One Amazing Thing

But he was distracted by rage. She was planning to expose him in front of these people whose opinion mattered to him because they were probably the last people he would see before dying. She was going to tell them about his drinking, about the advances he had made. She was going to take their kiss, which in spite of its doubtful ethical nature had been something beautiful, a first kiss freely given between a man and a woman, and make it sordid. That was what made him most angry. His hand, moving faster than his brain, swung out and caught her on the side of the face. He felt the flesh give under the impact. She cried out sharply and raised her arm, belatedly, to shield herself. He moved toward her to inspect the damage, queasiness and guilt churning inside him, and as he did so, like echoes, he heard two other cries.

One of them rose from Mrs. Pritchett, somewhere on the floor behind him. The other came from Lily, who was somehow in front of him. She launched herself at him, spitting expletives. Disgraceful, the language a young person used these days. Before he could turn away, her nails raked his cheek, leaving a line of burning. He clapped his hand over it. Would it leave a scar? He had always been so careful with his face. It was the one thing that he had going for him, that had brought him this far. His life was unraveling. His god, his career, his reputation, his looks-they were all deserting him. He pushed Lily from him. She landed on the floor with a thump and a gasp, and then someone else was on him, pummeling furiously. Had everyone gone crazy? Through the rain of fists he saw Tariq’s face, so distorted with rage that Mangalam almost didn’t recognize him.

“Hitting her after she risked her life!” Tariq panted between blows. “Aren’t you ashamed?”

Mangalam wanted to point out that he had just been standing there. Lily was the one who ran up and attacked him. Did a man have no right to self-defense just because he was a man? He wanted to remind Tariq that he, too, had been part of the rescue team that had dug Tariq out. He, too, had-in his own small way-risked his life. But the moment was not suited to logical parley. He punched Tariq back, partly to protect himself and partly because it felt so good to finally do something. Hands were on them both, trying unsuccessfully to pull them apart. The alcohol gave him an exhilarating agility. He skipped from foot to foot and jabbed at Tariq’s face. But then his body betrayed him. He stumbled. Tariq wrestled him to the floor and grabbed his throat.

“Don’t-ever-hit-her-again!” Tariq gasped.

Bright swatches of color pulsed in and out of Mangalam’s vision. He thought he saw Malathi beating her fists on Tariq’s back, yanking Tariq’s hair, trying to get him off Mangalam. Would the world never cease to surprise him? He heard someone-it was the girl with the broken arm-crying, “Stop! What’s wrong with you? God! You’ve all turned into savages!” Somewhere in the back, the grandmother was keening. He didn’t understand the Chinese words, but he knew it was a chant for the dead. Where was the soldier? What was the soldier’s name? The pressure on his throat made him forget. If Mangalam could only have called his name, the soldier would come. The ancient words fell, covering him, soft (he thought) as snow. When he’d been given this chance to start over in America, he had hoped to see snow, to lift his face to the swirl of flakes as he’d observed people doing in foreign movies. He had been disappointed to learn that snow almost never fell in this part of the country. That was his last thought before the colors pulsing in his eyes were suddenly switched off.

6

Uma lay on a row of three chairs, using her backpack as a pillow. A sharp edge from inside the pack poked her neck; she suspected it to be her Chaucer. The pain was on ts way back-she could feel its early forays in her bones. She shivered. The heating system had been broken for-was it thirty-six hours now? The room had grown very cold, and it didn’t help that water had seeped into her shoes.

She longed to remember something beautiful and warm, and what came to her was a summer walk she had taken in the hills with Ramon. But before she could recollect anything more than a sloping trail of slippery orange gravel and a wicker basket filled with picnic supplies, a commotion rose in the room.

