Tania James - Aerogrammes - and Other Stories

I coughed, snorted orange juice through my nose.

“Fungus on your …?” Dr. Pillai said.

“Balls.”

“Amit,” my dad said.

“What? It’s true.”

“See that,” Ruby Auntie said, pointing at the television. “That was from last night’s tornado. In Mississippi, I think.”

We all fell silent for a moment, watching an old woman pick through the rubble of her home. Looking lost, she took a seat on the concrete front steps, which was the only part of her house still standing.

Dr. Pillai was the first to speak. “It does make you think.”

“Of what?” Amit said.

“Whatever you are suffering, someone else is suffering more.”

“I feel better already.”

“That is not what he meant,” my dad said. “Don’t twist people’s words.” This was something my mother used to accuse us of, contorting her English words as though they were animal balloons.

“Uncle means that the glass is half full,” Ruby Auntie offered.

“Some glasses are cracked,” Amit said. “Some glasses are fucked.”

Dr. Pillai scratched his furry ear and smiled desperately at me. My dad put a hand to the back of Amit’s head, but Amit flinched away.

I’d only been home a month, but I missed the sultry air of a Boston summer, the ceiling fan creaking in its fixture, Caryn’s limbs tangled in mine despite the heat and the threat that the fan could fall at any minute. At night, she would stand up in bed and reach for the fan’s chain, her torso one moonlit length pulled taut.

But how to reconcile that Caryn with the Caryn who had gored my work the week before? I didn’t have the energy to sort through her comments, most of which I’d recorded in my series of cryptic sketches. Whenever I sat down to write, I saw only detours and dead ends. I went for a jog around the neighborhood to clear my head, but ten minutes in, I popped a cramp and wound up clutching my stomach in a posture of failure made worse when a Lincoln slowed down to make sure I was okay.

The next morning, I was unloading the dishwasher when the director of the Prague program called me. “Neel, hello, this is Stefan Baziak.” Mr. Baziak’s voice was scratchy and womanish, eccentric and intimidating. “I hope this is not a bad time?”

I glanced into the living room. My dad was helping Amit scoot across the board and into the armchair. “No, not bad at all.”

“I hate to bother you, but I am calling about the visa and the medical clearance. Were you able to file? Are you coming to Praha?”

Praha —the word sent through me a small ripple of delight. “I’m not sure yet, to be honest. Things are still sort of hectic here.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. Of course, we would love for you to come. We very much enjoyed the first portion of your novel, particularly the braiding of each boy’s point of view …”

As Mr. Baziak continued, my dad returned and opened the fridge. He removed a small crate of strawberries. He ran the faucet and rinsed them in the sink, staring at the tube of gushing water with a deadened expression.

“Dad—” Amit called.

“Yep!” Snapped awake, my dad shut the faucet and hurried over with the strawberries, dripping water as he went.

“Neel?” Mr. Baziak paused. “You’re still there?”

“Yes! Thank you, thanks.”

“Thank you for what?”

“For everything. For the opportunity. Excuse me—” I faked a cough. “I should have things sorted out in the next few days or so …”

“Because we need to know fairly soon if we must pull someone from the wait list. You can always apply again next year.”

“No,” I said quickly. “I mean, I’m coming. I’ll look up the visa requirements tonight.”

After hanging up the phone, I found my dad and Amit arguing in the living room. “Strawberries are good for you,” my dad insisted. “Since when did you start hating strawberries?”

“Since forever,” Amit snapped. “Don’t we have any kettle chips? Jalapeño flavor?”

My dad turned to me. “Was that Ivy who called?”

“Uh, yeah. I told her Amit was sleeping.”

“Why?” my dad said. “Call her back, invite her over!”

“Don’t.” Amit pointed the remote at the TV, increasing the volume on Planes, Trains & Automobiles . Steve Martin was throwing a fit in the airport parking lot, clutching at the air and cursing hysterically, hurling his suitcase at the ground. My dad looked sorry for Steve, then waved a hand at the TV and left the room.

I was leaping up the first few stairs when Amit paused the movie and called after me. “Where’re you going?”

I stopped, turned. “Upstairs.”

“Stay here.”

“Why?”

“I don’t laugh when you’re not here.” Amit looked at the TV. A sudden awkwardness sprang up between us. “Nothing’s funny when you watch alone. It’s a fact.” He casually scratched his crotch with the remote.

“That’s nice, Amit. Get your crotch fungus all over the channel changer.”

“Are you coming down or what?”

I glanced at the clock over the TV. The ticking sounded loud and strange, almost impatient. I came down the stairs, and Amit pressed Play.

•

On Sunday afternoon, Amit and I went outside. His therapist had suggested that he increase his arm and abdominal strength by wheeling himself for a few miles. I jogged beside him to his chosen destination, the refurbished playground by our old middle school. The wind churned around us, jostling the swings, the clouds a dingy gray.

Once he caught his breath, Amit removed a blue glass pipe from one pocket and one of Ivy’s Darjeeling tea bags from the other. He undid the sachet on his knee and pinched apart a fuzzy chunk of weed.

“Clever,” I said.

He paused, as if he were about to say something sarcastic, then changed his mind. “Yeah, she is.”

“Not to ruin the mood, but I thought you’re trying to build stamina—”

“Neel, can you not, for once?”

Some time later, I was sitting on the grass, my lungs pleasantly seared. All of a sudden, life seemed manageable again. I flipped my eyelid inside out, a weird pastime I’d forgotten. “Sick,” Amit said, so I flipped the other.

He sucked down the last drops of Gatorade I’d brought along and tossed me the empty bottle. His eyes went soft and tranquil.

“Did you read that Life After SCI pamphlet?” Amit said. “The hospital gave it to me.”

“No.”

“There was a part called Sex on Wheels.”

A little voice in my head whispered: Sex on wheels! I gnawed on the rim of the bottle.

“And there was a picture of this vibrator …” Amit sounded half creeped out, half curious. “A vibrator for dudes.”

We fell into a harrowing silence.

Amit leaned his head back, squinted at the clouds. “Dad wants me to get back with Ivy.”

“You are with Ivy.”

“We broke up a few months ago.”

I tried to focus my gaze on Amit. “Broke up why?”

“She wants to spend the summer in San Francisco. Grow out her armpit hair. Go lesbo for a while.”

“She said that?”

“No.” He turned the lighter over, studying it. “Dad thinks if I pass her up, no one else’ll want me.”

I heard the scratch of the flint wheel. Amit watched the flame until a breeze snuffed it out.

“Seems like Ivy wants something,” I said. “She calls all the damn time.”

“She just feels sorry for me. She’d get bored, eventually.”

“How do you know?”

He clasped his hands over his stomach. “Well, for one thing, she’s not a big fan of the rodeo. Sexually speaking. And that’s the only ride I got left.”

I stared at the grass until Amit said, “Stop picturing it, perv.” I lay on my back. The grass felt weird and ticklish to my ears.