The Caretaker Page 11

  Who the hell is calling him? Remembering that Celia had given those men his cell phone number, he feels a surge of panic. What if they are waiting for him at the bus station? Quickly unwrapping his turban, he pushes it deep into his backpack and covers his topknot with a battered Mike’s Tow baseball cap. He’s now wearing a greasy blue mechanic’s jacket that he borrowed from Jõao, but the cap and jacket are not much of a disguise. He will stand out in the empty bus station, and his only weapon is the thin sliver of steel in his boot.

  “Hey, buddy. Last stop.” All the other passengers have gone, and the bus driver sticks his head around the door, his face red with annoyance. “Move it, will ya? Some of us gotta get home. It’s Christmas Day, for Chrisssake.”

  Nodding, Ranjit steps down from the bus. The glass doors of the bus station are straight ahead, but glancing around, he notices a metal door marked DRIVERS ONLY, wedged open with a folded newspaper.

  The bus driver turns his back and starts talking to an old lady struggling with her suitcase. Ranjit takes a few long strides, goes through the “Drivers Only” doorway, and finds himself in a bare concrete stairwell littered with cigarette butts. He runs down the stairs and emerges at ground level, facing Chinatown.

  A uniformed bus driver leaning against the wall and smoking is surprised to see Ranjit. “Hey, what the hell. That stairwell is only for drivers.”

  “No English.”

  Ranjit shrugs, smiles, and walks away, hearing the driver mutter “Goddamn foreigners.” He crosses the road and heads down Beach Street toward Chinatown. Remembering that the trains will be running on a holiday schedule, he curses; instead of twenty minutes, it will probably take an hour for him to reach Cambridge.

  Walking under a tall gate with a green-tiled pagoda roof, he enters Chinatown. After the emptiness of the Vineyard, he is shocked to find its narrow streets crowded with people, its restaurants open for business and full of customers.

  He passes Cantonese restaurants, their windows hung with eyeless roasted ducks, and seafood places with tanks of sluggish white fish. Smelling roasting meat, he feels a stab of hunger, but there is no time to eat. Walking on, he passes sidewalk fruit stands where old Chinese ladies in Mao jackets hawk piles of kiwis, mangoes, and star fruit. The crowd thickens, elbows jostle him, and when an old man suddenly spits, Ranjit dances aside, the thick gob of phlegm narrowly missing his boots.

  At the corner of Washington Street he sees the transient hotel that Jõao told him about, the one that does not check identification. The Garibaldi is a sooty yellow-brick building, its entry flanked by wrought-iron standards that once held glass light fixtures. Looking into the gloomy lobby, he sees a fake Christmas tree, its flickering lights illuminating a few men sitting on battered couches. Other slump-shouldered men stand on the steps and share a cigarette, paying no attention to Ranjit as he passes.

  He feels safe amongst the crowds of Chinatown, but he knows that the rest of Boston is different. The city is divided along racial lines: South and East Boston are working class and white, the Hispanics all live in Jamaica Plain, and the blacks are confined to Roxbury. A brown-skinned, bearded man in the wrong neighborhood will certainly stand out.

  He enters the Chinatown subway station and walks to a far corner of the empty platform, tugging down the brim of his baseball cap. He looks down the dark mouth of the tunnel, hoping to see the lights of a train, but it is quiet, and the only sound is the squeak of mice scurrying across the tracks. Leaning against the cold wall, he wills himself to wait.

  * * *

  It is dark when he comes out of the subway entrance in Cambridge. Central Square is deserted on Christmas Day except for a few homeless people who stand in front of a 7-Eleven convenience store, scratching forlornly at their lottery cards. Next to it, a light burns in the shop window of Kohinoor Foods and Spices, illuminating a headless mannequin in a dusty yellow sari. Lallu’s only concession to Christmas is a strand of purple tinsel strung across the doorway.

  When Ranjit peers into the shop window he sees that it is empty, the cash register manned by Ricky, Lallu’s nineteen-year-old son. As always, Ricky is nattily attired in baggy jeans and a tight red polyester T-shirt that matches his crimson turban. He strokes his wispy beard as he peers into a thin silver laptop, its cover pasted over with the stickers of indie bands; Ricky lives and dreams computers, and should be in college, but his father insists that he go to night school and spend his days at the store.

