Balance of Fragile Things (5 page)

She'd learned in fourth grade that the cougar,
felis concolor,
and the wolf,
canis lupus
, were common in New York State—even here in the Southern Tier. Isabella looked for an imprint of these animals, but they'd left nothing. She imagined the cougar slinking through the tall grass and the wolf leaping through the forest. The image was so foreign, like trying to imagine an elephant or a grazing triceratops. She'd also completed a report on the Iroquois in that same class. Her mind was filling with absent lives. She took in her surroundings, extinct and otherwise.

As she continued along, the ground grew wet because of the Chautauqua River. A large black willow moaned with the wind. It looked nothing like the black cutout on the stage; this one still had most of its leaves. The wind blew, but the tree stood still. The roots ruptured the earth as though the spine of a creature were rising to the surface. Then Isabella noticed the long thin branches lift gently with the breeze. Just a moment before, she hadn't noticed this slight movement. She refocused her eyes, as though she were watching it for the first time, and was amazed: A beetle dove under a root. Ants marched in a line to the water's edge. Her shadow caused night to fall upon a forest of reeds. If she focused too hard, she could no longer see the details, but if she allowed her peripheral vision to lead, everything moved—like when she tried to count the number of stars in the Pleiades and they would disappear, then playfully reappear a moment later when she focused on something else.

Isabella bent over and picked up a rock at her feet. The rock wasn't special, but the moment was. She memorized the rough, reddish-gray surface. The rock would find a place among her collection in the shoebox or her locker at school. She wanted to remember this moment because she felt present. Some moments she wanted to remember because of their pain—like the ball of rubber bands she'd “borrowed” from Ms. Simm's desk after she'd passed away at ninety—or because of their joy, as in the paper clips she'd “borrowed” from Erik. These items embodied the essence of people, and when she perused her collection, it felt like communing with friends. She'd collected so many little things, and she never forgot the feeling of the moment to which it was attached.

Her path took her along the river; in this light the water looked black as tar. She met up with Main Street in the Flats and followed it all the way to her house on Peregrine Court, the split-level at the end of the cul-de-sac. As she turned her key in the lock, she heard strange metallic noises
twang
and
ting
from the backyard. She didn't check to see what it was; she just stood and listened instead.

F
rom his chair at the head of the table, Paul surveyed the dining room as an emperor might his empire. He cast his eyes across the various dishes his wife had prepared for their dinner: sauerbraten, cabbage salad,
spec
piragi,
and Alexander cake for dessert. His family sat in the designated chairs Maija had assigned at the beginning of time, after she'd bought the table-and-chair set, sanded them down, and stained them this deep walnut color.

Paul perused his offspring's cleanliness, noting Izzy's frizzy hair and Vic's face, which appeared more masculine because of his broken nose. He looked at his wife, his love, and noticed she looked tired. He remembered when he first saw Maija—how every part of her glowed as if there were something she knew about the world, some secret no one else knew about how it all was going to turn out. His love for Maija had grown exponentially every year since the first moment he'd kissed her in the park. He put his hand on hers and squeezed. She squeezed back.

Paul wiped his lips with his handkerchief. His mouth was watering.

Maija said, “Isabella, perhaps you should say it tonight for us.”

Grace wasn't common in the Singh household—and Paul did not like it when Maija asked the children to say it—but Maija seemed happier after doing this ceremony, so he never interrupted. Maija arched her eyebrows over her granite eyes, but Isabella was quiet; only the sauerbraten bubbled.

Paul cleared his throat theatrically. Isabella sighed and closed her eyes; Vic did, too. But Paul sat twisting the moustache above his lip, as he often did, watching all of them.

“Thank you for the food, God,” Isabella said, “and may you watch over all of us and”—she fought for words—“may you forgive us all. Amen.”

Maija pursed her full lips. “What do we need forgiveness for?”

Isabella shrugged her shoulders. “I dunno. It just sounded right.”

Paul thought that was silly. Forgiveness. For what? For being alive? Silly, but Isabella was a young woman, and, well, she was still learning.

“Did you find the letters from your father, Paul?” Maija ladled some
jus
onto the beef on Paul's plate.

“Not now,
piyar
,” Paul said.

Paul kept his eyes locked on his plate. He thought about the pile of letters, one of which, he'd noticed, had already been opened and resealed poorly. He looked at Vic. No, his son had too many other important things going on. Then he looked at Maija—but she wouldn't be so anxious to see the contents if she'd already opened it. His eyes fell on his daughter, and right away he knew she was the culprit because her nose was red, which was a dead giveaway. But why she might do such a thing? Could it be because she wondered why his letters were being handled like a gift jewel sent from a maharaja? Paul imagined she'd opened the letter with the steam from her hot peppermint tea the week before, marveling at the careful up-and-down strokes of a ballpoint pen that made symbols—the Punjabi writing was a cross between ancient Greek and Chinese—and at how much like saltwater the parchment smelled. Or perhaps she'd thought nothing at all.

