Tell It to the Trees (18 page)

Papa dropped my arm and held his head in his hands. He was sweating. He shook his head. “Why do you make me?”

Suman pushed me away and rushed to Papa’s side. She stroked his face as if he was the one who had just been hurt. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “It’s okay.” She shook her head at me. “Your poor father is upset, can’t you see? Come on, touch his feet and ask for his forgiveness. Come, Varsha.” She was giving that look that says I must help her. “Your father is waiting.”

“Sorry, Papa,” I said again. I bent down and touched his feet, his big, bony feet, ugly, sharp-nailed devil’s hooves. I wanted to vomit. I heard Papa sob big tears above my bent head. Then he gathered me into his arms and hugged me close. He smelled of aftershave and hair oil and the camphor from his prayers. I love my Papa and am truly sorry for tearing his book.

“Why do you make your poor Papa so angry, girl?” he asked. “Is this the way a good daughter should behave? Hanh?” He turned to Suman and snapped, “What are you standing there like a fool for? Go get some ice for the child’s face.” He examined my face anxiously, holding it between his palms and turning it this way and that. “Poor
child, poor child. Suman, stupid woman, how long does it take you to get ice? This girl is going to be scarred for life and you slow as a turtle, stupid woman.”

Suman returned with the ice tray in one hand and a towel in the other, and Papa handed me to her and wiped his face. He combed his hair in front of the hallway mirror and then he was gone. Thanks to god—not those sly-eyed snickering ones lined up in Papa’s prayer room, but the other god, the one who gave me my brother and Suman and Akka.

We assembled silently at the window of the living room and watched him walk down the driveway. He turned and lifted his arm. We waved back.

Suman pressed a sock full of ice gently against my bruised face, kissed me again and again, and said, “Vashi, I am sorry, I am sorry. What should I do? Tell me. Is there anything?”

Useless questions without possible answers. Nothing she can do, all of us know that.

“I hate him,” Hem said. “I
hate
him.”

I slapped Suman’s hand away from my face, angrier with her than with Papa. “I can take it, Mama, I am not a coward like you. And it was my fault anyway. Mine.”

“I’ll make you gobi parathas when you come home,” she said, stroking my hair off my face and dabbing at my cheek with the ice sock. “Hanh? Will that be nice? Shall I?”

Poor stupid Suman, her band-aid for all that hurts us is food. Lots of it. Food is her solace, her refuge, her
cure. It’s the one thing with which Papa cannot find fault.

“I hate your parathas,” I snapped, glad to see the hurt look on her face. “So oily and disgusting. And I smell of them at school. Everyone says so. I smell like curry.”

“Then I will make you tomato sandwiches.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Your sandwiches are worse than your parathas!” I shouted, pressing the ice against my lip. Suman flinched and I was glad again. “And why are
you
crying? He hit me, not you.” Then I swung around and glared at Hem, standing there silently, miserably. “What are you standing there for, stupid? Come on, we’ll miss the bus.”

“Why don’t you stay at home today, hanh? I will call the school and say you are both ill.” Suman touched my shoulder.

I turned away, pulled on my jacket, gathered my bag, and headed for the door. Hem ran after me, half in and half out of his coat, his toque on wonky, his shoes undone. I spotted my face in the hallway mirror. There was a giant bruise on the left side, it looked like a map.

“Wait for me, I am coming with you also.” Suman ran down the driveway after us, waving her ice-filled sock. “If someone asks, don’t say anything,” she panted when she caught up. “You fell down, that’s all.”

“Yes, it wouldn’t do to tell the truth,” I yelled back at her, yanking Hem’s arm as we ran. I know it hurts him, but it helps me feel better. “It would ruin our reputation for being the ideal Indian family.”

“Vashi, zip your jacket, you will get pneumonia,” Suman said, clasping my hand as we stumbled along. “And Hemu, your shoes, your shoes …”

It began to snow. Soft, soft, soft it whispered down. Hem stuck out his tongue and caught a plump bud as it dropped from the sky, held out his palm and watched flakes bloom into tears. He was already forgetting the morning drama. It is best to forget things fast in our house. A long memory makes you sad.

The bus appeared like a yellow mirage and I broke away from Suman’s pleading clasp. Doors folded back like Japanese fans, Mr. Wilcox waved at us and we climbed in, panting out powder-puff breaths, the kind that stay in the air for a second before vanishing.

