Memorial

LXII.Ray

THE Dog Whisperer came with his camera crew, and went for walks with Nip.

The sorcerer worked his calm-assertive magic: the Friar was easier to live with, and his wounds were healing nicely because he no longer reopened them out of compulsive, neurotic behavior. He didn’t cry or throw up anymore when he heard loud noises in the middle of the night. Once in a while he growled during meals but Ray knew what to do. Having established dominance, the old man could now replenish the bowl during a feed without incident.

Ghulpa was another story. He joked to Señor Millan that his girlfriend (he didn’t say “roommate” anymore) might need a little training on the side. She’d become a handful, even for the cousins. She was nauseous most of the time, and in general discomfort. It wasn’t her fault; being pregnant at that age had to be tough. More than anything, BG hated being confined to bed. The only thing that cheered her was news from the lawyers about the money, the sum of which kept threatening to arrive any day now; Ray knew she’d feel a whole heck of a lot better once she could hold the check in her pretty little hand. He told her that after she dropped the kid (she hated when he used that phrase, and he said it just to get a rise), they’d take a trip somewhere — the Grand Canyon or Yosemite. Big Gulp frowned like an angry god: she would never take her baby camping, nor waste money on “frivolities.” She was a tough nut, and he loved her more each day. She wanted to put money down on a house and leave the rest in the bank, where it could accumulate interest for the baby’s education. All right. Good deal. BG even wanted to buy insurance so “if something happens,” the child’s future would be secure. Everything was pragmatic, and well thought out. Very Indian. She even spent hours budgeting wardrobe, year by year. She was convinced they were going to have a “boychild.”

Yet she was plagued by fears. She didn’t want Nip/Tuck around the baby when it came, she didn’t care what that Dog Whisperer said, and had recurring dreams that she took as bad omens. Her cousins brought sweets and fussed over her, but Ghulpa’s disposition remained fretful, gloomy, intransigent. The doctor said it was hormonal.

A van came and took Ray, Nip, Cesar and his wife and kids, and the camera crew over to that lady Cora’s. Mrs Millan’s name was “Illusion” and the old man had never heard of something like that. He thought it was beautiful.

As they pulled up to a large, well-manicured home in the modestly upscale neighborhood of Beverlywood, Cora’s son and grandchildren stood on the sidewalk.

Cesar led the Friar to the lawn, making sure he was calm-submissive before allowing his own kids to pet him — then invited the grandkids to follow suit. They were eager and affectionate. The dog was on his back now, tongue out, tail wagging, paws up: in the pink and generally pleased as punch. Stein ebulliently wielded a flyweight digicam. He shook the Dog Whisperer’s hand, said he was a “big, big fan,” and told him he had “full run of the house.”

When Cesar asked about Pahrump, Cora, who was the shakiest of the bunch, said he was hiding in the backyard.

“I think he probably sensed you were coming,” she said. “He’s a bit camera-shy.”

Cesar said “No worries” and everyone went inside.

Ray felt a little weak, and stayed behind to catch his breath.

A minute later, Cesar appeared in the front door.

“You OK, my man?”

“Oh fine — don’t worry about me. I’m just an old guy, gettin his bearings. How’s Friar Tuck holding up?”

“Nip? Hasn’t sunk his teeth in anyone yet,” said Cesar, with that winning, savior’s smile. “He’s doing fine. And take your time, Ray. Come whenever you’re ready. But I don’t want to start the show without you.”

The old man could hear the rollicking voices of the children from the backyard. Nice neighborhood. Maybe when he got his settlement, he’d move Big and Little Gulp to a place like this. Then he shook his head, because the amount probably wouldn’t be enough to buy a home. It was too far from the cousins, and besides, Ghulpa would never allow him to squander money on a fancy house. No, the Indians had their way, and were talented when it came to saving and getting deals. He’d follow her lead. She was the Mom, and could wear the pants too. Hell, he’d worn the pants long enough. Maybe he’d have himself fitted for a sari! Indians knew how to make money from money, something Ray never seemed to be able to learn. Not that he was proud of it.

A gaunt-looking woman appeared on the porch next door. She looked about 70 and wore a nicely lived-in, floor-length robe. She peeked around for her paper. He walked toward her, and she didn’t catch his eye until they were 10 feet apart. She seemed startled.

“It got caught in the bush there,” he said, reaching into the bramble. “Your paperboy must have a helluvan arm.”

