Balance of Fragile Things (2 page)

I
kpaul Singh looked out the window of his Kwicki Fill gas station. His eyes traveled down Sycamore Road, across the graying asphalt and beyond the line of cars that had been rerouted around the massive hole in the road. He noticed the frost had arrived early this year, and he tried to rub the serpentine ice patterns from the double-paned windows with his shirt's cuff. The ice wouldn't budge; he realized he was rubbing from the wrong side of the glass. He looked above the trees that grew perilously close to the power lines and frowned at the bruise of clouds gathering. As his longing for a glimpse of the sun grew, he wondered how long it would take to walk to the Punjab if, of course, he could walk on water. He imagined walking with extraordinarily large feet the length of battleships. He would cross seas, continents, and mountains. In an old oak he saw a
pippal
tree, with a trunk the size of an elephant's waist and bark the texture of a riverbed in drought. Paul saw beyond concrete; he saw the suffocated earth under the palimpsest asphalt and gravel.

The construction on Sycamore was as constant as the cloud coverage. And now the prehistoric machines were at it again, with their shovel-toothed mouths and their smoke-puffing blowholes, right outside his gas station. This time the traffic wasn't caused by the new construction in the Heights. The title of the article on page A9 in the
Daily Mirror
in Paul's hands said the hole was the beginning of a sinkhole. He couldn't believe it. A sinkhole in Cobalt, New York? What next, he thought, an earthquake? The mess was already preventing drivers from entering his station from Sycamore. It caused business to decline, as it always did every time they ripped up the road, even though he'd climbed up the ladder at five that morning to lower his gas prices below the Stop and Go station's by nine-tenths of a cent. Those stupid-bastard city councilmen were just wasting money lifting and repaving roads every year, he thought. The title of the article was “Sinkholes, Man vs. Nature: Who's to Blame?”

“It'd better be nature,” Paul grumbled, “or else I'll chase down the idiot who started this mess. Pothole, sinkhole, asshole, same difference.” He decided to write a letter to the
Daily Mirror
; his wife, Maija, had a friend who worked there. She'd be obligated to rescue his letter from the slush pile.

He glared at the expanding pile of debris and soil alongside the gaping hole. What they were digging up, he had no idea. What he did know was that he would send another e-mail to the city complaining of his loss of business since the construction began. His station's peripheral location, like a useless appendix to Main Street, already had poor traffic. It now suffered aesthetically from the dust and debris, and he feared the Kwicki Fill was beginning to look like a halfway house for construction workers and their temporary defecation rooms. He would have to do something clever to draw the customers inside the convenience store, and quick. Winter would cut the construction project short, as it usually did, and when the snow melted in the spring he'd see the gash in the road once more. Where were the moderate seasons, like autumn? Seems we have only two seasons in this town, Paul thought: sticky-hot summer and freeze-your-
tatte
-off winter.

He shrugged, used a pencil to scratch his scalp under his turban, and flattened his blue dress shirt down a stomach that was just beginning to show the roundness of middle age. Then he stuffed the newspaper into the drawer under the counter and turned his attention to the boxes of windshield fluid that needed unpacking. Today he would make a pyramid of the blue bottles that would entice everyone to make an impulse purchase in his c-store. Perhaps he could sell the whole lot of them in one day. He smiled. Goals made his day speed by.

His knife was in his back pocket, as always. He took it out gingerly, holding it weightlessly, like a child, and unfolded the blade from the handle. He'd bought this knife with his own money when he was a young man. He ran his thumb along the blade. It was getting dull; he would sharpen it soon. On the silver handle was a poorly sketched chain of elephants carrying a man and woman atop their backs. The vendor had said it had special powers, but Paul just liked the handle. He dug the blade into the flesh of the cardboard, then moved it down and away from himself until the box surrendered its contents. He would usually display the first case of windshield fluid at the earliest sign of winter, but today he knew that the debris from the construction would stick to motorists' windshields when they passed by, which would in turn remind them to check their fluid levels. He would be ready. They would buy his windshield fluid. Maybe, if he was really lucky, they'd get flat tires and have to purchase new ones from Paul's inventory.

