Tiger's Quest (3 page)

“Kelsey! May I?” he asked sweetly.

“Knock yourself out,” I said and laughed.
Same old Mike
, I thought and tossed him the keys so he could drive himself around the block a few times.

Sarah put her arm around my waist and guided me toward the house. “We’re so glad to see you! Both of us are!” She yelled and frowned at Mike who waved happily before backing out of the driveway.

“We were worried when you first left for India because we didn’t receive too many calls from you, but Mr. Kadam phoned every other day and explained what you were doing and told us how busy you were.”

“Oh? And what did he say, exactly?” I asked, curious to know what story he had made up.

“Well, it’s all very exciting, isn’t it? Let’s see. He talked about your new job and about how you will be interning every summer and working with him on various projects from time to time. I had no idea that you were interested in international studies. That is a wonderful major. Very fascinating. He also said that when you graduate, you can work for his company full time. It’s a fantastic opportunity!”

I smiled at her. “Yes, Mr. Kadam’s great. I couldn’t ask for a better boss. He treats me more like a granddaughter than like an employee, and he spoils me terribly. I mean, you saw the house and the car, and then there’s school too.”

“He did speak very fondly of you over the phone. He even admitted to us that he’s come to depend on you. He’s a very nice man. He also insists that you are . . . how did he say it . . . ‘an investment that will have a big payoff in the future.’”

I shot Sarah a dubious look. “Well, I hope he’s right about that.”

She laughed and then sobered. “
We
know you’re special, Kelsey, and you deserve great things. Maybe this is the universe’s way of balancing the loss of your parents. Though I know nothing will ever take the place of them.”

I nodded. She was happy for me. And, knowing that I would be financially secure enough to live comfortably on my own was probably a big relief to them.

Sarah hugged me and pulled a strange-smelling dish out of the oven. She placed it on the table, and said, “Now, let’s eat!”

Feigning enthusiasm, I asked, “So . . . what’s for dinner?”

“Tofu and spinach whole wheat organic lasagna with soy cheese and flax seed.”

“Yum, I can’t wait,” I said and wrestled a half-smile to my face. I thought fondly of the magical Golden Fruit that I had left behind in India. The divine object could make the most delicious food appear instantly. In Sarah’s hands, maybe even a healthy meal would taste good. I snuck a bite.
Then again
. . .

Rebecca, six years old, and Samuel, four years old, ran into the room and bounced up and down trying to get my attention. I hugged them both and directed them to the table. Then I went to the window to see if Mike was back yet. He had just parked the Porsche and was walking backward to the front door, staring at the car.

I opened the door. “Umm, Mike, it’s time for dinner.”

He replied over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off the car, “Sure, sure. Be right there.”

Sitting between the kids, I scooped up a wedge of lasagna for each of them and took a tiny piece for myself. Sarah raised her eyebrow, and I rationalized my small portion by saying that I’d had a big lunch. Mike finally came in and started chatting animatedly about the Porsche. He asked if he could take Sarah on a date and borrow the car some Friday night.

“Sure. I’ll even come over and babysit for you.”

He beamed while Sarah rolled her eyes. “Who are you planning on taking out, me or the car?” she asked.

“You, of course, my dear. The car is just a vehicle to showcase the beautiful woman sitting at my side.”

Sarah and I looked at each other and snickered.

“Good one, Mike,” I said.

After dinner, we retired to the living room where I gave the kids their orange tigers. They squealed in delight and ran around growling at each other. Sarah and Mike asked me all kinds of questions about India, and I talked about the ruins of Hampi and Mr. Kadam’s house. Technically, it wasn’t his, but they didn’t need to know that. Then they asked me about how Mr. Maurizio’s circus tiger was adapting to his new home.

I froze, but only for an instant, and told them that he was doing fine and that he seemed very happy there. Thankfully, Mr. Kadam had explained that we were often out exploring Indian ruins and cataloging artifacts. He’d said my job was to be his assistant, keeping records of his findings, and taking notes, which wasn’t too far from the truth. It also explained why I was going to minor in art history.

