When Devils Sing(64)
ANCHORWOMAN (reporting live): Eric Wilson, husband and father of four, was last seen three days ago, while the family was boating on Lake Clearwater. Carrion police believe the man to have drowned after a long weekend spent—
(rustling audio, scratching noise)
Ma’am, stop!
MAKENNA WILSON: My husband didn’t drown! I know he’s alive. What they’re saying isn’t true. I can feel it—Eric is alive. They’re lying! They’re covering—
(rustling audio)
HOST: The clip ends abruptly. The only public reporting of Eric Wilson’s death was this.
SHERIFF BUCKLEY OF LANGLEY COUNTY (audio clip): Unfortunately, it has come to light in our investigation of Eric Wilson’s death that alcohol was involved the day of his disappearance. Accidents like this happen every summer, made worse by the festival. We try to regulate alcohol and open-container laws on the water, but it is damn near impossible. Why punish the many for the actions of the few? Most adults who come out here are responsible. This is why we advise every lake-goer of the risks before they get out on the water. But tragic accidents can and will happen at any time.
CHAPTER 25NEERA
“Is it not good?”
Neera pulled her eyes away from the lobby’s window and turned toward her grandmother’s voice. Nani stood in the doorway that led into the motel’s kitchen, wearing an atta-stained apron and her hair in a loose bun at her neck. She gestured to the cold cup of chai resting between Neera’s cut, blistered hands.
“It’s fine,” Neera said. “I … have a lot on my mind. That’s all.” Like the fact that Neera had sold her soul to the devil just last night. And that, in a matter of hours, she would play onstage in front of an unforgiving crowd of people, and pray that Crow had given her what she begged for.
Her feelings were made worse by what she’d discovered with Isaiah that morning. Blind Bucks boarded up and decaying—another of Ajay’s dreams he’d failed to realize. How could she hope for anything better than what preceded her?
Nani clicked her tongue, looking around the empty lobby. “Thinking too much is never good. Help me with dinner?”
Neera didn’t feel as if she could object. Punjabi food was the only aspect of her culture that she felt any real connection to, despite the connection being weak at best. When Nani cooked, it was the only practice she could share in any meaningful way. Though it always ended with Neera burning her fingers on fresh roti or staining her clothes with turmeric.
Neera resented all the things they couldn’t do together, like speaking in fluent Punjabi, watching Indian soaps, performing daily paath. Even if she didn’t believe in a god, she wanted to experience the sort of blind devotion that Nani had. She wanted to understand her. She wanted to belong through believing.
The problem was this: Neera struggled to believe in anything at all.
But even still, she followed her grandmother into the kitchen behind the lobby. A Hindi soap opera played on the small TV that sat in the room’s corner. A desk fan blew on the makeshift dining room table. The two small windows in the room sat open, letting out the musk of spices and smoke.
Nani handed her an apron and a roller. “Roll out the atta like this.”
Neera mimicked her grandmother’s movements, flattening a ball of soft brown dough into a thin pancake. They did this wordlessly until there were eight pancakes, primed to become roti. Nani dipped each one in dry flour, then placed it on the flat wrought iron pan.
Nani moved through the kitchen methodically, yet it was graceful in a way Neera couldn’t help but admire. She wondered how many times her grandmother had done that exact series of motions. Nani, most likely, had cooked like that every day for the past sixty years. It was a realization that made Neera sway on her toes a little. Would her grandmother ever retire, ever vacation? Would she ever be more than a woman who worked from sunrise to sunset, for everyone other than herself?
Neera felt so foolish then. Ungrateful. It was moments like these where she hated herself for loving music, for choosing it above all else. All the women who came before her sacrificed so much of themselves. It felt wrong of her to want for anything else, to want for only herself.
But if her deal with Crow rang true, the Singh family would have their well-deserved peace.
“What are you thinking?” Nani eyed her with a sharp gaze. Her deep brown eyes searched Neera’s. But she didn’t know how to talk to her grandmother. “I studied the psychology before marrying your Nana. I can see the worry there—in your eyes.” She gestured to Neera’s face with an atta-covered hand.
Neera’s instinct was to lie about what was on her mind, to placate her grandmother and keep things easy between them as she was expected to do. But she was so sick of pretending. With a sharp inhale, she blurted, “I’m going to the Cicada Festival tonight … and I’m gonna play guitar in front of a huge crowd of people.”
Nani’s dark eyes flashed with hurt. She turned her attention back to the roti. “No.”
“Yes, I am,” Neera insisted. “I’m not asking for your permission or even your support. I’m simply telling you the truth because you asked.”
Nani wouldn’t look at Neera. She kept flipping the roti, turning it over again and again. She repeated, “No. I don’t want to know anything more. This is between you, your Nana, and the God.”