Kamala parked her car on Moresby Street, and surveyed it. She had never been to this part of town before. All the narrow humpback houses were similar, like animals crouching with raised backs, frozen before they could spring, their latent energy seemingly discharged a long, long time ago. What could one’s view of life be, living in a house six feet wide at the widest? A couple of African-American kids, a boy and a girl, were playing on the street outside one of the houses. She thought with relief about her own house. Even at home, when their father was in service, they had been used to those huge old colonial bungalows set in acres of land. But somehow, you felt you always had to downplay your privilege, as though never having to make do was a bad thing in itself.
She had a vague memory of what Ariel had said about her house. It was her own bloody fault that she continued to choose to live in a dump like this. She could have re-qualified as a nurse, like she had told her. She could have had a much better life. Some people, there was no getting to them. But you never knew; a few years from now, and strange, rich designers from California could descend on Louisville like exotic birds of prey and buy up the ‘quaint little houses’ (to use one of Bobby NoSecondName the realtor’s euphemisms) on this street and turn them into boutiques that sold unwearable clothes. It had been known to happen. Maybe it would be smart to invest in one or two of them, anticipate the market, as they said. Ranjan ought to be pleased with her. Bobby, King of Three Percent, certainly would be. He was like a crouching animal himself, except his coat was Armani, his mind (such as it was) and body ever ready for fresh prey.
She had been terrified that Ranjan would find out about the missing bracelet, accuse her of being careless, yell at her for firing Ariel. But then, Ranjan had always had a thing for rangy women like Ariel. Funny that he had chosen her, who was anything but. She examined her face in the rearview mirror. The same eyes, nose, lips, now adrift on a sea of adipose. It happened to everyone, didn’t it, that widening of the face?
At the end of the train of parked cars, she saw one that looked familiar, a bashed-up off-white Toyota. It had not been judicious, her fight with Ariel. She could just as well have used the excuse that the housekeeper would be gone for some months and say she had found a replacement and would have to let her go. Then all she needed to have done was rerun the old classified, with suitable qualifications, so as to make sure she didn’t end up with another Ariel. Really, all things being equal, how had Ariel expected her to manage for those three months, give up her work to run the damn house?
She remembered how Ariel had looked that day, looming over her with that ferocious hair. There was a time when Kamala would have handled things better. She should have just kept her mouth shut. After all, what was her proof that it had been Ariel – just the long calls to Israel that Kamala herself had sanctioned in a weak moment? Ranjan had asked her about them.
Truth be told, she had never liked her, with her laissez-faire – imprudent – ways, and her easy friendship with Ranjan (and, of late, with Tara). Didn’t she know she ought to keep a proper distance from her employer’s husband? She had even had the cheek to tell him one day that she could cook Indian, if he wanted. Kamala had put her foot down. ‘Only I cook in this kitchen!’ she had said to him. She hadn’t liked the way he had said ‘Yeah, yeah’ in response. How could Ariel have met that husband of hers on a beach in Miami and then just married him, some blue-collar guy way beneath her, if she was telling the truth about her life in Tel Aviv? That was so – lax.
She unbuckled, reached into her bag that she had flung in the foot-well of the passenger seat, and pulled out her cheque book. A woman in her twenties with a perky face walked past, gave her a quick blank look, then walked down the street and went into the house next to Ariel’s. She mentally calculated what she owed the housekeeper. She added one hundred dollars to Ariel’s unpaid dues, and wrote out a cheque. It was to be a gift for the new grandchild. She put it in an envelope, wondered if she ought to include a note, decided against it, licked it closed, and wrote the housekeeper’s name on top.
The cold spring air filled with some unknown tree scent confronted her as she got out and rang the bell. Would Ariel be there, was she already gone? She had not really prepared a speech but she was prepared for Ariel’s coldness.
She could hear someone reducing the television whine of Formula 1 cars. A man in his early forties in blue jeans, a loose stomach held back by a faded Bats T-shirt, and a vivid blue-green tattoo on his arm of what seemed to be a mermaid, opened the door. He did not seem to recognize her. There was a faint smell of beer about him. She tried to remember his name. Frank. Hank.
‘I’m Kamala,’ she said. ‘Is Ariel home?’
‘Oh, sorry, Camilla,’ he said, suddenly placing her, ‘come in, come in. No, Ariel’s gone to St Matthew’s.’
‘I see her car out on the street. That’s how I found the house.’
‘Yeah, she took my pick-up truck. Her car needs fixing. I’m supposed to be doing that right now!’ he said. He grinned. ‘What can I do for you? Can I get you anything?’
‘No, no,’ she said, relieved that she didn’t actually have to deal with Ariel. ‘I just wanted to catch her before she left for Israel. Here, could you please give her this from me? It’s just a small gift for her grandchild.’
‘That’s very nice of you,’ he said, taking it and propping it up against a photo frame that lay on the mantle. It had a picture of a laughing Ariel on a beach. ‘I’m sure she’ll appreciate it. Thank you. I’ll have her call.’
As she drove away, she wondered whether she ought to have put a note in. What could she have said? Sorry for being such a bitch? Maybe it was true, the reputation she had gathered through youth and young adulthood. Anyway, it was too late now for regret. After a point in one’s life, the regrets seemed to line up longer than the achievements. Back, the looping thoughts. She seemed to have only about two that played in her head like one of those compelling graphic screen savers, twisting and turning back on itself for no particular use or reason.