The ocean sloshed in his nose, in his mouth. His legs were long and useless. He spat and tried to yell, but Gertie couldn’t hear him. Only because a sudden wind blew her sun hat into the sand did she stand and, in retrieving it, see Daniel’s dropping head.
She let go of the hat and ran to Daniel in what felt like slow motion, though it was the fastest she had ever moved. She wore a diaphanous muumuu over her bathing suit whose hem she had to carry; then, with a roar of consternation, she pulled the whole thing off and left it shriveled on the ground. Underneath was a black one-piece with a skirted hem that revealed her stout and dimpled thighs. She sloshed through the shallow water before inhaling deeply and plunging into the waves. Hurry, thought Daniel, gargling salt water. Hurry, Mama. He had not called her that since he was a toddler. At last, her hands appeared beneath his armpits. She dragged him out of the water and together they collapsed in the sand. Her entire body was red, her hair slicked to her head like an aviator’s helmet. She was heaving great breaths that Daniel thought were from exertion before he realized she was sobbing.
At dinner that evening, he told the story of the near-drowning with pomp, but inside, he glowed with renewed attachment to his family. For the rest of the vacation, he forgave Varya her most sustained sleep-babbling. He let Klara take the first shower when they returned from the beach, even though her showers took so long that Gertie once banged on the door to ask why, if she needed this much water, Klara did not bring a bar of soap into the ocean. Years later, when Simon and Klara left home – and after that, when even Varya pulled away from him – Daniel could not understand why they didn’t feel what he had: the regret of separation, and the bliss of being returned. He waited. After all, what could he say? Don’t drift too far. You’ll miss us. But as the years passed and they did not, he became wounded and despairing, then bitter.
At two a.m., he walks downstairs to the study. He leaves the overhead light off – the bluish glow of the computer screen is light enough – and enters the address for Raj and Ruby’s website. When it loads, large red words appear on the screen.
Experience the WONDERS OF INDIA without leaving your seat! Let RAJ AND RUBY take you on a MAGIC CARPET RIDE of otherworldly delights, from the Indian Needle Trick to the Great Rope Mystery, which famously confounded HOWARD THURSTON – the greatest AMERICAN MAGICIAN of the TWENTIETH CENTURY!
The capitalized letters dance and blink. Below them, Raj’s and Ruby’s faces loom, bindis on their foreheads. There’s a rotating slideshow in the center of the webpage. In one image, Raj is trapped in a basket that Ruby has stabbed with two long swords. In another, Raj holds a snake as thick as Daniel’s neck.
It’s gaudy, Daniel thinks. Exploitative. Then again, it’s Vegas: clearly, gaudy is a selling point. He’s been twice – first for a friend’s bachelor party, then for a medical conference. Both times, it struck him as a uniquely American monstrosity, everything a blown-up cartoon version of itself. Restaurants called Margaritaville and Cabo Wabo. Volcanoes spewing pink smoke. The Forum Shops, a mall built to look like ancient Rome. Who could feel, living there, like they were in the real world? At least Raj and Ruby travel: their show is based at the Mirage, but a link marked Touring & Schedule shows that they’re performing at Boston’s Mystery Lounge this weekend. In two weeks, they’ll begin a monthlong run in New York City.
Daniel wonders where they plan to spend Thanksgiving. Raj has largely kept Ruby from the Golds, reappearing and disappearing her every couple of years like a rabbit in a hat. Daniel saw her as a passionate three-year-old, then a somber, observant child of five and nine, last as a sullen preteen. That visit ended with an explosive argument about the Jaws of Life, Klara’s signature act. Raj was teaching it to Ruby, which sickened Daniel. He could not fathom why Raj would want to re-create the image of Klara hanging from a rope via her daughter.
‘I’m keeping her memory alive,’ Raj had roared. ‘Can you say the same?’
They haven’t spoken since, though this isn’t just Raj’s fault. There have been plenty of times when Daniel could have reached out – certainly before that falling-out, and even after. But being in the presence of Raj and Ruby has always given Daniel a disturbing feeling of regret. When Ruby was young, she looked like Raj, but in her teens, she assumed Klara’s full, dimpled cheeks and Cheshire cat smile. Long, curly hair fell to her waist like Klara’s, except that Ruby’s was brown – Klara’s natural color – instead of red. Sometimes, when she was moody, Daniel experienced a phantasmagoric sense of déjà vu. With holographic ease, Ruby became her mother, and Klara stared at Daniel with accusation. He had not been close enough to her, had not known how sick she was. He had initiated their visit to the fortune teller, too, which affected all of his siblings, but perhaps Klara most of all. He still remembers the way she looked in the alley afterward: wet-cheeked and raw-nosed, her eyes both alert and strangely vacant.
The only phone number Daniel has is Raj’s landline. Since they’re traveling, he clicks on Contact. E-mail addresses are listed for Raj and Ruby’s manager, publicist, and agent above a box that reads, Write to the Chapals! Who knows if they even check it – the box seems designed for fan mail – but he decides to try.
Raj:
Daniel Gold here. It’s been quite some time, so I thought I’d write. I noticed that you’ll be traveling to New York in the coming weeks. Any Thanksgiving plans? We’d be happy to host you. It seems a shame to go so long without seeing family.
Best,
DG
Daniel rereads the e-mail and worries it’s too casual. He puts dear before Raj, then deletes it (Raj isn’t dear to him, and neither Daniel nor Raj tolerate phoniness; it’s one of the few things they have in common). Daniel writes, Do you have before any Thanksgiving plans? and substitutes really like for be happy before to host you. He deletes the last line – are they family, really? – and then rewrites it. They’re close enough. He hits Send.
He figured he’d be up at 6:30 the next morning, despite his suspension – at forty-eight years old, he’s nothing if not predictable – but when his cell phone rings, the sun is high in the sky. He squints at the clock, shakes his head, squints again: it’s eleven. He fumbles around his bedside table with one hand, finds his glasses and flip phone, puts the first on and opens the second. Could Raj be calling already?
‘ ’Lo?’
He’s greeted by static. ‘Daniel,’ says a voice. ‘. . . t’s . . . Dee . . .’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Daniel. ‘You’re breaking up. What was that?’
‘It’s . . . Dee . . . here in the . . . son . . . ley . . . service . . .’
‘Dee?’
‘. . . Dee,’ says the voice, insistently. ‘Eddie O . . . hue . . .’
‘Eddie O’Donoghue?’ Even in its garbled form, something about the name jogs Daniel’s memory. He sits up, stuffing a pillow behind him.
‘. . . ’es . . . Cop . . . we met . . . cisco . . . your . . . ’ter . . . FBI . . .’