All about Skin (18 page)

When they got to Newport, Frances pointed out the famous mansions as they drove by. Reshma recognized not a single name and usually could not even see the house—just a set of tall gates. After each name, Frances's husband said something like “Ugh, gaudy marble monstrosity” or “Ugh, ugly Louis fifteenth furniture.”

After one such remark, Frances said in a testy voice that it was a shame that everybody did not have the impeccable taste of Staten Islanders like him.

The rest of the short drive to Frances's home was silent.

When they got to the house, they first had to stop the car and open a set of iron gates, and then there was a long road through some sparse woods. Finally in the distance a large, dark house came into view, the gray ocean merging with the slate sky behind it.

“We have a small, sandy patch along our shoreline that Trish loves to play in,” Frances told her.

The house was so big that it reminded Reshma of pictures of European palaces she had seen in books, and when they came to a halt in front of the main doors, she fully expected a uniformed man or woman to come out and greet them with a bow. Instead a handsome, gray-haired woman in gray pants, a white blouse with broad lapels, and a gray cardigan came bustling out. She said her name was Gilda and she was the mother of Frances and the grandmother of Trish. She hugged her daughter and her son-in-law and insisted that she carry Trish inside the house herself.

Frances and her husband left soon thereafter to catch their plane. Reshma's first real job in America had officially begun.

Excited, she bustled along with Gilda to put the sleeping Trish on a sofa outside the kitchen. Gilda said she would make coffee, and while they were waiting for the water to boil, she asked Reshma if she was from India.

“Yes, I thought so,” said Gilda. “You people have nice hair.”

“Thank you,” said Reshma, confused.

What could Gilda mean by “you people”? If she meant all Indians, she was certainly mistaken and Reshma could even point to the heads of several members of her own family as proof. Gilda continued to keep up a steady patter of conversation.

“My mother was from Argentina, you know Argentina?”

When Reshma replied in the negative, Gilda said that Argentina was just like Europe, all the people there were just like Europeans, and no family more so than Gilda's own.

“My father's family,” continued Gilda, “have been in Rhode Island forever. They probably arrived on the Mayflower.”

When the water boiled Gilda put one teaspoon of instant coffee in her cup.

“I take mine black, you?”

Reshma nodded but later had to ask for milk and sugar when she had been given her coffee and realized what taking coffee black meant.

They had not taken more than a few sips each when there was a small cry from the next room.

“Oh, Trish has woken up,” said Gilda and they both hurried over. Trish was sitting up on the sofa and Gilda hugged and fussed over her.

Trish said, “Ma-ma, Da-da?” She looked around her with a questioning smile.

“Mama and Dada are not here now but NaNa and Nanny Reshma are here with Trish,” said Gilda.

She pointed at Reshma and said again, “See? Nanny Reshma.”

The little girl's smile slowly faded when she heard this, and she stared at Reshma as if it were the first time that she had seen her. The child's face then underwent a transformation. The eyes narrowed, the cheeks puffed, and the little nostrils flared. Perhaps Trish had just realized what Reshma's true place in the family was or maybe she felt that Reshma was somehow responsible for her parents not being there or perhaps the word “nanny” held unpleasant connotations for her. Whatever the reason, Trish then took a deep breath and let out a big bellow, so loud that Reshma thought her ears were going to burst.

“NonoNonoNono,” screamed Trish, and it was only when Gilda took her in her arms that she calmed down a little.

“Oh poor baby, you have your Na-Na right here,” said Gilda. She motioned for Reshma to follow her and then, cooing and clucking at the baby, led Reshma out of the kitchen. First they went through a large hallway with dark wood floors and heavy curtains covering the big windows. Doors on either side of the hallway led to other rooms that Reshma only got a brief glimpse of as they went past.

“We only use a small portion of the house these days,” said Gilda, “and I have a cleaning crew come by once a week.”

Then they passed through a burgundy-carpeted room with dark, heavy furniture and climbed up a broad staircase. Upstairs, paintings of old men, some of them with large white wigs on their heads, hung on the walls.

