What You Call Winter

  “Try one more year. You’ve been through the worst of it already.”

  Simon was no longer crying, but his breaths came in jerks. The answer his father had already given him seemed to harden on his face, a thin and brittle mask, holding the muscles tightly in place. Already the boy had mastered himself.

  “You’ll be fine,” Francis told him.

  The year Simon turned fifteen, Jude Almeida, seven years old, felt his first loose tooth. Several boys he knew had lost teeth already—even his cousin Mark, who was four months younger than Jude. Mark lived across the street and came over at once to bare his teeth for Jude. He poked his tongue into the blank space. “See?”

  “Where did it go?” Jude had a horror of swallowing his tooth, of feeling its thorny passage down his throat and into his belly. He could not even take the tablets his mother gave him with water; they had to be crushed with fruit.

  Mark opened his fist. The tooth was small and not as square as Jude had expected. “I was pushing it with my tongue and suddenly I felt it go. I spit it out on my plate.” Jude imagined a clean plate and the glassy clatter of the tooth upon it. Mark held his open hand up higher. “You see? Just there? That’s blood at the tip,” he said with satisfaction.

  Jude would not allow himself to ask if it had hurt. “What will you do with it?”

  Mark closed his fist, as though the question posed a threat. “Mumma kept Ian’s first tooth in a little box and now she’s choosing one for me.” His tongue found its way to the gap again, pressing there for a moment before he told Jude that he thought he could feel the new tooth growing in already.

  It was Palm Sunday. Both boys were dressed in good shirts and shorts for Mass, but Aunty Grace came out on her veranda to call for Mark — had he washed his face properly, and no, he couldn’t take his tooth to church. Mark started back across St. Hilary Road while Aunty Grace held the door open. She smiled at Jude. “Lucky boy—your brother is coming home! When does he get in?”

  Jude did not know the exact time. But Simon’s train would arrive in the evening, and Simon might reach Santa Clara before dinner. He had not seen his brother since the Christmas holiday.

  Inside his own house, Jude found his mother moving between her bedroom and the long mirror in the hallway where Marian stood braiding her hair. His mother wore a deep blue underskirt that rustled as she walked, and one hand was behind her back, clutching her sari blouse shut. “Just do me up, darling.” Jude watched as Marian let go of her own braid (it sprang partly loose) and began to fasten hooks and eyes.

  The rest of the family would eat after Mass, but Jude had not yet received his First Communion. He ate a cold chapati rolled up with jam and a banana, then slowly began to peel another banana. His mother had tucked one corner of her sari into the waistband of her skirt and quickly pleated the rest of the fabric. “Marian! You’re ready? We must go!”

  Jude’s father was sitting on the balcony, reading the newspaper. He consulted his pocket watch. “There’s forty minutes still,” he said, with no sign of making a movement.

  “What’s wrong with you, Frank! All the good seats will be gone!”

  “We’ll go now and keep seats,” Marian said. “Dad can bring Jude in a few minutes.”

  “Is it too much to ask that the family go together?” Jude’s mother said in a grumbling voice, but she looped the crocheted bag with her rosary and prayer cards around her wrist and swept away with Marian.

  Jude’s father looked up briefly. “We’ll go in twenty minutes,” he said, and returned to his paper.

  In the room Jude shared with Simon (when Simon was home, twice a year), both beds had been freshly made. When Simon was at school, his bed was usually covered with clothes to be washed or mended or with old linens intended for the ragman. But now all that had been cleared away, the cotton cover pulled tight over the pillow, Simon’s bed waiting for him. Jude sat at its foot, took a large bite of his banana and felt it catch, just for a moment, on his loose front tooth. He had forgotten about it until the sudden tug reminded him; now he tested it with his thumb. Still stiff—like the old hinge downstairs that needed oil, his mother said—but it moved a bit. He wondered if he had grown since Simon’s last visit, if Simon would notice.