“What happened to your nose, Vic?” Isabella said. “It's bigger than it was yesterday.”

“What happened to your face, Izzy?”

“Paul, darling? The letters—have you read them?”

Paul ignored his wife. He ignored his children. Instead, he relished the rich beef juice that filled his mouth. Paul thought Vic was looking even more handsome now. The bruises added a certain depth to his face. He knew, too, that having such scars while at school would be beneficial to his son's persona. Though he had been the recipient of the damage, he would be now considered a little dangerous, devil-may-care. Girls would find him more attractive and reckless. Paul watched his son eat as if he'd never seen food before, and added eating properly to the list of things he wished to teach him before too long.

Paul looked at Vic's hands as he shoved more and more food in his mouth. The bandages around his son's fingers told a deeper story. When Paul had returned home from the station earlier that evening, he'd decided that he would instruct Vic in the ways of Punjabi martial arts. Paul began with sword training. He kept his
kirpans
in the garage, above the chainsaw near a box with the Christmas ornaments. After he'd dusted them off, he'd taken Vic into the backyard and taught him to swing them and slice the air, though Vic had only managed to flail wildly and shear the tops off of Maija's roses.

Then they moved to sprinting; Paul joyfully showed Vic how to extend his neck and back synchronically with his calves and knees. They bounded like antelope along the fence until Paul was winded. Then there was hand-to-hand combat, which was most difficult for Vic. Paul insisted he should learn how to box, not to instigate a brawl but rather to be prepared in the event of one breaking out. He'd told him bullies were like locusts—they don't stop until you smash them underfoot—and he felt smart saying that. Paul had held up his hands and made Vic punch them repeatedly then alternately hit him in the stomach: right jab, left jab, right hook, left hook, body blow. One punch in particular turned Paul's complexion green. To hide the bout of nausea, Paul had blocked a punch and accidentally bent one of his son's fingers halfway backward.

Jesus, Papa, you wanna break my hand, too?

It's not broken, just sprained, it's okay
, Paul said.
Let's do push-ups now, all right? One-handed
.

Paul had been so cheerful during the calisthenics that he'd barely noticed his burning muscles and strained back. As he watched his son, a harsh truth showered down upon him: How was he supposed to best his bully now, with an injured finger? Vic wasn't great at arm wrestling even with a healthy hand, and his punches were weak. Paul knew that the bully wouldn't stop until Vic fought back. Vic would have to use his brain. Intelligence was an asset in times like these. Paul had heard about the business of outsourcing for protection at Cobalt High: One kid traded his newest video game to be able to sit near another kid at lunch and walk home near him after school. Enlisting the support of others in his defense was an option, but that was far from heroic. No son of his would buy protection like that wimpy kid.

“Paul?” Maija pleaded.

“Um hum,” Paul mumbled.

“The letters, darling. Did you find them?”

“I did. I found them.”

“Oh, good, good. I wonder what they say.”

Paul watched Maija survey the placement of the dishes on their doilies, which were supposed to prevent humid stains from appearing on the surface of the wood dining table. She adjusted them with care. Up to this point in their marriage, Paul had appreciated the fact that Maija had allowed him to manage Vic, just as she would manage Queen Isabella. Paul and Maija had discussed, when she was pregnant with Vic, that their parental duties would be divided equally.
You are good with the emotional, but perhaps I should handle the boy myself,
na? he'd said. One boy and one girl later, they had become this thing he'd read about in the
Daily Mirror
called a nuclear family—almost.

“Paul, dear”—Maija swallowed her food—“do you think that these exercises you do with Vic are, what is it, extreme? Doesn't he get exercise in his gym class?”

“Mai-
ja
.” Paul's voice separated her name into two distinct scolding syllables, but she didn't waver. Vic, on the other hand, dropped his head.

“Well, then, maybe you could explain exactly what you were doing out there with my son.”

“Mama, it's fine.”

“See, Maija,
it's fine
. The boy likes spending time with his father.” Paul shook his head. He was not going to give her any clues about his logic. In his mind, it wasn't her place to wonder about such things.

“Okay, yes, fine.” Maija offered a soft smile. “Have you read them?”

Paul looked out the window at the rain, which tattooed a rhythm on the concrete patio in their backyard. He took to shredding beef on his plate with his fork and knife. Why was Maija pushing him, here, now, in front of the children, for heaven's sake? He did not know. Any conversation about his father was sure to give him indigestion. He already ate several rolls of Tums every week. Even the suggestion of the letters triggered an unpleasant taste of blood in the back of his mouth. The beef turned to metal.

