I Am an Executioner (17 page)

At one time in her life, Savitri cried if Ravi came home late from the office. Staring out the window, waiting to see the headlights of his car, she had longed so much to be with her family and friends back in India, where there was always someone in the house to talk to, where you could walk to people’s houses. Savitri realized then that if they were going to stay in America, things would have to change. She would have to learn to drive. She needed to start meeting people, Americans. She couldn’t sit alone in the house forever. She wanted even to take a job like some of the women she had met at temple. But then, for years, she had given up so many things to stay at home for Radha.

Now, finally, Savitri had begun a career. She still hoped to have more education, more money. She wanted to see things and to travel. Ravi didn’t seem to share these ambitions. Savitri knew that her husband still harbored dreams of moving back to Madras. But she thought there was so much more to be had in America, so much they hadn’t even understood yet. Was she wrong to think this?

Savitri felt she had to ask someone for advice; the situation was impossible otherwise. But who else could possibly understand such a predicament? Take Poornima. Poornima lived a life like Savitri’s but, Savitri felt, with so much more grace and ease, so much less struggle. Poornima had a way of willing things to fall into place. It sickened Savitri to think of having to confess to such a person, such a perfect person. But maybe it was her best option. Maybe there was some easy way out of this, maybe Poornima would tell her this unwieldy problem wasn’t a problem at all. Yes, Savitri thought. She would go to Poornima’s luncheon. Then, if she could master her guilt and embarrassment, she would confess to her friend.

Savitri didn’t fall asleep until early in the morning. When she woke up, the radio newsman was reading the weather report as if it were any other day. It was already past noon. She got out of bed, a dull pain in the back of her head, and showered for twenty-five full minutes. Then she wore a blue petticoat and blouse, and a silk sari embroidered with gold. A little bit much for a luncheon, perhaps, she knew.

Leaving the bedroom, she caught an unwanted glimpse of Ravi’s body, and, although she expected it to be there, Savitri gave a short cry of surprise. It seemed to have softened a bit and sunken into the carpet, to have lost its tension. She hurried past it to the garage, took the Tercel, and drove to Poornima’s subdivision, a new one where a security guard in a redbrick kiosk took down her license plate number as she passed.

Poornima’s house leaned high in creamy brick at the end of a cul-de-sac, edged by a neat lawn, accented by young azaleas and crape myrtle in red mulch freshly laid by the lawn men. Poornima’s lanky son, Arun, greeted Savitri at the door, his black hair gelled down to a shiny, cropped shell. He held a glass in his hand.

“You’re looking awfully beautiful, Auntie,” Arun said, smoothing down his hair, making Savitri smile despite herself.

“So polite you are, Arun,” Savitri said. “When did you suddenly get old enough to drink wine?”

Arun retreated into the crowd and Savitri wound her way through the party, finding Poornima in the kitchen, assembling a tray of hors d’oeuvres with manic accuracy, bhajis and chutney and samosas and murukkus. “Done. Take this, Tina,” Poornima said, handing her tray off to the maid, and turned to Savitri.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Savitri.

“Hello, dear. Don’t be sorry,” said Poornima. “Where are Ravi and Radha?”

“Not coming,” Savitri said. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“Of course. Very bad. They’ll hear from me.”

“I didn’t tell you.”

“You told me. Here, take this.” Poornima handed Savitri a glass of white wine from a collection of several on a tray.

Savitri took half the wine in a gulp. “I didn’t tell you,” she said. “Ravi is dead.” There, thought Savitri. Just tell her. Easiest like this.

“What?” asked Poornima. Her son wandered into the kitchen just then, with a girl Savitri had never seen before.

“Did you say hello to Auntie?” Poornima asked her son.

“Yes, I did,” replied Arun, and indicating the young woman, “This is Nira.”

Savitri shook the girl’s hand and turned back to Poornima, but she was already gone, attending to other guests.

“How is Radha doing?” Arun asked Savitri.

“She is fine,” Savitri said. “I don’t know, really. She says she wants to take off from college one year and be an airline hostess. See the world and all.”

Poornima turned from her conversation on the other side of the room and called, “Nira goes to Harvard with Arun, both of them premed. Look, I’m embarrassing them. Sorry.”

Savitri turned to the girl, Nira, and took her measure. Taller than Radha, somewhat slimmer. Lighter complexion. Obviously smart, probably has rich parents. I see how it is, thought Savitri.

