Habitations, page 30
“You see,” the mother said, “what happened is this. He was very fat when they were looking for a bride, so the family made the match accordingly. Then, he began jogging. All the time jogging. Five miles here, half marathon there. Now he has lost all the weight, but what to do? A match is a match.”
32
Vega’s flight arrived twenty minutes early, but Suresh was already waiting. Asha ran to him, and he and Vega hugged clumsily, as they usually did. In the car, she said, “Thank you for picking us up.” It was a meaningless comment. Suresh’s zeal for airport pickups had remained steady over the past decade. If she had been a perfect stranger, a friend of a friend, he would have been equally happy to retrieve her.
“You should have brought the baby, Appa!” Asha shouted from the back.
“He was sleeping, ma. He will be rested and ready to see you.” To Vega, he said, “He’s so different now. You won’t believe.”
“I can imagine. The pictures Rupa sent are lovely.”
He smiled. “You’re presenting at this conference?”
Vega had merged her visit to New York with a conference at Columbia entitled “Global Communication in the Twenty-First Century.” It was a dull-sounding event, but she was able to register for free as an alumna, and the pretense of a work obligation made her feel better about seeing Winston. “Actually, I’m not. Attending only.”
“A good break, then. An opportunity to listen and mingle. Enjoy visiting your old campus.”
“I think it will be.”
“You’re welcome to stay with us. If you’d like, cancel the hotel.” He had already said this to her over the phone multiple times. He was so Indian in this respect. Unable to understand why anyone would choose a private room over the company of family.
“I’m actually in the hotel only for the days of the conference. Over the weekend I’ll stay in Margo’s apartment. She’s out of town.” Years ago, she wouldn’t have bothered sharing logistics, both because she found it tedious to explain these matters to Suresh, and because she found his interest in tedium to be depressing. This, she considered, was the heart of her dishonesty. She wasn’t a chronic liar; in their three years of marriage, she had only kept one major secret from him. What she did was to keep from him the details of her life: how happy she was wandering New York or watching her students debate the content of her class. The coffee shop where she so often holed up with her books, and the bagel shop where she went for lunch most Fridays. Maybe none of this mattered. If anything, had he known her better, they may have divorced earlier. But she wished, nonetheless, that they had talked more.
“I’m meeting with a former Montclair State professor while I’m here,” she said. “He teaches now at Rutgers.”
“That’s nice. Sociologist as well?”
“Public health, actually.”
If he had asked her in that moment about the affair, if he had somehow suspected it and directly pressed, she might have admitted it. She may even have felt relief. But he just nodded. “Very nice. It’s always nice to see old friends.”
At the house, Rupa was moving briskly through the kitchen, holding Vikram on her hip and setting out plates for breakfast. “He looks just like Asha, no?” Rupa said. “Everybody tells us this.”
Vikram looked nothing like Asha, but Vega smiled in agreement and took him from Rupa’s arms. She held him by the window, holding out her finger for him to clutch. Over breakfast, he made the rounds, starting in his highchair, then moving from one lap to another. Both he and Asha had grown enough that she could hold him with minimal assistance, and the change delighted her. “He likes me so much,” Asha said. “I’m his favorite.”
They made sweet and dull conversation, ping-ponging between Rupa’s medical school updates and questions about Asha’s first grade class, which produced incoherent answers only Vega could follow. Periodically, she interjected to clarify: Jillian is her teacher’s name. Mr. Fox is a game they play at school.
Vega washed dishes while Suresh and Rupa went into the backyard with Asha. She set Vikram in his highchair and poured some water in front of him—a trick that always entertained Asha when she was a baby. He looked puzzled at first, then banged the tray harder and harder, surprised every time the water hit his face. For a moment, he looked as though he might cry. Then he smiled, and Vega saw it. He looked just like Asha.
