The Weight of Heaven (13 page)

such a terrible history of—”

“I know. God, Nandita, you think I don’t know that? Even this

poor, ignorant man, her husband, even he made some reference to

our involvement in Iraq. And there’s nothing I could say to him.

Except that I don’t think I’m a dirty imperialist pig. And I don’t

think my husband is, either. And that I’m every bit as appalled at

what my country is doing in Iraq as, as, any of you.”

She was close to tears now, her body shaking as she recalled the

contempt on the man’s face as he’d entered his home and found her

sitting on the floor next to his wife, his angry, accusatory words, the

Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n

8 3

embarrassed, conflicted look on Asha’s face as Ellie had forced her

to translate sentiments that, it now occurred to Ellie, Asha probably

agreed with.

“Hey, hey,” Nandita said, coming around her desk and crouching low so that she could hug Ellie. “Come on now. You can’t work

at NIRAL if you have a thin skin. Nobody’s blaming you for this

situation, El. This—this stuff is bigger than any one person.”

But the complicated combination of guilt and defensiveness followed Ellie home that evening. In the car, the two women rode in

almost total silence, each one lost in her thoughts. Ellie had a terrible

headache by the time she got out of Nandita’s car and went into the

house to wait for Frank to get home.

Chapter 8

At exactly six a.m. the following morning, there was a tentative

knock on the door. Frank leapt to his feet and threw the door open

before Ramesh could knock a second time. “Shhh,” he whispered,

holding his index finger to his lips. “Ellie is sleeping. We have to

be quiet.” He led the boy through the living room and toward the

porch. Flinging open the wooden porch door, they stepped down

onto the lawn. It was a pleasant morning, with a weak sun and a

cool breeze blowing off the sea. The tall, stately coconut trees were

rustling in that breeze, but Frank and Ramesh didn’t hear them. The

dew on the grass tickled their ankles as they moved quickly to the

left of the front yard and then climbed the seven stone steps that

led to the beach. Ramesh bent and picked up a pebble to fling at a

crow who was pecking at something inside a brown paper bag on

the sand. “Hey,” Frank said putting out a restraining arm. “Throw

that stone away.”

“I hate crows,” Ramesh replied. That was a big difference between Ramesh and Benny—Benny was forever wanting to nurse

sick squirrels and birds and wanted to bring home every puppy

or kitten he saw. Ramesh’s attitude toward the natural world was

more—well, more utilitarian.

Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n

8 5

“Anyway,” Frank continued. “You’re here to train so that you

can be on the school soccer team, right? Or do you want to be a

champion crow-killer, instead?”

It worked. Ramesh tossed the pebble away. Frank permitted himself an imaginary pat on the back. He had come to know this boy’s

psychology really well, knew how competitive and vain Ramesh

was about doing well in school as well as in athletics.

“What do we do?” Ramesh asked.

“First you do some push-ups,” Frank said. “Move to the flat part

of the sand—it’ll be easier. Okay. Like so.”

He watched the little bulge in Ramesh’s triceps as he lifted and

lowered himself. This kid is strong, he thought and felt a kind of

parental pride, as if the boy had inherited
his
muscular structure,

his
genes.

“Good,” he said. “Okay, ready to jog? Let’s go.”

He had first grown aware of Ramesh over a year ago, after they’d

been in Girbaug for about four months. It was a Sunday, and Ellie

was out with Nandita. Frank was in his bedroom taking an afternoon nap when he was disturbed by the steady thud of a ball in the

driveway outside his window. Occasionally, a thin voice cried out,

“Score!” He tossed and turned for a few minutes, gnashing his teeth

in frustration, and finally threw back his covers and leapt out of bed.

Moving swiftly across the living room and kitchen, he threw open

the door that led to the courtyard that divided the main house from

the housekeepers’ shack. Pushing the small wooden gate, he went

out into the driveway, barefoot and dressed only in a white T-shirt

and shorts. Ramesh was racing the length of the driveway, dribbling a basketball, occasionally reaching high and jumping to throw

the ball into an imaginary net. “Hey,” Frank yelled. And when the

boy didn’t hear him, “HEY, you.” Remembering the boy’s name,

“Ramesh. Stop.”

