A mover came out with Mrs. Patel’s recliner on his back. He probably had no idea that that chair had held her while her sugars plummeted, and her heart beat valiantly along, until it couldn’t anymore.
“Could I ask a favor?” Bandhu said.
I wanted to laugh. There went the chair, bobbing through the courtyard, bright and absurd, a greasy patch at the top where her head had rested. But not at the very end, I wanted to say, as if it were a punch line. Mrs. Patel’s head had rested on her chin instead, vomit trailing down. Bam! Pow! Cue the applause. I hadn’t killed her, and now everything seemed a bit too hilarious. Of course I hadn’t conjured a heart attack. I wanted to laugh and laugh, because it was such a stupid idea. Ridiculous!
Bandhu was still talking. “I have to pick up my uncle from the airport. Would you mind keeping an eye on the movers? I’ve already paid, including tip. And I’ll give you twenty dollars for your time.”
“You don’t need to pay me.” I had to bite my lip to stop from laughing. “I’m happy to help.”
And so absolutely, deliriously happy that I hadn’t killed Mrs. Patel.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“We’ll be there.”
“My mother would like that.” He pressed the twenty-dollar bill into my hand anyway, and then he said goodbye and left, just in time so that he wouldn’t see the smile I couldn’t hold back any longer.
—
When the movers were done, the one who’d carried the yellow chair on his back returned to walk me through the empty rooms so that I could sign the form saying they hadn’t damaged any walls or doorways.
“You need to come inside,” he said when I balked at the door.
“I can’t, sorry. I’ll sign now.”
“Eyes inside. Contract says so.”
“But I can’t. She died in there. She was my friend.”
“Sorry for your loss. She’s not in there now, and I need a signature.”
So I followed him in. He pointed out a gouge in the wall, a piece of missing baseboard, a crack in the bedroom door.
“Those were all here already. I can show you the pictures we took.” His voice echoed, and the walls looked dirty, and the linoleum was sticky underfoot, which seemed so odd. Mrs. Patel had been a meticulous housekeeper, but her furniture and her pictures and her shelves of books and china teacups had hidden years of grime underneath.
“Where do I sign?” I said. “I have to go.”
He held the clipboard while I signed at the bottom, and then he left and I was alone. All the curtains and drapes were gone; the sun streamed in through the windows, the rectangles of light meeting in the middle of the room. I put my hand on the banister. I took the stairs one at a time, hesitating on each one, but ending up at the top nonetheless. There were divots in the carpet where Mrs. Patel’s furniture had been, and a grimy trail where she’d walked from the kitchen to her chair and back a million times or more. Someone had cleaned the spot where the piss and shit and vomit had been, but only just there. So the patch of carpet stuck out, cleaner than the rest, but still dirty. A broom leaned against the kitchen counter, beside a black garbage bag, half full. I swept the kitchen, and then I took the broom and the dustpan and the garbage bag downstairs and swept the linoleum by the door.
The place still smelled of her. But it smelled of dusty furniture and musty books, too, and the cleanser that was used on the carpet where she died. Even though I was the only one there, it was a different kind of quiet. A garbage truck rumbled down the alley, and it was louder, like the noise came right in and bounced off the bare walls. I could hear the children in the park across the street. Mrs. Patel’s home was a sad, grimy, lonely place now. I shut the door and took a breath of fresh air in the courtyard. That was that.
I composed about a million texts to Salix in my head and sent exactly none. Too much had happened. I’d messed it up. She would think I was a flake. Which, clearly, I was. Because who would believe for one minute that a person could conjure a heart attack that could actually kill someone?
Someone who was crazy. That was who.
I didn’t tell anyone about the heart attack. Not even as a joke. And I never would. Instead I carried on, looking after the boys, sketching, and feeling like I blew it with Salix. Three days after Mrs. Patel died, Claire and the boys and I went to the Hindu temple for Mrs. Patel’s service.
“She’s been our neighbor for almost seven years!” Claire was on the phone with Dad as she fished in the dryer for a clean pair of underwear. I was in my room, brushing my hair and listening, brushing my hair and listening. “You should be there, Billy. Take a longer lunch. Explain it to Nigel; he’ll understand.” There was a pause, and then Claire slammed the dryer door. “I hope so, Billy. Because there’s no excuse not to be. She wasn’t just a neighbor. She was our friend. She was your friend.” Another pause. “It starts at two o’clock. You can meet us there.”
Dad didn’t show up.
Claire left me outside the temple to wait for him while everyone else filed in and she settled the boys inside.
“Are you coming in?” It was Bandhu.
“I will,” I said. “I’m just waiting for my dad.”
I kept my eyes on the parking lot, but he never showed up. Finally I went inside too, and instead of concentrating on Mrs. Patel’s service, I sat and stewed in anger. Where the hell was he? What if he’d left work but hadn’t made it to the temple? What if he’d stopped to get drunk in the middle of the day? He wasn’t injured. He wasn’t dead. He was just an asshole.
“This is inexcusable,” Claire whispered, about ten minutes into the service. She was as restless as the boys, as we all focused on a service in a language none of us understood.
She put a hand on Corbin’s leg to stop him from bouncing.
“Mom, Mom,” Owen whispered. “I don’t understand what they’re saying.”
“I have to get out of here.” Claire gripped my wrist. “I can’t breathe.”
I took her arm and helped her up. The boys followed behind. People stared at us as we left, but Claire just doubled over a bit, holding her belly, as if that was the reason we were leaving. When we’d pushed through the doors and into the hot summer day, she straightened for a minute and took a deep breath.
“What the hell is going on? Where the fuck is your father?”
The three of us didn’t say a word as we followed her across the parking lot. She unlocked the van, got into the driver’s seat, and kicked off her sandals.
“I’m going to find him.” She gripped the steering wheel. “I’m going to find him, and he is going to get the full wrath.”
“What’s wrath?” Owen asked from the backseat.
“Because if he thinks this is in any way acceptable, he is sorely mistaken.”
She drove back to our neighborhood and—starting at the south end—stopped at every single bar and restaurant and pub and sent me in to check if he was there.
He wasn’t.
“I’m hungry!” Corbin hollered when we stopped at a place that sold beer and fish and chips. “I have to eat good to rebuild my bone. The doctor said!”
“Eat well.” Claire put on her sandals.