Authors: Indira Ganesan
“Unlike you.”
“We didn’t sneak away. Look, yes, Meti was your wife first. She will always be your wife first. And Oscar is your son. But he’s my son, too. For godsake Archer, you’re dead!”
“I know I’m dead!”
“Then bloody the hell leave us alone!”
“Simon.”
Simon turned at Meterling’s approach. She took his hand and led him outside.
In the garden, Simon lit the wicks in the pots lining the walls, and the effect was magical. Meterling squeezed Simon’s hand.
“We used to set off firecrackers all day, my brothers and I,” said Kavita. “Do you remember Diwali medicine?”
“What’s that?” asked Nora.
“A digestive concoction—with, let’s see, cumin and salt and honey—”
“Ginger and cardamom and camphor—” added Meterling. “Wretched tasting. But with all the sweets we’d eat, we needed something to counteract it all.”
“Diwali medicine,” said Kavita, breaking into laughter.
Meterling’s guests stood on the steps to gaze at the pyrotechnical effects in the sky. Other corners of the city provided their own small bursts of garden fireworks—
pattasu
was the imitative word in Tamil for the
pat-pat-pat swoosh
—spiraling into plumes or confetti, unfurling into flowers. Like fairy lights, they sparkled into the sky, to disappear with noise. Light to usher in light after darkness.
Meterling loved fireworks as well and felt glad now, in a rush, to be away from Pi, where they might have had to travel to someone else’s home to celebrate, following grief custom, and in the end, not feel like celebrating at all. On Pi, Nalani and Ajay, now asleep, would have already celebrated their first festival together. She leaned against Simon and he put his arm around her.
By the time goodbyes were being said, the talk was warmer than it had been all evening. Maybe because everyone was physically warmer, looked forward to their beds, and had survived an evening out with
company
, as well as an evening with memories, hearty promises to call and visit were made. Susan would meet Kavita and Lisa for tea; Susan would baby-sit Oscar; Susan would call on her aunt Nora more often.
“Bye,” said Susan, surprising Meterling with a quick kiss on the lips. “It was, all in all, quite a party.” One by one, they concurred.
“Happy Diwali!” shouted John as he helped Nora up the stairs. Sounds of firecrackers could still be heard in the dark; parties all over England were being held to celebrate the ushering-in of light after darkness.
Meterling went into the other room and scooped up Oscar, who stirred a bit, yawned, and went back to sleep. She should have done so the minute Archer appeared, she told herself, putting him back down.
“I will protect you with my life,” she told Oscar.
42
In bed that night, Meterling let loose her desire ferociously, leaving Simon a little breathless and surprised. Later, he raised himself onto an elbow and gazed at his wife.
“What, my love?” he asked.
“Do you think he’s gone?”
“I don’t know. I hope so. I hope he’s gone for good. I loved Archer, but—”
“I know.”
“You can ask your ayurvedic doc when you go back to him.”
“Hmm.” She placed her hand on his chest. “Sometimes, I think we should take Oscar back to Pi.”
“So you can eat mangoes?”
“Don’t be absurd! But—I don’t fit in, Simon! I wear the wrong clothes, I make the wrong foods—”
“What are you talking about? You looked gorgeous tonight—Susan especially envies your saris, and the food was bloody brilliant. She didn’t mean what she said, you know.”
“I don’t know. She’s protective, just like Archer. But Oscar—doesn’t he deserve to grow up with his cousins?”
“They’re all a decade older than him … Meti, I don’t understand, aren’t you happy here?”
“I’m happy with you. I’m happy with your family. I’m glad I’m getting to know Dr. Morgan—”
“Weren’t you surprised when her partner turned out to be a woman?”
“Her receptionist. She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Simon, don’t get me off track.”
“I don’t want to live in Madhupur.”
“Why?”
“It’s not my home. This is my place with you, with us. My job, everything.”
“And how am I to cope, without my family? Your uncle had a mistress from Pi.”
“What does that have to do with anything? I don’t understand, you were so passionate just a while ago, and now you’re so upset.”
“Do you think that woman had a chance to say no? If she was working for him, and the boss wanted her, what power did she have to refuse? She might have even been married, with children.”
“It’s such an old story, Meti,” said Simon, rolling onto his back.
“But it explains Susan’s anger toward Pi.”
