Tulip Season (2 page)

“Everything okay?” Ulrich asked.

She registered the warm intimacy of his voice. “A friend has been reported missing.”

“Missing? I'm sorry—I hope your friend turns up soon.”

Standing close to her, so close that she could still smell the sweat of the night on his skin, he wiggled into his jeans. His large fingers fumbled with the buttons of his chambray shirt and a thin lower lip pouted as he struggled to insert a recalcitrant button in its hole. He threw on his herringbone jacket, wrapped her in an embrace, and with a candy-shop expression cupped her face in his hands.

“You look even prettier in the daytime,” he said, “such luscious skin to go with those big dark eyes.”

His eyes held a mirror in which she saw herself: a petite figure, not a beauty by either Indian or American standards; a careless dresser to boot, although Kareena had once praised the serenity on her face. At least that was something. Kareena—where was she?

Ulrich gave her a deep look, then a short warm kiss, which didn't soften her tense midsection. She managed a half-smile. Under a different circumstance, she'd have reveled in a morning romp, but her friend's absence was becoming more real to her with each passing second.

“You look so worried,” he said. “Your friend is probably fine.”

“Well, she has a dangerous job. She works as a counselor for abused women. Many husbands have it in for her.”

“I would get her office involved.” He gave her a soft kiss. “If I could, I'd stay here with you and I really want to, but …”

At another time, the word want or
vant
, as modulated by his accent, would have hinted at delicious possibilities, but not now.

“Shall we see each other again?” he asked.

She looked up at his pale-skinned face, and she really did have to look up, for he was a good nine inches taller, and nodded. “Call me this evening.”

They walked to the doorway, his arm around her shoulder. As he skipped down the front steps, his face turned toward her budding tulip patch—soon to be an exuberant yellow salutation to the spring—and he held it in sight till the last second before turning away. Yellow was Kareena's color (and Mitra's, too). Tulips were a favorite of both of them. And Mitra had planted this double early
variety in her yard just for Kareena. If only she were only here, she would surely shout in pleasure upon seeing how gorgeous even the buds were.

Mitra sighed, picturing Kareena's heart-shaped face, tailored pantsuits, dark sunglasses even in rain, and a stylish wristwatch. She just had to be okay. She must have snuck off somewhere for a breather. How like her to forget to tell anyone, even her husband. Mitra would find her dearest pal.

Ulrich gave her one last look and a wave, then loped toward a steel gray Saab parked across the street. Feeling a nip in the air, Mitra cinched the belt of her bathrobe. She walked back to the living room, opened the draperies, and hoped the fear signals inside her were wrong. A blue Volvo SUV cruised by, reminding her of Adi. He zipped around the city in a Volvo, too.

She dialed his number. The receiver to her ear, she paced frantically back and forth in front of the window, too keyed up to sit still. The plum tree in her north yard was a billowy cloud of delicate white blossoms. An upper branch had thrust itself dangerously close to a power line and she made a mental note to prune it back later.

Adi's recorded voice said, “Leave a message.”

Mitra didn't. She studied the clock: still the commute hour.

Unable to wait another second, Mitra punched Veen's office number, only to be greeted by a voice-mail message. She kept trying every few minutes, then decided to go visit Veen in her office.

TWO

TEN MINUTES LATER
, Mitra and Veen walked the extensive grounds of Good Shepherd Center, an Italianate-style building of late 1800's, now used for multiple business purposes. It was located only a few steps from Veen's office. They found an empty bench on the grassy yard, surrounded by tall oaks, and sat down. No one was about this early in the morning.

Mitra turned to Veen. A substantial woman, she had her hair pulled back in a ponytail, a gray wool jacket casting a shadow on her face. She wasn't a
shoi
, a friend of the heart like Kareena was, but still belonged to Mitra's inner circle of friends. Mitra thanked her for taking a break to meet with her.

“I damn near got in an accident coming to work.” Veen's voice shook; she wasn't her usual assured businesswoman self. “Now I have a bitch of a headache.”

Mitra felt for Veen, a go-getter, always dependable, always rushed, often blunt. She could use a break, this overworked architect who specialized in green design. Even when they hung out together, bumping out to a Sunday breakfast at Julia's, visiting the Flower and Garden show, or popping up at Seattle Arts and Lectures, Veen never seemed to be able to let go and enjoy the moment. Right now, she sipped a sickly brown tea from a carry-out cup, with the sorry teabag still inside.