He found himself suddenly in different surroundings, reminiscing about a faraway place he was beginning to forget. He remembered his childhood in the village, which felt to him a distant memory of someone else's life—1955, Punjab: He was chasing his big brother, Kamal, under a dry, dusty sun through a wheat field that stretched all the way into tomorrow. The wheat, six feet in the air, was ready for harvest. Papaji was cutting it with a
dátrí,
his handheld sickle. Paul and Kamal went to get a closer look at the bundles of wheat.

Come on,
yár
, you're too slow!
Kamal teased Paul.

Paul was smaller than his older brother. He stretched his body until sinews strained and muscles cramped. Kamal ran faster. His legs were longer, and his body was sleek like a panther's. Kamal had Papaji's countenance and would have his size, too. Paul hoped for the growth spurt that his Bebbeji said would come in time, though he knew even then that height alone wouldn't fill the crevasse between them; his differences would become more apparent as he grew. That secret was buried in the blood, and no one ever talked about it.

That day, as Paul and Kamal ran through the field that rose above their heads, they accidentally separated. Paul turned round and round to locate his brother, but all he could see was a golden wall of wheat. Then he heard Kamal scream. The wheat parted as Paul ran in the direction of the desperate voice. The tall grass whipped his cheeks and cut his chin. When Paul found Kamal, he was prostrate on the ground, shaking, a brown-and-black snake writhing nearby.

It bit me! Kill it,
bháí! Kamal tossed him a knife. His nine-year-old hands clenched his foot as if pressure would make the serpent withdraw its poison. Snakes hid everywhere on their property, under beds, beneath bales of wheat—loathed demons of the earth.

Paul lifted the knife and dug his heel into the soil for balance, but he froze when the snake hissed. It buckled back into itself, threatening to uncoil in his direction. Fear consumed Paul, and he dropped the knife and ran to get his father.

Papaji wiped his forehead with the back of his rough and calloused hand, tucked the edge of his turban back into its form, and slung his shotgun over his shoulder. Kamal was sweating when they found him amidst the forest of wheat. His foot, bloodied by the fangs that had entered his skin, was now twice its normal size and purple.

Where is it?
Papaji aimed his shotgun at the ground around them, but Kamal said it had gone back into the thicket. Papaji smacked Paul across his cheek and told him he should have killed the snake so it would not bite again.
Or do you want it come out of the earth and bite you too,
na
? What good are you,
puttar
?
He addressed Paul in the same tone he used to speak with the washer boy.

Papaji pushed up the sleeves of his
kurta
, leaned over Kamal, and took his injured foot in his hand.
Hold your brother steady
, he said. Like a skilled surgeon, he flicked open his knife and cut a sizeable hole around the two deep bite marks. Kamal screamed. Papaji put his mouth to the wound, now rushing with blood, sucked the venom, and then spat.

Hurry,
puttar
. Follow me
.

Papaji carried Kamal back to the
haveli
and asked his wife to fetch the nearest doctor. Paul's little sister, Prithi, cried amidst the commotion. It was five hours before anyone came to look at Kamal, five hours of writhing pain and prayer.
Wahe guru, wahe guru
—his mother's prayers steadied everyone. But when he came, the doctor was pleased by Papaji's method of venom extraction and thought Kamal had a good chance of healing on his own after his body dealt with the fever and poison. The doctor cleaned the wound with iodine and hot water, then tied it up while instructing Kamal to remain upright to keep the venom away from his heart. The doctor gave Papaji a small flask of whiskey to administer to Kamal for the pain and told him to clean the dressing on the wound each day. He said he would return in a week.

Kamal beat the poison; the snake wouldn't be his murderer. Yet Papaji still blamed Paul for Kamal's tragic life; Paul felt guilty just by touching the letter. Though he was now a man with children of his own, the whisper of memory drew Paul back into a world of childhood regret and guilt. Paul grew frightened of the day when he would trip over that snake and have his turn with the fangs because he'd failed to kill it in the wheat fields of his youth. Paul had always hoped to find likeness with his family in his own appearance, but instead it set him apart. His face was round; Kamal's was thin. His nose was large; Kamal's was a perfect symmetrical slope. His hair was soft; Kamal's was thick, like a horse's tail. They were foils. Not to mention the terrible scar that ran up Paul's body from mid-thigh to his upper arm. He'd been told that when he was two, in a fit of curiosity he'd pulled a pot of boiling oil down onto himself. His torso today still looked as though it had gone through a meat grinder, as the scar stretched across his broadening adult form.

“Darling?” Maija's voice jarred Paul into the present.

“This—what is this, broiled beef?—lacks flavor and spice.” Paul spoke angrily through his full mouth.

“Did you hear me? Have you read—?” Maija asked.

Vic shoved food into his mouth at an alarming speed.