When he bent toward the first group of blue bottles, something crunched in his back pocket. He pulled out the nuisance, an envelope. One quarter of its face was covered in stamps, and the rest displayed the gaudy handwriting of someone who had recently learned English.

It was another letter from his father.

Please respond
was written in bold on the back of the envelope near the adhesive lip. Paul's heart sank. Even from across the world, his father could make him feel inadequate. Paul's father had been nicknamed “Papaji” decades earlier by a British-educated head of their Punjab village as a term of endearment. Even when relatives attempted to use the common “Dadda” or “Daddaji,” the man scoffed and protested, demanding to be called Papaji by all. Paul had yet to open any of the letters, and they were beginning to pile up. He wondered what Mr. Sardar Harbans Singh wanted so desperately that he'd felt the need to mail one letter per week for the past two months. Paul wanted to leave India and his father behind him—that's why he'd come to America years earlier. The letter rustled when he shoved it back into his pocket. The sound was familiar, like wind rushing through wheat.

At least there aren't any snakes here in this village, he thought. This barely comforted him. He looked at the sinkhole and imagined a monstrous basilisk jutting through the surface and swallowing the construction workers. The bell on the convenience store door jingled him back to the present, and he returned to his position behind the counter.

“Marlboro Mediums.” A gruff teenager stared at Paul's crimson turban as if it were a second head and handed him a wad of crumpled dollars.

Paul sized up his customer with a pointedly critical squint and ran his fingers through his beard in contemplation. He saw his torn jeans and stringy blond hair; he saw a blue jacket with a license-plate-shaped patch on the lapel that read
Joe
. He saw his buddies waiting for him in an old Mazda outside. Joe smelled as if his backpack were filled with garbage. Who would let their child leave the house looking like this? No shower? No clean clothes? Paul couldn't understand, even after twenty years of living in this little town, what went on, if anything, in parents' heads to just give up on their offspring. He told Maija the other day,
These kids smoke like it is some sort of privilege. And their parents think they can blame our little stores for selling to minors? Their precious children dress like no-good beggars on the street. And here they have been given so much
. Paul lifted a pack of cigarettes from the display and slid them across the counter without taking an eye off the grungy kid.

“I'm eighteen, man.”

“And I'm not your father,
samajhna?
” Paul turned his back to his customer and mumbled, “And don't read the warning label.”

“What did you say?”

“Have a nice day.”

As he got the kid his change, Paul reread the form that the corporate Kwicki Fill office sent last month, which stated the four Ks of customer service: kindness, konsideration, kalm, and kare. Paul didn't find the misuse of the letter K particularly funny, but since his station was just a drop in the Kwicki Fill bucket he had to post the list where he could see it at all times. His religion's use of the letter K was meaningful, not vulgar (
kaccha
,
kesh
,
kangha
,
kirpan
, and
kara
). By the time he finished reading the list, Joe had already disappeared into the Mazda. The car coughed black smoke out of its tailpipe as it cut off an old lady turning into the station.

The green Salem Lights clock read two-thirty. Paul looked outside and saw his fifteen-year-old son walking past on his way home from school. He decided Vic looked more like a twelve-year-old, but his growth spurt would surely be on its way. This was going to be his big year. He looked at Vic, who had his backpack on and his tidy jacket zipped up all the way. Now, that's how children should look. They should be proud to be seen, not filthy and smelly, he thought. But today there was something different: His
patka
was dirty, and his nose was no longer symmetrical.

Vic waved and kept walking.

“Oi,
puttar
, where are you going? Come here!”

Vic stopped before crossing the road construction and turned toward his father.

“What happened? Come inside!”

“I tripped and fell at lunch.” He moved slowly toward his father.