“Oh! Well, thank you. Thank you very much.”

He saw that it wasn’t a daily, but a neighborhood throwaway, already yellowing.

“Did you want this, or were you looking for your morning paper?”

“Are you an agent?”

He didn’t know what she meant.

“Are you with the fraud people? My daughter told me not to leave the house.”

“No, I’m visiting next door.”

He wondered if she wasn’t all there.

“Oh! You’re a friend of Cora’s!”

“Yes I am, and hope to know her better,” he said cordially. “My dog’s having the real visit. They’re making a little TV show.”

“Dear Pahrump — been through quite a misery. He had a cancer. I was almost going to say, ‘You wouldn’t wish it on a dog,’ but…I thought you were from the bank.”

“No, though that wouldn’t be so bad.”

“I’m waiting for them.”

“I’m waiting for those people myself.”

“I’ve had lots of visitors lately. I just spoke to my daughter — she was on her way over but she had to go out of town.”

He nodded. “You take care now. I think they might be ready for my close-up. Or the dog’s, anyway.”

“Thank you again,” said the old woman as she went back in.

“You take care.”

She didn’t take the paper.

RAY was tuckered out when he got home. He went to see Ghulpa, but she clammed up. The cousins said she was crying all day. Back in the living room, he finally extracted the story.

Detective Lake had dropped off “a care package” that included a videotape of The Jungle Book with the actor Sabu. (A few weeks ago Staniel and Ray had talked about Rudyard Kipling, and how he was a mutual favorite.) The cousins watched the movie with Ghulpa, which turned out to be a big mistake. In the 1st half hour, a baby boy’s father was killed by the man-eating Bengal, the infant lost in the jungle and raised by wolves. 12 years later, the wild child stumbled into the village and was soon cornered. One of the villagers remembered the lost boy and suggested he was the tiger-abducted son of a woman who still lived there — he was — but the woman said no, that simply couldn’t be. Still, her heart went out and she invited him to stay with her until his “true mother” was found.

The cousins reported that BG had been quite disturbed by the production, to put it mildly, and had shrieked, even after the tape was ejected. It took Ray another half hour but he managed to get them to confide that Ghulpa had fallen into some kind of trance, interpreting the narrative as a horrible “prefiguration,” a foretelling that the old man wouldn’t live long enough to see the birth of their son — and that the boy himself was doomed to a peripatetic, troubled life. Ray couldn’t help but laugh. The whole thing reminded him of the movie they saw at the Bollyplex.

He went to the bedroom. For the 1st time, she let him rub her feet. He noticed that Ghulpa had taken her L O V E clock off the wall and put it on the nightstand, for comfort. The face of the “Super Time” formed the heart-shaped O in L O V E — the clock was actually a novelty invite she’d received for an NRI’s wedding (Non-Resident Indian) back in the days when she worked for Pradeep. It was her lucky charm.

“Why would he bring over such a terrible film?” she asked. “I thought he was a nice man.”

“Listen, Gulper, I hate to break it to you, but did you know there’s hardly any tigers left in India but in the zoos? They’ve all been poached.”

“I am not going to speak with you of tigers.”

“I went on the Google with Aradhana. Or whatever the hell they call it. There was a long article on how they searched the main park — now, I can’t remember where it was, honey, but Aradhana can tell you, it was a big, big park — and they searched it for 2 whole weeks and couldn’t find not a one. Evidently, the Chinese kill em and sell their body parts.”

Unsuccessful at having the effect he desired, Ray asked if she wanted some fruit or ice cream. BG was inconsolable — she wasn’t even interested in knowing about the Friar and his television debut. Hoping to distract her, the old man offered that everything had gone extremely well, and with the Dog Whisperer’s help (she wrinkled her nose at the appellation) “the 2 mutts” were on their way to becoming fast friends.

“You cannot whisper to Durga,” was all she said, with that eerie, bobbleheaded solemnity.

Ray let that one go. He did say that Cesar Millan’s wife was called Illusion, and if they had a girl, it might be a grand name. Ghulpa muttered “Maya,” and Ray wasn’t sure if she was using a Bengali word to rebuff him. Seeing his confusion, she repeated it, Maya, informing him that it was a name, and while it sounded South American to Ray’s ears, he thought it pretty as can be. He was surprised she even allowed him to entertain the idea of having a daughter.

But maybe she meant “ma,” which is what the cousins called each other. Everyone — every girl — was “ma,” even babies.