only a few words
of English, so it was a quiet ride except for the ceaseless roar of wind through the open windows. Fifty miles out the driver
stopped, went over to a roadside shrine, and left some coins. “Bad spirits,” he said, getting in. “Evil.” He shifted gears,
looking back at the shrine.
In Virudunagar the driver had breakfast and the car had a flat tire. Apparently the donation at the shrine had been insufficient.
The spare was shot, so it took a major expedition through the streets until a garage was located. After the obligatory haggling
over price, the tire was hauled to the shop and cold-patched. That’ll be good for another sixty miles, Michael thought. Their
stop in Virudunagar had taken nearly two hours.
Michael leaned back on the red vinyl car seat and looked at villages and farm country going by. Near Rajapalaiyam the driver
slowed and halted on a bridge over a wide, shallow river. A woman ahead of them was driving a flock of geese across the bridge.
On the sandbars below, other women, their skirts hiked up, were doing laundry, waving clothing over their heads and slapping
it hard against rocks.
The geese were almost across, moving slowly. Too slowly for the driver. He honked. The woman pushing the geese along turned,
giving them a nasty look. Only rich folks rode in cars, and she was having none of it. The beat of life in village India is
in adagio time. Only rich folks from somewhere else are in a hurry.
A woman came toward them across the bridge. She wore a torn red sari of the cheapest cloth, toe rings on her brown feet, and
carried a load of sticks on her head. One arm was raised to balance the load, the other swung beside her, bracelets jingling.
She was stunning. Beautiful by any standards anywhere. The way Bardot looked in her salad days. She glanced through the car
window at Michael, and he smiled, couldn’t help smiling. He thought she might smile back. She looked as if she might for a
moment, but then turned her head and stared straight down the road as she moved past the car.
He leaned forward and saw the Western Ghats rising up far ahead. Somewhere in those mountains was Jellie, near a place called
Thekkady, or at least she was supposed to be there. And what she was doing there he didn’t know and still wasn’t sure he wanted
to find out.
An hour more and they were into the foothills, climbing slowly and carefully around hairpin curves, waiting for huge, roaring
Indian tour buses demanding the road and giving no quarter. Cooler now. Three thousand feet, maybe, pine trees right outside
the car windows. Michael didn’t know Jellie had walked this same road in terror fifteen years earlier. She had called herself
by another name then.
Five
F ollowing her first Thanksgiving in Cedar Bend, Jellie didn’t stop at Michael’s office for nearly two weeks. Her pattern had
been to come by for coffee and a smoke at least once a week, and he decided he’d really screwed it up, that Jellie and maybe
other people were beginning to see how he felt and she’d decided to quash anything and everything of that sort right at the
front end.
When Jimmy Braden called and asked if they could talk for a few minutes, he was sure Jellie had said something to him. He
sat there waiting for the blows, waiting for Jimmy to say Jellie was uncomfortable with the way he looked at her and that
she wouldn’t be stopping by anymore, let alone sending invitations to subsequent Thanksgiving dinners.
But Jimmy didn’t want that. In some ways the news was worse. He was going to teach in London for the spring semester, and
Jellie was going with him. He’d applied for a visiting professorship the previous year and cut a deal with Arthur on his way
in, allowing him to do the London job if it came through. His application had been lost in the British bureaucracy. But finally
it had worked out at the last minute. Now Jimmy was looking for faculty members who
of English, so it was a quiet ride except for the ceaseless roar of wind through the open windows. Fifty miles out the driver
stopped, went over to a roadside shrine, and left some coins. “Bad spirits,” he said, getting in. “Evil.” He shifted gears,
looking back at the shrine.
In Virudunagar the driver had breakfast and the car had a flat tire. Apparently the donation at the shrine had been insufficient.
The spare was shot, so it took a major expedition through the streets until a garage was located. After the obligatory haggling
over price, the tire was hauled to the shop and cold-patched. That’ll be good for another sixty miles, Michael thought. Their
stop in Virudunagar had taken nearly two hours.
Michael leaned back on the red vinyl car seat and looked at villages and farm country going by. Near Rajapalaiyam the driver
slowed and halted on a bridge over a wide, shallow river. A woman ahead of them was driving a flock of geese across the bridge.
On the sandbars below, other women, their skirts hiked up, were doing laundry, waving clothing over their heads and slapping
it hard against rocks.
The geese were almost across, moving slowly. Too slowly for the driver. He honked. The woman pushing the geese along turned,
giving them a nasty look. Only rich folks rode in cars, and she was having none of it. The beat of life in village India is
in adagio time. Only rich folks from somewhere else are in a hurry.
A woman came toward them across the bridge. She wore a torn red sari of the cheapest cloth, toe rings on her brown feet, and
carried a load of sticks on her head. One arm was raised to balance the load, the other swung beside her, bracelets jingling.
She was stunning. Beautiful by any standards anywhere. The way Bardot looked in her salad days. She glanced through the car
window at Michael, and he smiled, couldn’t help smiling. He thought she might smile back. She looked as if she might for a
moment, but then turned her head and stared straight down the road as she moved past the car.
He leaned forward and saw the Western Ghats rising up far ahead. Somewhere in those mountains was Jellie, near a place called
Thekkady, or at least she was supposed to be there. And what she was doing there he didn’t know and still wasn’t sure he wanted
to find out.
An hour more and they were into the foothills, climbing slowly and carefully around hairpin curves, waiting for huge, roaring
Indian tour buses demanding the road and giving no quarter. Cooler now. Three thousand feet, maybe, pine trees right outside
the car windows. Michael didn’t know Jellie had walked this same road in terror fifteen years earlier. She had called herself
by another name then.
Five
F ollowing her first Thanksgiving in Cedar Bend, Jellie didn’t stop at Michael’s office for nearly two weeks. Her pattern had
been to come by for coffee and a smoke at least once a week, and he decided he’d really screwed it up, that Jellie and maybe
other people were beginning to see how he felt and she’d decided to quash anything and everything of that sort right at the
front end.
When Jimmy Braden called and asked if they could talk for a few minutes, he was sure Jellie had said something to him. He
sat there waiting for the blows, waiting for Jimmy to say Jellie was uncomfortable with the way he looked at her and that
she wouldn’t be stopping by anymore, let alone sending invitations to subsequent Thanksgiving dinners.
But Jimmy didn’t want that. In some ways the news was worse. He was going to teach in London for the spring semester, and
Jellie was going with him. He’d applied for a visiting professorship the previous year and cut a deal with Arthur on his way
in, allowing him to do the London job if it came through. His application had been lost in the British bureaucracy. But finally
it had worked out at the last minute. Now Jimmy was looking for faculty members who
Similar Books