“Hey, Varsha, what happened to your face? Walked into a door, did you?” Mr. Wilcox asked, peering at me.

“Fell down the stairs,” I said.

“She bumped into a wall,” Hem said at the exact same moment. A heartbeat’s pause. Will Mr. Wilcox notice? Will he guess? Does he know? And has he too taken a vow of silence like the rest of our town?

“And then I fell down the stairs,” I said. My whole head hurt. “Bumped into a wall and fell down the stairs.”
Right into my Papa’s fist
.

“Oh yeah? Gotta look where you’re going, kiddo. Grab a seat, now. Don’t want you falling down and getting hurt all over again, do we?”

I passed Nick Hutch to get to Varsha’s Seat at the back of the bus, and he gave me a sympathetic look. He
knew. All the kids at school know, the teachers too. The whole world knows, but nobody says a thing.

When I got to school, I kicked Mathew Firth in the shin for saying my face looked like it was punched. I did it even though I knew the principal would call Papa and complain about how terrible I am and then when we got home Papa would punish me some more. All this I knew would
happen-ay-happen
, as Akka says. But in that sweet moment when I saw Mathew’s face crumple into pain, when I saw his tears, I felt
good
.

Anu’s Notebook

December 5
. Sounds carry more easily now, and today I heard raised voices as I passed the house on my way out. I thought I heard them before a couple of times, but I wasn’t sure. Perhaps it’s Varsha being a teenager and driving her dad crazy with her insolence. Perhaps Vikram can’t find his socks and is hollering for them the way my father used to do. The only difference was that my mother, unlike Suman, would not rush around the house in a panic trying to find a matching pair of socks for her lord and master. She would continue doing whatever it was she was doing, and when my father hollered some more, she would say, “So wear my socks, nobody’s going to check under your trousers, are they?”

This morning, however, heading out for my morning walk on the now crisp snow, I did hear someone weeping hard, and then Vikram shouting. I paused, uneasy, wondering whether to check, changed my mind and carried on. By the time I returned, everything was quiet again. I caught a glimpse of Suman through the kitchen
window, doing her thing, cooking up a storm, which I could smell almost all the way to my cottage. She came over, as usual, a little after noon, with my lunch and a hefty slice of chocolate cake.

“Hemu’s birthday,” she said, before I could ask what the occasion was. She looked tired and tense. I wondered if it had something to do with the sounds I’d heard earlier.

“Oh, I wish I’d known,” I said. “I would have got him a present. How old is he?”

“Seven. And no, you must not waste your money with presents and all.”

“Why not? It’s my money. What do you think he’d like? A board game? A T-shirt? What’s his favourite colour?”

To my astonishment, Suman began to sob.

“What is it? Did I say something I shouldn’t have?” I asked, alarmed.

“No, no, you are so kind, so kind,” she whispered through her tears. I held out my hands and she clutched them, drawing them to her cheek.

I made her sit in the single dining chair, handed her some tissues, which she didn’t really need since she mopped her face with the end of her sari. I waited until she had herself under control and asked, “Suman, now tell me honestly, is everything okay with you at home?”

She gave me a panicked look and seemed about to burst into tears again. “Yes, why are you asking? Did anyone say anything to you?”

“No, but I heard somebody crying this morning, before the kids left for school. And in the past few
months too, I’ve thought I heard shouting from your house sometimes. What’s going on?”

“You can hear
everything?”
She got to her feet and started to back out of the cottage. “What did you hear?”

“No, I can’t hear everything, don’t be silly. Only a few times when I was passing your house, I thought I might have heard sounds of, you know, crying and Vikram was shouting …”

By now Suman was looking so upset I wished I hadn’t brought up any of this. But I had, and I was determined to get to the bottom of whatever is going on in that house. “Is there something wrong? Is Varsha in trouble?”

“Why? Did she tell you something? Did they say something in town?”

“No. Nobody said anything. Calm down. She’s a teenager, and they get into all kinds of stuff. So I thought, maybe—”

“I have to go. Please don’t tell. I am sorry I cried. No need for a present. It is okay.”

