The Lowland

I’m not going anywhere, he said.
    4.
    It was an hour’s drive to Providence, a little less after that. She entered the zip code in the car’s GPS, but soon found that directions weren’t necessary. The names of the exits leading to the different suburbs and towns came back to her: Foxborough, Attleboro, Pawtucket. Wooden homes clustered together, a glimpse of the State House dome. She remembered, after passing through Providence, then Cranston, that the exit to the town was to the left—that otherwise the road led to New York.
    She’d flown to Boston, renting a car at the airport to drive the rest of the way. It was how Subhash had first brought her, along the same section of highway. How she used to travel twice a week to go to graduate school. It was autumn in New England, the air cooling, leaves just starting to turn.
    Soon after the exit, another left at the set of traffic lights would have taken her to him. There was the wooden tower among the tall pines that looked out over the bay. A picture in Gauri’s drawer in California showed Bela standing at the top of this tower, squinting in the bright cold, wearing a yellow quilted jacket with a fur-trimmed hood. Gauri had lifted it hastily out of an album, before leaving. Something to remember her by.
    She had tried, at first, to write to Subhash. To grant what he’d requested, and to send a letter in reply. For a few days she’d worked on the letter, dissatisfied with her attempts.
    She knew a divorce made no difference; their marriage had run its course long ago. And yet his request, reasonable, rational, had upended her. She felt the need to see him.
    Even apart, her life in America always felt in relation to him, in unspoken collusion with him. He had taken her away from Tollygunge. He remained the only link to Udayan. His enduring love for Bela, the stability of his heart, had compensated for the deviance of her own.
    The timing of the letter had felt like a sign. For she supposed he could have wanted a divorce ten years ago, or two years from now. She was already committed to traveling over the East Coast, to London, to attend a conference. She arranged for a connecting flight, a one-night stay in Rhode Island. She would give him what he was seeking. She only hoped to stand before him, and sever their connection face-to-face. In his letter he’d said he was open to this.
    But it had not been an invitation. And without asking him, without warning him, unable even now to conduct herself decently, she’d come.
    The leaves had not yet fallen, she could not see the bay. She turned down the long undulating two-lane road that had been cut into the woods, leading to the main campus of the university. Shingled homes set back on their properties, giant azalea bushes, flat stone walls.
    She pulled into a gravel drive, flanking grounds covered with ivy. A painted wooden sign hung from hooks, swinging in the breeze, with the name of the inn, the year it was built. This was the bed-and-breakfast where she’d booked a room.
    She carried her suitcase to the front door and tapped the knocker. When no one came she tried the knob and found the door unlocked. After adjusting to the dark interior she saw a living room past the entrance, a desk with a little bell on it, and a sign asking visitors to tap it.
    A woman about her age came to greet her. Silver hair, side-parted, worn loose. Ruddy skin. She was dressed in jeans and a fleece jacket, a paint-stained canvas apron. A pair of clogs on her feet.
    You’re Mrs. Mitra?
    Yes.
    I was in my studio, the woman said, wiping her hand on a rag before extending it. Her name was Nan.
    The living room was full of things, enamel pitchers resting in matching platters, glass-fronted cabinets filled with porcelain and books. On a separate table were works of pottery, platters and mugs, deep bowls glazed in muddy shades.
    Those are all for sale, Nan said. Studio’s out back. More stuff in there, if you’re interested. Happy to ship it.
    Gauri handed over her credit card, her university ID. She watched as Nan entered information into a ledger.
    Might get some rain tonight. Then again, might not. First time out here?
    I used to live in Rhode Island.
    What part?
    A few miles down this road.
    Oh, you know it, then.
    Nan didn’t ask why she’d returned. She led her up the staircase, to a hallway lined with doors. Gauri was given a key to her room, another key to the front entrance