“You going to marry this girl?” Savitri asked Arun, and then immediately apologized. “Sorry, that was not a right question.”

“That’s all right, Auntie,” Arun said, diplomatically.

“Because I always wanted, you know … I always thought that you and my Radha together would be good. You grew up together and all. And you’re doing so well. I don’t care that you are not Brahmins. You have to make compromises. Uncle didn’t understand that, you see? He could be a stupid man sometimes, Arun. So stupid.” Savitri felt a catch in her throat. She paused to regain her composure.

“But now you’ve got this girl, good for you. And Radha, well … There’s only so much I can do, right?”

Arun stared for a moment, blinking. Then he smiled. “I think my mother might need some help,” he said. He took his friend by the hand and left.

Savitri replaced her empty glass of wine and grabbed another from the tray. Then she veered into the party, almost running into Poornima’s husband, Vasanth, himself holding a wobbly glass of scotch in one hand.

“Hello, lovely lady,” he said, pushing his oiled locks out of his face with one hand. He had hair thick as an eighteen-year-old’s and too long, licking down over his eyebrows, curling over his ears. “Where’s the captain?” he asked. “Where’s the young lady? Younger lady I should say.”

“Both of them indisposed,” answered Savitri.

“Indisposed? What is this? Working even today, the slave. It’s Thanksgiving, I say, and he’s left his wife all by herself.” Vasanth smiled. “Someone should
tell
him.”

What must it be like, Savitri wondered, to be his wife, to have his money? Did Poornima ever wish for Vasanth’s death? Is this the sort of life Savitri had wanted?

Savitri heard the tinkle of ice in glasses, the gibbering voices of tiny demons all around her. Immediately she regretted her thoughts.

“Would be so much better if my wife were looking as young as you,” Vasanth said, grinning wide. “She’s not nice, Savitri. Every time I open my mouth she is giving me bad looks.” Vasanth was so close that Savitri could see the thin red shaving cuts on his cheek and note the odors of sweet aftershave, hair oil, and hard liquor. Savitri felt sickened by his flesh, the smell of his potions, the slick wetness of him. She longed sharply for the plain, dusty familiarity of her husband.

“No!” Savitri said fiercely, shaking her head. “I don’t want this. You hear me?” she called out to the room.

“Eh?” Vasanth asked.

“You hear me?” Savitri yelled.

She turned and left Vasanth behind, perplexed but with an uncertain smile on his face, eager to find the joke in the situation. Savitri moved through the crowd until she found Poornima in the kitchen. “I’m leaving,” Savitri said to Poornima. “My husband’s dead.”

“What nonsense,” said Poornima. “You can’t leave before having lunch. I have to help Tina.” Poornima walked toward the young maid, who hovered over the oven. Together, Tina and Poornima pulled from the oven a glistening, honey-brown turkey, assembled all round with red potatoes and green beans. Savitri guffawed in surprise.

“What is this you’ve done?” Savitri said. “You’re a vegetarian.”

“But the kids aren’t,” said Poornima. “Vasanth isn’t. And the Nairs aren’t, the Bannerjees aren’t. It’s Thanksgiving, Savitri. And Tina taught me to make the turkey. Actually, you could say she did most of the making. Tina!” she called.

Tina returned with a carving knife, and Poornima stepped to the side, letting the young woman take the turkey toward the dining room.

Vasanth entered the kitchen, drunkenly proclaiming, “It’s Thanksgiving, but we have no Pilgrims. Only Indians, no Americans. Must have both for Thanksgiving, isn’t it so? Americans in big black hats.”

“You’re drinking too much,” Poornima said humorlessly. “And besides, we have Tina.”

“But she’s black!” screamed Vasanth. “Black doesn’t count.” Tina eyed him sharply, saying nothing. “Black is different,” Vasanth continued. “Did you ever see a black Pilgrim? Tina is on the Indian side with us.”

Arun stepped forward to put a protective arm around his father’s shoulders, and Vasanth seemed to go limp, instantly calmed by his son’s embrace. He looked up at Arun, who stood half a head taller. “Why don’t you be the Americans?” Vasanth asked earnestly.

“Me?” asked Arun.

“You kids,” said Vasanth. “Kids are Americans, parents are Indians.”