  A thin woman with blond dreadlocks and a silver nose ring swishes past Ranjit and enters the store, her long cotton skirt dragging on the ground. She saunters through the aisles and examines the packages of incense, smiling shyly at Ricky, entranced by his turban and bulging muscles. Some things never change.

  Ranjit still has his keys to the store and enters through a door in the alley, taking the stairs down into the dank basement. Having slaved down here for two years, he navigates easily through the darkness, walking past huge jars of mango pickle and sacks of rice. The musty smell reminds him of the hours he spent down here, sifting through the rice to remove dead insects. He’d often find dragonflies, and once a mummified frog, transported all the way from India.

  He climbs the stairs leading up to the shop and stops, listening for Lallu’s booming voice, but there is only Ricky’s unmistakable accent, half Punjabi and half American.

  “So, yeah, this sandalwood incense is real good for meditation. If you like, I can come by sometime and show you how to meditate. It’s deep.”

  “Really?”

  “I used to do yoga in India, you know. I used to meditate for, like, hours.”

  “Seriously? That’s so cool. What kind of yoga do you like? Hot yoga or Hatha yoga or…”

  Ranjit pushes open the door. He passes the humming refrigerated cases stuffed with frozen chapattis and kulfi and walks to the cash register.

  Ricky looks up, stunned. “Ranjit Mausa. Ohmigod.”

  “Finish up with your customer. I need to talk to you.”

  Ricky hurriedly rings up the girl, giving her one last longing look. “Mausa, what are you doing here? Preetam Mausi says that she’s leaving you and going back to India.”

  “That’s just talk. She’s angry. Now listen. Are they upstairs in the apartment?”

  “No, no, my father took them to my house to get some clothes. They came here with nothing. Preetam Mausi won’t tell me what happened—”

  “I’ll explain everything to you later. Right now I just need to talk to Preetam, calmly. I’ll wait in the apartment upstairs. Do me a favor—don’t tell your father I’m here. The last thing I need is for him to get involved.”

  Ricky smiles uncertainly. “Dad said that if you showed up, I wasn’t to let you in. He was really angry. He said—”

  Ranjit leans over the register. “Ricky, please. Your father didn’t like me leaving the store, but I was dying in here. And what the hell are you doing behind the counter? You should be in school, full time.”

  “I know, I know. Sometimes my dad is a real pain, but what to do? He’s my father and all … Okay, I’ll keep my mouth shut. They should be back soon. You wait upstairs.” Ricky sighs and hands over the apartment keys.

  “Thanks. You’re a good kid.” Ranjit reaches across the counter and pats the boy’s shoulder. Returning to the staircase, he takes a flight of creaky wooden stairs to the small apartment above.

  He enters it, smelling old carpet and mold and dust, and walks through the darkened living room to the bedroom at the back. It has one window looking out onto a brick wall, and a sagging bed with Shanti’s new pink backpack lying on it.

  Feeling exhausted, he sits down on the bed, moving the backpack aside. It is surprisingly heavy, and he pauses, trying to figure out what Shanti could have in there. He unzips it, seeing only a folded sweater, and almost zips it back up, but a glint catches his eyes. Pushing aside the sweater, he pulls out an old porcelain doll.

  It is the ugly doll that Shanti found in the pink bedroom. He exam
ines its dark painted eyes, its flat nose and exaggerated lips, and remembers how Shanti had pushed something into her backpack before they ran from the house.

  The dark-haired intruder had squatted in front of the shelves in Shanti’s room, staring at the collection of children’s dolls. Is this what he was looking for? Has Shanti inadvertently picked up something old and valuable?

  The doll scowls up at him. As he sits there, he hears the doors slam in the store below, followed by Lallu’s loud and boastful voice; it sounds like he is coming up here. Ranjit’s mind is a jumble of thoughts, and he shoves the doll into his own canvas backpack, tightly pulling the straps shut.

