Tania James - Atlas of Unknowns

THERE IS A COST to thinking of Gracie so often, and the price is collected in dreams. They are seamless dreams, so nearly logical that Bird can hardly tell that she has been pulled under. Here they are, Gracie and Bird, standing in silence as sisters do, by a pond. Such bliss in this, to be near her again, watching the water ruffled by a breeze and embroidered with light. Gracie points out something beneath the surface, but as soon as Bird kneels to look, she finds that the pond has grown infinitely long and endlessly wide with Gracie a mere wisp on the opposite side. Gracie shouts and points at the pond, now a chasm, the smile swept from her face. Her voice never weakens, a warm, invincible whisper in Bird’s ear.

Why didn’t you come back for me? Why did you let me die alone?

BIRD WAKES to the noise of Anju’s key in the lock, her neck stiff from laying her head on the table. It is dark outside. Eight thirty-four according to the clock above the stove, upon which the cake sits limp and overwhelmed by chocolate frosting. Bird presses her fingers to the underside of the table, composing herself while Anju hangs her coat. Best not to betray her relief, her irritation.

“Where have you been?” Bird asks.

“Library.”

Bird waits for an apology, perhaps an admission of negligence. “You lost track of time?” she offers.

There is a pause. Bird wonders if she heard. Anju leans on the door frame and Bird can see it — something angry in the girl. Her stiff posture, her jaw. Her pockets must be hiding fists.

“Yes. Time. I lost track of time.”

“Are you hungry?” Bird rises just as Anju interrupts.

“I am an illegal here. Did you know that? An illegal alien.”

Bird stops halfway to the oven. “Who said?”

“The Internet said.”

“How is that? Your arrival papers—”

“It was the official website of the U.S. Immigration. I am out of status.” Anju bites her lower lip, and for a moment it seems that she might cry. Suddenly, fiercely, she rubs her face with her hands, through which her voice comes muffled. “Illegal . What would my father say?”

“Listen, many people are illegal here…. No one will send you away unless you do something wrong…. Just be a good girl and don’t get sick and don’t go out too much and everything will be fine. Next week I will call a lawyer about starting these things. I will call Monday itself. Promise.”

“What about the money?”

“I’ll give you more of my own.”

“Debts on top of debts.” All this time, Anju’s hands have not left her face, as if trying to keep her mind intact. “I have to think of a different way. I don’t want to be where I am not wanted.”

The words almost tumble out of Bird: But you are wanted, I want you here . Stupid, frantic words like the lyrics to a desperate song. Instead she asks: “Should we tell your father?”

“No, no. It will just worry him. I’ll think of something.”

“Where are you going?”

“Bed.”

Bird glances at the oven. “You don’t want anything to eat?”

But already Anju has shut the door to the bathroom. Bird watches the door and almost goes to knock until she hears the faucet whistling water.

It had never occurred to her that Anju’s visa could be revoked. How could she have known? For the first time, she envies Ghafoor his Internet.

Bird goes to the sink to do the dishes. She left a light coating of batter on the steel bowl, having been under the impression that children like to lick the leftovers. And yet perhaps she has been wrong all along, and Anju is not a child but an adult, absorbing the full weight of her mistakes and their consequences. Bird squeezes a line of dish soap onto a sponge. Water gushes into the battered bowl as she scours its sides and forces herself to consider what must be done next.

ORK GIVES A SPINE to Linno’s day, draws her through the malaise that descends over the evening. There is always something to be done, more now than ever before, since the website is up and running. Though Linno is given her own email address, she leaves the inboxes to Alice and Prince, who field and answer the growing number of messages. Linno feels embarrassed about using the keyboard, her hand skittering spiderlike over the letters. In the one email she returned to Rachna Nair, she sounded less like the head designer and more like the writer of a ransom note. (yOU Want extra thankyou cARD? linno.)

As Alice predicted, December and January brought a slew of clients whose invitations were to be completed by March. Women arrived with fiancés in tow, to settle upon the invitation that would embody all their conjugal hope and familial bliss; mothers came ready to bargain. Bhanu is most invaluable in dealing with tireless brides, such as the one who had him type her name in sixteen different italicized fonts just to see how they appeared on the computer screen.

But to Linno’s mind, the company could use a little more impatience. True, their reputation is spreading, reaping customers from as far as Bedford, Indiana. Yes, she has designed twenty new invitations, all of them showcased and captioned on their website, but not even this can keep pace with her hopes. Sometimes, on the way home, she thinks she sees a small Anju sitting on the steps of a house, toeing circles in the dirt. The little girl looks up; she belongs to someone else. Linno moves on quickly, the pang in her chest burrowing deeper by the day.

ON THE FIRST DAY of March, a relentless rain arrives and, with it, an email from Sonia Solanki. Seeing Sonia’s name in the inbox brings Linno no hope. She remembers how the woman sniffled through every phone conversation in the immediate aftermath of Anju’s absence, and an email, unlike a phone call, carries news of little to no urgency. As well, the subject line “Proposal from Sonia Solanki,” puts Linno in mind of the only other proposal she has ever received, more than a month ago, in Kuku’s living room. For a brief, queasy moment, Linno wonders if Sonia is trying to arrange her marriage.

From: ssolanki@lbc.com

To: linno@eastwestinvites.com

Subject: Proposal from Sonia Solanki

Dear Linno,

My assistant gave me your website and email; I hope my message finds you as well as can be, despite the present situation. I want you to know that I am doing my absolute best to find Anju. I am as frustrated as you are with the handling of these matters, both by the school and by the police.

With this in mind, may I make a proposal? As you probably know, I host Four Corners , a daytime television show in which I, along with my three female cohosts, debate pressing issues in the public arena. Every week we present a new Hot Topic. For example, last week, we discussed abortion rights, and the week before that the lack of role models among young celebrity starlets. One Hot Topic that we have not yet touched is Immigration, both Legal and Illegal. I suggest that we present this Topic and have you on as a guest, so that you can tell your sister’s story We would be exploring questions of globalization, modernization, and the very history and future of this country Yours would be one of several stories, but there is a very good chance that Anju might see the program (she used to watch it all the time in my home theater!) and be inspired to come forward. Or maybe someone who has seen her will see the program and inform us. We have a viewership of 3.5 million.

Of course, we would take care of the visa application, airfare, per diem, and hotel.

I write this by email so as to make things as clear as possible. I will phone you tomorrow to speak with you further, and if I get the green light from you, I will pitch it to my producer, Jeff Priddy.