“But that’s wrong, Dad,” Arun explained. “You were the immigrants, after all, so you should be the Pilgrims. We’re natives, so we should be Indians.”

“Backward!” Vasanth laughed. “My son turns everything backward! Clever boy.” With one hand, Vasanth squeezed Arun’s cheeks together until the boy’s lips puckered. Arun took it amiably.

“Sweethearts, everyone, come to the dining room. We’re cutting the turkey. Sorry,
carving
the turkey, carving it,” announced
Poornima to the living room, and the crowd moved toward her. Savitri followed them, and in the mirror-paneled dining room, she stared at the reflection of all her people, beaming and glittering, husbands and wives, parents and children. Enemies gathered in truce around a decorated table. Poornima, with Tina’s hand guiding hers, raised the carving knife aloft.

Savitri turned to the woman next to her, a casual acquaintance, someone she had seen occasionally at temple.

“My husband is dead,” said Savitri.

“What?” gasped the woman.

“My husband is dead. I think I have killed him, unintentional. Actually, unintentional, intentional—I’m not sure.”

“What are you saying?” the woman asked, a look of confusion grading into one of horror. She backed away from Savitri, farther into the crowd.

Savitri tried to explain. “I killed him, and he’s on the floor. I killed him, you see!” The people gathered in the dining room stopped laughing and stopped talking. Poornima looked up, her knife and her smile frozen. The guests clutched their empty plates and turned toward Savitri. “I killed him,” Savitri yelled to all of them, “and that’s all there is to it.” Savitri knew they understood. They understood, but she could see from their eyes they would never acknowledge it.

“Savitri, darling.” Poornima set down her knife, approached through the stunned crowd, and put her hand on Savitri’s shoulder, gripping it with gentle firmness. “What’s happened? Why are you upset?”

Savitri didn’t answer. She shrugged off Poornima’s hand, turned around, and went out the front door. She got in her car and drove until she was back at her house.

Her husband was on the floor—she bent down and pressed the lids closed over his cloudy eyes; she brushed his hair into place with her fingers—and Savitri was very sorry. The phone was ringing.

“What happened?” Savitri heard Radha’s voice through the receiver. “Lisa said something about Dad.”

But he was dead, Radha’s father, and there was nothing to be done about it.

“You having a good time over there, sweetie?” Savitri asked. “Don’t think about anything bad right now. I want you to come home, then I’ll explain. Food’s already cooked. A turkey is in the freezer. Bring your friends, it’s okay. You won’t be upset with me, right?”

“What happened to Dad?”

“I’m sorry. You loved him, I know it. Remember he took you to school, and you wouldn’t let go his hand? You were small then.”

“Mom—”

“Hey, listen. We’ll sort it out, everything. You and me, we’ll figure out what to do,” Savitri said, and listened hopefully for the arbitrary voices of demons.

I began surveilling Subject 243-66328 roughly seven months ago, concluding just last Tuesday, late evening. Surveillance was according to the standard procedure. It consisted of observation from the motorized phaeton, changing locations and costumes periodically, starting in the mornings, early mornings, 0500. On weekdays, the man, 243-66328, could be observed leaving his house, walking to the corner, waiting for the train, boarding the train. It was usually the same train car—I still remember the registration number of the car he boarded: [redacted].

The subject was going to work, presumably, but I wouldn’t know for sure. I was assigned to remain at the location. After he rode away, he was tailed by another Agent, perhaps in the guise of a passenger on the train. But I am speculating.

My guess would be that the subject went to his office. I did not know which office. I did not know the location of the office or what he did there. I could only infer based on the train route; but of course he could have transferred to any number of different routes. About 1900, he would come back home, and that’s when I would see him again.

Again, I don’t know the number of the Agent who tailed
him, or who surveilled him the rest of the day, if it was the same Agent or a different one; I waited in the phaeton until evening. I even had my meals in the phaeton. I followed the full-intensity surveillance protocol, that is, there was no relief. I was on constantly—but never past the point of fatigue. “The Agent watches until he is no longer watching”—first Precept. So I brought a limited amount of food, approved foods. I brought the necessary equipment, prepared myself, so I wouldn’t have to leave the vehicle for any reason, wouldn’t have to go to the restroom, et cetera. It’s not easy, of course, but I’ve gotten better at it. I was equipped with a photographic recording device, a portable Teletype for emergencies, as well as with [redacted].