“C’mon, don’t worry about all that.” He tried to put his arms around her, but she shrugged him off. “Didn’t I promise you I would always hold you tight when you needed it, be your strength as you are mine?”
“It’s just odd. I never thought of your family as having anything they’d be ashamed of, except, well—”
“Us? You mean the only strange thing is us.” He paused. “My family has owned a gin distillery for over two hundred years, which I know to you is not a great deal of time, since you yourself are descended from one of thirteen original sages a millennium ago—”
“Shut up!”
He kissed her ear. “The thing is, our history is wretched. We’ve led masses of people to ruin their lives with alcoholism, we have twisted personal lives—there are stories!—and we continue on. Our lives are messy. Everything is messy, you know that. By the way, what was that poem about? Is Neela in love with you?”
“She’s in love with everyone. She’s protective, too. Simon, who’s Mouxx?”
“What?”
“There was a postcard—look, it was stuck in this book.”
“God, I thought I threw that out years ago.” He frowned. “Archer—it was a long time ago,” he replied, shutting his eyes again.
“Tell me.”
“Archer wanted to marry her—decades ago. She was a banker’s daughter, slumming in the East End. I was awestruck when I first met her—earrings down to her shoulders, very high heels; she looked just this side of a call girl. I thought she was fantastic.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I was thirteen. I pretty much thought any girl over twenty fantastic.”
“So Archer wanted to marry her.”
“But his mother disapproved. She moved to Paris, and he never heard from her again.”
“But the postcard?”
“I found it years later. After all that time. I guess she did get in touch, but my aunt must have hidden it. You know, she could have easily tossed it in the fire, but she stuck it in a book. Maybe it helped her conscience.”
“To think—”
“—if Archer had wanted to read Conan Doyle instead of Miss Marple.”
“Simon, it’s not funny.”
“I know. I was furious with my aunt at first, but when I found the postcard, Archer was happily ensconced on Pi, and seemed to have forgotten her. I don’t know what happened to her. Probably went back to Bombay.”
“Bombay
… Bombay?
Why?”
“Her family was there, and she was born there, too.”
“So she was Indian.”
“Oh yes, though she tried hard to shed her roots.”
“So Archer was in love with an Indian girl before me.”
Simon was silent.
“Your entire family is fixated on South Asian women.”
“It was a good dinner, darling.”
“Don’t change the subject. Maybe we should move back to Pi.”
“Tomorrow … let’s talk about it later.”
“Simon, do you think Susan will tell Oscar about Archer?”
“No. Susan might be crazy, but she’ll always put Oscar’s interests first.”
“What if she decides it is in his best interest to know the truth?”
“That his mother once slept with her brother and then married him to cause him to die?”
“Well, no.”
“Meti, let it go. I know it’s easy for me to say, but you have to let the past rest, and stop blaming yourself.”
“Susan?”
“Susan is mourning her brother, she’s not mourning his marriage. And no, she will let us tell him the truth when he’s old enough.”
They were quiet after that, immersed in their own thoughts until exhaustion hit and they slept.
43
A
s they had planned, Meterling and Oscar met Susan at the park to eat lunch together about a week later. Meterling had not seen Archer’s ghost since the day of the party, although once, at the grocery store, she thought she’d caught a glimpse of a white-suited man, but decided it was her imagination. Maybe he had gone away for good, as Simon hoped. Susan had brought Japanese takeaway complete with chopsticks, and taught her how to use them, but after a while, Metering just used her fingers.
“I found out about Mou,” said Meterling.
“Moo? Oh, God, Moose. Or Mouse. That awful woman who never ate.”
“I thought
you
never ate.”
“Oh, I eat.”
“Your family doesn’t seem to have luck with islanders, or Indians, much—”
“I’m so sorry—”
“Forget it, Susan. There’s so much in our lives to discover that is far better than raking up the past.”
“Hmm. What will you do about the land, Meterling?”
“The fields? I thought I’d plant vegetables, and make a garden. I could lease some of it to farmers. Simon and I are going to keep the house. We’ll redo it and make it lighter. I think it will be good to have a family home in the country for all of us.”
“Archer …?”
“He will always remain in my heart, Susan. He is half of Oscar, he’s part of Simon.”