She heard voices raised in protest and the unmistakable sound of a slap. Had they gone mad? Didn’t they remember their precarious situation? Lily ran past her. In the shaky ray of the flashlight, which Cameron had turned toward the quarrel, she saw Mangalam fling the teenager to the ground with a thwack and Tariq launch himself at Mangalam. Plaster drizzled from the broken ceiling in protest, and her throat constricted with terror. But consumed by their passions, the two men were oblivious of the danger in which they placed the entire company.

When Cameron hurried toward the melee, Uma followed. She was worried about him: after digging Tariq out, he had coughed until he was forced to use his inhaler again. She also realized that she had forgotten to warn Cameron of Tariq’s threat.

I’m going to kill him.

It was as she feared. When Cameron tried to pry Tariq’s hands from Mangalam’s throat, Tariq punched him hard. Blood gushed from Cameron’s nose. Malathi was sobbing, pulling at Tariq’s hair. Tariq swatted her away. For some reason, Cameron wouldn’t hit Tariq back (Uma was sure he could have knocked him out again) but tried to grab his arms. Tariq’s eyes were crazed. He butted Cameron hard with his head and Cameron reeled back, gasping. It was like their very own Lord of the Flies! Uma couldn’t let it go on. She jumped into the fray, though she was terribly afraid for her broken arm, and caught Tariq’s shoulder. He turned, swinging, before he saw who it was. His fist hit her upper arm-her good arm, thank God. Still, she fell with a cry of pain. Perhaps that fall did some good because Tariq was startled into lowering his fists long enough for Cameron and Mr. Pritchett to catch him by the arms. He lunged at them, his mouth a snarl. But Lily added her efforts to the men’s, whispering fiercely into Tariq’s ear words that no one else could decipher, until he went limp and allowed her to lead him away.

THEY WERE SITTING CLOSE TOGETHER (CAMERON HAD INSISTED on it), trading distrustful glances in the half-dark. The larger flashlight had fallen to the ground. Cameron let it lie there. He was wheezing. He wiped his nose on his shirt, but the blood kept coming. This propelled Uma to stand up. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say, only that she needed to say something. For a moment her heart pounded. She had never liked speaking in front of a crowd. Even the lectures she had to give as a teaching assistant, with carefully prepared notes and jokes she had practiced in the bathroom mirror, had made her nervous. Then an ironic calm descended on her. Only a few things mattered when you were about to die, and what people thought of your speaking abilities was not one of them.

“Folks,” she began, “we’re in a bad situation. It looks like the earthquake was a serious one. We don’t know how long we’ll be stuck here. I’m scared, and I guess you are, too.”

She could see that no one wanted to listen. Mrs. Pritchett turned her face away. Mangalam was busy massaging his neck. Tariq had shut his eyes again. Malathi worried the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Lily, who was stuffing Cameron’s nostrils with clumps of Kleenex, scowled at her.

But she had to go on. “Unless we’re careful, things will get a lot worse. We can take out our stress on one another-like what just happened-and maybe get buried alive. Or we can focus our minds on something compelling-”

“Like what?” Mr. Pritchett said. “It’s not like we have cable TV down here.”

Uma refused to let him annoy her. An idea was taking shape in her mind. With a little burst of excitement, because she sensed the power behind it, she said, “We can each tell an important story from our lives.”

Mr. Pritchett looked offended. “This is no time for games.”

Mangalam grunted in agreement. Malathi crossed stubborn arms over her chest.

“It’s not a game,” Uma said. She hugged her backpack, wanting to tell them how powerful stories could be. But they were staring at her as though she were half-witted.

“What if we don’t have a story to tell?” Mrs. Pritchett asked, sounding anxious.

“Everyone has a story,” said Uma, relieved that one of them was considering the idea. “I don’t believe anyone can go through life without encountering at least one amazing thing.” A shiver came over her as she said the last words, a blurry deja vu. Where had she heard the phrase before?

“You don’t know my life,” Mrs. Pritchett said.

“I’ve never told a story,” Mangalam announced flatly. His tone indicated that he wasn’t going to start now.