Page 59 of The Henna Artist

My eyes dropped to her stomach. She followed my gaze down the length of her wrinkled dress, frowning, and looked up again.She didn’t know?Of course she didn’t! She was a child!

“Your breasts are tender?”

Her eyebrows rose.

“You’re making water all the time? You’re nauseous?”

Her mouth went slack.

“How long since your last menses?”

She looked past me, at the floor, breathing through her mouth. She glanced at her stomach. Then her eyes softened, as if recalling a memory, a pleasant one.

“Leave it to me, Radha. If you’re no more than four months along, it’s safe. Help me look for the cotton root bark.” I gathered my hair and wound it into a knot at my neck, getting up off the floor. “Remember Mrs. Harris? She drank my tea?”

She made a face.

“But she’s fine now! You will be, too. Whoever did this—tell me it wasn’t Mr. Pandey?”

She shook her head and flattened the rumpled chiffon over her thighs.

I couldn’t read her face; she must be in shock.

“Try to remember where we put the cotton root bark.”

“Jiji.”

“Maybe the plaid carryall?” I hurried to the bag and emptied it on the cluttered floor.

“Jiji.”

I needed more light. Where had the matches gone now? I dropped to all fours searching through the mess. I pushed aside a bundle of books. A spool of thread clattered to the floor.

“What if I keep the baby?”

I stared at the thread unraveling across the terrazzo.What did she just say?

I don’t know how much time passed before I could move again. Slowly, I turned to look at her.

She was biting her lip, avoiding my eyes.

“You don’thaveto keep it,” I said. “Haven’t you learned anything from me?”

She lowered her chin, looked down at her lap. I could feel the slippery edges of her guilt.She had been willing. She had let a man touch her, there, perhaps more than once. She had wanted it.While I worked. While she lived in my house. What a fool I’d been!

I had felt sympathy for her. Told myself she needed time to forgive me. She’d come around. She would appreciate what I was making possible: a home, enoughchapattiso she’d never go hungry, the Maharani School and the possibility of a life better than either of us could have imagined.

I stood up, reached for her. Without thinking, I grabbed the skirt of her dress. She ducked, tried to run. I snatched her bun and clawed at her hair. She screamed. I slapped her. She stumbled and fell.

My heart thudded against my ribs. I watched her cough and sputter. She lay sprawled on the floor amid the contents of the carriers, her legs tucked to one side. Her lip was bleeding, her face contorted in pain.

I towered over her. “What did he do, thisDevdasof yours? Promise to love you forever?”

“Stop!”

“Give you gifts?”

“It wasn’t like that!”

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