Unlikely, Paul thought. “Who did this?”

Vic's lips tightened until they turned white.

Paul put the
back in a minute
sign on the door, then inspected his son's face, bruised and broken as it was, just like his own had been after a fight. “Assholes are a dime a handful.”

Paul took him quickly into the unisex bathroom inside the station and locked the door. After washing his hands, Paul straightened his son's back and brought him closer to eye level. He placed his large hand flush against Vic's nose.

“Brace yourself. This will hurt, but only for a second,
puttar
.”

Vic leaned against the tiled wall.

“Don't worry; I've done this to myself twice.” Paul rested his large hand across Vic's nose and, in one quick movement, he thrust it back to center of his face.

Vic screamed. Tears poured. Paul handed his son a towel for the tears and blood. Paul removed the stained
patka
and took out a white handkerchief from the back pocket of his brown slacks.

“
Puttar,
you need to cover your hair and keep it clean. Otherwise you're going to have to wash it like the Americans, okay? There are ten gurus, Vic; the first one brought us peace and education, but Gobind, the tenth, brought the
Khalsa
.”

He spoke of the sacrifices the gurus had made to better their lives, and how this unshorn hair, this
kesh
, was a symbol of his connection to their martyrdom and willingness to protect those who were unable to protect themselves. He tucked the handkerchief around the braid that was wound into a bun at the very top of Vic's head, took a pin from his own turban, and bisected the small yet adequate pile of hair and fabric.

“
Puttar
, you will stand up to the
págals
that have been tormenting you. Yes, you will fight back.” Paul's hands dug into Vic's shoulders a little too deeply.

“Papa, just—”

Paul took out his knife and held it to his son. “Sometimes the only way to protect yourself is to make others fear you first.”

Vic put his hands in his pockets. The ancient-looking blade glimmered dangerously.

“Take it.”

“No.” Vic's voice cracked.

“Look”—Paul put the knife on the counter and sucked in his stomach—“I want you to remember that running only makes them chase you faster. They are like hyenas. Stand your ground. Aim for their weaknesses: their knees, their necks, and their feet. It's not the biggest one that you should attack first but the smallest. Once they see you defeat one of their own, they will back off.”

“Papa?” Vic motioned to the door.

“Yes,
puttar
?”

“Um, nothing.” Vic cleaned his glasses with the edge of his shirt.

“Okay then. Now go home; your mother is waiting. Where's your sister? You're supposed to walk with her.”

“She has play practice.” They reentered the store.

“Oh,
achchh
á
.
She's your responsibility, you know.”

“I have to study, Papa. I have an exam tomorrow.”

Paul held Vic's face in his hands. He looked forward to the day when his son would become a man. It was difficult for Paul. How could his son—the son of an ex-boxer, an ex-farmer, and an ex-warrior—allow someone to break his nose? This was not possible. He thought of his Papaji, with the shotgun slung over his shoulder and his knife at the ready to cut whatever needed cutting. Vic's snake was this bully, and Paul was going to help him stand up to him regardless of the consequence. They would both have their day, and the other kids would fear his name: Varunesh Dzintar Singh. Paul's eyes glowed, his large nose tingled, and his calloused hands pressed the cheeks of his son just a little too firmly.

“I will make you stronger,
puttar
. Tonight I will show you how to fight.” Paul beamed; Vic looked terrified. “Okay then,
chaliá
. Go home and see your mother. I will be home later.”

He watched Vic maneuver across the construction and turn onto their street, a cul-de-sac. He noticed that Vic bounced on his toes just a little bit. That would not do. Not for his son. Paul would teach him how to walk, talk, punch, and box. He would show him how to have honor. Paul opened the cabinet under the cash register and caressed his cricket bat; he'd never used it, not once since they'd moved here. He had wanted to whack many of his customers on the noggin several times over the past week, but it wouldn't have been right. But defending oneself, yes, that would be acceptable. The bell on the door jingled, and an old lady entered.