“Why do you think Adi hasn't called either of us, if Kareena has been gone for two days?” Mitra asked.

“The bastard said he hadn't had time.”

“You believe that?”

“No.” Veen's voice rose. “And what do you make of this? I was passing by Umberto's restaurant last night and spotted him with a blonde, his assistant, I think. They were talking over wine. Do you think he's having an affair?”

“Affair? That doesn't sound right. He seems so much in love with Kareena.” Mitra paused. “Actually, I don't know what to think. Other than calling the police, he seems to be taking this awfully casually.”

“Shit.” Veen winced. She'd just splashed hot tea on her lap. Mitra rummaged her purse, grabbed a tissue, and handed it to Veen, who got busy wiping the wet spots on her pants. Veen mumbled thanks and added, “Someone in my office said when a woman goes missing, nine times out of ten, it's the husband.”

It's the husband
. Mitra held back the rage inside her. For a moment she let her eyes roam the Pea-Patch just ahead, the serenity that rested over the plot, to get over the feelings she had against Adi. “Do we know who saw Kareena last?”

“I didn't ask Adi—I was so overwhelmed by the news. But you know I glimpsed her about two weeks ago at Toute La Soirée, with an Indian guy. He's straight out of GQ, if there were an Indian GQ. They were smiling, leaving the place. I happened to drive by. I don't think she saw me. I didn't wave. That'd not have been proper. At the time I'd assumed it was a friend or relative visiting her. Now I'm not so sure.”

“Kareena and I met at the same place last week.”

“So, did you two talk about anything that might throw some light on that guy?”

“Not really, but it was an interesting get-together.” Mitra replayed the afternoon. She'd been waiting for Kareena at a corner table for about fifteen minutes, perusing the
Seattle Chronicle
, a cool breeze blowing though a half-open window. She looked out through the window and took in the sky-colored ship canal where a fishing vessel was working its way to the dry docks that lined the north shore of Lake Union. Sensing a rustle in the atmosphere, she raised her eyes and saw Kareena standing just inside the door. Kareena peered out over the crowd, spotted her, and flashed a smile. She looked chic, a get-up-and-go kind of a person in the maroon pantsuit (Mitra called it “maple,” whereas Kareena referred to its shade as “Bordeaux”). Arms swaying loose and long, Kareena wove her way among the tables. A shining leather purse dangled from her shoulder.

As Kareena drew closer, a woman seated at a corner table called out to her. Kareena halted and, charming as always, exchanged pleasantries. The woman glanced in Mitra's direction. “Is that your sister?” she overheard the woman saying.

Kareena glanced over at Mitra and winked. They'd been subjected to the same question countless times. Did they really look alike or had they picked up each other's mannerisms from hanging out together? Aside from similar faces—sharp cheekbones and narrow foreheads—Mitra was three inches shorter and eight pounds lighter. She glanced down at her powder-blue workaday sweater, a practical watch, and sturdy walking flats. Her attire didn't follow current fashion dictates, but it was low-key and comfy, just right for an outdoors person. Fortunately, a place like Seattle accommodated both their styles.

“Sorry I'm late,” Kareena said, pulling up a chair across Mitra. The corners of her mouth were lined, a sure sign of fatigue. “First, I had a gynecologist appointment, then a difficult DV case to wrap up.”

Mitra pushed the newspaper to the far side of the table. DV—domestic violence—was an abbreviation that sounded like a fearsome disease. “A case from our community?”

“Unfortunately, yes. And you know how our uncles and aunties talk about these incidents?” Kareena mimicked a British accent. “‘A bride got burned in fire? Oh, that's just a kitchen accident.’” She paused. The waitress was hovering by her shoulder. They placed their orders of Riesling.

“You're the only one I trust enough to talk about it,” Kareena said to Mitra when the waitress departed. “My client is an H-4 dependent visa holder, worried about her personal safety and legal status. She was so scared that she couldn't even string a few coherent sentences together. I spoke a little Punjabi, which loosened her up. I explained that the law was on her side and will offer protection. She said her husband beats her up regularly. She'd be in worse trouble if he suspected she was out looking for help.”

“Why doesn't she go hide in a women's crisis house?”

