Bharati Mukherjee - The Middleman and Other Stories

I want to comfort Sharon, but my daughter with the wild, grieving pygmy face won’t let go of my hand. “She’s bad, Dad. Send her back.”

Dr. Kearns comes out of the cubicle balancing a sample bottle of pills or caplets on a flattened palm. He has a boxer’s tough, squarish hands. “Miraculous stuff, this,” he laughs. “But first we’ll stick our tongue out and say ahh. Come on, open wide.”

Eng opens her mouth real wide, then brings her teeth together, hard, on Dr. Kearns’s hand. She leaps erect on the examining table, tearing the disposable paper sheet with her toes. Her tiny, funny toes are doing a frantic dance. “Don’t let him touch me, Grandma!”

“He’s going to make you all better, baby.” I can’t pull my alien child down, I can’t comfort her. The twins had diseases with easy names, diseases we knew what to do with. The thing is, I never felt for them what I feel for her.

“Don’t let him touch me, Grandma!” Eng’s screaming now. She’s hopping on the table and screaming. “Kill him, Grandma! Get me out of here, Grandma!”

“Baby, it’s all right.”

But she looks through me and the country doctor as though we aren’t here, as though we aren’t pulling at her to make her lie down.

“Lie back like a good girl,” Dr. Kearns commands.

But Eng is listening to other voices. She pulls her mitts off with her teeth, chucks the blanket, the robe, the pajamas to the floor; then, naked, hysterical, she presses the quarter I gave her deep into the soft flesh of her arm. She presses and presses that coin, turning it in nasty half-circles until blood starts to pool under the skin.

“Jason, grab her at the knees. Get her back down on the table.”

From the sofa, Sharon moans. “See, I told you the child was crazy. She hates me. She’s possessive about Jason.”

The doctor comes at us with his syringe. He’s sedated Sharon; now he wants to knock out my kid with his cures.

“Get the hell out, you bastard!” Eng yells. “ Vamos! Bang bang!” She’s pointing her arm like a semiautomatic, taking out Sharon, then the doctor. My Rambo. “Old way is good way. Money cure is good cure. When they shoot my grandma, you think pills do her any good? You Yankees, please go home.” She looks straight at me. “Scram, Yankee bastard!”

Dr. Kearns has Eng by the wrist now. He has flung the quarter I gave her on the floor. Something incurable is happening to my women.

Then, as in fairy tales, I know what has to be done. “Coming, pardner!” I whisper. “I got no end of coins.” I jiggle the change in my pocket. I jerk her away from our enemies. My Saigon kid and me: we’re a team. In five minutes we’ll be safely away in the cold chariot of our van.

JASMINE came to Detroit from Port-of-Spain, Trinidad, by way of Canada. She crossed the border at Windsor in the back of a gray van loaded with mattresses and box springs. The plan was for her to hide in an empty mattress box if she heard the driver say, “All bad weather seems to come down from Canada, doesn’t it?” to the customs man. But she didn’t have to crawl into a box and hold her breath. The customs man didn’t ask to look in.

The driver let her off at a scary intersection on Woodward Avenue and gave her instructions on how to get to the Plantations Motel in Southfield. The trick was to keep changing vehicles, he said. That threw off the immigration guys real quick.

Jasmine took money for cab fare out of the pocket of the great big raincoat that the van driver had given her. The raincoat looked like something that nuns in Port-of-Spain sold in church bazaars. Jasmine was glad to have a coat with wool lining, though; and anyway, who would know in Detroit that she was Dr. Vassanji’s daughter?

All the bills in her hand looked the same. She would have to be careful when she paid the cabdriver. Money in Detroit wasn’t pretty the way it was back home, or even in Canada, but she liked this money better. Why should money be pretty, like a picture? Pretty money is only good for putting on your walls maybe. The dollar bills felt businesslike, serious. Back home at work, she used to count out thousands of Trinidad dollars every day and not even think of them as real. Real money was worn and green, American dollars. Holding the bills in her fist on a street corner meant she had made it in okay. She’d outsmarted the guys at the border. Now it was up to her to use her wits to do something with her life. As her daddy kept saying, “Girl, is opportunity come only once.” The girls she’d worked with at the bank in Port-of-Spain had gone green as bananas when she’d walked in with her ticket on Air Canada. Trinidad was too tiny. That was the trouble. Trinidad was an island stuck in the middle of nowhere. What kind of place was that for a girl with ambition?

The Plantations Motel was run by a family of Trinidad Indians who had come from the tuppenny-ha’penny country town, Chaguanas. The Daboos were nobodies back home. They were lucky, that’s all. They’d gotten here before the rush and bought up a motel and an ice cream parlor. Jasmine felt very superior when she saw Mr. Daboo in the motel’s reception area. He was a pumpkin-shaped man with very black skin and Elvis Presley sideburns turning white. They looked like earmuffs. Mrs. Daboo was a bumpkin, too; short, fat, flapping around in house slippers. The Daboo daughters seemed very American, though. They didn’t seem to know that they were nobodies, and kept looking at her and giggling.

She knew she would be short of cash for a great long while. Besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted to wear bright leather boots and leotards like Viola and Loretta. The smartest move she could make would be to put a down payment on a husband. Her daddy had told her to talk to the Daboos first chance. The Daboos ran a service fixing up illegals with islanders who had made it in legally. Daddy had paid three thousand back in Trinidad, with the Daboos and the mattress man getting part of it. They should throw in a good-earning husband for that kind of money.

The Daboos asked her to keep books for them and to clean the rooms in the new wing, and she could stay in 16B as long as she liked. They showed her 16B. They said she could cook her own roti; Mr. Daboo would bring in a stove, two gas rings that you could fold up in a metal box. The room was quite grand, Jasmine thought. It had a double bed, a TV, a pink sink and matching bathtub. Mrs. Daboo said Jasmine wasn’t the big-city Port-of-Spain type she’d expected. Mr. Daboo said that he wanted her to stay because it was nice to have a neat, cheerful person around. It wasn’t a bad deal, better than stories she’d heard about Trinidad girls in the States.

All day every day except Sundays Jasmine worked. There wasn’t just the bookkeeping and the cleaning up. Mr. Daboo had her working on the match-up marriage service. Jasmine’s job was to check up on social security cards, call clients’ bosses for references, and make sure credit information wasn’t false. Dermatologists and engineers living in Bloomfield Hills, store owners on Canfield and Woodward: she treated them all as potential liars. One of the first things she learned was that Ann Arbor was a magic word. A boy goes to Ann Arbor and gets an education, and all the barriers come crashing down. So Ann Arbor was the place to be.

She didn’t mind the work. She was learning about Detroit, every side of it. Sunday mornings she helped unload packing crates of Caribbean spices in a shop on the next block. For the first time in her life, she was working for a black man, an African. So what if the boss was black? This was a new life, and she wanted to learn everything. Her Sunday boss, Mr. Anthony, was a courtly, Christian, church-going man, and paid her the only wages she had in her pocket. Viola and Loretta, for all their fancy American ways, wouldn’t go out with blacks.