  Just as he’s leaving the apartment, he catches a glimpse of a calendar that he pinned to the wall when they lived here. It is illustrated with a picture of Guru Nanak in battle, seated on a rearing white horse, the curved sword in his hand dripping blood. Now the picture looks like a warning, and Ranjit wonders if he made the right decision by leaving the safety of this place. He hears Lallu’s brash voice below, and a flare of anger goes through him. Yes, he decides, better to do battle with the world than to hide from it.

  He hurries down the dark stairs and stops at the door to the store. Preetam and Lallu seem to be engaged in a long conversation, and he can’t help listening.

  Preetam’s voice is so different, light and silvery with happiness. “… all these new clothes were not necessary. Really, Lallu Mama, you’re so kind. I mean, we already owe you so much money…”

  “Aare, it is nothing, my wife was happy to give them to you. And after all, you are my favorite niece, no? If that good-for-nothing husband cannot take care of you, I will.”

  Ranjit opens the door a crack and sees Lallu standing by the register, and Preetam preening in a new turquoise sari. Shanti stands sulkily to one side, a bright green salwar kameez draped over her arm.

  “Shanti, thank Lallu Mama for your new clothes—”

  “I don’t want them. I like wearing my jeans.”

  “You ungrateful little girl. Thank your great-uncle.”

  Shanti shakes her head. “I won’t wear them. They’re ugly. I hate this green and—”

  Preetam turns suddenly. There is the sharp sound of a slap, followed by Shanti’s angry cry.

  Ranjit feels the blood pound in his temples and pushes open the door a little more. Ricky spots him, looks terrified, and shakes his head, No.

  Ranjit points to the alley outside and mouths, Meet me outside. Gritting his teeth, he leaves through the basement and walks into the dark alley. From inside comes the sound of more shouting, then Shanti’s footsteps running up the stairs.

  He forces himself to stay calm, though his fists are clenched, his nails digging into the palms of his hands. He has asked Preetam over and over not to hit the child, but when she gets angry, her hands fly out of their own accord. What’s a small slap? Preetam will say. You want Shanti to grow up like these American children who show no respect for their elders? Better to be feared than to live without respect.

  The alley is dark and piss-smelling, its walls dense with looping graffiti. To calm down, he leans against the wall and tries to decipher the convoluted letters. A few minutes pass before Ricky steps out into the alley, wringing his hands, his smooth, handsome face clouded with pain.

  “Ranjit Mausa, what the hell is going on?”

  Ranjit steps forward and grips the boy’s shoulders. “Ricky, can I trust you?”

  “Of course. But what can I do? Preetam Mausi is pretty mad at you—”

  “Listen to me. Someone is threatening us. Make sure that Preetam and Shanti stay upstairs, in the apartment. If two men come into the store—one of them is tall, very blond—don’t say a word about them being there, just call me on my cell phone.”

  Ricky gulps. “Are you serious? Ohmigod.”

  “I’m counting on you to take care of them.”

  The boy nods uncertainly. “Yeah, okay. I’ve got the baseball bat behind the counter. Hey, where are you going?”

  “I’ll be nearby, don’t worry. As soon as your father leaves, I’ll come back and talk to Preetam.”

  He squeezes Ricky’s shoulder and walks away, the doll weighing down his backpack. Crossing the street, he looks back at the store, seeing lights go on in the apartment windows. Shanti is no doubt in there, her cheek red, crying her heart out.

  At least they are both safe in the apartment. The only way up to it is through the store, and Ricky will be behind the counter till closing time.

  He feels the weight of the doll in his backpack and wonders if the intruders were really after this old doll. If they call him again, maybe he can swap the doll for their passports. Senator Neals probably doesn’t even know the doll is valuable, otherwise it would have been in the case, along with the others.

  Now all he has to do is wait for the men to call.

  * * *

  Two hours pass, but Lallu does not leave the store. Ranjit sits in the Burger King across the road. He forces himself to eat a chicken sandwich, and drinks two cups of acidic, burnt coffee, but no one leaves the Indian store.

  Burger King is about to close when he finally sees Lallu’s shiny new Toyota pull out from the alley and drive away. Taking a deep breath, he walks across the road. Preetam has a terrible temper, but it usually burns itself out; if he can just convince her that the men were common thieves, maybe she’ll agree to come back to the Vineyard.