* * *
She woke up, disoriented, in Margo’s Brooklyn Heights apartment on Sunday morning. She had forgotten how beautifully lit the place was, how pleasant just to make a cup of coffee and sit in Margo’s plush, sky-blue chair, staring at the gray of the city. She and Winston weren’t meeting until late afternoon, and she had planned to get some work done that morning. Instead, she lazed until ten o’clock, then wandered down Smith Street and into a boutique where she tried on a red dress. It was a shapeless, silk thing that hung off one shoulder. She stared at herself in the mirror for a few moments before taking it off. It was something an adult Ashwini might have worn, had she been given the chance to become an adult.
“It’s a good color on you,” the saleswoman said.
It was a good color. She could wear it now, under her coat. She and Winston could skip coffee and instead go back to Margo’s place. It would be so easy to coax him, and so thrilling once they were there. But she hung the dress back. “If you change your mind,” the saleswoman said, “we close at six.”
She bought a sparkling water and copy of the Atlantic Monthly from the corner store next to the coffee shop, then settled at a table. After a few minutes, it occurred to her he might not come. Just as she was giving up, setting her magazine aside, there was a tap on her shoulder. “Vega.”
Perversely, and also for practical reasons, she had wanted Winston to look terrible, but that wasn’t the case. He was as lean and muscular as he had been before, with a bit of gray hair that added to his appeal. Still, when he bent to kiss her cheek, she didn’t feel the sexual stirring she had expected.
“I see you have a book coming out,” she said. “And you’re tenured at Rutgers and everything.”
“Yeah.” He smiled. “I would have brought you a galley, but I hate doing that to people.”
“Why? I would have liked it.”
“Nah. Then you’re under all this pressure. Next time I see you you’ll have to pretend to have read it.”
She laughed. “I would actually have read it. I’m not a good liar.”
When they sat back down after buying coffees, he said, “Your timing is good. I spent last semester in Kingston. Just got back last month.”
“You were on sabbatical?”
“Not quite sabbatical. My mother passed. I was with her for the last months.”
“Winston. I’m sorry.” Everything around them seemed to slow down. At the next table, a couple in their fifties or sixties was staring at each other, she looking angry, he indifferent. “Well?” the woman said, to which the man responded, “Well what?”
“It’s alright, really. She was a hell of a woman. But she was near ninety, and it had been a long time coming. She was a sports journalist. Did I ever tell you that?”
“You didn’t. That must have been uncommon for her time.” It puzzled her, how differently he must have remembered their time together, as though they had the type of relationship that would have led to frequent discussions of their family lives.
“Oh, yeah. There were a few women who made names for themselves later, especially when Jamaican track-and-field became a thing. But she spent most of her career in a man’s industry.” He shuffled through his pockets, and Vega thought for a moment that he would procure an article she had written, but he pulled out a tube of lip balm. An endearing detail of Winston she had forgotten about.
“And she traveled, man. She covered the entire West Indies team, so she was everywhere. Trinidad, St. Kitts, Barbados. Australia, a few times. She went to South Africa in the late eighties. During apartheid.” He laughed. “She stayed with a Black family in Cape Town. Gave them her per diem. She said, ‘I’m not spending a cent in a white-owned hotel or restaurant.’ And she stuck to that. She’s actually been to India. I never told you that?”
“You didn’t. I wish you had.” She worried the comment sounded sarcastic, but she meant it fully. “We never really talked about things like that.”
He sat back and folded his arms. “We never did?”
“We never did. These are lovely details. It’s nice to learn about your life.”
“You’re going to tell me you don’t know anything about me.”
“Yes, I am going to tell you that. I know nothing about you.”
“Where did I grow up? Give me country and city.”
“Come on, Winston. Those are basic things. Jamaica. Kingston, I think.”
“Correct. I have any siblings?”
“You mentioned sisters. You talked about this elaborate Sunday hair ritual, but that’s the only thing I know.”
“Older or younger?”
She laughed. “Winston, what is this? I was under the impression they were older, though I don’t think you ever said.”
“Correct again. Where did I spend my summers working?”
