After a while, she realized she was on 26 West; she didn’t even remember crossing the river. She saw the sign for Hillsboro. Wasn’t that where Pedro and Juanita lived? Maybe she could visit them. She didn’t have their address. Hillsboro was full of Mexicans. Hillsburrito, some people called it. Someone would know where they lived, surely. Maybe at one of the local grocery stores. She remembered something they had said about being near the Seventh Day Adventist Church. She could find the church, ask the priest.
She saw a fruit market with signs that said ‘mango’ and ‘pineapple’, stopped there, and got off to ask the Mexican at the shop. He stared at her with aggressive eyes. ‘Pedro and Juanita? Which Pedro and Juanita? Don’t know anyone of that name. Don’t they have a last name, lady?’
Of course they did, but she couldn’t remember what it was. ‘Never mind,’ she said, getting into the car and driving off. She could see the man shaking his head and saying something to another customer, a fellow Mexican. She drove around some more, found herself near what looked like a church. Iglesia de Septimo Dia. The name was in Spanish but wouldn’t they be Catholic?
It was a good idea, though; they were bound to be churchgoers. She would drive around and see if she could find a church nearby. After several passes down various roads, she saw a sign which said ‘St John’s Catholic Church’. It was one of those bland modern buildings, red brick with a square grey spire on the right, and a facade that combined stained glass and etching. A service had got over a while ago. She would get off and see if she could find someone. The parking lot on the side had a lone bluish-grey Echo with shiny over-ironed black robes hanging inside the window. She walked around to the entrance, pushed opened one of the double-doors. It was half-light, half-dark inside, with the shuttered cool of shadows. She walked in, not seeing much, sat down in one of the wooden pews.
Before she knew it, she was kneeling on the cushioned stool in front of her, hands clasped together. ‘Our Father, hallowed be thy name. What have I done? Forgive me. But you must know better than me why I did it. I didn’t even know I was doing it. What am I going to do? Will they find me?’
A voice came from the front of the church. ‘Are you looking for something?’ It was an old Mexican priest in black robes.
‘S-sorry,’ she said, standing up. ‘I just sat down for a minute. I … I was looking for some friends.’
‘What are their names?’
‘Huh? Pedro and Juanita. I’m sorry, I don’t remember their last name.’
‘You mean Pedro and Juanita Morales?’
Morales. ‘Yes, that’s it. Do you know where I can find them?’
‘And who are you?’
‘I’m … they work for me, they help me clean my house.’
‘Don’t you have their phone number then?’
Of course. How stupid. She could call them. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Father,’ she said, not sure what to call the man. He waved at her, went back towards the altar.
She called Juanita’s number. Juanita picked up after several rings. ‘Yes, Miz Madhu?’
‘Hi, Juanita, are you back home?’
‘Yes, Miz Madhu. Is anything the matter?’
‘No, no, nothing, nothing at all,’ she said. ‘I was in the area and I remembered you live here so I thought I would look you up. Also, I forgot to pay you, you know, this morning.’
‘Yes, Miz Madhu.’
‘So where do you live?’
Juanita paused. ‘Where are you now, Miz Madhu?’
‘In your church, St John’s. I just met your priest,’ she said.
‘Father Gonzales?’ Juanita said. She sounded surprised, uncomfortable. ‘Why don’t we come meet you there, Miz Madhu? It’ll be easier than you finding us. We’ll come there right away.’ She hung up before Madhu could protest.
The priest came back. ‘Managed to contact them?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They are coming here to meet me.’
He nodded, went away.
She sat down again in the pew. Why had she wanted to meet Juanita and Pedro? What on earth was she doing in Hillsboro? What was she going to say to them when she saw them?
The air was thick with silence and stained light and yearning and the faint pull of incense. In convent school and college, she had found something strangely attractive about churchgoing. They made everything elegant: birth, weddings, even death. In her head, she had planned a Christian wedding with Puneet. Somehow, her parents would have given in.
It would have taken place in the graceful chapel of his college, where only staff and old students were allowed to be married. Her ivory white gown was to have been simple and elegant, with lace details at the neck and the hands. A veil of lace, of course, held in place by a tiara, and in her hands a bouquet of orange blossom (did you get them in India?), like the Mills & Boon heroines carried, ready to toss into the crowd of eager girls. At her neck and in her ears would have been the most delicate of pearls, and on her ring finger an engagement ring with a rock worth a month’s salary of the groom’s, to be followed by a simple gold wedding band, the same for him and for her. She could picture him, tall and elegant, waiting for her by the altar. In the choir loft, they would have been singing ‘Ave Maria’ as she walked down the aisle.
