onto a view of an enormous and verdant forest that seemed to almost enter the room through the large glass windows that faced it. The smooth wooden planks creaked under our feet and led us down the hall to a flight of grey stone stairs. We descended into a room below that smelled of cigars and smoked meat. There was a large round table set under an antique stained-glass ceiling lamp, like in old churches. At the table, sat Edith’s knitting group with their balls of wool and needles sparring to a feverish pitch. Seated near a roaring fire were a few men busily smoking and talking. They were all plump and red-faced with receding hairlines, round paunches, and happy faces.

  “Hello, Uncle Andy!” Jill exclaimed.

  The largest of the men, with a bow tie and suspenders, waved to her.

  Edith introduced us to all of them one by one. I tried hard to remember their names, Judy, Kate, Jane, Mary, Jeanne, Rose … and John, James, Mike, Andy. We politely shook hands. The women all wore glamorous hats with magical shapes, edges that pointed to the ceiling, or corners that drooped like bluebells. Some of the hats were adorned with brilliant feathers like those of Amazon parrots, while others wore tiny caps with veils, pulled over their eyes and intricately woven with small white beads. There was an old English charm in that room, just like from an Agatha Christie novel. Some had laced mitts, and others had fine black leather ones carefully folded to the side on top of clutch purses. They wore solid colours accessorized with scarves, studded broaches, and stoles. It was a treat to just look at them.

  “Oh! Did you know Jill’s friends are from India….” Edith started the conversation. They all looked up with curiosity and interest.

  I felt it was our cue to say something.

  “From New Delhi, which is the capital of India,” Veer spoke up from behind me.

  “Oh really?” John spoke. “Well, dear fellow, it was many years ago that my uncle Ralph, my grandmother’s youngest sister’s husband, served in the British army and was stationed in the small Indian town of Alipore…. The stories that he brought back!”

  Veer was offered a cigar. “You know,” John continued, “we Canadians are very fond of Cuban cigars—the best in the world. Did you know, Cuba is one country where we beat the Americans. We don’t need visas to visit, and they respect our dollars more than the American ones.”

  The girls joined us with flushed faces in spite of the cool afternoon breeze. Be
lla had my present in her hand. “Grandma, look what I found—is this for me?”she asked Edith.

  “Oh dear, I must have forgotten about this. Look what Maya got me!” she exclaimed and then unwrapped the present in her hand.

  I was nervous. What if she didn’t like it? The box held a large cushion cover with dancing peacocks embroidered in gold thread over silk and tissue and a pearl trim. How awkward. I regretted not selecting something more cosmopolitan.

  One by one, Judy, Kate, Jane, Mary, Jeanne, and Rose took the cushion cover between their fingers, smoothened its wrinkles, caressed its fabric, and scrutinized the gold threads, stitches, and pearls. They especially fawned over the peacocks. Judy put on her glasses, and Jeanne trailed the stitches with her pointer finger. Rose bent her nose over the pearls, and Kate pulled up the cushion cover up to her eye level to have a better look. Nothing escaped them. And then the comments came.

  “Ahhhh!” and, “It is gorgeous!” and, “What a beautiful fowl!”

  “No, silly! It is a peacock! I bet you were thinking of a fancy turkey with a long tail— probably to roast on Thanksgiving!” They all laughed.

  “What kind of a thread is it?”

  “Are these real pearls?”

  “Do you have many peacocks in India?”

  I had to speak up. “Yes, these are real pearls, and in India we have gold-plated thread. Many of my family’s heirlooms are made of them.” They gasped. “And yes, the peacock is the national bird of India. We had a pair of peacocks in our home, and the theme colours of our wedding were those of the peacock.” I felt like I was spouting from the latest edition of a travel magazine.

  “Ohh!” They were still passing the cushion cover between them.

  Edith handed me a mug of hot cocoa. She looked at me with soft eyes and said, “I shall always treasure this, my little peacock—peacock in the snow.”

  I was grateful for her affection to us strangers. In what she had just said, it was obvious how these people viewed us: distinct, different, and transplanted in this new land. And we would only grow our roots here when we were prepared to shed our doubts and inhibitions, overcome our struggles, and love these new people, and this new land as our own . It was not up to them. It was up to us as to when we made this country our home.

  There was a loud holler from the men’s corner, and Uncle Andy stood up. Automatically, the other men gathered around him and the women put down their knitting. The girls stopped playing at the pool table and came to join the grownups.

  Andy opened a long black leather case, pulled out an elegant maple fiddle, and started turning its pegs for fine-tuning. Then he positioned its lower wooden bout at a certain point on his chest and raised his horsehair bow.

  The room came alive from the patterns of his strings. A ribbon of pure music enveloped us, vibrating with the sweet, happy, and warm folk melodies of the highlands.

  John brought out a tin whistle and synchronized its tweets with James’s rattle. Each new tune was like a vignette, a small window into their life together, their years of friendship, community, and communion in good times and in bad.

  The fiddle’s notes flowed deep into our hearts and we were glad that we had taken this trip.

  ***

  It was almost dusk when Edith’s friends left. The girls were getting hungry, and we had followed Edith to her warm kitchen. She had chosen the largest crock-pots and an old copper boiler engraved, To my Edith of 30 years, to prepare stew and vegetables. I wondered if Edith of 30 years was her age or the number of years someone had loved her. Either way, the message remained alive and warm over the burner every time it was lit. I looked out the full-length kitchen windows into the dark surrounding forest. There was a completely different temper outside. The wind was furiously swaying the branches of the hemlocks and cedars. If it wasn’t for the window between the kitchen and the outside, we would be in the middle of this wrath. Brian walked in and headed straight to latch up the shutters.