“So many of my friends, well, they didn’t understand …”
“Back home, hardly anyone understood or approved. Some stopped talking to my family.”
“I didn’t know.”
“It was awful—neighbors we’d known for years, my distant relations. It was because I was a widow, and it was because I did not mourn enough. As if anyone knows what it is to mourn, as if you could assign a time period to grief.”
“Aunt and Uncle wanted you both to wait a year, I remember.”
“In the name of decency. But what was decent about Archer dying? What was indecent about falling in love with Simon? I didn’t plan it, I didn’t scheme—”
“It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. They always say that in the end, those who stick by you—well, I’m one to talk.”
“But at least you gave me a chance—you didn’t close the door completely. You are trying to teach me to use chopsticks.”
“Well—” here Susan smiled a little—“Oscar is my nephew.”
“John was the first to accept me completely, without question.
I will always remember that. In all those snide remarks, those little glances people threw at us, he just accepted us.”
“Well, Meterling, if you want, now you’ve got me as well.”
“Got you?”
Susan took a breath. “Got me as someone who can try to be a better sister-in-law.”
Together, they sat bundled up in the park, in the weak sunlight of autumn, and looked out at the horizon.
PART THREE
Returning
(Nine Years After)
The great revelation never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.
—To the Lighthouse
44
O
scar kept an eye out for the ferry. His mother had warned him it might be late. When
he
had taken the ferry, he had nearly gotten sick, the waters were so choppy. His father told him to look at the horizon, which helped, because he had not vomited. He liked the word “vomit” better than “throw up.” He kept a list of words he liked, and next to each entry, he listed its synonym that he disliked. “Demolish” was better than “break,” “tiffin” better than “tea,” and “British” better than “Paki.” He had been called “Paki” a lot walking home from school this past year, but he’d ignored the taunts. He had discovered if he looked at the name callers, they would beat him up (better word: “pulverize”), so he kept his head down.
What he did not want was for either his mother or father to find out, because if they caused a commotion, he was certain he’d be annihilated. Only villains in his comic books were annihilated by heroes—
poof!
, they were gone. In the real world the villains, it seemed, usually won. He had one friend, Asha from India, who knew karate. She rode the bus, and told Oscar he had to convince his mother to let him take lessons.
“I don’t want to fight those goons.”
“That’s the thing. You just know karate and it gives you this, I don’t know, aura of confidence.”
“What’s an aura?”
“Like a magic thing. My mum can read auras—mine is purplish, which means I’m a warrior.”
“What color do you think mine would be?”
“I don’t know—maybe pale blue, which is very good for an all-round best friend. But we’d have to ask my mum.”
Asha’s mother told him his aura’s color was aquamarine, and said that he was braver than he himself knew.
“But he’s a really good friend to people, too, isn’t he, Mum?”
“That goes without saying.”
“Only I already said it.”
He missed Asha, and summer in England, and Pibs. Asha gave him a small pink quartz in a nylon pouch before he’d left, saying it was a stone to protect him in his travels. If they’d stayed put, they’d have gone to Craywick, which is what they did for three weeks in July ever since he could remember. He loved Craywick, their country house, where he had a room with twin beds and a secret panel. At least, he was certain it was a secret panel because it moved when he pressed on it. They used to leave Pibs home, with a neighbor to take care of him, but because he was now a
middle-aged
cat, as his father said, they took him with them. Pibs was usually the first one in the car. Pibs couldn’t come to Pi, though, and Oscar tried to explain it to him.
“It’s too far away, for one thing, and another thing—well, never mind the other thing,”
The other thing was that he’d noticed right off that cats slunk around on the streets in Madhupur, but he hardly ever saw one in anybody’s house. Pibs was being taken care of by Oscar’s London grandparents. Aside from missing Pibs, Pi was not bad—he got many points in school when he said he was going to an island for the summer holidays. He liked Great-Grandmother’s big house, which had more secret-keeping rooms and parts than he’d remembered, plus the nice large swing on the veranda.
And there was even a funny cat that slept much of the time, curling onto itself. His mother said that was the cat that his cousins had adopted when they were his age. There were as well three small dogs, who also slept a great deal, in a tumble of long fur and floppy ears. No, Pi wasn’t bad, but people kept pinching his cheeks, which sometimes hurt—old people did not know their strength—or kissing and cuddling him like he was a baby.