Hearing his name, the boy froze in place, cradling the ball in

his open palm, his eyes wide and startled. Frank saw that he had

8 6 Th r i t y U m r i g a r

scared him, and the realization drove away his anger. Walking up

to the boy he said in a softer voice, “I was trying to sleep. You woke

me up.” He imitated the dribbling of the ball. The boy stayed motionless. “Oh, forget it,” Frank said almost to himself. “You don’t

speak any English, do you? The few times he’d seen Ramesh he had

been with Prakash, speaking to him in Hindi as he helped his father

around the yard.

He was about to turn away when the boy said, “I speak goodgood English, teacher say. Best in class.”

Frank smiled. “You do, huh? So you go to school?”

The boy looked offended. “Yes, of course.”

Something about his affronted expression made Frank laugh. It

reminded him of the look Benny used to get when Ellie or he teased

him. “Well, are you a good student?” he said.

“The bestest in my class.”

“That’s the best in my class. Not bestest.”

The boy threw his basketball down and flexed his muscles, looking like a scrawny body builder. “But I am better than best,” he

cried. “Bestest.”

This kid was a hoot. Frank was laughing out loud now. “Oh,

yeah? What are your favorite subjects?”

The boy didn’t have to think. “Maths,” he declared.

“That was my favorite subject in school, too,” Frank said. “What

else? What about reading and writing?”

Ramesh screwed up his face. “I hate geography. And readingwriting is boring.” His face brightened. “I love history. And

sports.”

“What sports? Cricket?”

“Cricket, yes. But also basketball. You know Michael Jordan?”

“Sure I know Michael Jordan.” Frank crouched low so that he

was almost at eye level with the boy. “But can I tell you a secret? I’m

better than Michael Jordan.”

Ramesh’s eyes grew wide. “Better than Michael Jordan?” he

Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n

8 7

breathed, his voice hoarse with wonder. He stared at Frank, his eyes

searching his face. “No,” he said finally. “Impossible.”

Frank pretended to be outraged. “Impossible?” He straightened

to his full height. “Them’s fighting words, my man.”

“Challenge,” Ramesh said.

“Challenge?” Frank walked slowly toward the ball, picked it up

swiftly, and leapt up to the rim of an imaginary net. “There. Did

you see that? The beauty of that dunk? And that? And that?”

Ramesh was squealing with joy as he tried to hit the ball out of

Frank’s hands. Frank pretended to defend the ball but yielded it to

the boy after a few seconds. “Oops,” he said. “You really are very

good.”

Ramesh looked magnanimous. “Best of ten, best of ten,” he

yelled. He pointed to a medium-sized tree to the side of the driveway. “Hit top of that tree. First person to hit ten, is winning.”

So that’s what the boy had been doing while he had been trying

to take a nap. Remembering the well-lit basketball courts that he

had played on as a teenager in Grand Rapids and the hoop that he’d

installed on the top of their garage in Ann Arbor, Frank was touched

by Ramesh’s desperate ingenuity. He realized that he had no idea

how much money Ramesh’s parents earned—they had simply come

with the company-provided house and were paid by HerbalSolutions. He resolved to supplement their income with an occasional tip

here and there. And first thing tomorrow he would send Satish to

buy a basketball hoop for this boy.

Ramesh was tugging at his T-shirt, trying to get his attention.

“Scared?” he said.

“Scared?” Frank roared in mock indignation, knocking the

ball out of Ramesh’s hands. “Not me.” He rose on his bare toes and

threw the ball high so that it touched the top of the tree. He grabbed

the ball and did it a second time. But before he could get his hands

on the ball again, he felt a sharp elbow in his side. “Oww,” he yelped.

“Why, you dirty little cheat.” He pretended to nurse his injured

8 8 Th r i t y U m r i g a r

side while Ramesh giggled his pleasure and took four consecutive

shots.

