Bodies in Motion (21 page)

“What do you think? Should I call him?”

Gabriel wasn't surprised to find himself talking to his dead mother—she had always been easy to talk to. When he had come home from high school senior year, head over heels in love and burning with the desire to tell someone, it was his mother he had confessed to, terrified and exhilarated all at once, tears in his eyes. Esther had gone very
pale, her blue eyes even bluer against the whiteness of her face. But she had pulled him into a hug, had held him when he burst into tears. She had stood up to his father, had even gone out and bought him condoms, slipping them to him that night with a whispered injunction to
be safe, be happy.
More than a mother should be called to do, surely. And Roshan was beautiful; she could understand that.

But is he beautiful inside, my
boychik?
That is what is important.

She had known that—the beautiful Esther had married his father, after all, surely one of the ugliest men on God's green earth, almost a caricature of a stereotyped Jew with his massive nose, shrunken torso, fierce, squinty eyes. But a good man, an upright man of the community who had cherished his wife and had even tried, on occasion, to understand his wayward son.

Gabriel couldn't answer that question, he just didn't know. He stood in the rain a little longer, until he was quite thoroughly soaked. Then he heard his mother scolding him to go inside, go, even a big doctor can catch his death of cold. So he left the cemetery and got back in the cab.

 

HE HAD STOPPED ON THE WAY TO HIS FATHER, BOUGHT FLOWERS
for the table. Nothing fancy—just some white carnations, fresh and simple. His father had grunted approval when Gabriel arrived with them clutched in a wet hand. “Your mother would have liked that.” The rest of the meal was silent, except for the prayers. They had eaten store-bought bread, the widow Rabinowitz's soup, her chicken and kugel. Neither had eaten very much—grief was thick in the room, weighing heavy on their stomachs. When they finished, Gabriel washed the dishes while his father blew out the candles, put away the remaining food.

“I should get back,” Gabriel said. “I have work in the morning.” Work, and a decision to make. To call Roshan or not? He still didn't know. He wondered what his father would think if Roshan were a
woman—would he be upset that she was brown-skinned, wasn't Jewish? Gabriel just didn't know.

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Gabriel ached to see Saul like this, his face so lined, so old. “I'll be back next week, Dad. Call if you need anything.” He pulled on his coat, still damp.

“Son.” His father's face was abruptly stern. “You must not keep coming up here, every week. It is too far.”

“I don't mind.”

“No. I am telling you, no. I will be fine—there are more than enough people to pester me here. If the widow Rabinowitz doesn't drive me up the wall with her nagging, your mother's sisters will manage it nicely. You, stay there.”

Gabriel felt a pang of bewildered grief—was his father rejecting him outright now? But then Saul reached out, took his son's head in both hands and pulled it toward him. He kissed Gabriel's forehead, then released him. “Go, son,” he said gently. “Be safe. Be happy.”

“You're sure?”

“I am certain.” His father opened the door for him, said, “Come back in a month or two, tell me then what you've been doing.”

“All right, then. Good night.” Gabriel stepped out the door, heard it close behind him.

He started walking to the subway stop, still not sure what had just happened. Those had been his mother's words, the words Esther had said to him, the words she had undoubtedly said to his father. Gabriel didn't know what they meant. But he knew one thing—he would be calling Roshan after all, would at least let him explain what was really going on. Roshan deserved that chance at least, the opportunity to step forward, to tell the truth.

After that…well, after that, they would just see what happened. See if there would be an opportunity to find some happiness after all.

It was what his mother would have wanted.