Finally, Gilda opened up a door and they walked into a blue room with very high ceilings and enormous windows through which Reshma could see the garden and the ocean.

“This is your room,” said Gilda, waving one arm expansively around, “and this is your bathroom,” she continued, opening up a door.

Past the green marble walls, the white-framed windows, and the claw-footed tub was another door, which Gilda opened. This room was cream, with light pink chairs and a painting depicting a lighthouse towering against a stormy ocean that almost took up one entire wall. There was a white daybed by one of the windows overlooking the ocean and a fluffy pink baby bed in the corner, which Gilda pointed to and said, “Trish's.” Then Gilda said she was taking Trish downstairs and that Reshma should unpack and make herself comfortable in the blue room and come down when she was ready.

Reshma opened up her suitcase but instead of unpacking sat gingerly down on the side of the bed. She was worried. The big house, with its cordoned-off areas and dark wood hallways, frightened her a little. And why had Trish suddenly taken such a dislike to her? She hoped that Trish would come around soon. Otherwise, she would have to add this to the list of her other job failures in America.

Trish did not come around. The screaming began afresh the next morning when Reshma tried to pick the child up to give her a morning bath. She growled so ferociously and from so deep within her, “NnnnnOOOOO,” that Reshma backed away.

“Oh God,” she muttered, “what has that good-for-nothing husband of mine got me into this time?”

Luckily for both of them, Gilda bustled into the room just then. She bathed and dressed Trish and off they went in a big black car. Reshma was told that they were going “visiting” and that there was plenty of food in the fridge, and she should help herself.

As soon as they left, Reshma called her husband and told him that it was impossible to work here, so she was going to pack her bags and leave at once. But now he again changed his tune and insisted that she stay.

“You have promised the parents, nah?”

And then he whispered caressing things to her about the new apartment that they would move into when she got back, just the two of them, and when she finally put down the phone she felt somewhat better.

Gilda and Trish continued visiting the next few days and Reshma had the house to herself. She tried to be useful. She washed the kitchen dishes, tidied up Trish's room, and cleaned the bathroom till it shone. She quickly put aside
The American Novels and Stories of Henry James
in favor of a glossy magazine that she found in the bathroom. In the evenings, she turned on the television in her room but nothing interested her and she kept it on mainly for the company. She began to feel guilty.

“I am getting paid to sit here and look at the sky,” she complained to her husband on the phone.

“You should feel lucky,” he replied.

In the middle of the week, Gilda's son came to visit. He was a sullen man of about Reshma's age, with tufts of dark hair that he had gelled into a puff above his forehead. He nodded at Reshma, said hello to Trish, and then the mother and son disappeared into a room from which the sounds of raised voices could occasionally be heard. He left soon after but not before Reshma heard him tell Gilda that he got “scarred” every time he came home. That evening Reshma looked up the word “scar” in the dictionary her husband had put in her bag. She read: Scar—lasting mark left by damage etc. It was noted that the damage referred to could have been caused by physical or psychological trauma.

That evening there was a knock on Reshma's door. It was Gilda, dressed in a dark, blue velvet robe and with a glass of red wine in one hand.

“Making sure you're comfortable,” she said.

Reshma nodded. “Yes, very comfortable, thank you.”

Gilda walked to the window.

“You can hear the ocean from here, the waves hitting the shore. Do you hear?”

Reshma said carefully, “My house in India was by the sea. I like this sound very much.”

Gilda turned back from the window and took a long sip from her glass.

“Did I tell you I've always wanted to visit India? No? Well, it's true. We almost went one year when the children were small. Then one of them, Frances, I think, fell ill and we cancelled.”

Reshma noticed that Gilda's hands were shaking.

“Please sit down, Gilda,” she said, offering her a chair as if Gilda were a visitor to her own home.

Gilda seemed not to hear her. She emptied her glass in one gulp and spoke, almost as if to herself.

“Children. You love them, you take care of them, they become your whole life, then they leave and one day they return as strangers.”