Father Gonzales came back. ‘Well, I’m going now. I need to bolt the doors. Can’t keep the church open nowadays, sadly. There’s a café down the road. You’re welcome to wait in the parking lot as well.’
‘Oh, sorry. Thanks,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘I’ll wait outside.’
The sunshine clamped down on her. She got into the car, turned on the air-conditioner, reached behind her seat for a bottle of water. She was so thirsty, it felt like a rope drawn tight around the neck. The water tasted of plastic. She sat still. The water dripped off her face onto her top. She felt the church watching her, stopped herself from turning on the music. Father Gonzales came out, climbed into his car, and waved as he drove off.
She had been sitting there for ten or twelve minutes when she heard a car pull up behind her. In the rearview mirror, she saw Pedro and Juanita get out of their car. Juanita opened the back door and undid the baby from his car seat. She noticed how Mexican they looked as they walked towards her: jet-black hair like Indians but with the texture of paintbrush strokes, pale brown faces but a different brown somehow, although people often mistook one for the other. The Mexican brown was more leathery, maybe from hours of work in the sun. Pedro had a moustache like south Indian movie stars – south Indian men in general – but it was a modest affair, not luxuriant as in the stereotypes with the sombrero. Gosh, they were young. In their late twenties or early thirties, probably, but fatigue and worry seemed to have become permanent residents.
She got out of the car. They smiled at her, unsure.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Sorry if I disturbed you.’
‘No, no, no disturbance, Miz Madhu,’ Pedro said.
‘I was just in the neighbourhood, I remembered I’d forgotten to give you your money this morning. Here it is.’ She handed over a narrow brown envelope to him. So, how is Baby…?’
‘Ernesto – his name is Ernesto,’ Juanita said, kissing the sleeping baby’s round little cheeks.
Madhu laughed. ‘How many kids do you have?’
‘Five,’ said Pedro.
‘Five! That’s a lot of kids.’
‘Yes,’ he said. He stared.
‘And what are their names?’
Juanita hesitated, looking at Pedro. She kissed the baby again, and held him close.
‘Our eldest is Pablo,’ Pedro said. ‘Then Michelle, Rosa and Hugo. And little Ernesto.’
‘Oh, good, good,’ Madhu said, her attention wandering to a pick-up truck full of Mexican workers driving past. A couple of them waved at Pedro.
She looked at the little family before her, the baby with its face obscured against its mother’s shoulder. ‘See, this is what I wanted to ask you. You have five children, right? Things must be tough for you, you know, feeding them and sending them to school, and so on.’
‘We manage, Miz Madhu,’ Pedro said. ‘We do more houses, like yours. I also do some lawn work. Juanita does some cooking.’
His wife was silent. She looked at her, at him, then down at her feet. The baby whimpered softly in its sleep.
‘Well, here’s what I was thinking,’ Madhu said slowly. ‘What if I were to adopt your baby – Baby Ernesto – how would you feel about that?’
‘Adopt him!’ Juanita burst out, looking from Madhu’s face to her husband’s and back. ‘You can’t adopt him. We are not looking to give him up!’ She pulled the baby’s little hood over his head, and held him closer.
‘Yes, Juanita, I understand,’ Madhu said. ‘But think of your position. You have five children, your situation is uncertain, at any time they could raid you, send you back.’
‘No!’
‘You know it’s true.’
‘What exactly you mean, Miz Madhu?’ Pedro said, his voice soft, moving so that he stood between his wife and baby, and Madhu.
‘Here’s what I’m saying. Give me your baby. I’ll pay you…’ She looked in her bag, found what remained of Jasvinder’s money, ‘…good money for him.’
‘Sell you our baby, are you crazy?’ Juanita said, holding her baby away from Madhu.
‘Don’t shout, dear,’ Madhu said. ‘People may hear you.’
They went still.
‘If you give me your baby – sell me your baby – I wouldn’t need to report you,’ she said.
‘You can’t do this, Miz Madhu,’ Pedro said, his voice barely a whisper. ‘You would not be so cruel.’
