The Sandalwood Tree (20 page)

A fist pounded the door so hard the wall shook. God! What was wrong with those women? I’d have to go out there and send them away. I’d physically push them off the verandah if I had to. I marched to the door barefoot, and when I opened it, my hands flew to my mouth. James Walker stood on the verandah, holding my son in his arms.

Billy’s pajamas were streaked with mud, there was hay in his hair, and his teeth were chattering. He said, “Mom?” and he reached his short arms out to me. My throat swelled and my eyes smarted. I grabbed him, pulled him tight, and breathed in his grubby, little-boy-in-summer smell. He nuzzled his face into my neck and kept
it there as I carried him inside. My throat felt blocked and tears blinded me, but I’ve never been that happy before or since. I sat on the sofa with Billy on my lap and examined him: his face was dirty, he smelled like hay and dung, and his moccasins were gone. Other than that he appeared unharmed, but his teeth still chattered. “Are you cold, Billy?”

“Nuh-uh. Are you mad at me?”

“No, Baby.”

“I wanted to find Spike.”

I hugged him. “I know.”

“You and Dad were fighting about Spike.”

I winced. “It’s OK. It’s all OK now.”

“I thought if I got Spike back you wouldn’t fight anymore.”

“Oh, God.”

Walker put his hands in his pockets and looked away for a moment. He cleared his throat and said, “The little fellow might be in a bit of shock, but he’s not been harmed. Nothing a warm bath and a meal won’t put right.”

“Does Martin know?”

“Oh, yes. Poor chap broke down, but we gave him a stiff whiskey. Hell, we all had one. He’s at the kotwali right now, filling out a final report.” He ruffled Billy’s hair. “Our little sahib got lucky. Edward found him on the road this morning. We made the mistake of thinking someone had taken him to Simla, but he was less than a kilometer away the whole time, right here in Masoorla.”

“Edward found him?” Billy clung to me and I rocked him.

“Worthington stayed out all night with a lantern, knocking on doors and roaming the countryside like some medieval ghost. Said the cops were useless and stayed at it by himself.”

“Edward did that?”

“I suppose he couldn’t give up because of the boy they lost.”

“What?”

“Didn’t you know? Lost their son in the Blitz. Lydia had a complete
breakdown. Edward’s been her salvation. He can be irritating as hell, but he coddles her like a wounded bird. That chap has a side you’d never suspect.”

“Edward?” I remembered him comforting Lydia at the telegraph office. Oh, but poor Lydia, gently placing my breasts into a bra, pulling up my panties. What heartbreaking memories had Billy’s disappearance brought up for her?

Walker said, “Damn lucky, really. We made such a public stink about him being missing, I’m afraid some rather unsavory types were searching for him as diligently as we were.”

My stomach heaved. “Unsavory? You mean …”

“Well, he’s here now, and that’s what matters.”

“Mom?”

“Yes, BoBo?”

“Mr. Worthington bought me a roti, and I said kripya.”

I covered his face with kisses.

When Rashmi arrived, she screamed, “Beelee!” She flew to him and combed her fingers through his hair.

He said, “Hi, Rashmi,” and he reached for her. Her eyes brimmed as she swept him up and held him out in front of her like a dangling doll. She asked, “Coconut?” He nodded, and then the tears fell.

Billy had climbed through the window and walked down the tree-shaded road without the slightest twinge of fear. We had walked that way many times. He said, “I remembered to keep to the side of the road, like we do with the wagon.”

“That was good, sweetie.”

“I saw some kids, but not the bad boy who took Spike.” He looked at me sideways. “My moccasins got real dirty. I was worried you’d be mad.” He shrugged. “Now they’re gone.”

“We can get new moccasins. Did anyone try to stop you?”

“A man in one of those flat round hats tried to talk to me. But he looked mean, so I ran away. Then a lady in a green sari shook her finger at me and said I should go home. But I don’t talk to strangers, so I stuck my tongue out at her.” He demonstrated, and I laughed in spite of myself.

At the house with the red graffiti he went to the door. He said, “A lady was sitting on the ground, and I asked her if she knew where Spike was.” He paused, then said shyly, “I had to ask somebody.”

“I know.”

“She didn’t wanna talk to me anyway.”

After that he wandered off the road so Kamal wouldn’t stop him, and then he got lost.

“Where did you sleep last night?”

“In a cowshed. A nice goat kept me warm. But when I woke up my moccasins were gone.”

“Oh, baby.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Mom? I’m kinda hungry.”

Wanting to be alone with Billy, I sent Rashmi home. She kissed him a dozen times, then a dozen more, and then gathered up the garbage and left, smiling.

After feeding him a dish of yogurt and sliced banana, I bathed my prodigal son slowly. I filled the tub with warm water, and his smooth little body slid under my soapy hands. I rinsed him as if I were washing rose petals. He’d been returned to me whole—a gift, a miracle. I shampooed his fine blond hair, tipped his head back under the tap, and watched the lather rinse out, leaving his head slick as a baby seal. He was still hungry, so I boiled an egg and spread strawberry jam thickly on a roti, grateful to feed him, grateful to watch him eat. Afterward, I lay in his little bed, spooned around him, smelling the soap and jam on his skin, until he dozed.