“The port. You were a tour guide. And you spent some time at the clinic near your house.” He raised his eyebrows, prompting her to continue. “It was a malaria clinic. Can we stop now? I’ve taken state-issued exams I found less stressful.”
“You want to play that same game with me?” he asked.
“I don’t. Enjoyable as it was.”
“I would fail spectacularly. Do you know why?”
“Because you never showed any interest in anything about me outside of your bedroom?” She realized she sounded hurt, and that part of her actually was.
“That’s where you’re wrong, my girl. You never told me a single damn thing about you. I know where you were born because I straight up asked you one time. I don’t know about your family, aside from the few times you mentioned your daughter. You kept yourself all buttoned up.”
“Winston, that is nonsense.” There was something more honest she wanted to say, but it took her a moment to find the words. “If I had told you more, or tried to, it would have been apparent you didn’t care.” He opened his mouth, but she put her hand up before he could interrupt her. “I wanted more from you than you wanted from me.”
He looked surprised. “It wasn’t some arrangement where I held all the power.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“No. No it wasn’t.” He wove his fingers together and rested his chin on his knuckles. “I was confused at the time. And certainly, I was no saint. But I liked you. I had no doubts about that. If you had pulled me, I would have come towards you.”
“You might be misremembering things.”
“I’m not. Afterwards, after my divorce, I thought about getting in touch with you. But I assumed you had either found some happiness in your marriage or were happy outside of it. It seemed wrong to intrude, either way.”
It shouldn’t have mattered after all this time. And yet, the words seemed to reach inside her, quieting her, resolving an old hurt she had forgotten about. “I wish I had known that then,” she said. “Even if nothing would have come of it.”
They were quiet for a bit, then he asked, “Did your husband move with you to Louisiana?”
“No. We divorced. He stayed in New Jersey but comes down quite regularly.” She looked past Winston to the middle-aged couple, the woman crying silently into her hand, the man dipping a biscotti into the contents of his mug. It was a particular brand of cruelty, Vega thought, to be so unfazed by someone’s suffering.
“You didn’t seem surprised to learn I’m not married anymore,” Winston said.
“I’m going to tell you something strange. I was at a conference last spring, and I am fairly certain I met your ex-wife.”
After a long pause, he said, “Ellie.”
“Well. Now I’m fully certain.”
“How do you know this?”
“We were talking, and I pieced it together. I never mentioned your name. I feel I should apologize, but I’m not sure for what.”
“No. Of course not. Christ, of course you shouldn’t.” He shook his head and breathed out slowly. “Of the three people in question, I’m the only one who should apologize. I didn’t behave kindly towards her. Or you, I suppose, based on the nature of the whole thing.”
“She seems well, regardless. She has two children.”
“I’ve heard. I’ve kept in touch through mutual friends. I was happy to know that.”
“I remember you telling me that she didn’t want children.”
“I think I gave you an impression of her that served my interests at the time. I don’t deny that.”
They sat uncomfortably for a few moments. Vega watched the couple behind them. The woman had stopped crying and now looked hunched and exhausted. The man was still sipping his coffee. Vega wished the woman would leave. Collect what remained of her dignity and just walk out.
“I might be considering marriage again, though,” Winston said. “Hopefully with more success this time.”
“Is this a general plan? Or is there a particular woman in mind?”
“I met a woman when I was back home in Kingston. Vivienne. We’ve actually known each other for years, but we reconnected. She’s a biologist. Younger than I am, and she wants to start a life together. She wants a family.”
Vega expected to feel a sting of disappointment, but what came instead was the slightest hint of relief. It was a relief to like Winston but not want him, to enjoy his company without bracing for all the sadness that accompanied desire and sex. “And you’re open to all of this?”
“More than open, actually. Something struck me in Jamaica when I was with my mom and sisters.” He looked squarely at Vega. “You know, my sisters, right? The two of them?”
“The ones who are older than you?”