Being with them was fun, but it also wore me out because I had to make sure I didn’t slip and tell them anything too weird. They’d never believe all the things that had happened to me. Sometimes I had a hard time believing it myself.

Knowing they went to bed early, I gathered my things and said goodnight. I hugged them all good-bye and promised to visit again the next week.

When I got home, I spent a couple of hours studying and then took a hot shower. Climbing into bed in my dark room, I gasped quietly as my hand brushed against fur. Then I remembered my purchase, shoved the stuffed tiger to the edge of the bed, and tucked my hand under my cheek.

I couldn’t stop thinking about
him
. I wondered what he was doing right now and if he was thinking of me or if he even missed me at all. Was he pacing in the steamy jungle? Were he and Kishan fighting? Would I ever get back to India—and did I really want to? I felt like I was playing whack-a-mole with my thoughts. Every time I punched one thought down, another one would surface in a different place. I couldn’t win; they kept popping up from my subconscious. Sighing, I reached over, grabbed the leg of the stuffed tiger, and pulled it back onto the bed. Wrapping my arms around its middle, I buried my nose in its fur and fell asleep on its paw.

T
he next few days spun past quickly and uneventfully, and then it was time to start school. I collected my term assignments from each class and realized that my experiences in India would come in handy. I could write about Hampi for my research paper on an Indian metropolis, discuss the lotus flower as a religious symbol in anthropology, and theme my world religion final around Durga. The only class that seemed overly challenging was Latin.

Soon I had settled into a comfortable routine. I saw Sarah and Mike often, went to class, and I spoke to Mr. Kadam every Friday. The first week he helped me with an oral report on the
SUV
versus the Nano and between his vast knowledge of cars and my hair-raising description of actually driving in India, I got the best grade in the class. My mind was so full of assignments that I had very little time to worry about anything else—or to think about anyone else.

One Friday phone call brought an interesting surprise. After chatting about school and my latest paper about the weather patterns in the Himalayas, Mr. Kadam broached a new topic.

“I’ve signed you up for another class,” Mr. Kadam began. “One that I think you will enjoy, but it will take up more of your time. If you are too busy, I’ll understand.”

“Actually, another class would probably be a good idea,” I replied, curious to know what he had planned for me next.

“Wonderful! I have signed you up for a wushu class in Salem,” Mr. Kadam explained. “The class is on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays from 6:30 to 8:00 p.m.”

“Wushu? What’s that? Is it some kind of Indian language?” I asked, hoping that wasn’t the case.

Mr. Kadam laughed. “Oh, I do miss having you around. No, wushu is a type of Chinese martial arts. You mentioned once that you were interested in trying martial arts, correct?”

I breathed out a sigh of relief. “Oh! Yes, that sounds like fun. Yes, I can fit it into my schedule. When do classes start?”

“Next Monday. I anticipated that you would say yes, and I have sent a package with the necessary materials. You can expect it to arrive tomorrow.”

“Mr. Kadam, you really don’t have to do all this for me. You need to restrain yourself from piling on more gifts, or I’ll never be able to pay back this debt.”

He chided, “Miss Kelsey, there is nothing I could
ever
do that would come even close to paying the debt I owe you. Please accept these things. It makes an old man’s heart very happy.”

I laughed. “Okay, Mr. Kadam, don’t get all dramatic about it. I’ll accept if it makes you happy. But, the jury’s still out on the car.”

“We’ll see about that. By the way, I have deciphered a bit of the second pillar. It may have something to do with air, but it’s too soon to draw any conclusions just yet. That’s one of the reasons I’d like you to learn wushu. It will help you develop a better balance of mind and body, which may prove to be helpful if your next adventure takes place off the ground.”

“Well, I certainly don’t mind learning how to fight and defend myself too. Wushu would have come in handy against the Kappa.” I joked and continued, “Are the translations difficult?”

“They’re very . . . challenging. The geographical markers that I have translated are not found on the Indian continent. At this point, I worry that the other three objects we’re looking for could be anywhere in the world. Either that, or my brain is too tired.”

“Did you stay up all night again? You need your sleep. Make yourself some chamomile tea and go rest for a while.”