  When he had finished the banana, he threw the peel in the kitchen pail and wandered through his mother’s bedroom, which smelled faintly of rose water and more strongly of camphor. Another of her saris lay thrown across her bed, a spill of watery silk that Jude would have liked to roll in. He did not dare; that was the sort of thing she always discovered later.

  Opposite the bed were two large wardrobes where clothes were kept away from damp and insects. Jude backed against one to measure himself, his hand rolling off the top of his head and finding a slightly different spot each time; it was impossible to know if he’d grown one inch or three or not really at all. He would ask Simon. Then he remembered what Mark had told him about Aunty Grace’s boxes and wondered if his mother had kept one of Simon’s teeth all this time, or even one of Marian’s. Perhaps she already had a place put aside for his own.

  The wardrobe doors latched in the center, and Jude opened them wide, like shutters. The scent of camphor intensified, a strong, musty smell that Jude associated with the scratchy woolen sweaters he wore in the cool season. On one side was a dense thicket of skirts and saris, on the other a rack of shelves for clothes and papers. His mother’s slippers were tumbled on the wardrobe floor (though Jude was made to keep his shoes neatly in pairs and not to scuff them). Stacks of folded clothes slid into one another — such a jumble of blouses and slippery scarves that at first Jude did not see the box his mother kept behind them. It looked far too large for teeth, but Jude pulled it out anyway.

  Inside he found letters. At first he was disappointed; her closet was full of papers, most soft and yellowed with age. But the writing looked familiar, and as Jude read he realized the letters were from Simon. He had never read letters from his brother — except for birthday cards once a year, which were given to Jude after his mother had opened them. Simon rarely wrote to the family, not even in the cards, which Jude knew his mother bought ahead of time and packed in Simon’s trunk. At best he scrawled a few cramped words beneath the printed message. But here were pages and pages of letters, more words than he could imagine his brother saying. It did not seem strange or wrong to want to read them.

  His father called to him; it was nearly time to go. Jude took a handful of the letters — not enough to be missed — and put the box back into the closet, making sure to cover it again with clothes. He hid the letters beneath his pillow, then worried that his mother might find them there if she turned down the bed when it was time to sleep. He slid them beneath the mattress and ran, quick, quick, before his father called again.

  Simon’s train arrived at Churchgate over an hour late. A teacher and two older seminary students had been engaged to accompany all the St. Stanny’s students from Mysore to Bombay, and Essie and Francis had gone to meet Simon at the station. Jude waited in the garden, wiggling his tooth or climbing the gate to keep a sharp lookout for taxis. Occasionally his impatience sparked to runs to the corner of the road, to see if they were coming. Finally Marian called him upstairs; it would soon be dark.

  He had read a few of Simon’s letters while the household napped after Mass, and he’d found them encouraging. They were written four years ago, but Simon had missed home so keenly that he had begged to return. Jude imagined that this new Simon, the Simon of the letters, would be so happy to see them all that perhaps he would give up his school, his friends, even his football team, and stay in Santa Clara. Jude and Simon would share a room all year. Simon would teach Jude to bounce a ball against his feet, thighs, and head without ever letting it touch the ground.

  It was nearly time for dinner when the taxi finally pulled up at the gate. Jude went running down to meet them, Marian following right behind, and though Simon smiled at them both and hugged Marian briefly, he seemed more tired than happy. W
ith that, all their rushing came to a halt and they fell back from him, strangely reticent, as if the journey and all the months away still set Simon apart. He stood near the taxi door while the driver and Francis struggled with the trunks.

  “Such a long trip,” Essie fussed. “More than twenty-four hours, and then this delay! Come, son, come and eat something and then you can sleep early.”

