Balance of Fragile Things Page 10

  At the airport, Vic fiddled with the matches he’d grabbed from the market. These, too, would end up in his underground palace. He noticed that he still had a pile of rocks in a pocket in his trousers, which made him feel closer to his adventure even while fulfilling his filial duty in his light-blue collared shirt.

  Isabella

  They all stood shoulder to shoulder at the gate, as her father specified, but it was too close for Isabella’s taste, so she shifted back and forth and finally went to the bathroom for the third time. She dropped her water bottle into the recycling bin en route. It was in the restroom that she discovered she actually enjoyed ocean-scented air freshener, though that all porcelain in public bathrooms reminded her of doctors and their exams. She saw a quarter on the ground and picked it up for her collection.

  Isabella had moved her found treasures to her locker at school. She didn’t want her brother to find her pilfered things. She wasn’t a thief. She was a collector. She organized her collection in her locker with plastic bags, jars, and boxes and arranged the items in a tidy manner according to area of memory: medical (things she grabbed from doctor’s offices), organic (things found in nature), Homo sapiens (objects belonging to people), strange (antiques), and things of unknown origin. There was bag of nails and a box with pieces of glass, a rainbow pencil topper with the name Courtney etched along side, and a new collection Isabella designated to all things pertaining to the play. So far these weren’t particularly exciting: a receipt from Friendly’s that she’d found onstage, dated January 12, 1987, for a fishwich; a piece of a chain probably having belonged at one point to a gold-plated necklace, which she’d found dangling from a Christmas tree prop; and the first page of a play with no title. The only words on the page had something to do with stealing a car and the good heart of a man named Thomas. It was, in general, melodramatic writing, she thought.

  This reminded her that she still had to memorize her lines. Every time she opened her script she felt burned by Tewks’s title page: 1,001 Cries by Harry Tewkesbury. She wondered if he’d plagiarized the text from some unknown author, changed the title, and pasted his name on the title page. He made Isabella nervous. The way he spoke to the cast was a precise kind of condescension, as if he didn’t realize they were older than sixth graders. When people were overly particular, they were built to pop, Isabella thought. Something was going to send him over the edge one day.

  As she left the restroom, she took the script from her purse. Joining her family again, she read the cast of characters. Her name was first. The lead. The star. She blushed. Her name was written in pen on top of a mound of Wite-Out; it was obvious she hadn’t been the first Samantha. She read the scene while they waited for her grandfather. It wasn’t half bad. It began, like the work of Aeschylus, with a cryptic message from the chorus. The monologue belonged to Samantha; she had the distinguished role of the daughter of the President. After her short piece, in which she said something about the fragility of humankind and the ferocity of the horses of war, the play began with an intense scene of action.

  “Multiple explosions and people screaming wildly” was the specific direction. Isabella imagined how she might design the stage. If she could freeze the opening scene, she’d light the stage delicately with floor lights shining upward to the scaffolding and ask the cast to freeze in their most uncomfortable positions. The shadows would become as large a presence as the four people in the scene. The audience would want to hear gunfire, helicopters, bombs, cries, though there would be none to hear. It would be like staring at Guernica through a microscope; one had to be patient and swallow the tragic images and moments, careful not to choke on it. To the right would be a large leather chair tipped on its side. All the books would be scattered at the base of the bookshelf. White papers that once held top-secret memos about the encroaching Third World War would be strewn across everything, crunching underfoot like yesterday’s trash. Two half-destroyed walls would partition the room that had once been the Oval Office. High against the corner of the partial wall would be a shadow of the doomsday clock with its hands set at one minute to the hour. The cast would bustle about, papers would fly, bombs would explode, and Samantha would then throw herself at the Vice President’s feet. His hand would reach for a button, red as a hot poker, ready to stab the earth’s core. She would beg him not to press the doomsday trigger—and with this, the action again would slow and Samantha would drag the Vice President into the bomb shelter. The scene would freeze once more; stagehands dressed in black would rearrange the props like phantoms.

