Fancy, my grandfather said.
Yes. I try to be fancy.
My grandfather laughed. Well any friend of Caitlin’s is a friend of mine.
My mother had a sour look already, and my grandfather should have been more careful.
I got up and helped with the dishes.
What’s Delhi like? my grandfather asked.
We had a bigger house, many rooms, and many people to do the cooking and cleaning, and I had tutors. And the city was enormous, and had so many things.
It seems strange that you left.
Yes.
We’ll all need boots and snow pants, Steve said.
We don’t have those, my mother said. Cheap rain pants, I guess, the kind you just put over your regular pants, but no boots except rubber ones.
Those’ll work. We won’t be out in the snow long. Just put on some good socks, two layers.
I don’t have any boots, Shalini said. I’m sorry.
It’s a different place, my grandfather said. But it sounds like you had everything in India, like your family was well off there.
Yes.
You have a class system there.
Yes, a caste system.
We should get moving, Steve said. I need to run to my place for the saw and my boots and such. Then we’ll head off in my truck and one of the cars.
Shalini doesn’t have boots, I said.
We’ll grab some on the way out, Steve said. Just some rubber boots.
What caste was your family? my grandfather asked.
Khatri, Shalini said.
And what’s that?
I guess it’s the ruling class. My great-grandfather was a wazir.
And what’s that?
The advisor to the king. The second most important person.
Holy smokes. You’re royalty, or aristocracy or nobility or something.
Shalini laughed. Not really. We’re just American now.
But what was it like? my grandfather asked. What was it like growing up in that class?
Jesus, my mother said. Suddenly you’re the interested one. Want to know all about the world, and hear all of Shalini’s stories.
Sorry, my grandfather said. I’m just curious about the other side, what it’s like to grow up not struggling for money.
My father has to work, Shalini said. My family lost all of their land.
How did that happen? my grandfather asked.
Seriously, my mother said. You don’t give a shit about your own daughter, and then you have to know everything about Shalini’s family ten generations back.
I’m sorry, Shalini, my grandfather said. This is my fault. It’s true I wasn’t here.
It’s not just that you weren’t here, my mother said. It’s also that you still don’t give a shit. You like seeing Caitlin and her little friend, because how critical, really, are twelve-year-olds going to be? You get to play Santa.
It’s not like that.
Really?
Of course I want to know about your life. I want to know everything. I’m just afraid to ask.
Spare me. Poor little grandpapa having to walk on eggshells around his big bad daughter.
Please, Mom, I said.
Jesus, Caitlin. You really have a way of stepping in it.
I do want to know, my grandfather said. I want you to tell me everything. The others can go cut down a tree, and you and I can sit here and talk and I want to hear everything.
Not so easy. I’m not going to just vomit up my life in one day. An occasional question would be nice. Just some small sign of interest as you do your long interviews with everyone else.
The fire had gone out of my mother. We were all looking at the floor. Just silence and no one moving. I felt so bad for Shalini, but this was a moment I couldn’t do anything.
There was a clock ticking. I’ve always hated that sound. Unbearably tense and also empty at the same time, soulless. It seemed impossible that my mother would ever forgive my grandfather.
~ ~ ~
When we finally had the saw and all the boots and rain pants, we drove east on Interstate 90, over Mercer Island and toward nothing. My mother and Steve in the pickup, Shalini and I with my grandfather in his small rental car. The sky a white void, the clouds in low, falling of snow without wind, then clear, then falling again. Sound only of the car.
Mount Rainier somewhere off to our right, south, but invisible, Mount Baker to the left. Desert ahead. I’d never been there, and it was hard to believe, but not far ahead, within a hundred miles, all the rain and trees just ended suddenly in desert. I wanted to go there.
Shalini and I had to sit apart in the back because of the seat belts, but we held hands down low. I was afraid she’d never come over again after all the fighting. Who would want to come to my family’s house a second time?
Have you been to the desert? I asked my grandfather. He hadn’t said a word since we left. This wasn’t like him.
Yeah, he said, sounding tired. Have you?
No. We never drive anywhere. I’ve never been to Canada or Oregon or Montana or anything. I haven’t even been out to the islands.
Well. We have to change that.
Then he was silent again. Sound of the engine and tires, Shalini holding my hand but looking out her window into the blankness. The car cold. He hadn’t put the heater on. I was bundled up but could feel my nose and ears.
What’s the desert like?
My grandfather sighed, then waved one hand in the air. It’s uh, like the moon. You leave the forest and go to the moon in about one mile, like two planets were cut in half and then stuck together. Suddenly there are no trees. Sorry, I just don’t feel like talking.
Why?
Your mother will always hate me. That’s what I think now. I don’t think it will change. I guess I let myself believe she only needed time, but I don’t believe that now.
She doesn’t hate you.
Each thing that happens to us, each and every thing, it leaves some dent, and that dent will always be there. Each of us is a walking wreck.
I squeezed Shalini’s hand, and she squeezed mine back and looked over, sad and afraid. There were no limits to what could happen in my family.
Trees like ghosts out of the white, so still and straight and waiting in silence, all of them, hundreds, with only empty gaps between, a forest cold and abandoned. My grandfather drove on past small gravel roads leading to parks and lakes until the slope rose into exposed black rock that disappeared in cloud. The higher forest, and it seemed we might just drive forever and become lost, and that this might be a good thing, but Steve finally pulled to the shoulder where the trees huddled in close, and we all piled out into the cold.
I don’t like this forest, I said.
Steve nodded. Frosty, he said. He must be living nearby. Not wearing a nice scarf and hat but only snow and a stick nose and eyes from small stones, and he’s hiding behind trees and watching, and he’s not alone. There are others like him, other snowmen.
Stop, my mother said. You’re going to scare them.
But Steve came and took my hand and Shalini’s. If you see anything, he said in a quiet voice, just run.
I looked at Shalini, both of us terrified, and then Steve laughed. Don’t worry. How fast can a snowman run?
He grabbed a long saw then with big teeth and stepped into the forest, really like some man in a fairy tale, a brown scarf around his neck, brown jacket and pants, same color as wool spun in a village of small houses made of logs. A fire in every hearth to keep out all that lurked, all the houses arranged facing each other in a tight circle, and this man walks out alone.
But my mother followed, and then my grandfather, and Shalini and I were too terrified to stay behind, so then the trees were swallowing us too.