Francine wants to tell Ryan about how as a teenager she planned to become a conservationist, to save all the species and creatures she feared were becoming extinct—tigers, or even the frogs that had started to disappear from the lake that her geography teacher took the class to year after year. But her thoughts get knotted up and instead she says, “Frogs go first if the lake is polluted, so you have to watch for the frogs.”
Ryan looks startled, confused. She picks up her handbag, buttons up her coat. “I’m beginning to think it’s all about watching out for the frogs,” she says, but Ryan’s face stays the same, so she concludes, “We have to be careful.”
Idiot.
“Thanks so much for seeing me,” she says. “You did an amazing thing.” She reaches the front door and squeezes between Ryan’s mother and the
Awake
pamphlet that is being offered up by the black woman wearing a Sunday bonnet who is standing serenely at the door.
At work the next day she deletes the e-mail from Human Resources that contains a checklist of the elements required in the annotated job specification she is supposed to prepare in a few weeks’ time so that the vice-chancellor’s group can make decisions on restructuring and rationalization. She does a quick search in the
Guardian
job section and decides to branch out: environmental jobs, marketing jobs. Nothing.
She opens her deleted items box and retrieves the checklist from HR. She starts a new Word doc:
Quality Assurance Officer:
1. Servicing officer to Validation Review Panels.
2. Advice and guidance to academic schools on QAE processes delegated to schools.
3. Working below my capacity, to hide my light under a bushel, to be forever sidelined and invisible, because I forgot to do all the things most other women have done by now, and have just been trying to get by on my own.
She exits without saving and reaches for her phone in her bag, to retrieve the number Ryan gave her. Deciding to work at capacity rather than below it today, she picks up the phone and calls the Mahadeo household.
Like Ryan, Rajit won’t come to the door when Francine shows up at his house on Saturday morning three days later. Rajit, his wife tells her, is not talking to anyone, not even his favourite son.Francine peers in from the threshold and sees someone cross the hallway, a young man, perhaps the favourite son. When the figure returns, it’s back-first, as he drags a wheelchair, and a sari-ed old woman sitting in it, her legs wrapped in a blanket. There is a muscular smell of ghee and garlic. And the sad sound of daytime television.
“He is in the same clothes he was released in,” his wife says.
“But he’s home; he’s released, right?” Francine says, watching the blanketed legs disappear across the hallway.
“Bail, madam. We have family, you know,” and Francine can’t tell if she means that family gave them the money or if, of course he’s out on bail, his family needs him.
“And the charges?” she asks.
“My husband is not dangerous, madam. He is not good at paperwork, that is sure,” Mrs. Mahadeo says, and again Francine is confused but she doesn’t want to push it. She remembers what she’s brought. She holds out the rubber plant. Mrs. Mahadeo stares at it then her head goes into spring-necked shaking mode, back and forth.
“Thank you, but we don’t want this.”
Francine draws the plant closer to her chest in gracious acceptance of the rejection.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” she says.
“Don’t be sorry, madam. You were doing what you thought was a good thing. Too much sorry sorry in this country.”
Francine nods at Mrs. Mahadeo, then turns and leaves.
Sayonara.
But she wants more from this visit, wants to do something for Rajit, who might merely have been looking down to check the time or change the radio station. She walks down the HarrowRoad back towards Kilburn without any idea of what doing something for him would look like.
She’s
Ryan looks startled, confused. She picks up her handbag, buttons up her coat. “I’m beginning to think it’s all about watching out for the frogs,” she says, but Ryan’s face stays the same, so she concludes, “We have to be careful.”
Idiot.
“Thanks so much for seeing me,” she says. “You did an amazing thing.” She reaches the front door and squeezes between Ryan’s mother and the
Awake
pamphlet that is being offered up by the black woman wearing a Sunday bonnet who is standing serenely at the door.
At work the next day she deletes the e-mail from Human Resources that contains a checklist of the elements required in the annotated job specification she is supposed to prepare in a few weeks’ time so that the vice-chancellor’s group can make decisions on restructuring and rationalization. She does a quick search in the
Guardian
job section and decides to branch out: environmental jobs, marketing jobs. Nothing.
She opens her deleted items box and retrieves the checklist from HR. She starts a new Word doc:
Quality Assurance Officer:
1. Servicing officer to Validation Review Panels.
2. Advice and guidance to academic schools on QAE processes delegated to schools.
3. Working below my capacity, to hide my light under a bushel, to be forever sidelined and invisible, because I forgot to do all the things most other women have done by now, and have just been trying to get by on my own.
She exits without saving and reaches for her phone in her bag, to retrieve the number Ryan gave her. Deciding to work at capacity rather than below it today, she picks up the phone and calls the Mahadeo household.
Like Ryan, Rajit won’t come to the door when Francine shows up at his house on Saturday morning three days later. Rajit, his wife tells her, is not talking to anyone, not even his favourite son.Francine peers in from the threshold and sees someone cross the hallway, a young man, perhaps the favourite son. When the figure returns, it’s back-first, as he drags a wheelchair, and a sari-ed old woman sitting in it, her legs wrapped in a blanket. There is a muscular smell of ghee and garlic. And the sad sound of daytime television.
“He is in the same clothes he was released in,” his wife says.
“But he’s home; he’s released, right?” Francine says, watching the blanketed legs disappear across the hallway.
“Bail, madam. We have family, you know,” and Francine can’t tell if she means that family gave them the money or if, of course he’s out on bail, his family needs him.
“And the charges?” she asks.
“My husband is not dangerous, madam. He is not good at paperwork, that is sure,” Mrs. Mahadeo says, and again Francine is confused but she doesn’t want to push it. She remembers what she’s brought. She holds out the rubber plant. Mrs. Mahadeo stares at it then her head goes into spring-necked shaking mode, back and forth.
“Thank you, but we don’t want this.”
Francine draws the plant closer to her chest in gracious acceptance of the rejection.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” she says.
“Don’t be sorry, madam. You were doing what you thought was a good thing. Too much sorry sorry in this country.”
Francine nods at Mrs. Mahadeo, then turns and leaves.
Sayonara.
But she wants more from this visit, wants to do something for Rajit, who might merely have been looking down to check the time or change the radio station. She walks down the HarrowRoad back towards Kilburn without any idea of what doing something for him would look like.
She’s
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