  The previous day, she’d gone to rehearsal filled with curiosity.

  All right, people—places. Tewks had come in wearing a strange, thrift-store knit scarf around his neck, so tight that Isabella wondered if he might cut off the oxygen to his brain and faint.

  Butterflies had soared in her stomach. Erik, playing the Vice President, had smiled at her, and she’d tried to smile back but only managed to curl one side of her mouth into a smirk of sorts. Erik was skinny and tall and had longish hair that slipped into his field of vision every few minutes. In other words, he was cute. You look nice, he said.

  Isabella hadn’t been able to handle the compliment, as awkward and benign as it was, and her stomach flipped. She excused herself from the stage, with one hand over her mouth and the other waving a hold on, and ran to the nearest bathroom to throw up. Her stomach hurt in the same place it had in Dr. Gott’s office. But she was not about to go back to see her again. She rinsed her mouth out in the green sink, read what had been written in marker on the mirror—It’s not nice to write on school property—wiped the tears from her eyes, refilled her water bottle, shoved an Altoids mint into her mouth, and returned to the theater.

  Sorry. Stomach bug.

  Tewks had not been pleased, and he’d raised his hand in protest. We have to learn to overcome these things in theater. You might have to get through a scene without running to the bathroom, Isabella.

  And hope that no one minds the throw-up all over my shirt?

  The show must go on. Plays are about synergy, and if you can’t manage to get through a scene in rehearsal without throwing up, then what are we to do?

  Tracy Finch had stared at Isabella with her vicious eyes. If you can’t do it, I can. She stretched the word can to wicked lengths. I’ve already memorized your lines. Tracy had just been killing time until her scene, hassling everyone and threatening to take their parts away from them like a director’s hound.

  Begin again, Tewks said.

  The first attack took us by surprise—Isabella coughed.

  Isabella! What do you think you’re doing? Tewks leapt to his feet.

  Huh? she asked.

  Do you call that crying? You need to work on your believability. You can break the audience’s spell if you remind them that they are watching a play.

  At this Isabella had sighed, her hate for Tewks growing inside her heart like a blossoming, billowing balloon—ready to explode. She’d swallowed her pride and thought of the worst thing she possibly could. She saw flames rising from a house, her family trapped inside. The lump in her chest moved into her throat—and voilà! A tear. It rolled lazily from the corner of her eye. She felt its cool trail crossing her cheek to her lips and delivered her next line: Is there anyone besides us left?

  Okay, cut! Well done. That’s good. Maybe next time you can wear less mascara?

  Isabella’s hand went to her eyes; rivers of black ran down her face. She probably looked like Tammy Faye Bakker. Well, at least no one could deny whether she was crying or not. It was real. She actually felt a pit in her stomach and wondered for the first time how real actors did this for a living. How could they channel a different life for a period of time and then return to their own? Did the other world knock on their doors, like a doppelganger trapped behind the mind’s transparent wall, and demand attention? She’d decided then and there that if she were going to act in the future, she’d only do comedies.

  On their way out
of the theater, after an hour-long lecture from Tewks on the importance of stage presence, which he described as something innate, Isabella and Erik had reentered the world of Cobalt High. The school in all of its concrete glory seemed dimmer and grimier than usual; the hallways were covered in old gum, and the tags of last names no one could read tattooed the lockers, walls, and, yes, even the ceiling, as if a marker or can of spray paint had been all it took to claim ownership of something inanimate. Isabella found that she preferred the world onstage: Though she and Erik had walked together, a wall resembling reality had grown once more between them; they couldn’t touch or look at each other with longing eyes because no script directed them to do so. They did not speak. They were on their own. It had been awkward, but they’d continued on through the halls as though they were betrothed—until they reached the end of the front hall. Isabella thought she would act professionally, as she did this acting thing all the time, and she’d waved goodbye to Erik with an open hand, even though she wanted to touch him.

  Hey, Erik called, and she’d turned.

  Yeah?

  Um—he moved closer—Tewks is a total freak.

