The Lowland

friends now? His lovers? It was the weekend, was he entertaining guests?
    She drove back to the inn, exhausted though it was still early for her, evening just beginning on the West Coast. The couple from Montreal were out, Nan tucked away in whatever unseen part of the house she occupied.
    She went upstairs to her room and saw that two gingersnaps had been left on a plate by her bed, and a mug with an herbal tea bag on the saucer, next to the electric kettle.
    Nan’s hospitality was measured, and yet Gauri was grateful for the overtures, however impersonal. A stranger had received her, accommodated her. But Gauri had no way of knowing, tomorrow, if Subhash would do the same.
    In the morning, after breakfast, she repacked her suitcase and settled the bill. Already it was over, she was departing, and yet the objective of the journey remained. She erased the temporary traces of herself from the room, smoothing the pillowcase she had creased, readjusting the piece of lace on the nightstand.
    Handing over the key, she felt eager to go but also reluctant, aware that there was nowhere but the rented car to call her own. Nothing left to do, other than fulfill the purpose for which she’d come.
    She drove back to the highway. The traffic light was her last chance to turn back toward Boston. Briefly she panicked, putting on her blinker. She irritated the driver behind her when she changed her mind again, continuing straight.
    Today there was only one car in the driveway. A small hatchback that must have been his, though it surprised her to see how beaten-up it was, that at this stage of his life he would still drive the kind of car he drove when he was a graduate student. A Rhode Island license plate, an Obama bumper sticker. Also one that said Be a Local Hero, Buy locally grown.
    She saw the Japanese maple, a twig so tender one could snap it apart when Subhash had planted it; it was three times her height now, the branches spreading close to the ground, the dark gray bark as smooth as glazed ceramic. There were more flowers, black-eyed Susans and daylilies, defying the coming of winter, thickly growing at the front of the house. Chrysanthemums in pots decorated the front steps.
    Should she have brought something? Some offering from California, a bag of pistachios or lemons, to speak for her existence there?
    She had already signed the divorce papers, granted her consent. She would hand him the documents in person. She would tell him she happened to be passing through.
    She would agree that their marriage should be terminated formally, that of course the house in Tollygunge, and the one in Rhode Island, were his to sell. She imagined a strained conversation in the living room, a cursory exchange of information, a single cup of tea he might offer to prepare.
    This was the scenario she’d mapped out on the plane, that she’d reviewed in bed the night before, and again during her drive that morning.
    She sat in the car, looking at the house, knowing he was inside, knowing how much it would surely upset him to see her, unbidden. Knowing she was in no position to expect him to open his door to her.
    She remembered looking for the policeman’s mailbox in Jadavpur. Terrified of what she was seeking, part of her already knowing what she’d find.
    She was tempted not to bother him. To leave the papers in the mailbox and turn back. And yet she unfastened her seat belt, and removed the key from the ignition. Though she did not expect him to forgive her, she wanted to thank him for bringing her to America. For being a father to Bela, for letting Gauri go.
    The shame that had flooded her veins was permanent. She would never be free from that.
    Ultimately, she had come seeking Bela. She’d come to ask about Bela’s life, to ask Subhash if she might contact her now. To ask if there was a phone number, an address to which she might write. To ask if Bela might be open to this, before it was too late.
    Cold air stung her face as she stepped out of the car, the wind off the sea wilder here than inland. She reached into her purse, covering her hands with a pair of gloves.
    It was not too early, ten-thirty. Subhash would be sitting reading the newspaper, the Providence Journal that had already been removed, she saw, from the red mailbox at the foot of the drive.
    Alongside Subhash, she would be seeing a version of Udayan as an old man. Hearing his voice again. Subhash had remained his proxy, at once alien and