  “I’m fine,” Simon said in his rough, low voice. Jude wanted to pull on his brother’s hand, to explain about his tooth the way he would have explained to the Simon of the letters. But that Simon, a Simon he had never met, already seemed closer to Jude than the brother who stood before him: fifteen years old and as tall as his mother, dark hair on his upper lip, not smiling now but watchful. Even Marian felt shy of him and took Jude’s hand as they went inside.

  At dinner, Essie kept up a constant chatter, throwing questions this way and that as if conversation were a ball that must stay airborne. Jude tried to show Simon his loose tooth, but she clicked her tongue. “Not at the table, darling!” She laughed, looking around at all of them but especially at Simon, as if Jude had told a joke and she must encourage them to enjoy it.

  Later, when she had bathed Jude and dressed him for sleep, she sent him to say good night to his father and sister. Jude slowly made his way to the front veranda, where his father was smoking, and then step by step to the dining table, where Marian studied each night for exams. By the time he came back, his mother was sitting at the foot of his bed, telling Simon all the visits she had planned for them the following day. “So many people are waiting to see you!” When she noticed Jude, she got up and clapped her hands twice. “Into bed, Master Jude.”

  “I want to show Simon my tooth.”

  She pretended to frown but waited in the doorway to watch. “Go on, then.”

  Jude had cleaned his teeth with extra vigor (in hopes of advancing his case), and he thought it was possible that he had made a real difference. He stood before Simon, his mouth open and his top lip curled back, rocking the tooth back and forth between thumb and forefinger. It was not as wobbly as Mark’s tooth had been, but it was certainly moving.

  He could not tell what his brother was thinking. Simon reclined against his pillow, a book of guitar chords in his hand. His hair was longer than Jude had ever seen it, falling past the tops of his ears.

  Jude leaned closer and spoke around his fingers. “Schee?” he lisped.

  His mother laughed. “It’s not ready yet, son. There, that’s enough for one night. Time to sleep. Simon?”

  “What?”

  “Yes, Mum,” she prompted, and waited until he had mumbled the words back to her. “You should sleep soon too, son. All the traveling, you must be exhausted.”

  “In a few minutes.”

  “Ten minutes only. I’ll come back to turn off the light. Jude, kiss your brother and climb into bed.” She lingered a moment longer and then moved away.

  Jude stood at Simon’s bedside, waited for his brother to kiss him good night. “You’re too old for all that,” Simon said gruffly.

  Jude stood staunchly in place, still thinking of Simon’s letters. “Next year I could go to school with you.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “But I could! I wouldn’t be lonely.” Already, though, Jude was counting the lonely months ahead. Simon would be in Santa Clara only until the beginning of July, when St. Stanny’s resumed. He would not come back until Christmas. “Or you could stay home. Just tell Mummy you want to stay home.”

  Simon looked up suddenly and for a moment Jude felt his brother’s breath, hot and close on his own face. He could see dark hairs on Simon’s chin and upper lip, the nose that had never been broken but looked as if two pieces had been jointed together, the fierce dark eyebrows. Simon stared at him, his eyes narrowed.

  “Let’s see that tooth again,” he said. Jude’s mouth yawned open, and Simon prodded the tooth as much as it would go. “Mum doesn’t know what she’s talking about. That could come out anytime. We could pull it right now.”

  For a moment Jude wavered.

  Simon shrugged. “Shouldn’t hurt too much. It’ll be over in two minutes. Then you can surprise everyone tomorrow.”

  Jude thought of the tooth in Mark’s hand, how small it had looked. He nodded.

  “Good.” Simon moved with sudden energy, rummaging through the cupboard until he had unraveled a length of thread. Soon Jude was standing in a doorway with one end of the thread tied around the tooth and the other end tied to the doorknob. He stared at the open door with dread. “One quick jerk,” Simon said. “Ready? Ready?” and without waiting for an answer he slammed the door shut.

  The tooth did not come out on the first try. It was wrenched nearly free, but though Jude was howling, his face pale and streaming with tears, though Marian and Essie came running and even Francis hurried up from the veranda with a sudden stab of fear that his boys, who had seemed safe, were all along in danger, the tooth still clung to Jude’s bloody gum and had to be yanked again.