  Yeah, total freakazoid.

  You wanna go to a movie or something, sometime soon?

  Yeah, sure, okay.

  Okay, well, see ya.

  Remembering the moment, Isabella shivered and looked around at her surroundings in the airport. Her stomach turned.

  “Isabella, put that play away. Your grandfather will be here soon.” Her mother’s eyebrows slanted down.

  “Mama, he’s late. What am I supposed to do?”

  Her mother did not respond.

  Paul

  US Airways Flight 785 from La Guardia to Cobalt, New York, 5 p.m.: Delayed.

  Paul wrapped his large hand around Maija’s shoulder and squeezed. “I think that’s his plane landing now.”

  They had prepared as best they could. That’s all Paul could think to himself as they stood—a starched, creased, gelled, and straightened brood—waiting in their Sunday best for the last male elder of Paul’s family to arrive at Cobalt’s airport. If this moment were a photograph, as it should have been, the edges would curl in a rococo frame that would rest atop a great aunt’s bureau covered in dust. If captured, this image would serve as evidence to future generations who might poke their fingers toward Great Aunt So-and-So’s photo and exclaim, “Aren’t those the American Singhs picking up their last patriarch from the Cobalt airport?” It was a scene like many others in any small airport. Sardar Harbans Singh was to arrive any minute now, and the entire Singh family was there with their clean-smelling clothes, smiles, and uncomfortable sighs.

  Paul watched the commuter plane soar over the white-pine forest and coast along the slick black runway. The turboprop emerged from the mist like Gandaberunda, the mythological two-headed bird, ready to battle Shiva. History and the here and now crashed deep beneath Paul’s sternum; the collision caused acid reflux to coat the back of his esophagus. He focused his eyes on the busy carpet instead; he watched it crawl like burrowing worms and wished he could dive under it and disappear altogether. It wasn’t Papaji he feared seeing, though he did not want to see him now or ever. It was the shade of himself he’d abandoned in the village and all the ghosts that chased him, which he knew were hitchhikers in his father’s luggage.

  “It’ll be okay,” Maija whispered, only for his ears.

  Passengers filed like ants down the stairs along the tarmac to Gate Two and toward the security area. They were a weary yet organized swarm. Five, ten, twelve people passed with their wheeled bags and disheveled hair. Next came an elderly lady with a walker, shuffling slowly along the carpet. Paul searched with a poised smile and lungs inflated, anticipating a joyful release. Minutes expanded like an already over-full helium balloon, compounded by the pressure of high altitude. Two security guards and one policeman rushed past them toward the gate. Paul followed, his eyes squinting with inquiry.

  A husky TSA lady stopped Paul from entering the gate. “You can’t go in without a ticket.”

  “But I’m looking for a passenger.”

  The TSA lady pointed to a woman at the ticket counter. The woman’s nametag read Shirley. Shirley wore more makeup than you can find at a Walmart, Paul thought.

  “Can I help you?” The added syllables in her accent were most certainly Texan. Paul liked Texans; they reminded him of Punjabis.

  “Yes, I’m looking for my father. He was on that flight.”

  “Name?”

  “Singh.”

  Shirley looked at Paul’s turban, then the gate, then tapped the tips of her acrylic nails on her keyboard.

  “Mr. Harbans Singh?”

  “Yes, that’s my father. Where is he?”

  “Sir”—she moved closer and spoke quietly—“there was a problem. He’s going to be detained until—”

  “What? Detained? What for?”

  Shirley tapped her acrylic nails against the counter. “Sir, please calm down. They are bringing him now.”

  “I am calm; this is me calm, madam. You don’t want to see me—upset.” Paul clenched his hands into fists and dug his nails into his palms. Luckily, Papaji and his security entourage turned the corner at that moment and made their way toward Paul.

  His father seemed to be a relic of the giant from Paul’s memories. The cane he used now pulled his posture to the right. The beard that had been black and, on special occasions, wound up and glued tight against his jawline, was emancipated from the tyranny of beard fixer and flowed silver down his chest.