He winked at her. “That’s them. With the Sunday hair ritual. Anyway, just spending time with my sisters and my nieces and nephews, and then their kids—the older two have babies of their own. I want a family. I want a legacy. You must feel that way, no? With your daughter?”
“That she’s my legacy?”
“That you’re raising the next generation. Leaving something behind.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way. It’s so consuming on a daily basis that I don’t often think about what I want from motherhood. Aside from her happiness.” She paused. “And maybe this sounds bleak, but I want her to live a long life. I worry all the time about her safety.”
“I can understand that,” Winston said. “I haven’t even conceived these children yet, but I’ve already picked out the neighborhood I want to raise them in. I’d build a wall around them if I could.”
Vega considered different responses, but she couldn’t think of anything that was both honest and worth saying aloud. She didn’t want Asha to grow up as she did—cloistered, privileged, sheltered from poverty and public institutions. But there were other walls she wished she could build around her. She wanted to shield her from every existential threat. She wanted an impossible guarantee that her daughter would live to be old. That she would survive.
On their walk to the subway, Vega asked, “So does this mean you might move back to Jamaica?”
“Perhaps. Vivienne’s degrees are from the UK, and she’s only ever practiced in Jamaica, so I worry she won’t have the same job prospects in the States. I spoke with some folks at the University of the West Indies. It’s possible they could create a position for me. It might take some finagling, but I could pull it off.”
So this is how it ends, Vega thought. It dawned on her that she would likely never see Winston again. There wasn’t enough history or affection between them to force a reunion.
“I hope it all turns out well,” she said to Winston outside the subway station.
“Same,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Enjoy your little girl.”
She was hungry when she arrived back in Brooklyn, and there was a restaurant on Margo’s block she wanted to try. But first she walked back to the Smith Street boutique and plucked the dress from the rack. She had no business buying it. Even on sale, it was nearly two hundred dollars and would probably languish in her closet, something she would try on and admire, but never actually wear outside the house. But it was so pretty, and it was so wonderful to feel pretty in something. She had another useless thought—an adult Ashwini, traipsing with her through Brooklyn, delighting in every handmade bracelet and overpriced coffee drink. Please, Ashwini used to ask Rukmini, who would give in every single time. Please can we buy this? There was some comfort in looking back and knowing that Ashwini—the youngest, the favorite—had been given all the small things she had asked for.
“Just this?” the saleswoman asked.
“Yes,” Vega said. “Just this.”
33
Vega remembered her father-in-law as an unsmiling man who dressed in sweater vests, even in the choking Chennai heat, and feverishly monitored the Indian Stock Exchange. Now, he sat on the floor with Asha, playing Snakes and Ladders. The two had spent the morning at the beach. He was wearing a Giants baseball cap that Asha had insisted Vega buy for him at Newark Airport on the way to their flight.
“He has talked about only this for six months,” Kamala said. “Vikram and Asha, Vikram and Asha.” She and Vega were in the kitchen, Vega hovering uselessly by the sink while Kamala stirred a pot of pongal. Originally, Vega had planned on a quick trip to Chennai, the focal point of which was Vikram’s first birthday in late June, but Suresh had convinced her to extend her trip. He, Rupa, and the baby, as well as Shoba, Mohan, and the girls, would be there for the full summer, and he wanted as much time together as possible. Additionally, there was the matter of Asha’s birthday at the end of July. “We can’t celebrate one child and not the other,” Suresh said. “How will she feel?” Vega couldn’t argue with that.
She had some loose research intentions and had inquired about a slew of activities for Asha: Tamil lessons, morning yoga, a class on marine animal ecology, but when she called the phone numbers listed, they were either disconnected or went unanswered. There was an added challenge; the school year in Chennai had started two weeks earlier, and by the time Asha woke up each morning, the children of the city were already dressed in their school uniforms, trudging off to their various campuses. Vega managed, finally, to get in touch with the ecology course, but it turned out to be a grim affair, held in a windowless room at the local gymkhana, led by two dour-looking co-directors, and attended only by their combined set of five children.