‘Cruel! How am I being cruel? I’m promising you a good home for your child,’ she said, quite calm. ‘I’m paying you in exchange for him.’
The baby woke up and began wailing. Juanita tearfully rocked and soothed him, murmured to him in Spanish.
‘Our … baby … is … not … for … sale,’ Pedro said.
‘Think of all your other babies,’ she said. ‘Don’t you want them to be safe? Do you want to risk your whole family by being obstinate? Don’t you remember how difficult it was for you to get here in the first place?’
‘I will call your husband, tell him what you’re doing,’ Juanita burst out.
Madhu paused. ‘You don’t have his number,’ she said. ‘Besides, he wants a baby, too. He asked me to do this.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ Juanita said. A young white couple with a dog, walking on the sidewalk that divided the parking lot from the road, looked at them. ‘He’s a good man, Mr Vinod, kind man.’
‘I told you to keep your voice down,’ Madhu muttered. ‘Don’t talk about my husband.’
‘You can’t have our baby,’ Juanita said. ‘Miz Madhu, I beg of you, don’t take away my little Ernesto, for the love of God, don’t do it.’ The baby began crying loudly. She murmured to it in Spanish.
Madhu felt tears streaming down her face. She thrust the money into Pedro’s pocket. ‘Give me the baby,’ she jerked out. She grabbed Ernesto from his mother’s hands, and walked towards her car.
Ernesto’s parents froze. They watched as Madhu put the baby, first in the front passenger seat, then into the back. It sat there, unsecured, its tiny face and fists turning lobster pink. Madhu got into the car, strapped herself in and began to drive out of the parking lot.
Juanita ran after the car, thumping it on its side. Madhu locked the doors and drove on. Juanita continued running, hitting the car. Madhu saw a man waiting in his car at the stop signal, looking at them. She wondered if it was an unmarked cop car, and decided to stop. ‘What do you want?’ she said without lowering the window.
Juanita just stood there, weeping. Pedro came running up, carrying something. It was Ernesto’s car seat. She allowed him to fix it and settle his baby in it. She took off, skidding.
The baby wailed in a rhythmic fashion. God, how was she going to get him to shut up? She realized she knew nothing about babies. What should she feed him? Maybe Vinod would know. He knew things like that. A small worm of fear uncurled inside her. What would Vinod say? Would he be pleased? Surely he wanted to have a baby, too. How happy they would be, the three of them.
After a while, the baby fell into an exhausted sleep. She looked at him in the rearview mirror, almost crazy with happiness. How cute he was, really, like an Indian baby. Ernesto. That would have to go. Hmmm. What could she name him? She turned on Shahrukh, then quickly turned the music off before the baby woke up again.
Gosh, she needed some peace.
Rahul. That’s what she would name the baby. Shahrukh’s name in so many movies. It was like Raoul. No one could say she had ignored the baby’s heritage.
She would need to buy the baby clothes, food. All she had was a pair of red knit booties, the sweetest things you ever saw, which she had bought long ago, on an impulse. What kind of food? What did you feed a baby that age? Could it chew? She looked at the baby. Was he six months old? She should have taken his bag from Juanita. Feeding bottles, bibs, diapers, pacifiers, she had seen her friends use them. It had made her feel useless, somehow unwomanly, as if she were not quite a person, not quite adult. Adult women knew things; they had secrets about their bodies, secrets hidden inside their bodies. It was like she had never received the manual.
She repressed the image of the grieving mother, of the father handing over the car seat. Really, she was doing them a favour. They would figure that out eventually. Shouldn’t they be happy that Ernesto was getting a good home? They could come and see him once a week, when they came to clean the house. She didn’t mind.
There was no way she could stop off on the way to get the things. The baby couldn’t be left on his own in the car seat. On the other hand, she didn’t want to risk carrying him and being clumsy. People would see. She couldn’t afford to attract any more attention that day. She would go home directly, take the baby out with the car seat, call Vinod. He could get what was needed.
She called Vinod. He picked up after twenty rings, sounding out of breath.
‘I’m in the middle of something, Madhu. You really have to stop calling me like this.’
‘I know, I know, I’m sorry,’ she said, trying to keep her voice even. ‘It’s just that – well, I have a surprise for you! When will you get home?’
‘Not for a couple of hours. You know I don’t like surprises. Just tell me what it is.’
‘I can’t,’ she said, laughing. ‘Wait and see! You’re going to love it!’