“Please, Suman. If there is something wrong, maybe I can help. And if it is Varsha, it’s only a phase. She’ll get over it. I remember being pretty obnoxious myself, at that age.” I felt like a blabbering fool, giving the woman tips on child-rearing without knowing a goddamn thing about it. “So tell me. What’s wrong?”

Suman gathered herself and shook her head. “There is nothing. I am telling you. This weather makes me feel depressed, that’s all.” She opened the door and nodded
at me a couple of times. “That’s all,” she said again. “The weather.”

I watched her wade through the thickening carpet of snow. She was lying. I know.

January 6, 1980
. Back from my much-needed break. It was good to see the family. Even my brother—we didn’t quarrel once. Mummy was still hanging in there. Met up with Carole and gave all the Dharma gossip. Got a pedicure and a much-needed haircut. Partied the New Year in, drank myself silly. Surprisingly I don’t mind being back here. I’m determined to get at least five stories done by spring. I went over to the Dharmas with some pastries from my favourite place in Vancouver but was more or less shooed away from their door.

Hemant

Varsha says I’m a blabbermouth. It’s my genes she says. Those are a different kind of genes. She says I have Akka’s genes and Akka likes talking a lot. There’s nothing anyone can do about their genes. I can’t help it—everything comes out when I’m scared and my brain stops working.

Like on my birthday when the Snow Book came out of my bag, and Papa hit Varsha for tearing his book to make it for me, and then she kicked a boy in school and then the principal called Papa and Mama in to talk to them about it after which she was in BIG trouble again. I said sorry and kissed her all over her face but my sister is brave and good and she said not to worry, it wasn’t really my fault and if she didn’t have me she didn’t know what she would do.

And then I got her into trouble again yesterday after that trip to buy a purple lollipop from Mr. Johnson’s store. It was a secret and I wasn’t to tell anyone. But it fell out of my mouth before I could think. I told Papa we
went to Mr. Johnson’s store. We are not to go to their store.
Ever
. Papa says he would know if we did. He says Mr. Johnson is a PERVERT.

But Akka gave me a quarter for my birthday and said to get myself the nicest thing I could imagine. I kept it and kept it, because I couldn’t think what
was
the nicest thing. Then I thought about a giant lollipop and so after school Varsha took me across the road to Mr. Johnson’s store.

“We have five minutes before the bus gets to the school gates, Hem. So hurry up, okay?” Varsha pushed open the door of the shop and bells jingled to let Mr. Johnson know that somebody was coming in.

“Papa will be mad at us if he finds out,” I whispered, tugging at Varsha’s skirt.

“He won’t find out. Unless we miss the bus. So hurry up.”

I went up to the counter to see which colour lollipop I liked and Mr. Johnson leaned over and patted my head. “Got your allowance, did you, young man?” he asked.

“No sir, it’s my grandma’s birthday present,” I said proudly, showing him my quarter.

“Birthday, eh? How old are you, son?”

“Seven.”

“Well then, happy birthday and guess what, you get to pick a lollipop for free! And keep the quarter for next time.”

We ran back across the road and in a few minutes the bus was there. I was happier than happy. I had a lollipop I licked as hard as I could so it would be done by the time
we got home, and I still had my quarter for another lollipop. Maybe I would buy one for Varsha next time.

I snuggled close to her. She looked down at me and said, “Your mouth is all purple. You look like a clown. We’d better wipe it off or Papa will know.” She spat on some tissue and wiped my lips hard. It hurt but some of the purple went away and I licked my lips the rest of the way so the rest of the colour would go away too.

By the time the bus stopped at Fir Tree Lane my lips were all clean, my sister checked.

We ploughed through the snow to where Mama was waiting for us in a long black puffy coat. She was wearing a red sari which peeked out from under her coat. Under the sari I knew she was wearing flannel pyjamas. Otherwise the wind would go up and freeze her legs to death. Akka told Papa not to be such a lunatic stick-in-the-mud and force Mama into saris in winter. But Papa said she was his wife and he would decide what she was to wear. And that was that.

Mama’s face was wrapped in a pink and green muffler. I could see only her eyes. She carried a flashlight in one hand and the satchel on her shoulder like always. In it she had rolled-up parathas, chocolate bars, some cookies, bottles of water. And in another bag two extra jackets for us, just in case we forgot ours at school. Mama is terrified of the cold and comes armed to the teeth against it.