He enjoyed these walks, the neighborhood silent, the glimpses of the lives of his neighbors he could snatch as he walked home, their houses lit up from inside; overhead, planes making their way through the dark night sky.
At the Winchester home, Rose otherwise occupied with her campaign work and Lily now off at the Academy, Randolph, too, had begun to take an evening constitutional. It was after a week of these slow, contemplative walks that Randolph noticed another figure engaging in the same evening routine.
“Ah, Mr. Mital,” Randolph said, extending his hand as he recognized Abhijat. “I see we have gotten into the same habit.” The men shook hands. “I wonder,” Randolph suggested, “if we might not take our constitutional together this evening.”
“Yes, why not?” Abhijat answered, pleased to have the company.
The night of the election, Rose, Randolph, and her campaign team gathered at one of the new restaurants on Nicolet’s Main Street to watch the results coming in via the local cable channel. From her seat beside Randolph, Rose sipped a glass of white wine and kept one eye on the television.
Early indications showed Mayor Callahan in the lead, but Rose was confident.
She was certain the electorate realized that Mayor Callahan’s era had come to an end and that it was time for a new type of leadership in Nicolet.
But perhaps because she had so wanted it, had so entirely expected it, Mayor Callahan’s win that night—“another term for Mayor Callahan, our mayor and friend,” the television announcer said, his voice carrying out into the noise of the room — took Rose completely by surprise. The restaurant had grown quiet at the announcement.
Randolph turned to watch her as she took in the news, his arm around her shoulders. He found himself searching her face, her voice, for a sign of what stirred beneath. But she was, as always, composed, unreadable.
Later, after the news had sunk in, after she’d graciously received visitors to their table sharing their condolences, their assurances that their votes had gone to Rose, she’d decided that what she wanted to do was to collect her signs, and to do it alone.
She’d dropped Randolph off at the house and now circled slowly through the neighborhoods of Nicolet. At the height of the town’s division over the collider, Rose’s campaign signs and those of Mayor Callahan had begun to spring up in front yards, sprinkled among the pro- and anti-collider signs, so that each yard was a mingled cacophony of political opinions.
Now Rose just wanted the signs to disappear. She couldn’t bear the thought of her supporters waking in the morning to such a visual reminder that they’d bet on the wrong horse. She wanted no such public reminder of her failure.
The streets of Nicolet’s neighborhoods were quiet and dark. At the first house — not far from their own, where she’d left a concerned Randolph, assuring him that yes, she wanted to do this now, and that yes, she preferred to do it alone — she’d stopped, the car idling on the smooth, dark pavement. The sign caught the light from her headlights. WINCHESTER FOR MAYOR: A NEW ERA FOR NICOLET. She pulled the thin metal frame from the soft earth of the yard, opened the car’s back door, and carefully laid the sign down on the backseat. She returned to the driver’s seat, put the car in gear, and drove on.
It took two hours. She drove through all the neighborhoods of Nicolet she remembered from her girlhood, through those that had sprung up in her absence, and through some newer still even than that. There was something oddly heartbreaking about the number of signs, a physical presence growing behind her as she drove on, of the votes she’d won, of how close she’d come to the thing she’d worked toward and planned for and counted on.
On their first walk together through the neighborhood, Randolph and Abhijat had found themselves mutually delighted by one another, Randolph fascinated by the latest theory Abhijat was puzzling his way through, and Abhijat by Randolph’s thrilling stories of adventure.
Soon, their evening constitutionals were, by habit, taken together, Randolph opening Abhijat’s eyes to the larger world, and Abhijat opening Randolph’s to the smaller.
“I was sorry, for Mrs. Winchester, to hear the results of the election,” Abhijat said as the sun began to set in the damp evening heat.
“Yes,” Randolph nodded as he walked, hands clasped behind his back. “It’s been quite a disappointment to her. Quite a shock, as well, I think.”
“And what goal will she now pursue?” Abhijat asked.
Randolph looked up into the sky, where the light of the day was fading. “Do you know,” he said, looking back at Abhijat, “I haven’t got any idea. And I’m not sure she has either.”
They walked for a while in companionable quiet.
Abhijat felt, sometimes, as though he were awakening to his own life. He’d begun to notice the details of their home. The decorations Sarala had accumulated and arranged so carefully suddenly struck him with their beauty, all the more acute knowing that for years he had failed to notice their presence.
“It can be liberating,” Randolph noted, when Abhijat shared these thoughts with his new friend, “to let go of hopes that chain one to unhappiness, dissatisfaction.”
“And you?” Abhijat asked. “How go your memoirs, my friend?”
“Quite well, thank you,” Randolph said. “Now, at any rate. As a book for adults, I wasn’t able to find my way, but this—” He was writing now for the kind of curious child he had been, the kind both of their daughters had been. “This way feels, I think, like the right path to take.”
They made their way past the small man-made lake around which some of the more sought-after homes of the Eagle’s Crest subdivision had been constructed, pausing in their conversation to listen to the low gurgle of frogs.
“Today I revisited the Nile Delta, a place of much beauty and intrigue,” Randolph continued.
“Should you need another set of eyes on the manuscript as you work,” Abhijat ventured, “I would be honored to read it.”
Randolph smiled at him, clapping him on the back. “Just the thing, my friend. I’d be honored to have you.”
Their walk coming to an end at the Winchester house, Randolph took his leave of Abhijat, who continued on the few blocks to his own home.
The sun had set, and as Abhijat walked, he looked up into the lit-up windows of the houses he passed, as he had done in the early days of his marriage, just before Sarala had arrived in the States, searching those lit-up rooms for a hint of the lives that might stretch out before them.
Now, with Lily away at school, the Winchester house felt less lively. Rose missed coming in to find Lily and Meena at the kitchen table, heads bent over their schoolwork, chattering back and forth.
Randolph and Rose adjusted to the new quiet of their lives, of their home. On the happy days when letters from Lily arrived, they opened and read them together, Rose thinking of the many evenings she and Lily had sat together over dinner reading aloud from Randolph’s letters the latest news of his adventures.
How like her own parents, too, Rose imagined, picturing them together at the kitchen table poring over one of her own letters describing her and her new husband’s strange adventures.