  “What is the matter with you!” Essie cried when she saw Simon’s mutinous face. He looked at his little brother, the thread still dangling from Jude’s wet mouth, and then he looked at her and whatever sorrow or tenderness the sight of Jude had awakened was gone. He stared at Essie, hard and unflinching, someone Essie had never imagined or met. She stopped shouting. Her mouth flew open, filled with what she might once have said to him, but no sound came. Simon waited until she ducked her head, defeated, before he turned to Jude.

  “You’ll be fine,” he said, and left them.

  Marian watched in astonishment. Normally her mother would have flown into a rage at such behavior, but Essie only caught Jude in her embrace, her arms crossed over his chest. “Hang on, son, just one pull more.” She sounded shaken, even afraid; Jude began to cry again. “Go on, my girl, finish it.” Marian picked up the string and tugged and before Jude could cry out again the tooth had clattered to the floor.

  Marian picked it up and washed it. She took a rag from the kitchen and cleaned the thin bloody swirls on the floor. Simon had gone, perhaps to the veranda with Francis, and Essie was holding Jude in her lap. She helped him hold a clean cloth, doused in ice water, to the gap in his mouth. He could not speak when Marian showed him the tooth, but his eyes, still huge with pain and shock, moved to her face. “I’ll keep it for you,” she offered.

  “Go back and study, my girl. We’re fine here.” Her mother rocked Jude against her chest. “There, son, all finished now. Older boys can be rough, that’s all. You don’t be frightened. Boys who go away to school are rough.”

  Marian stood on the far side of the door for a moment, out of her mother’s sight but listening. She felt the current of some greater violence running through her family, but she could not put her finger on what any of it meant or even how it had begun. She wondered how much her mother knew; if even Simon, somehow at the center of it all, could have explained. Years later, when she thought back to the letter she’d destroyed and understood its full meaning, she pushed the idea that her mother must have known the truth as far from her mind as she possibly could. Occasionally, at odd moments, it sprang back to catch her: once when she found a rosary in her nightstand drawer; once when a deliveryman came to her door with a package; once when she was pregnant and a wave of nausea reminded her of the Ferris wheel. She remembered how small her mother had appeared that day at Juhu, waving foolishly from the ground, her tiny voice calling out not to be afraid.

  Carrying

  For weeks Rowena has intended to tell her husband about her appointment, but on the morning of her meeting, when the telephone rings, Rowena snatches it up before Mark or his mother, Grace, can answer.

  “Who is it, darling? Who?” Grace asks before the caller has a chance to speak. Her voice is high and curious, with a touch of irritation; the phone is one of Grace’s greatest pleasures and Rowena knows that by picking it up she has crossed one of the lines her mother-in-law will never admit to. R
owena and Mark are visiting Grace in Santa Clara, a suburb just north of Mumbai where they both grew up before moving to the States.

  “Is this Rowena speaking? Rowena, Sonali here.” Sonali’s voice is so strong and resonant that Rowena imagines Mark can hear every word through the receiver. She turns away from the breakfast table, where Mark holds their daughter, Lizzie, in his lap. Outside, palm fronds hang in the sky, dusty and still. Rowena remembers what it was like to smoke out of windows before she quit, imagines her voice drifting out over the garden.

  “Yes. Hi, hi—” She does not want to say Sonali’s name in Mark’s presence. “How are you?”

  Grace has not let the matter drop. “Of course it may be for you, I don’t know who you’ve given the number to …”

  Rowena says as little as possible while Sonali briskly confirms their appointment.

  “Can we make it a bit earlier, in an hour or so?” Sonali asks. “I have to go off to some terrible luncheon in Colabo, a committee to form a committee to do God knows what. But come beforehand, we can have a few minutes at least. You have the address?”