“Perhaps you are right. Maybe I will have some tea and do some light reading on the Himalayas for your paper.”

“You do that. The resting part, I mean. I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Miss Kelsey. Good-bye.”

“Bye.”

For the first time since being home, I felt a surge of adrenaline rush through my body. But, as soon as I hung up the phone, depression kicked in again. I looked forward to our weekly phone calls and always felt sad when they were over. It was the same kind of feeling I would get after Christmas. Holiday anticipation would build up for the whole month. Then, when the presents were opened, the food was eaten, and the people left to go their separate ways, I always experienced a gloomy feeling of loss.

Deep down, I knew that the real reason I was sad was because there was only one present that I wished for. I wished
he
would call. He never did, though. And each week that passed without hearing his voice destroyed my hope. I knew I was the one who left India so he could start a life with someone else. I should have been happy for him. I was, in a way, but I was also devastated for myself.

I had the-vacation-is-over-now-it’s-time-to-go-back-to-school blues. He was my ultimate present, my own personal miracle, and I’d blown it. I’d given him away. It was like winning backstage passes to meet the rock star of your dreams and donating the tickets to charity. It sucked. Big time.

Saturday, my mysterious martial arts package arrived via courier. It was large and heavy. I pushed it into the living room and grabbed my office scissors to cut through the tape. Inside, I found black and red workout pants and T-shirts, each bearing the Shing Martial Arts Studio logo which showed one man throwing a punch to the face, and another kicking a foot toward his opponent’s abdomen.

I also pulled out two pairs of shoes and a silky red jacket and pants set. The jacket had black frog clasps in the front and a black sash. I had no idea when or how I would ever have need to wear this, but it was pretty.

What made the box heavy was the assortment of weapons I found inside. There were a couple of swords, some hooks, chains, a three-section staff, and several other things that I’d never seen before.

If Mr. Kadam is trying to turn me into a ninja, he’ll be very disappointed
, I thought, remembering how I froze during the panther attack.
I wonder if Mr. Kadam is right and I’ll need these skills. I guess they’d come in handy if I return to India and have to fight whatever stands in the way of obtaining Durga’s second gift.
The idea made the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up.

Monday, I walked into my Latin class early, and my happy routine hit a snag when Artie, the lab assistant, approached my desk. He stood very close to me. Too close. I looked up at him hoping the conversation would be quick so he could move out of my personal space.

Artie was the only guy I’d seen in a long time brave enough to wear a sweater-vest with a bow tie. The sad thing was the sweater-vest was too small. He had to keep pulling it down over his rather large stomach. He looked like the kind of guy who belonged in a musty old college.

“Hi, Artie. How are you?” I asked impatiently.

Artie pushed his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose with his middle finger and popped open his day planner. He got right to the point. “Hey, are you free at 5:00 p.m. on Wednesday?”

He stood with his pencil raised and his double chin tucked up against his neck. His brown watery eyes bore into mine as he waited expectantly for my reply.

“Umm . . . sure, I guess. Does the professor need to see me for something?”

Artie scratched busily in his planner, shifting some things and erasing others. He ignored my question. Then, he closed his planner with a
POP
, tucked it under his arm, and yanked his brown sweater-vest down to his belt buckle. I tried not to notice when the material inched back up.

He smiled weakly at me. “Not at all. That’s when I’ll be picking you up for our date.” Without another word, Artie stepped around me and headed toward the door.

Did I hear him right? What just happened?

“Artie, wait. What do you mean?”

Class was getting started, and the sweater vest turned the corner and was gone. I plopped down in my seat and puzzled through our cryptic conversation.
Maybe he doesn’t mean a date-date
, I reasoned.
Maybe his definition of a date and mine are different. That must be it. Better check to make sure, though.

I tried unsuccessfully to catch Artie in the lab all day. Clarification on the date would have to wait.

That night was my first wushu class. I dressed in the black pants, a T-shirt, and the white slippers. I left the top down on the convertible as I drove through the forest into Salem. My whole body relaxed as the cool evening breeze moved around me. The just-setting sun was turning the clouds purple, pink, and orange.