“It's called ‘trauma bonding.’ You develop what in DV counseling is known as a ‘comfortable and sustained blind spot’ for the one you love. You continue to stay in an abusive situation. You see yourself in him.”

Might these definitions apply to Kareena as well? “Did you see bruises on her?” Mitra asked.

“Oh, yes, even though she hid her forehead with bangs.”

Mitra hesitated, wondering if she should broach a delicate subject. “There's something I've been meaning to ask you. For some time. I just couldn't be sure.” She paused. “You don't have similar problems at home, by any chance, do you?”

Kareena gazed off into the distance. A sense of wariness seeped into her voice. “What are you getting at?”

“Well, I happened to notice bruises on
your
arm at your last party. Who did that?”

Kareena's face turned mauve. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“I can never forget what I saw.” Mitra leaned toward her friend protectively. “I'm so worried, Kareena.”

Her voice edged with embarrassment, Kareena said, “I said I didn't want to talk about it.”

“Sorry. Forget it—I don't know what I was thinking.”

“I accept your apology,” Kareena said, a touch of resignation in her voice.

Mitra filed the matter away for a future conversation. Sooner or later, she'd nail down the truth behind those bruises. She took a sip from her wine, while Kareena drained hers with hurried gulps, not taking the time to appreciate the flavors fully. Mitra digressed from this aching topic to a pleasanter one—the upcoming tulip festival in Skagit Valley and the legend of the tulip.

“Every bulb holds a promise of something new to come?” Kareena exclaimed. “The Dutch actually believed that? I absolutely must go with you to that festival. You'll get the tickets?”

Mitra nodded. To lighten the mood further, she pointed out a cartoon clip from a magazine peeking out from under the glass cover of their table. A tiny boy craned his neck up and said to his glowering father, “Do I dare ask you what day of the week this is before you've had your double tall skinny?”

That had gotten a spontaneous laugh out of Kareena. Mitra had made a mental note to compliment the manager of Toute La Soirée, who appreciated humor and changed the jokes frequently.

Relaying the Soirée rendezvous to Veen, listening to the traffic rushing down the nearby 50th Street, Mitra wondered: had she been
right to let Kareena off the hook so easily? She could still so easily visualize the nasty-looking bluish discoloration on Kareena's arm.

THREE

VEEN LISTENED TO MITRA'S RECOUNTING
of that afternoon and at the end mumbled, “I keep going back to that stranger I saw Kareena with at Soirée. They seemed pretty tight. As I remember, he carried a jute shoulder bag. Remember
jhola
—how it used to be a fashion item?”

“Oh, yes.” In India,
jholas
, or shoulder bags, were fashionable among male intellectuals—or rather pseudo-intellectuals. Mitra's scrawny next-door neighbor in Kolkata, who fancied himself a man of letters but was actually a film buff, toted books and papers in his
jhola
. He could often be seen running for the bus with the hefty jute bag dangling from one shoulder and bumping against his hip. Tagore novels? Chekov's story collection? Shelley's poems? The only thing Mitra ever saw him fishing out of the bag was a white box of colorful sweets from Jolojog when he thought no one was looking.

“I wonder if the man had recently arrived from India.” Mitra took a moment to think. “So who is he and why was Kareena meeting with him?”

“Beats me.”

“Aren't you surprised the police haven't contacted us yet?” Mitra asked.

“They have no reason to. There's no sign of foul play.” Veen consulted her watch. “Shoot, I have to head into a meeting.”

“I'll call the police as soon as I get home,” Mitra said.

“Buzz me later, will you? We'll help each other through this.”

Mitra hated to let go of Veen's supportive presence. As she drove home, elaborate scenarios occupied Mitra's mind. The
jhola
guy had blindfolded Kareena. She screamed. He clasped a hand over her mouth. She fought to free herself. He dragged her into a waiting car and drove off. She yelled for help, but no one heard her.

Then again Mitra could also see Kareena packing a small suitcase and checking into an unobtrusive pension, thereby fleeing from Adi's ill-treatment and finally calling a lawyer. Could the
jhola
guy be a lawyer?

But why would Kareena have done any of this covertly? As an abuse counselor, she knew how to protect herself. She'd have separated from Adi before the situation got sticky. She was way too sharp. Or did she try to maintain the same confidentiality for herself as she did for her clients by deciding not to say a word to anyone, even her best friend? Behind Kareena's bright public face, there lay a private person. Mitra was well aware of that.