A Disobedient Girl (39 page)

When he saw that she was ready, Mr. Vithanage got up and took one of her bags. Then he stepped out of the room, leaving her to follow.

“Where do you think you’re going now?” Mrs. Vithanage asked in exasperation when Latha and Mr. Vithanage came out. “Stop it!” she said and tried to grab his hand when he didn’t answer her. “Stop it! Where are you going with this creature?”

“I am going to take her wherever she wants to go,” he said.

“She can go by herself,” she said.

“I brought her into this situation—”

“Situation? We were not a situation, we were a family!”

“I will get her out of it,” he finished.

Latha kept on walking. How serene she felt. How disinterested now in the people who stood about her. All the years she had thought she was in control, she had been fooling herself. She had been exactly what they had wanted her to be: a servant. Serving them, serving herself to them, something that they packed along with other necessities, like rice and salt and dhal. There to trim the beginnings and endings of their days, there to embellish their lies, there to blame their half-truths on. Present every waking moment to wash them of guilt and innocence.

And what had they known of her? What had she known of herself, if in an hour she could have uncovered so much? Yes, this at last was peace, to know herself, to guide her body through such waters, to be able to hold her head above the tide of their deceit and abuse. They
shed off her. First Mrs. Vithanage, then Thara, then Gehan, then Mr. Vithanage, and last the girls. Last of all, Madhavi. Virtue consisted mostly of avoiding temptation, and Madhavi was that temptation, carrying her unloved self in her lovely form like poison, willing Latha to look at her, to fulfill a need. But no, she was, beautiful as she was, adored as she was, simply another Thara reborn, and there was no room in Latha’s life for such insatiable, blind need.

“Latha!” Thara said, her voice tearful, followed by full-blown sobbing.

“Latha!” Gehan said and turned around as he caught the echo in Madhavi’s voice. “Latha!”

Madhayanthi said nothing, but she took her older sister’s hand.

Mr. Vithanage put the suitcases into the dickey. He opened the front passenger door for Latha, shut it firmly behind her, and tapped the door several times. The car was still reversing when Podian came into view, dressed in his one good pair of longs and short-sleeved shirt, a siri-siri bag of belongings in his hand. He put up his palm, looking directly at Mr. Vithanage. Mr. Vithanage stopped the car and rolled down the window.

“Get in,” he said, ignoring the new commotion this caused on the steps of the veranda. Podian opened the back door and climbed in. He caught Latha’s glance in the rearview mirror and gave her a weak smile.

The station felt crowded and familiar to her. Mr. Vithanage stood by as she bought tickets to Hatton for herself and for Podian. He bought a platform ticket for himself and waited while they had their bags opened and checked by the police. They called her lady,
nona,
when it was Latha’s turn. Podian they referred to as malli, and their voices were not unkind.

“You don’t have to stay,” she told Mr. Vithanage. “We will be all right.”

“I know,” he said. But he didn’t move. They waited in silence until the train arrived. And after they had boarded, and he had helped hoist the suitcases in and wedged them in the overhead racks and
said good-bye and left, he came back to their window with a bag of oranges. “You might feel sick on the train,” he said. “The night mail train won’t get there till early morning.”

“Thank you,” Latha said, acknowledging the gesture with a real smile.

“If they…if the nuns…don’t allow you to stay, give them my number and ask them to call me,” he said, pressing a piece of paper into her palm. He held her hand in both of his for a moment and then dropped it.

The horn blew, and the train jerked forward and then rolled backward. Mr. Vithanage took out his handkerchief and wiped his entire face. He tried to speak but didn’t seem able to. Latha felt sorry for him. She took an orange out of the paper bag and lobbed it gently at him. He caught it but lost his handkerchief in the process. He laughed and waved at her with the orange. She stared at him until the train had left the station and he was out of sight, then she unfurled her palm and let the piece of paper with his name blow out and join the accumulating litter beside the tracks.

“Akka, where are we going?” Podian asked.

“We are going up-country to get Leelakka, then we will come back south,” she said. “I know how to live in the city. I have money. I will take care of you.”

He nodded and settled into the cushioned seat of their booth. She took stock of him. He was thin but strong, everything seemingly gone toward building muscle. Yes, he was not smart, but there would be a job for him, and she to make sure it was good work. She slipped her hand underneath her sari pota and stroked her smooth belly between the waistband of her sari blouse and the top of her pleats.

“We will be a proper family,” she said. “I will see to that.”

This book is the work of many hands.

I am indebted to Michael Collier and to the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, where my writing life received its first, profoundly transformative, affirmation.

I thank my teachers Percival Everett, Lynn Freed, Ashley Halpé, Charmaine Scharenguivel, Ursula Hegi, Nihal Fernando, Margot Livesey, Carole Anne Taylor, and the late Jean Pinto and Rehana Mohideen. Some example of the wisdom they imparted is, hopefully, to be found within these pages. Their kindness and affection abide with me. This book began in Lynn Freed’s workshop and evolved in sight of her passionate contribution to the literature of home; I am tremendously grateful to her.

I am blessed to have Julie Barer and Emily Bestler as my agent and editor. Their love for their work, their enthusiasm for mine, and their commitment to retaining the integrity of the story I wanted to tell is the stuff of dreams. I am thankful to Kate Barker, Heleen Booth, and Mariagiulia Castagnone for taking a chance on a new author.

I owe a special debt of gratitude to Mary Akers, Charles Baxter, Amaud Jamal Johnson, Charles Rice Gonzalez, Rishi Reddi, and Paul Yoon, talented and big-hearted people who provided a steadying hand.

Lisa Erickson, Rebecca Green, and Dorian Karchmar read the
earliest versions of this work, which my dear friend Sara Taddeo made possible for me to write. Without the goodwill of the people of Maine, particularly those in Waterville, who supported the many projects in which I was involved, I would not have found the courage to stay the course.

Were it not for my brother Arjuna’s brave conduct of his life, I might never have been inspired to write my first, unpublished novel, and through it, find my way to this one.

This book’s sense of place and history comes from my brother Malinda, who, with unstinting patience and love, offered his guidance during countless hours when my day was already his night.

Thank you most of all to my girls, Duránya, Hasadr
, and Kis
r
, who learned young how to let me go and the joy of a creative life; and to Mark, who separates the grain from the chaff and continues to affirm despite the imbalance. They are the true loves of my life.

I remain grateful to Latha, who was once a friend.