The Caretaker Page 6

  “Well, Celia, we have to go. Nice talking to you.”

  “Wait … Jõao says to tell you … to be careful. Some people they are once again—roubar, how do you say? Thieving? Yes, thieving the summer houses. And yesterday, they break into this old lady house, they think she is gone, but she is there.” Celia pauses dramatically. “They hit her on the head. Dead.”

  Ranjit is stunned. There are robberies on the Vineyard, but there hasn’t been a murder here for years.

  “Are you sure? She’s dead?”

  “Jõao’s friend is police. It will be in the newspaper, later.”

  “Thanks for telling me,” he says. “I’ll be careful.”

  “Okay. Hey, Preetam, if you want to go to the sewing circle, you call me, okay?”

  Preetam smiles a stiff smile, and as they drive away, she turns to Ranjit. “Did you see what she was wearing? What kind of a church does she go to? And this house we’re staying in, is it safe? I don’t want to be alone there.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s very safe. There’s an alarm.”

  The fog is so thick that he has to strain to see the road. Saying a prayer under his breath, he drives away carefully.

  Chapter Six

  The three of them stand stock-still in the living room of Senator Neals’s house. The fog outside obscures the view, and the glass doors on the far side reflect their silhouettes.

  Ranjit switches on all the lights. Halogen spots shine down on the kitchen, and the glass case lights up, revealing rows of pale porcelain dolls. Preetam gasps in astonishment.

  “Oh, that,” he says. “It’s a hobby of theirs. They’re rich.”

  “I know, Ma, aren’t they beautiful?” Shanti walks over and presses her nose against the case.

  Ranjit motions to her. “Beti, you’re not to touch them. Remember, this is not our house. We can’t break anything.”

  “Whose house is this?” Preetam demands.

  Shanti turns to her mother. “It’s Senator Neals’s house. I came here before with Papaji.”

  “I told you, Preetam, it’s all right. We can stay here for a while, they’re away for the winter.”

  Preetam frowns at him, but he can tell that the house is working its magic, and before she can say anything else he jumps in.

  “Come on, I’ll give you both a tour.”

  They walk down the circular stair in the corner, their footsteps echoing on its steel treads. On the level below is a wide hallway lined with bookshelves and they walk down it, passing the Senator’s study, till they find themselves in the master bedroom.

  “Cool.” Shanti peers in, then rushes off in the other direction, but Preetam pushes past him and stands by the bed, fingering the cream bedcover. He notices with a shock that the yellow walls are hung with framed charcoal sketches of nudes. He hadn’t remembered those from the afternoon he was here …

  Preetam opens a closet, and he sees Anna’s yellow dress hanging there. The smell of her musky perfume fills the air, and he turns away, hoping that Preetam hasn’t noticed the expression on his face. Luckily by then she’s in the bathroom, examining the circular Jacuzzi and smelling the shampoos made of papaya and mango.

  “I didn’t know people lived like this,” she says in a soft voice. “Are these people very rich? This woman just left all her things here.”

  “Yes, well…” He cannot bear the thought of sleeping in this room. “Maybe we should stay in the bedroom on the lowest floor, so that we don’t disturb their things.”

  They both descend another twist of stairs to the lowest level, emerging into a large room with brightly colored yoga mats and a treadmill, its mirrored back wall reflecting the dark ocean outside. Off to one side is a suite of rooms, probably intended for a maid: a tiny bedroom with a twin bed and a dresser, and a small bathroom off to one side.

  “We’ll sleep here. Where did Shanti go?”

  They hear her yelping in delight and find her in a small corner bedroom on the floor above. It has bubblegum pink wallpaper, a child’s bed with a pink comforter, and tall built-in shelves full of well-loved dolls and stuffed toys. Ranjit feels very confused; he had assumed that Anna and the Senator were a childless couple.

  “It’s a little girl’s bedroom!” Shanti is dancing around the room, pirouetting ballerina style. “A pink bedroom! Fantastic!”

  “Chee, what’s that? It’s so ugly!” Preetam points to a doll sitting on the bed.