Chicago, 1999

CHAYA WASN'T SURE HOW SHE
'
D ENDED UP AT THE DUKE OF PERTH, SIPPING SCOTCH WITH DANIEL OWENS, WATCHING THE APRIL RAIN
fall steadily through the foggy window of the pub. The sequence of events was clear enough: the e-mail arriving at the department, from Jenny, who had been her roommate in grad school. Inviting her to apply for a tenure-track job at UC Davis, with a possibility of preferred access to the big telescope at Keck Observatory. His interruption of her reading the letter, her explanation of her dazed state; his congratulations and offer of a celebratory dinner. She'd accepted and let him take her across town, to eat alone, together. That was strange enough. And now she was on her third shot of single-malt Scotch, which was unheard of. The events were clear, but her motives were opaque. She had sat mostly silent through dinner, letting Daniel's friendly babble fill the empty space.

When she finally spoke, her words dropped into a stream of his chatter, like heavy stones.

“I don't know if I should apply.”

“But it sounded like she was practically promising you the job…”

“That's not it.”

Daniel's mouth started to open again—she could practically see the flurry of words resting on his tongue, eager to leap out. But he closed his mouth, trapping the words behind his teeth, his firm lips. Daniel laced his fingers together under his chin and sat there, waiting. He had nice hands, with long, thin fingers. Chaya had noticed them before. Two more glasses of Macallan arrived, and she took one in her own hands, staring down into the clear liquid.

“I can't leave my mother.” Twenty-nine years old, and she couldn't leave her mother? She didn't owe Daniel an explanation, but the words were whispering in her throat, wanting to come out. She couldn't say them to anyone else—she'd had a few friends in grad school, but hadn't really made any at UIC. Why not Daniel? He was there, after all. And a live band was playing at the front of the pub, not too loud, but loud enough. No one else would hear.

“My father died when I was eleven. It was a car accident. Black ice on the road, a winter storm. We were driving home after one of my piano recitals, and we just skidded off the road and slammed into a tree.” There was more to the story than that—Chaya remembered leaving the recital, her father pushing her into the right front seat, her mother crying, climbing quickly into the back before the car started and raced away. No one had ever told her what was going on that day, why everyone was acting so strangely. After the accident, she hadn't asked. She had felt, obscurely, that it was somehow her fault, though she didn't know why. After the accident, she hadn't talked about her father at all. “My mother was eight months pregnant, but she was barely hurt. None of us were, actually, not by the impact. Just thrown around a little, and my mom went into labor early. But my father had a heart attack, from the shock, and died.”

Chaya had never told the story out loud before, and she was surprised at how calmly she was telling it now—eighteen years made a difference. It had all been a long time ago.

It was only when Daniel wrapped his hands around hers that
Chaya realized that she was shaking, and that she had spilled Scotch all over her hands, all over the dark wood of the table. She felt a brief desire to pull her hands away from him, but she forced herself to leave them. He was steadying her; it felt good. It helped her keep talking. Chaya was fighting waves of nausea, though perhaps those were from the thick fried smell of fish and chips, wafting past their table, trailing a waitress loaded with plates.

“So my mother, who was only twenty-nine—that's how old I am now—my mother was left with an eleven-year-old daughter and a premature baby girl. My mom's parents helped us, but they died a few years ago. My dad had been estranged from his family; I don't know why. They've never spoken to us, I never even met them, though my grandmother on that side did send some money for the funeral.

“My aunts, my mother's sisters, all helped raise us, but they have families and careers of their own. Savitha, my sister, got married this year—she married a cousin, actually. They moved away a month ago, without saying a word to anyone. They sent one postcard from the road just telling us that they had gotten married—no address, no phone. She hasn't written again or called since she left.”

Her voice dropped a little, so that Daniel had to lean closer to hear. “So that leaves me. My mother—she's not strong, since my father died. I can't leave.”

Chaya expected Daniel to try to persuade her to go—but he just kept holding her hands, safe in his. His eyes were fixed on their hands, pressed against the scarred wood with its unsteady lines carved by legions of sloshed patrons. When he finally spoke, he didn't look up.

“I'm sorry to hear about your father, Chaya, and sorry for your sake that you won't be going to California. But I'm not sorry that you're planning to stay here for a while longer.”

