Once Philipose realized that Elsie only came to visit Baby Mol and had no plans to stay, he withdrew, gave up any attempt to interact with her. He rarely sees her; for him the distinctions between day and night are blurred because of his little pearl, and he is increasingly a nocturnal creature. A few times he sees her patrolling the verandah, staring out at the rain as though if she looked long enough it would stop. He almost laughs when he hears her outside his window ask Shamuel if there is any way to mail a letter. The old man says the post office is submerged. Philipose is tempted to call out, You’re a good swimmer, Elsie. Why not deliver it in person?
One night he wakes just before midnight and, out of habit, he pushes aside the curtain and peers out. He makes out a figure perched on the verandah ledge, knees drawn to chest, a stone woman, an apparition perhaps, staring at the sheeting rain. His stomach knots with fear till he recognizes Elsie. Her face, cast with shadows, looks so altered, so burdened. Seeing her weeping, he feels pity despite himself. He sits up to go to her . . . but then stops. His presence might be no comfort; it might make it worse. She’s become a stranger. He knows nothing about her life in the last year. But he’s puzzled. Why such anguish? Why is it so important to leave? What is it, Elsie? This isn’t about Ninan, surely.
He must have dozed off, because when he opens his eyes, the sky is lighter. Did he imagine Elsie? He looks out and she’s still there, her back to him, bent double over the low wall, retching. This time he hurries out. Seeing him, she straightens up, sways, and he grabs her before she falls. He guides her to Baby Mol’s bench. She sits hunched over, clutching her belly. He brings her water. “Elsie, my Elsiamma, tell me. What is it?”
Her expression as she looks at him is so full of suffering, of torment, that it sends a shiver through him. Instinctively he holds her to him, comforts her till the spasm eases. For the briefest moment he’s certain she’s about to confide in him, to unburden herself. He waits . . . He sees her change her mind. She drops her gaze. “Maybe it was the pickle . . .” she mumbles.
He lets go. No pickle ever produced this grief. He says, “It didn’t trouble me.”
“You’ve hardly had a meal with us,” she says, her voice hoarse.
“I know . . . I work and sleep at odd hours.”
Unconsciously, he copies her posture: hunched forward, looking down. His right ankle is swollen; the left is askew, a permanent state. Her feet are as he remembers them, more tanned perhaps, the toes more flexed. An image of their feet side by side at the engagement comes to him. A chasm separates that memory from this moment. He breathes in her new scent that is utterly foreign. At one time their bodies shared the same fragrance, a function of the water, the soil, and the food of Parambil. Baby Ninan’s hair, he still remembers, had a sweet, faint, puppy-dog odor on top of the family scent.
Elsie looks out with the hopelessness of a condemned prisoner. She shakes her head. If he hadn’t been staring at her lips, he would have missed what she said: “I never planned to stay this long.” Again, her eyes fill up.
Her words wound him. The rain picks up, as though voicing his frustration with her. How can they heal if not together? At last, he says, “It isn’t just Baby Mol who needed you here.” His misshapen foot twitches of its own volition.
His words give her pause. She looks at him anew. “I’m sorry,” she says, brushing at her eyes. “It was hard to remain here after Ninan . . .” Perhaps it occurs to her that he didn’t have that choice, because she adds, “But I didn’t escape anything. It was still there with me. Every moment. As it must be with you. I knew Baby Mol needed me. Big Ammachi needed me . . .” Her voice drops to a whisper. “You needed me. But I couldn’t.” She puts the glass down. “I’m going to lie down, all right?” Her hand grazes his shoulder, apologetically, if not affectionately.
Two days later, Philipose sees the sun refract through orange clouds, giving the land an ethereal glow. It’s gone in seconds, but by then he’s in a frenzy, mounting his bicycle and pedaling furiously. He nears the end of the driveway, weaving around puddles, picking up speed, exhilarated—
When he opens his eyes, his vision is obscured. Even a lover of soil doesn’t choose to embed his face in it. How long was he unconscious? Rain hammers down. He turns to one side. A pair of bare feet approach, fair at the ankles and painted bronze with mud below. Elsie helps him sit, then slowly rise. “I don’t know,” she says when he asks what happened. “I happened to look out and saw something on the ground. Then you moved.” Skin is gone on his elbow. His left knee throbs. His shoulder aches. He leans heavily on the crooked bicycle as they head back in silence, both of them drenched. He feels for the box in the waist of his mundu, relieved that it’s there. He needs it badly, but not in front of her. Suddenly he bursts out, “Elsie, we can start again. Build a new house elsewhere on the property. Or move away.” She doesn’t look at him or answer. After a while he says, more to himself than to her, “How did it get this way? It’s all my fault.” Rain, or tears, or both streak down her face.
In his room—once their shared chamber—he hurriedly rolls a pearl, an extra-large dose for the pain in his knee, his shoulder, his ankles, his head . . . and his heart. After bathing, he drifts off, floating in a womb, bumping gently off cushioned walls. He stirs when he feels rather than hears the creak of the wardrobe beside him. It’s Elsie, her back to him, retrieving her old clothes after bathing. Usually, she sends Baby Mol on this errand, but he knows Baby Mol is under the weather. A thorthu corrals Elsie’s wet hair, and the damp mundu wrapped around her torso leaves her shoulders and legs bare. She’s tiptoeing out with her bundle when, impulsively, Philipose grasps her hand. She looks startled, a mouse caught in a trap. He lets go.
“Elsie . . . please. I beg you. Sit a moment.” She hesitates. She shuffles closer, then gingerly sits on the edge of the bed. “I want to thank you,” he says, taking her hand again. Her gaze stays on the ground. The simple act of cradling her fingers brings him comfort. “But for you, a bullock cart might have rolled over my head. But for you . . .” His voice breaks. “It’s my fault. Did I already say that?” He gently reaches for her chin and lifts her face up. “Elsie. Forgive me.” Her expression startles him. The mouse looks uncomprehendingly at the trapper asking forgiveness. Is she registering what he’s saying? She turns her face and her lips move. “Elsie, I can’t hear you.”
“I said, I’m the one that needs forgiveness.”
He laughs, an awkward sound. “No, no, my Elsie! No. The world knows my dignity is gone. My legs are gone. My son is gone. My wife is gone. But as far as who did wrong, that’s mine. Don’t rob me of the only thing that I own.” He sits up, wincing, and puts his arm with the skinned elbow around her. Pain doesn’t matter. His tone is jocular. “Elsie, you were born forgiven. Can we get back to this wretch, please? He needs forgiveness, mercy.”