  It is as big as a newborn baby, its barrel-like body clad in faded petticoats, a red-checked kerchief wrapped around its dark head. Its face is a caricature of an African-American woman, with a flattened nose and thick red lips; he can tell that it is very old from its yellowed porcelain, crisscrossed with hairline cracks.

  “Where did you get that, Shanti? From the display case?”

  She shakes her head, her dark curls flying. “No, Papaji, it was lying here, on the bed.”

  “It doesn’t look like a toy. Remember, we can’t break anything.” He takes the doll from the bed and puts it on top of a high shelf.

  “I wasn’t going to break it,” she says indignantly. “Can I sleep here, Papaji, pleeeese?”

  “Your mother and I will be in the bedroom below. As long as you’re okay with that. You’re not going to get frightened, are you?”

  She sniffs. “Papaji, I’m nine now. I’ll be fine.”

  He carries down the luggage and Shanti instantly unpacks, throwing her clothes into the closet.

  She turns to him. “I’m done. Can I go and explore outside?”

  Seeing her so excited, he smiles. “Okay, but don’t go far. It’s foggy.”

  He leaves Preetam to unpack and wanders through the quiet house, looking for a family photograph to explain the child’s bedroom: perhaps the Senator had a daughter by his previous marriage. The hallway is hung with bright abstract paintings, but there are no photographs, and he wanders into the Senator’s study and pulls open the heavy drapes. He can see Shanti on the deck outside, leaning over the rail, and he waves to her. She is singing to herself, and her high, sweet voice makes him smile again.

  Turning, he looks around the study, taking in the banker’s desk with its green felt top, the wine-colored leather armchairs, and the wall hung with framed photographs and newspaper clippings.

  In one yellowed clipping, the Senator is a young DA with a full head of hair, shaking hands with a man identified as Boston Mayor Kevin White. Another black-and-white photograph shows him as a three-term State Senator, wearing a suit with wide lapels and posing on the steps of the Boston State House. In a color photograph, he sits in a darkened Washington restaurant with Ted Kennedy—not the liberal lion of the Senate, but an earlier, bloated version—with an inscription in thick marker that reads “To Speedy Neals, the best wingman I ever had.”

  Ranjit is confused by the nickname, but under the photograph is a framed front page of the Harvard Crimson from 1968, its headline blaring HARVARD BEATS YALE, 29–29. Ranjit reads on, learning how “Speedy Neals,” Harvard’s running back, scored a touchdown in the last few seconds of the final game, tying both teams, and breaking Yale’s six-year winning streak.

  There are other group photographs, yearly pictures of the Senator’s staff party, all with Neals at their center, his tie loosened and sleeves rolled up. The styles change—lapels get narrower, and the women’s Afros give way to weaves—but the dynamic in each picture is the same: the attractive young men and women jostle subtly to be close to the smiling Senator. And there, in a photograph dated ten years ago, is Anna Neals.

  Correction. She’s listed as “Anna Williams, Intern.” She was younger then, and heavier, with curly hair falling to the shoulders of her little black dress. Even in the confusion of faces and limbs, he can see that Anna’s hand is resting on the seated Senator’s shoulder, and that his smile, in response, is even more high-wattage than usual. The photograph causes Ranjit’s heart to ache; he’s never seen her smiling like that.

  The other walls hold inscribed photog
raphs from Presidents Bush and Clinton and framed awards from Senate committees, but there are no pictures of a daughter.

  Ranjit is suddenly aware that he cannot hear Shanti singing anymore. He looks out of the window, but the deck is bare, and the fog muffles his view. Returning to the lower level, he sees that Preetam is still hanging up her clothes.

  “Have you seen Shanti? She was outside on the deck.”

  “Hmmm? Did you know they have lavender soap in the bathroom here? It smells fantastic…”

  Walking across the room, he pulls open the sliding glass door and steps out onto the lower deck. He calls Shanti’s name, but there is only an echo, followed by a deep silence.

  Where could she be? Stepping from the deck to the brown grass of the lower terrace he peers down the slope of the hill, but the fog is too thick. Beyond the terrace is the abrupt edge of the cliff, and the granite steps that zigzag down to the cove below. On a day like this, they will be slick and very slippery.