Daniel looked up then, and Chaya was startled to find that she wasn't surprised by what she saw in his face. It wasn't love. But there was concern, and desire. She wasn't surprised—maybe she'd known for months, since she first met him last August. Had he been watching
her? Had she really not noticed? But he'd always respected her boundaries, kept a friendly professional distance.

Chaya shook her hands loose from his. She dried them slowly on her napkin. Part of her wanted to just run out the door, disappear into the rain, dissolve. But she liked Daniel. He sent her almost-funny astronomy jokes culled from the Net; he liked to stop by her barely open door, pushing it open further to share a tidbit of department gossip. He had bright green eyes; Daniel seemed happy with his life. Somehow, those had never seemed good enough reasons before; she wasn't sure what had changed. Had anything changed?

Starting with the spilled liquid, Chaya wiped the table clean, meticulously. Daniel watched until she finished. Then she carefully, precisely, put her hands out again, and he took them in his. He leaned forward, and so did she. When they finally kissed, it was the very lightest brush of lips.

 

CHAYA BURST OUT OF HER MOTHER
'
S DOOR, HER BOOTS SLOSHING
through puddles—it was still raining almost every day, though the calendar now claimed it was May. Her mouth was pressed tight, her head tucked down. From the door, her mother called out to her, “Don't be so sensitive!” before letting it slam closed. Behind that door, the conversation of her mother and aunts would continue, the endless conversation. Chaya wrapped her arms tightly around herself and continued to march down the sidewalk. She circled the block, her thoughts running in circles too.

Every time Chaya went home, all four of her aunts came by the house. Every single one had to hug her, kiss her, pinch her waist, and say she was putting on a little weight, wasn't she. Well, to be fair, Leilani Aunty usually didn't participate in the poking and squeezing; she preferred to lean against the kitchen counter and watch the show—but she was a poet, unmarried and strange. The others would tug at her hair, checking if it was still strong, still thick, until Chaya felt
like a horse being readied for sale. Her mother would even come pry her mouth open and check her teeth. “Brushing every morning? Every night? Flossing?”

Chaya would endure, would bite the inside of her cheek until it bled, would wash the salt blood away with her tongue, telling herself they meant well. But this last year, her visits to Oakbrook had grown less and less frequent, though it was only half an hour away from her Greektown condo.

It wasn't as if she were pretty like her sister, Savitha, who would sometimes indulge her mother and be slim and fair and beautiful in pale pink saris. Chaya always refused to wear them; she wore sensible slacks and Gap button-down shirts. She had a good postdoc now, had published a few papers. She was reasonably confident that she could find a tenure-track job in the Chicago area in a year or two, if they would just leave her alone to work in peace. Some of the aunts were academics—they should have understood. But they never talked to her about her work; it was always marriage, marriage and babies.

She could have told them about Daniel—he wouldn't even be the first white boy in the family. One of the aunts had scandalized everyone by marrying a white boy, decades ago. But it was all so new, so fragile. Chaya couldn't bear to put him under their lens.

After circling the block for the third time, she finally stopped at her car. Chaya unlocked the door, climbed in, pulled her seat belt on. She was fanatic about seat belts. She put the key in the ignition and started the car. She bit her cheek again, closed her eyes, opened them, deliberately released her sore cheek, and then smoothly pulled out. It was late, and she was teaching tomorrow morning—Chaya knew she should go home. But she could never sleep when she was feeling this crazy; work was the only thing that would help her. She could work all night, teach in the morning, and then sleep. Daniel would understand.

She drove at precisely fifty-five on the highway all the way back to her office.

 

SHE
'
D WANTED TO BE UNDER THE STARS FOR IT, HAD WANTED EVERYTHING
to be as perfect as she could make it. Chaya had gone to the doctor, gotten a prescription for the pill. Daniel had suggested condoms, and maybe it was silly of her to prefer not to, but he didn't complain. In some ways, condoms would have been easier, would have kept a distinct separation between them. But separation wasn't what she wanted. As they waited the weeks until the pills took effect, the weather warmed. It seemed the perfect conjunction in late May, when it was finally safe, and warm, enough.