Now, knowing how competitive Ramesh was, he told himself

that if they were to stop jogging, he’d have to be the one to call

it quits. The boy had done well keeping up with him as they ran

along the shore, but his breathing was getting more ragged and the

sweat was pouring off his face. Also, Ramesh was running barefoot,

having shaken off his plastic sandals at the base of the stone steps.

“Where’re the sneakers I bought you last month?” Frank gasped.

“Dada said too good to wear on beach.”

Frank felt the familiar wave of irritation whenever he thought of

Prakash. Typical stupid advice. “I want you to wear them for jogging, okay?” he said. “They will help you run faster.”

Ramesh shot him a cocky look. “I running very fast, already,”

he said.

Frank tapped him lightly on the back. “Very clever.” He stopped.

“Okay. Let’s head back. I have to be at work and you have to be at

school. I don’t want you to be late.”

Ramesh shrugged. “I can run more and more.”

“Yeah, I know.” He glanced up to where the sun was heating up

the day and wiped the sweat off his brow. “But take pity on an old

man, okay?”

Ramesh got that solicitous, serious look on his face that Frank

had come to love. Benny used to get that gentle, absurdly adult look

also, when he thought somebody needed his care or protection.

“Okay,” Ramesh said. “We stop.” He took Frank’s hand, as if he

was helping an elderly man cross the street.

They were far away from the house, so he didn’t have to care

about Ellie or Prakash being jealous of the fact that he was walking

on the beach holding Ramesh’s hand. Ramesh’s grip was tighter,

different from Benny’s, but it made him miss his dead son with a

sharpness that took his breath away. Still, it felt good to hold a child’s

Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n

8 9

hand again. Something softened and relaxed within Frank, and he

realized how stiffly he had been holding himself ever since Anand’s

death. He was thankful that upon seeing Ramesh in the courtyard

last evening, he had suggested this morning’s run.

As they walked back toward the house, Frank determined to get

back into the routine of helping Ramesh with his schoolwork. The

child should not have to suffer because of the chaos of the adults

around him.

A few hours later Frank picked up the phone to call Peter Timberlake from his office. He didn’t want to go through another day

without getting Pete’s permission to give in to some of the workers’

demands. He was hoping Peter wouldn’t put up much of a fight, but

somehow he didn’t think so. Pete had been stunned when Frank had

called to report Anand’s death and the ensuing furor. “Jeez,” he’d

breathed. “How the hell did that happen?”

He was dialing the country code for the United States when he

found his fingers dialing Scott’s number instead. Scott was a broker

on Wall Street, and Frank trusted his business acumen even more

than Pete’s. Plus, he needed his big brother’s help in rehearsing what

exactly to say to Peter when he spoke to him.

“Hello?” Scott said.

“Hey, possum,” Frank replied. “How are you?”

“Well, hi there, squid. What’s new with you?”

They had called each other by these nicknames for so long that

neither one of them remembered when or why they’d come up with

them. Frank felt his neck muscles relax at the sound of his brother’s deep baritone. “I can’t talk too long,” he said. “Gotta call Peter

before he zonks out for the night. Whatcha doing? How’s Mom?”

“She’s fine. Says she tried calling you this week but there was

no answer. Anyway, I took her out to dinner last night. Oh, and I

finally met the mysterious Barney.” After not dating anyone in all

9 0 Th r i t y U m r i g a r

the years since their father had left, Lauretta was now dating a man

who lived in her apartment building. Neither Scott nor Frank could

quite get over this recent turn of events.

“How is he? Does he treat her nice?”

“He’s nuts about her. And she—she seems happier than I’ve ever

known her to be.”

Frank laughed. “Goddamn. Wait till I tell Ellie.”

“How is El?”

“She’s fine. She’s great.”