  “There seems to be a storm….” But before he finished his sentence, the lights started flickering.

  Edith jumped, ‘What was that?’

  The room had started blinking repeatedly.

  “Let me check the circuit for you, Mom,” Jill offered as she picked up the flashlight and her raincoat.

  Veer followed Brian to the basement to check for any loose wiring and I followed Jill outside with the girls on our heels, each tucked into oversized mackintoshes.

  The torched sky lighted our path to the electric box. The ground trembled with gusts of screeching icy winds that rose up to cut into our face. I could feel a restlessness among the waving trees. Beneath the smell of wet foliage was disguised a deeper stench that I had smelled before. But where?

  “Nothing wrong here…” Jill muttered under her breath. “This is strange,” Jill continued, puzzled as her figures checked each fuse.

  The sky streaked and roared once again. I had started making my way back to the safety of the house when Jill called out, “Hey, Maya, let me show you something. Follow me.”

  I didn’t want to. I called out for Diya to head back, but she as always was leading the way with Bella through a line of evenly spaced trees deeper into the forest . We had reached a small pond surrounded with shiny stems and sharp red teeth.

  “Meet our maple trees,” Jill pointed and showed off like a child.

  Bella pitched her arm into the pond and pulled out a glossy frog holding one shivering leg. Diya immediately caught the other leg.

  Jill laughed, “Oh these tomboys!”

  Another flash of lightening ruptured the sky as the rain picked up. “Let’s go back, Jill,” I pleaded.

  I didn’t mind the rain but my inner voice of warning had started: Maya, there is something there … something waiting….

  “Yes … yes, but at least have a look at what I came to show you,” Jill pulled me in front of a towering maple with mushrooms growing at its base. On one side, was a wooden tap protruding from its trunk. And just below it was a sparkling steel bucket collecting the golden malt from its bark.

  “Diya, come … maple sap!” The bucket was almost full. With a long ladle, Jill filled a few glass jars that were stacked besides some fallen cherries. ‘We have to do this a couple of times a week before the temperature drops below freezing.”

  With this treasure in her hands, Jill finally set out towards the house. I turned around to look at the dark forest one last time and heard it summoning me.

  As we entered the house, we saw that the flickering had stopped. Brian and Veer were sitting at the kitchen table waiting for us. Edith smiled at the maple jar, the colour of molten lava. “This is going into my maple walnut fudge, but you girls can have a little taste later on. Would you like one, too?”she asked and I politely refused.

  ***

  After the last pot was washed and hung, Diya whispered gently so that no one could hear, “Ma, can you come and tuck me in?” I wondered if she had caught some of my uneasiness in the forest. Our rooms were on the top floor and overlooked the forest like the rest of the house. But unlike the rest of the house, they were small and stuffy. Instinctively I opened the latched windows for ventilation. And then I glanced outside. A thick mist had replaced the storm. I looked around the room. There was an unlit log fireplace in the corner and a large famed mirror hung on pine boards with a jar of potpourri in front. Edith had laid out extra comforters and blankets. Even before my toes warmed up, Diya had slipped into a deep sleep. I was contemplating whether to join the others in the library for a glass of port or remain snuggled next to Diya in the bed, when the room started filling up with mist. Maybe it had not been a good idea to open the windows. As I got up to close them, the lone side table lamp started flickering.

  One, two, three. My heart leapt.

  Then again, one, two, three.

  I frantically started opening drawers, looking
for a flashlight, matches, or anything to cast some light into the room. Finally, in the tall dresser, I found some matches and a candle.

  I lit the candle, but again, one, two, three, and it sputtered out. Then pitch darkness.

  The mist had brought in the smell of the forest and the underlining odour from earlier that evening. I was glad that Diya was sleeping tightly and completely oblivious.

  I saw myself in the mirror moving to the door with the candle in my hand. But I was still in bed and my toes, still cold, were under the comforter.

  I looked at my reflection in the mirror again. No, that was not me. She looked like me, but she was not me. The woman in the mirror was calling me and pointing toward the forest.

  I opened my eyes. I was sweating. Dream or not, I had to get us all out of this house. Fast .

  The clock on the mantle showed one a.m. Where was Veer?

  I remembered Edith’s offer of an after-dinner drink. Surely they were all still there.

  I steadied myself and headed down the staircase, one careful step at a time. The library, where everyone was seated, was made of stone and teak. It looked like the oldest and warmest room in the house. A crackling fireplace cast an amber glow over the room.

  Brian was pouring from a crystal decanter and Edith was talking in a loud voice.

  “Oh hello, Maya, there you are!” No one mentioned the blackout that had occurred just a few minutes ago. Or, had the electricity only gone out in our room?

  Veer looked up and I immediately recognized an excited sparkle in his eyes.

  “Have either of you been to the unspoiled part of Nippising County, up north, next to Georgian Bay? It’s well-worth visiting. To get there, all you need to do is follow the trans-Canada highway,” Edith said.

  I sipped some verve back into my tired body and took a seat near the warm fire that was making me drowsy again. But something brought me right back. It wasn’t what Edith had said. It was something that I’d caught in Veer’s tone, undetected by others.