  Entering the fog, he walks across the terrace, and then he remembers the empty, kidney-shaped swimming pool ahead. He’d been meaning to clean out all the fallen leaves and cover it, but hadn’t gotten around to it. It has high, slippery sides, and a deep end of twelve feet. Oh, Guru, if Shanti has fallen in—

  His heart beats faster as he reaches the kidney-shaped crater. It is empty, except for a few inches of rainwater, and he sees a reflection of himself, outlined against the white fog.

  Shanti has to be on the steps, then, and he hurries to the edge of the cliff. Looking down, he catches a flash of her blue coat: she is standing on a landing halfway down. Hurrying down the slippery stone steps, he reaches her, and hearing his footsteps, she turns around.

  “What the hell are you doing down here? If you fell, you’d break your neck.” His relief is mixed with anger, his voice harder than he intended.

  “I’m not going to fall. Papaji, look.” Her eyes are shining with excitement, and she points down at the cliff face.

  At first he can see nothing: just the empty beach below and the Senator’s yacht, its sails lowered, riding at anchor. Then there is a flash of movement, and he sees a huge winged shape riding a downdraft. As he watches, it soars up into the sky and vanishes into the fog.

  “It’s an osprey, Papaji. They were almost extinct. They’ve just returned to the island, after many years. We’ve been learning about them at school.”

  “That’s great, but I don’t want you coming down here, understand?”

  “Okay, sorry, but—” Holding his hand, she climbs up the stairs, chattering on about ospreys. She says that the giant birds pass through the Vineyard every fall, and use it as a final stop on their migratory path to South America. This particular bird must have missed the window to migrate, and now must winter on the island.

  He listens, nodding, and feels his fear subside. Maybe he overreacted, but those stairs are so steep. Returning to the house, he keeps an eye on Shanti, but she doesn’t venture out again. He can hear her in the pink bedroom, playing with the old doll, but this time he doesn’t tell her to put it away.

  * * *

  That night, after dinner—they eat a frozen pizza found in the Senator’s freezer—Ranjit takes Shanti down to the pink bedroom. He brings her nightclothes and watches as she brushes her teeth, the foam covering her mouth and hands. When she is done she slips into her teddy-bear pajamas and climbs into the bed, which is already made up with clean-smelling pink sheets.

  “It’s an upside-down house,” she says happily, and he understands what she means. It’s strange to enter the house at the top of the hill and travel downward, but he likes the way it is tucked into the earth. It feels safe here.

  “Papaji, whose room is this? A girl my age?”

  “Maybe, jaan. Now go to sleep. It’s been a long day.”

  Shanti’s eyes close, but she struggles to stay awake. “I bet it’s a girl my age. Maybe I can…” Her breathing slows and her eyes close. “… find out tomorrow…”

  For a few minutes he watches her sleep, her long eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks. He will have to talk to her tomorrow about staying here; she can’t mention it to anyone at school.

  Downstairs, Preetam has changed into a faded pink nightgown, almost translucent after many washes. He lies back on the narrow bed and watches her undo her long plait and brush out her waist-length hair. There are gray hairs, as bright as wires, running through her dark hair. How come he hasn’t noticed them before? He wants to ask her to leave her hair open, so he can bury his face in it, as he used to, but she plaits it deftly, wrapping the end tightly with a rubber band.

  It is his turn to use the small bathroom, and when he emerges, he thinks that she is asleep, but then hears her rapid breathing. As he slides under the feather duvet, her voice comes out of the darkness.

  “This is a nice house, Ranjit. Very nice house. Where does the owner work?”

  “I told you, he’s a senator, he’s in D.C. most of the time. This is just one of his houses—he has others, in Boston and Washington.”

  “I could live in this country, if we had a house like this…”

  It has been so long since they’ve slept in the same bed. He reaches out and touches her arm, but she shrinks away.

  “Not now. It’s so late, and I’m so tired…”

  He takes his hand away, his desire curdling, and the bed suddenly seems impossibly small.