A minuscule pause. “You guys doing all right?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Frank exhaled heavily. “It’s only that—things are

tough here right now, Scott. In fact, if you have a minute, I wanted

to run something by you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Well, we had a situation here where this young guy—he was

a bit of a troublemaker, a union leader type—well, we had him arrested. I guess one of our men told the police to, y’know, rough him

up a bit and they got carried away or something. And the guy died

in police custody and—”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. Exactly. And needless to say, everybody’s tempers are

inflamed, and I don’t know, the whole situation is pretty explosive.”

“I’ll say.” Frank could tell that Scott was thinking, could picture

him with his eyes closed and forehead creased. “Have you made any

overtures to the family?”

“We did. We sent the mother a check for ten thousand rupees,

and she refused to accept it. Said it insulted her son’s memory.”

“Ten thousand . . . that’s like what? Two hundred dollars or

something? Well, can’t say I blame her. I’d be insulted, too.” Scott

cleared his throat. “Fact is, kiddo, your company’s profits are soaring. I follow the stock daily. I think you guys can afford to be more

generous, don’t you? And what exactly are their demands?”

Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n

9 1

“Oh, the usual—a pay raise, more breaks during the day. That

sort of thing.”

“I don’t see what the problem is. So give in to some of their demands, squid. I mean, this situation sounds untenable.”

Frank was surprised to find that he had tears in his eyes. He

clung to the phone, not daring to speak. Scott sounded as reasonable, as calm and responsible, as ever. Frank remembered the day

after Benny’s funeral, when Scott asked him to go to lunch. But instead of lunch, Scott had driven to a state park and they had walked

for two hours in almost complete silence. On the way back, in the

car, Scott had turned to face Frank, his eyes steady on his younger

brother’s face. “You will survive this,” he said. “I know you think

you won’t, but you will.”

“You still there?” Scott was now saying.

“Yes,” he whispered, not daring to say more.

“Listen. Call Peter and tell him—don’t ask him, tell him—you’re

gonna give them part of what they want. You’re in charge there, it’s

your ass on the line, not Peter’s. So you make the decision, okay?”

“I miss home,” Frank blurted out. “I just miss—you know, life

in the States.”

“So come back. How much longer are you two gonna stay there,

anyway?”

“I don’t know. Until things are stable, I suppose. And Ellie loves

it here. She’s built a life for herself here, Scotty. Whereas me”—he

was teary again—“I don’t know if I’ll ever be at home anywhere

again, Scott.” Now he was sobbing, silently but hard. “Oh, God,

Scott. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’d really hoped that

being in a new place would help me heal. Just when I think I’m getting better, getting over him, I—I miss him, Scott. I feel like they

buried me alongside him. I’m trying so hard, but I don’t think it’s

getting any easier.”

“Frankie,” Scott said, his own voice hoarse. “Frankie, don’t.”

“I just keep
remembering
things. Like what the hair on his forearms

9 2 Th r i t y U m r i g a r

felt like when I caressed him. Or that bump on the side of his head,

remember? He had that since birth. And that squeaky giggle that

he had? Remember how you used to play that silly game with him

when he was little, Scotty?”

“Stop. Don’t do this to yourself, kiddo.”

But he couldn’t stop. He talked about Benny so rarely. And Scott

was one of the few people whom he trusted with Benny’s memory,

one of the few who knew how sacred that memory was and how one

wrong statement could defile that. “I can’t talk to Ellie about this,”

he said. “I don’t know why—God knows she tries. But I can’t, Scott.

I think I still blame her for her negligence. If only she’d—”

“Frankie, that’s bullshit. She did nothing wrong. The doctor

said there was no way she could’ve possibly known. I heard him

myself. In any case, how does it help your marriage, man, to blame

Ellie?”

“Well, she blames me, too. Hell, just the other day she accused

me of using Ramesh—the little servant boy who lives with us,

Scott—to get over Benny.” He felt fresh outrage as he remembered

Ellie’s words.

“Frank. Ellie’s your wife. She adores you. She’s all you got. And

vice versa.”

