The Death of Vivek Oji(55)
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Kavita sat them all down in the parlor without offering them anything, because they were children and they were there about Vivek and she had long since given up caring about niceties. Something in her knew that whatever they were coming to say would be a culmination of the weeks she’d spent harassing them for answers. It seeded a small anger in her. When she had told Chika they were lying, when she told their parents the children were lying, no one had believed her. Yet here they all were—even her own nephew—lined up on her sofa with their guilty faces, holding secrets behind their lips. She wanted to slap them.
The girls looked around at one another, uncertain of who should speak first. Osita was sitting apart from them in an armchair, arms folded over his stomach, looking down at the carpet. Juju felt the task should fall to her; Elizabeth and Somto would be too brash, and Olunne would be too gentle. Besides, Juju was the one holding the pictures. The envelope was hot in her hand, dragging her arm down with its weight. She rested it in her lap and turned to Kavita.
“We have something to show you,” she said. “But first I want to explain why we didn’t tell you about this before.”
“Well, Vivek told us not to,” said Somto, under her breath. They all glared at her and she raised her hands in apology, falling silent.
“We were trying to protect him,” continued Juju, “and we were also trying to protect you and Uncle Chika.”
Kavita was sitting with her back straight, perched on the edge of her seat cushion. Her eyes fell to the envelope Juju was holding and she put a hand on her chest as if she could calm her heart. “What’s inside there?” she asked.
Juju looked at the envelope. There wasn’t much point in words; the photographs would tell Kavita better than she could. She held the envelope out, her hand shaking a little. Kavita stared at it hovering in the space between them, then reached out and took it. She didn’t open it at once. How could she? You can chase the truth, but who could avoid the moment of hesitation when you wonder if you really want what you’ve been asking for? Kavita knew that what the envelope held had power, enough to scatter her, enough for them to have held together against her for so long, even in the face of a dead child, even against her grief.
She opened the flap and pulled out the photographs. The first was a picture of Vivek in pale blue traditional, a caftan that swallowed him. His eyes were lined in black. That didn’t surprise Kavita much; she’d seen him dress like that before and assumed he was mimicking the Northerners. Chika hadn’t liked it and said as much, making snide remarks at the breakfast table, but Vivek had ignored them. Chika would have said more, done more, if he wasn’t a little afraid of his son and his strangeness. Kavita scolded him later, after their son went out, telling him there was nothing wrong with a little eyeliner. “It starts with eyeliner,” Chika had said. “Where is it going to finish? I thought you were worried about his safety, but you’re just letting him walk around like that? What if someone throws a tire on him?” She dismissed his concerns and Chika stalked off, simmering impotently.
Kavita slid the top photo aside to look at the next. Juju covered her face with her hands, resting her elbows on her knees. She didn’t want to watch what was going to happen. Osita looked toward the window, at the sun entering through the perforations of the lace curtains. Somto and Olunne watched Kavita, nervousness a veil over their faces, and Elizabeth picked under her nails, trying to look indifferent.
When Kavita gasped, it was like a soft blow reverberating throughout the room. She dropped the other photos in her lap and grasped the second one with both hands, staring at it. Juju had arranged them herself, so she knew which photo Kavita was holding. It was of Vivek the first time he’d worn a dress. Juju had put it near the top because he looked so happy in it; she thought that might make it a little easier for Kavita to see, that her heart might be softened because he looked so happy. She had pulled the dress from one of Maja’s old suitcases, where Maja kept all the clothes she couldn’t fit into anymore, along with old memories of her twenties and some photographs of old boyfriends. The dress was cinched at the waist with an A-line skirt, white and navy blue stripes running from neck to hem, short crisp sleeves, darts in the chest.
Vivek had nothing to fill out those darts, but he hadn’t cared. He was spinning in the photograph, so the skirt of the dress was just a blur, like splashed water, and his hair was vague in the air. But Juju had managed to get his face in focus, and his mouth was wide open, laughing completely, his eyes squeezed shut. She had put lipstick on him, a bold red framing his teeth, and he had drawn on his eyeliner, dark on the lower lid and then a thicker line on the upper, so his eyes seemed lost in black borders.
Kavita’s hands began to shake as she stared at the picture. “What is this?” she whispered, her eyes darting up to Juju’s face and then to the others. The rest of them were looking down or away, anywhere but at her. Only Juju would meet her eyes, which were blurred with tears. “What is this?” Kavita repeated, her voice unsteady. “Why is he dressed like this?”
Juju was wracked with nerves, but she couldn’t look away from Vivek’s mother, not even long enough to draw courage from the others in the room. “He liked to dress that way,” she ventured timidly. “He didn’t want you to know—he didn’t want you or Uncle Chika to worry about him.”