  His thoughts are all jumbled together as he lies in the darkness and listens to the crashing of the waves below.

  Anna’s perfume still lingers in his nostrils, and he thinks of the yellow dress hanging in her closet. He knows that he mustn’t let his mind go there, but he can’t help it.

  * * *

  Anna wore that yellow dress when she brought him iced tea on that last September afternoon. The yellow was vivid against her arms and shoulders, which were burnt dark brown from all her running, and she was thinner too, her legs hard and muscular.

  Her eyes were hidden, as usual, behind her mirrored sunglasses. As though reading his mind, she pushed them up onto her forehead and looked at him. Other women’s eyes revealed their emotions, but her raven-black eyes were hard to read.

  “Mind that step you’re sitting on,” Ranjit said, looking away. “The edge is sharp. I cut the stone this morning.”

  “I like the feeling, it makes me feel alive,” she answered, running her fingers along the sharp stone.

  Not knowing what she meant, he said nothing, and just thanked her for the iced tea. She sat on the step above him, squinting as she formulated a question in her mind.

  “It must be strange for your daughter,” she said slowly, “to come all the way from India to this little island, and to think of it as home.”

  He took a sip of cold tea and wiped his mouth before replying. “Shanti’s fine. She loves the Vineyard. This is her world now, she doesn’t remember anything about India. Some days I wake up in the morning and don’t know where I am.” As soon as he said that, he felt embarrassed.

  “I know that feeling.” She nodded slowly. “Every single morning I wake up and wonder what I’m doing here. I’ve been reading this book on Buddhism, and it says…” She paused, and beads of sweat dripped from her temples. “It says that all life is suffering. We have to accept that. Do you think that’s right?”

  Not knowing what to say, he took another sip of tea. “Mrs. Neals…” he began.

  “Anna. Please call me Anna.”

  “Anna,” he said, softly. “I know something is wrong. You don’t have to tell me. But as long as you believe in a higher power, a god, then there are reasons—”

  “Your god is here? On this godforsaken island?” Her voice quivered.

  He quoted a verse from the Guru Granth Sahib to her.

  God has his seat everywhere

  His treasure houses are in all places.

  She half listened, tears welling up in her eyes. “There is no god,” she said. “Your god or anyone else’s.”

&nbs
p; Before he could tell her that god included pain, included loss, she rose to her feet and nodded absently at him. As she started up the steep stairs a sudden wind flattened her thin cotton dress against her legs.

  He put down his glass and hurriedly followed her.

  “Anna, wait. What’s the matter? What has happened?”

  She stopped, her calf muscles tensed in mid-step. Turning, she pressed her palm flat against his bare chest, as though for support.

  He felt the warmth of her palm against his skin. The ocean beyond them was green and empty that day, no boats or kayaks, just the shimmering water, stretching away to the horizon.

  She reached down and slipped her fingers through his, pulling him alongside her. They walked up the steps together, and she let his hand go only after they entered her darkened bedroom. Its curtains were drawn, but the sun shone through a gap and made a slice of brightness on the yellow wall.

  The room still smelled of her shower, of steam and shampoo, and the large bed was unmade. Her running clothes lay in a heap on the floor, reeking of ammonia, her blue-and-gold running shoes lying on their sides.

  She closed her eyes as she pulled off her yellow dress, the cotton rustling like tissue paper. Reaching for him, she undid his jeans, and his belt buckle clanked as it hit the floor.

  Naked, he didn’t dare to touch her. Her body was perfect, slim-shouldered and high-breasted, a flare of hips before her long legs began. Looking down, he saw black blood blisters on the back of her heels from all her running.

  “Anna,” he whispered. “I really smell. Perhaps I need to take a shower—”

  She stood on her toes and kissed him, her soft breasts pressing into his chest. Soon he was kissing her back, feeling something shockingly fierce inside, a feeling that he had long forgotten.

  She led him to the bed and he lay next to her. His mouth moved down her neck to the slope of her breasts, then moved lower. He kissed the pale stretch marks that marked her hips and thighs, realizing that she had hewn this hard body out of older, more pliant flesh.