There was a knock on his door and before he could respond,

Rekha, his secretary, walked in. “Not now,” he barked, embarrassed

to be seen in this disheveled state. “How many times do I have to tell

you people? You don’t enter my office unless I ask you to.”

He heard Scott gasp at the other end, even while he registered

the look of startled fear on Rekha’s face before she slipped out of the

room. “Easy, easy,” Scott was murmuring.

He fought to control his emotions. “Sorry,” he said finally. “I just

lost it for a second.”

“Frank, listen to me. Here’s what you’re gonna do. First, nip this

whole labor thing in the bud. Fix it—and fast. That’s the first order

of business. Second, get out of town for a few days. Take Ellie and

Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n

9 3

go somewhere. You’re gonna have a breakdown if you go on like

this, kiddo.”

He felt more clear and resolute after he got off the phone. He immediately dialed Pete’s number, afraid of dissipating any of that resolution if he waited. To his relief Pete was amenable to a settlement;

the news of Anand’s death had rattled him up more than Frank had

realized.

He heaved himself out of his chair after he’d hung up and opened

the door to his office. Rekha was at her desk. “I’m sorry about yelling at you,” he said. “I . . . It was an important business call, you

know? But I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

Rekha looked so relieved and eager-to-please, it made him want

to cry. You’re a jerk, he told himself. You really scared her. “I’m

sorry,” he said again before making his way out of the building.

The workers were on their half-hour lunch break when he

reached the factory. He smelled the sharp, pungent smell of the

crushed girbal leaves as he entered. He inhaled deeply and walked

over to where Deshpande, the foreman, was sitting against a machine. The man, who was eating a simple lunch of a roti dipped in

daal, jumped to his feet when he saw Frank approach. “Good afternoon, sahib,” he said in his thickly accented English.

“Afternoon,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see

the other workers staring at him. “Listen, Desh. I have some good

news. I’ve decided to raise everybody’s salary by two rupees a day,

effective next week. And we’re adding an extra fifteen-minute break

to each day. Okay?” He waited for an expression of delight to cross

the man’s face, but Desh was expressionless. Damn poker-faced

bastard, Frank thought.

Desh finally spoke, lowering his voice. “We should also offer a

good sum to Anand’s mother, sahib. Will help tensions a lot.”

To his surprise Frank realized that the foreman was talking to

him as an equal, as if they were partners brainstorming a business

strategy. The guy really cares about this place, he thought, and found

9 4 Th r i t y U m r i g a r

the notion comforting and oddly touching. A feeling of good cheer

spread across him. “Tell you what,” he said. “You recommend what

you think is a fair amount. I’ll leave that to you.” He was rewarded

by a shy grin.

Desh waited until Frank exited the factory to break the news to

the others. On his way out, Frank heard the men erupt into cheers

and whistles. He smiled to himself. As he walked back to his office,

he couldn’t help but think that maybe he’d turned a corner.

That night, the chicken pot pie tasted delicious. “How does he do

it?” Frank gasped. “I mean, the guy looks like Howdy Doody but

cooks like Wolfgang Puck.”

Ellie giggled. “He does look a bit like Howdy Doody, doesn’t he?”

“Yup. He should teach Ramesh how to cook. Good skill to have

if the kid’s gonna study in the States someday.”

“You really think Ramesh is that good?” Ellie asked. “That he

could hold his own in the U.S.?”

He waited to see if he detected any hostility or sarcasm in her

voice and decided there was none. “I think the kid’s brilliant, Ellie,”

he said. His voice was sincere, even-keeled. “With the right kind of

parents, the sky would be the limit—”

“But that’s just it, babe,” Ellie said. “His parents are a bright but

passive mother and a father who seems more interested in booze

than anything else. Those are the cards he has to play.”

Not if I play a stronger role in his life, Frank wanted to say. And I

would, if I didn’t have to watch over my shoulder and gauge your reaction all the time. But he swallowed the words even as they formed

on his lips. As he did the thought that followed: How come Ellie is

so damn liberal about global issues—the rights of women, the obligation of rich countries to help poorer countries, even what should