  “Papaji?” Paul moved toward him.

  “Puttar, they think I’m a jihadi!”

  “Sir, keep your voice down,” the officer said between his gritted teeth.

  Onlookers whirled around to stare.

  “That’s my father! Where are you taking him?” Paul jogged alongside them. “Wait!”

  The group walked into the airport security office. The police officer closed the door, then turned toward Paul.

  “Your father made some peculiar statements on the plane to another passenger. We have to take him in for a background check and questioning.”

  “What did he say?” Paul felt his family surround him.

  “A lady he was sitting next to asked him if he was an Arab.”

  Paul felt his face drop miles.

  “He used profanities, then threatened to show her his sword to prove he wasn’t.”

  “You must be mistaken. He’s an old man; he doesn’t know what he’s saying. Clearly he’s senile.”

  “We found a large knife in his suitcase. He checked it in India, but still, we’re living in crazy times.”

  “Knives are ceremonial to our culture, sir; they are not to be used to fight. They are for show.”

  “Bad time to say anything aboard a plane.”

  “You should talk to that lady who started the whole thing. She’s ignorant. He was only trying to prove he was a Sikh, the furthest thing from a jihadi terrorist.”

  “Details.” The officer used his tongue to pick out an invisible fragment of food in his incisor.

  Paul hated the ignorance he’d experienced since September 11. People assumed the turban he wore was related to the head covering the mullahs wore in the Middle East. He’d read about a few attacks against Sikhs, one of the victims an owner of a liquor store, clubbed by an imbecile who was never caught. Stupidity is more dangerous than intelligence, he thought.

  Maija moved toward the policeman. “Listen, if he hasn’t done anything wrong, hasn’t violated any law, I suggest you release him now before I call my lawyer and best friend, who’s a reporter for the Daily Mirror. She’d be happy to write a headline in tomorrow’s paper and launch a full investigation into this matter.” Maija’s eyes flashed steel, an attribute Paul adored about his wife.

  Within moments, Papaji was out of the security office and staring, weary-eyed, at his American family. He shook his head and mumbled, “Mané Sikh han.” He looked at Paul and
smiled, all teeth.

  “It’s been too long, puttar.” He held his hand out to Paul, and Paul took it.

  “So who do we have here?” Papaji said in English, with an intimidating tone, and looked from Maija to Isabella to Vic. He shook Maija’s hand as if she were made of glass and nodded pleasantly at her.

  Isabella walked up to him and said, “Hello, Papaji.”

  He seemed taken aback by her directness, but instead of showing surprise, he said, “Hello, potrí.”

  When his eyes rested on Vic, something in him seemed to change. He went to him and said, “You must be Varunesh Singh. Let me look at you.” Papaji ran his eyes across Vic’s form as though he were searching for something. He seemed to be making note of his height and weight. He perused his face and paused, as though the world he’d once known as flat was now round. Papaji bent down closer to look Vic in the eye. “Oh,” was all he said as he gently ran his huge thumbs across Vic’s bushy eyebrows, then pointed to his own tufty brows.

  “Nice to meet you, my grandson.” His accent was thick across the English words he struggled to find.

  The air around Paul seemed to get heavier; he used his pointer finger to loosen his shirt collar. Something in the air stung his eyes, and he wiped them with his handkerchief.

  “Papaji, let’s get out of here before they change their mind about us. Let’s go.” He turned to Vic, tossed him the keys to the Cutlass Supreme and said, “Get the car, puttar; bring it round.”

  Vic looked shocked. “But I’ve never driven.”

  “Nonsense, go!”

  Vic did not hesitate a second time. When he brought the car, Paul saw that Vic’s arms were stretched to their limit, gripping the wheel at ten and two as if his life depended on the completion of the task. He drove too close to the curb and slid one tire up onto the sidewalk. Maija had to show him where the parking brake was.

  “Good-looking boy,” Papaji whispered to Paul in Punjabi. “Good he follows Khalsa.”