  He is almost to the other side when two white Chevy Tahoe SUVs zoom past him and pull up in front of the Indian store. They have navy-blue stripes across their sides, and gold federal eagles painted on their front doors.

  Without thinking, he ducks into the 7-Eleven convenience store.

  The door tinkles and slams shut. Inside, it smells of incense, and there are two Arab men behind the counter, an older one with bristly white hair and a dark-haired man in a sleek blue tracksuit. They both look curiously at Ranjit as he pushes past the newspaper stand and peers out of the plate-glass window. All he can see is the slice of sidewalk outside Lallu’s store.

  “Hello, my friend,” says a voice behind him. “You come into my store, you buy something, okay?”

  It is the old Arab. Without answering, Ranjit grabs a Snickers bar and slams it on the counter. Outside, men emerge from the vans, wearing bright blue uniforms with black shoulder patches.

  The young man in the tracksuit says something in guttural Arabic and slides out from behind the counter. All Ranjit can understand is the word “immigration.”

  “My friend.” The old Arab’s voice is soft and insistent. “You going to pay for this Snickers?”

  Ranjit half turns, distracted, and the old man is looking straight at him with troubled brown eyes.

  “My friend, your family runs the Indian store?”

  “My wife’s uncle. He owns it.”

  The man gestures outside. Ranjit turns, and a shout rises in his throat. Preetam is being pulled from the store, her turquoise sari slipping from her shoulders, two uniformed men gripping her by the elbows. Another man emerges holding Shanti’s hand, and she follows him meekly, her head hanging down, a red bruise marking her cheek.

  Ranjit’s vision narrows to a dark tunnel. He reaches into his boot, feels the rough grip of the knife. Palming it, he heads toward the door.

  He can take the two men who are holding Preetam. But there are more in the vans, and what about Shanti?

  “My friend.” The old Arab’s voice is still soft. “What are you doing? If you walk out of here with a knife in your hand, they will shoot you down like a dog.”

  Preetam and Shanti are almost at the open doors of the van. There are still a few seconds left—

  “That is the United States government out there. You understand?”

  Ranjit stops at the door. The men out there have handguns, automatics. He’ll die on the sidewalk with a sliver of kitchen steel in his hand.

  The old Arab continues. “My friend, this is not the way. Get a lawyer and fight it in th
e courts. They think we are all terrorists, but there is still the rule of law in this country.”

  Ranjit’s hands are trembling as he pushes the knife back into his boot.

  The back doors of the SUVs are closing, the men climbing in beside Preetam and Shanti. Guru, help me, help me now—

  Ricky runs out onto the sidewalk, weeping, a piece of paper clutched in his fist. “Hey, wait up! Listen to me. I’m an American citizen, I’m getting a lawyer—”

  The uniformed men ignore him. Doors slam, and the SUVs pull a sharp U-turn and squeal back down Massachusetts Avenue, their red taillights growing smaller as they speed away.

  Ricky stands shivering on the sidewalk, the piece of paper clutched in his hand.

  The Arab man’s voice is gentle. “Maybe you should exit the back way. That’s where my brother went. His papers are not in order, either.”

  Ranjit looks around blindly. The door at the rear of the convenience store is swinging on its hinges.

  “May God be with you.” The old man’s resigned brown eyes say that he has seen all this before.

  Nodding wordlessly, Ranjit heads through the back door. He finds himself in a narrow brick alley lined with trash cans that stink of rotting meat.

  His phone begins chirping, and this time he answers it.

  It is a confident, calm voice, the words slightly garbled. “Mr. Singh. So you’re answering the phone now?”

  It is the voice of the tall blond intruder. Ranjit stops by the rear entrance to a butcher’s shop and forces himself to speak. “Yes, I’m here.”

  “We just had your wife and daughter picked up by Homeland Security. As we speak, they’re being taken to the Norfolk County Correctional Center. They’ll be held there, and thanks to the new laws, deported in ten days.”

  Through the screen door of the butcher’s shop Ranjit sees a burly arm with a cleaver descend, splitting apart a shank of purpled flesh.