But I had not eaten in twenty-four hours, and after he fell asleep I felt it—a deep, hollow ache in my belly. I pulled myself away from Billy, kissed him one last time, and headed for the kitchen.

After eating a boiled egg, I made a cup of tea and took it to the living room, but I stopped short, shocked at the sight of the plundered pillow. It lay on the sofa, gaping open and spilling feathers. They were soft and white and incredibly small, the tiny quill tips sticking like pins into the upholstery. The landlord must not be allowed to see the ruined pillow. The stained bathroom floor was bad enough, but that pillow was an antique, possibly valuable. I would have to buy a sewing kit from a box-wallah and try to repair it, but I wasn’t much good with a needle. If I couldn’t do it I’d have to get a durzi to set up with his sewing machine on the verandah and do it right. How much would that cost?

After all the baksheesh we had paid, on top of my secret splurge on perfume, there wasn’t enough to cover the rent. Thank God Martin didn’t know. I decided to write the landlord an invitation to tea and give it to the post-wallah who came by every day before tiffin. He could deliver it to the landlord and then, face to face, I could ask the man for a grace period. I hoped he wouldn’t charge a penalty or interest.

I had just given the note to the post-wallah when I remembered the journal under the floorboards. I went to Billy’s room with a butter knife, quietly pried up the loose board, and took the tin box back to the living room. I removed the little suede book from the hot-water bottle and it fell open to the spot where a ridge from the torn pages acted as a natural bookmark. I turned to the beginning and began to read.

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I
woke up early, with my heart pounding and my stomach knotted and queasy. I dressed quickly and hurried to the kitchen to fix Martin a big breakfast. While Billy ate his roti and jam, I made coffee and toast and eggs sunny-side up—firm whites, runny yolks, the way Martin liked them. I set the table, fumbling with the fork and knife, clattering the cup and saucer. My hands weren’t working right. Billy watched me, and I tried to smile. I wanted Martin to walk in on a scene of domestic tranquility, to feel that we were fine, he was fine, everything was fine. I wished I had a crisp white apron to wear. If I could make it look OK, maybe it would be. But when he walked into the kitchen with that tightness around his mouth, the obscene images came back, and an irrational rush of shame and pity (but for whom?) made me turn away. I sprinkled borax powder on a stain in the porcelain sink and scrubbed hard. I asked, “Breakfast?”

He said, “Sure.”

He kissed the top of Billy’s head and sat down at the table, and I forced myself to sit with him. He dipped his toast in his yolk, asking, “To what do I owe all this?”

I said, “Now that it’s all out, maybe we can put it behind us and
be a family again.” I should have looked at him, maybe touched him, but I shook an Abdullah out of the pack and lit it.

He stopped chewing. “Oh, brother.” He put his fork down. “I get it.”

“What?” I took a long pull on my cigarette and blew the smoke away from him.

“This is what I was afraid of. You don’t know how to live with it.”

I tapped the cigarette that didn’t yet have an ash to tap. “Do you?”

“No, but one of us was enough. I shouldn’t have told you.”

“No—”

“Oh, yeah. Bad mistake.”

“No. I—”

“I’m sorry, Evie. This isn’t your burden; it’s mine. You shouldn’t have to … I’m really sorry …” His voice trailed off and he pushed away from the table and left the kitchen.

I listened to the front door click shut, knowing he was right. I didn’t know how to live with it. Part of me wanted to comfort him, tell him he was forgiven, but another part of me wondered whether I could ever again look at him without seeing Elsa. I shoveled Martin’s breakfast into the garbage and started scrubbing dishes until they squeaked.

I was battling dried egg yolk when a post bearer came to the front door. I wiped my hands and read the note from our landlord; he had received my invitation and would come by at eleven. I put the ripped pillow into the bedroom almirah, picked the feathers off the sofa cushion, and went back to the kitchen to finish the dishes.

When Rashmi came in and saw me laboring over a pile of dishes and pans, she slipped off her sandals and hurried to the sink, shaking her head. “Arey Ram! What madam is doing?”

“It’s OK.” I buffed a coffee ring out of a cup. “I’ll do this. You sweep up.”

She moved closer and smiled impishly. “Something good I am bringing for madam.” She dug around in the cloth bag that served as her purse and pulled out a tarnished gold tube of lipstick. She opened it and rolled out a blazing red lipstick, obviously used, and beamed at me. “Sir will
love
it.”

I put down the dishcloth and said, “Thank you, but I don’t often wear lipstick.”

Her face dropped. “But this is the trouble, neh? Madam has to try, isn’t it?”

She was killing me. I said, “Sure.”

“Gooood.” Her renewed smile threatened to crack her sweet face. “Be putting it on now to keep me radiant.”

Anything to make her stop. I dabbed my lips with the waxy stuff, wondering who had used it last.

Rashmi grabbed her chest as if she were having a coronary. “Sooo beauuutiful madam is.” She sidled closer. “Now only madam is needing some jewelry. Why are white ladies never wearing enough jewelry? Verrry bad mistake.”

“I have earrings.”

“In the ears is good, but also the arms and nose and toes.” She pointed at her nose pin and her toe ring and jangled her bracelets. “You can see?”