She waved one finger in the air. “Grandchildren, now, they are a completely different story. Grandchildren are, and always will be, perfect adorable angels.”

Reshma smiled. “My grandfather thought like you. Why can't we just go directly to grandchildren, he used to say.”

Gilda laughed. “Your grandfather sounds like a clever man.”

She walked to the door. “And I should let you sleep.”

The next afternoon, Gilda boiled a small plastic bag of rice, saying, “I know you people love rice.” But there was nothing to eat with the rice and so when Gilda wasn't looking, Reshma threw it away in the garbage under the sink in the kitchen. Trish continued to scream if left alone with Reshma, no matter how hard Gilda or Reshma tried to soothe her.

Reshma found it hard to sleep at nights. What could she do differently that might lessen the baby's dislike of her? Perhaps if she dressed differently, more like Gilda maybe—but although she had brought only her American clothes on the trip, she knew that they were very different from those that Gilda wore. She remembered her small ambition of continuing to work with Trish in Boston. That, she knew now, would never be.

The next morning, Gilda introduced Reshma to a large man with thin white hair and red cheeks.

“My husband. Came in from New York late last night,” she said.

He asked Reshma a few questions in a booming voice—what is your name, where do you live in Boston, and so forth. Then he swept Trish up and began to energetically throw her in the air. “Whoop-iddyy-day,” he'd cry as he threw a delighted Trish up, and “Whoop-iddyy-doo” as he caught her on her way down.

They had visitors that afternoon, an old man well into his sixties and a much younger woman. They cooed at Trish and declared that she was the cutest child in all of Rhode Island.

Gilda's husband waved at Reshma and said to them, “Oh, and this here is my cousin, Reshma.”

He began to laugh like he had made a tremendous joke, but Reshma couldn't understand why this was so funny. She looked at the guests to see if they were laughing too but she could tell by the way their eyes shifted about that they didn't think it very funny either.

“My cousin,” repeated Gilda's husband, and, still laughing loudly, he led the visitors out into the garden.

That evening, Gilda and her husband left for a party. Gilda wore a long, shiny blue dress and her husband dressed in black. When Trish realized that they were leaving, she clung screaming to her grandfather's leg and was only extracted by the combined effort of all three adults. She calmed down almost immediately after they had left however, much to Reshma's joy. It was the first time that she was alone with the baby and already things were going better than she could have hoped. She brought out coloring books and crayons for Trish and sat next to her saying encouraging things.

All was going well till suddenly Reshma felt a sharp pain in her arm. It was Trish. She had bitten into Reshma's forearm and was about to chomp down for another mouthful.

Hard, hot tears welled up in Reshma's eyes. She was suddenly very angry. She leapt up to her feet and raised one hand as if she were going to strike Trish.

“Stop it!” she shouted.

Trish immediately started bawling and Reshma cried again, “Stop it! I will hit you!”

Her arm began to descend threateningly. Trish's eyes widened in fear. She cowered against the sofa and began to whimper. Reshma hissed at her.

“I've had enough! You understand me? Enough!”

An intense desire to pick up and shake the child overcame her but it passed without incident and with it, all her anger. She sank down onto the edge of the sofa, shaking with a sudden exhaustion. Trish sniveled at her feet. They remained like that till Gilda and her husband came home not much later.

Trish did not rush over to Gilda like she normally did. Instead she remained gibbering and crying by the sofa. She spoke volubly but it was in her baby talk and the only understandable words were the oft-repeated “Na-Na. Na-Na.” Gilda picked her up and Trish clung tightly to her, resting her little head on her grandmother's shoulder. Gilda looked sharply at Reshma and asked her what had happened. Reshma shook her head.

“Baby is sleepy, that's all.”

Pleading a headache, she went upstairs to her room, put some cold cream on the bite, took two aspirins from her purse, and then lay stiffly on the bed. She was awake for most of that night. The image of her raised hand and angry words haunted her and she shivered when she remembered the cowering child. At home in India there had been occasions when she had threatened her nieces and nephews with violence but it had always been as a joke.