The hardest part had been letting him touch her. Hands were relatively easy. She had had to shake hands often. But anything more was almost impossible—she'd endured so many embraces.
Poor fatherless child
, they said, clicking their tongues in sympathy, reaching to pull her into their sticky, smelly arms. She'd been lost in folds of shifting silk. Her mother had clung to her, pulling her around by the arm like a rag doll, making Chaya sit on her lap when the baby was asleep. Chaya had closed herself away, placed her secret self in a deep chamber of her heart, and only when she was alone did she let it come out again. When she climbed the long flights of stairs to the roof of her apartment, lugging her homemade Dobsonian, the telescope she'd built herself, bundled in layers of thick wool, suffering the cold because if she plugged in a portable heater, any heat would rise, obscuring the view—she saw the stars, and they saw her.

Chaya endured her family because she had to, but until Daniel, she let no one else touch her.

She was learning to take pleasure from his touch. Chaya didn't invite him to her apartment—that was her place, her sanctuary. Even her mother wasn't allowed there. But she spent hours in Daniel's bed, where he slowly persuaded her to open her body to him. He didn't talk much in bed, and she was grateful. It meant she didn't have to talk either, which made it all easier. She closed her eyes and let him touch
her, closed her eyes while he unbuttoned and removed her shirt. Music often played on the stereo, something sweet and Scottish, and Chaya lost herself in it, smothering her worries deep enough beneath the music that she could continue onward.

They spoke with their bodies, with leanings and touchings and gentle fingers. Daniel kissed patterns along her body, points of light that connected in strange and shivering nets. The first time she came, with his mouth between her thighs and her fingers tangled in his red hair, their bodies covered in sweat, Chaya felt herself an exploding nova, racing outward, expanding furiously, and then, slowly, coalescing again into inert matter.

In late May they drove north, over the border to Wisconsin, and hiked through the woods until they were nowhere near anywhere or anyone. The stars were bright and unblinking, a brilliant profusion, far away from the haze of city lights. It was in an unnamed field, a cow pasture, that Daniel entered her. Chaya lay below him, looking up at the luxuriant night sky. If the grass was itchy and the air cold, she didn't notice.

 

“
TALK TO ME.
”

Daniel's voice was soft, and Chaya knew it would remain so, but she could hear the frustration underneath. Only a month had gone by, but they had already had this conversation too many times.

“There's nothing to say. Come to bed.” She lay beneath the white sheets, waiting for him. He paced up and down by the window, and she watched his pale muscles moving in the moonlight.

“Something's wrong, and you won't talk about it!”

Chaya didn't know what he wanted; she didn't know what to say. “Daniel, come to bed.” In bed, she could talk to him with arms and legs, with soft moans and hurried breaths. Couldn't the opening of her body be the answer to his questions? “Nothing's wrong, nothing's changed.”

He stopped pacing and stared at her. “That's right. That's exactly it. Nothing changes, Chaya. I don't know where I am in your sky, but it's impossibly distant, and I can't move closer to you.” Daniel sank down on the edge of the bed and took her bare feet in his hands, squeezing gently. “All we do is have sex. I want you to talk to me. Tell me about your family, your childhood. Tell me your dreams—or hell, your nightmares. Anything! This silence—it's driving me crazy. Don't you get it?”

Chaya shook her head and her hair swung loosely. She was growing it because Daniel liked long hair. He had never said so, but his fingers reached for her hair and tangled happily there during sex; she could tell he'd like it longer. How many times had her mother told her to grow her hair, and how many times had Chaya ignored her? And now she was growing it for Daniel—couldn't he see how she felt? She wore earrings now, gold hoops, and sometimes even bangles on her wrists. She tried to be beautiful for him.