“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” The woman sank into the pew beside Tara, examining her face. “Are you hurt?” She took Tara’s limp hand in hers, and patted it softly.
“I am Ruth Murphy. What’s your name, darling?”
“Tara,” she whispered.
“Can you spell it for me?”
“T-A-R-A”
“Tara,” Ruth repeated, although it sounded more like Terror. “That’s a pretty name. Where are you from, Tara?”
“India.”
“I’ve heard so many good things about India. I’ve always wanted to visit, see the Taj Mahal. Have you seen the Taj Mahal, Tara?”
Tara shook her head.
“So, what brought you to our church today?”
Tara hesitated, ran her free hand through her hair, and, when a sharp pain hit her across her temple, she blurted, “My husband threw me out.”
She felt a warm, white hand, crisscrossed with translucent green veins, squeeze hers. “Bless your heart. He hurt you before turning you out, didn’t he?”
Tara nodded.
“Would you like me to call the police?”
Tara’s eyes widened in alarm. “No, no!” she said emphatically. “Not the police. Please.”
“All right, all right. We are not going to the police.” Ruth’s voice was reassuring. “Do you need to see a doctor? Are you hurt? We can go to urgent care. It is just two minutes away.”
“No, no. I am all right. I just need a painkiller for my headache.”
“I could take you to CVS, but I have a better plan. How about we go to my place, have a bite to eat, take a painkiller, and relax a bit?”
Again that rich drawl, words stretched in upward curves beyond Tara’s comprehension. “I beg your pardon?”
“Let’s go over to my place, my house.”
Tara understood this time, but wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Doodlebug will be thrilled to meet you. She loves company.”
Tara looked at Ruth, a question mark on her face.
“That’s my little doggie. She loves to meet people.”
Tara nodded. It was not like she had other options. Alyona was still at work. She didn’t feel close enough to her QVision Tech friends to seek their help.
Chapter 17
Ruth Murphy lived down the street in a two-story, four-bedroom Cape Cod cottage with a steep pitched roof and dormer windows. The front yard was a vibrant bouquet—like the owner of the house, thought Tara. Gerbera daisies, azaleas, and day lilies nodded in the light afternoon breeze, secure among the oaks, magnolias, and dogwoods. Ruth pulled her red Oldsmobile up the paved driveway into the two-car garage. They entered the house, past a short hallway, into the kitchen, where polished pine wood met Tara’s eyes, and the mild smell of cinnamon wax and baked bread greeted her senses.
Tara had never been inside an American home before. Ruth ushered her into the family room, a charming interplay of wainscot paneling and old-world furniture, with a glass-and-brass enclosed fireplace that occupied the far wall. Tara slipped into the comfort of a soft fabric sofa and strained her neck to stare silently at a quaint town square scene on a large frame that adorned the wall behind her, as if the clues to her future lurked in the painting.
Later, after Tara had lunched on pickled cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches, washed it down with coffee so strong it felt like a tall mug of bitterness, finished it off with a large square of homemade brownie, and popped two Advils for her pain, she felt more human again.
Doodlebug was a child with an ever-smiling face, her mom insisted. To Tara, she was a friendly Yorkshire terrier with a glossy blue-black-tan coat and a moist black button of a nose. Together, dog and woman lounged on a wicker chair in the screened-in porch that overlooked a dry creek and woods past the grassy backyard. From the adjoining deck floated the herbal aromas of potted rosemary, thyme, and parsley, smells so foreign compared to the coriander and mint bunches of Amma’s garden.
Doodlebug jumped from Tara’s lap to her feet and back, madly wagging her tail, begging to be indulged, which Tara did, stroking her soft head, petting her under her chin. Doodlebug responded with happy noises and a dripping tongue, and Tara smiled as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
The back porch opened into the family room where Ruth spent time making calls, talking to the church pastor, and then, based on his references, to some other folks. Tara watched the older woman’s animated face from her vantage point, at the way she blinked her eyes in rapt attention, absentmindedly tapping her wooden pen on her writing pad, then responding with a stream of words spoken with wide-mouthed cadence, words utterly lost on Tara.
It shocked her, every now and then, that she felt no earthshaking fear or sadness, as if her problem were too enormous to infiltrate into her. Each time the horrors of the day started to play back in her head, Doodlebug would put a paw on her knee or a wet nose near her arm, and reality would go over to a corner and wait.
When Ruth finished her calls, Tara walked up to her and said, “Miss Murphy, my friend Alyona must be back from work. Would you please drop me to her place?”
“Call me Ruth. Make me feel young.” Ruth’s warm smile crinkled her eyes. “Where does Alyona live?”
“She is my neighbor.”
“Does she live on the same floor as you?”
Tara nodded.
“How about we invite Alyona over for dinner tonight? I am sure she will enjoy my pot roast.”
Tara hesitated. “I’ve already troubled you enough.”
“Doodlebug and I love company, don’t we, Doodlebug?” The Yorkshire terrier wagged her tail happily. “We don’t know what frame of mind your husband is in. We are not sure you are safe walking into a place where he can see you. How about you give this old woman company tonight? Tomorrow, we will find you some legal help.”
Tara strained to understand Ruth, she watched her lips intently. “Legal help?”
“Yes, I just spoke to Joe Crawley, an attorney known to our pastor, David. Joe says there are several groups in DeKalb County that offer free legal help to victims of domestic abuse.” She took Tara’s hand and motioned her to sit beside her. “I have a couple of numbers. Tomorrow, we will fix up an appointment, pay a visit to one of these centers.”
And suddenly, the boulder that stood waiting in a corner came rolling toward Tara. She shook a little as she tried to grapple with the complexities unfolding before her. She felt ignorant; she knew so little, understood so little.
“Will Sanjay—my husband, Sanjay, will he be in trouble?”
“He deserves to be in trouble, don’t you think?”
Tara shook her head vigorously. “Will he be arrested? I don’t want him to be arrested, please, Miss Murphy.”
Ruth patted her forearm kindly. Doodlebug, sensing Tara’s agitation, licked her face.
“He has never hit me before. This was the only time.”
“Do you want to go back to him?”
Tara contemplated the question. She closed her eyes. An image appeared before her, like an apparition. Sanjay, unhinged, his face contorted in rage, spewing insults. “Hijra! When I saw you at Hartsfield–Jackson airport, that’s the first word that came to my mind.” She felt his kicks to her abdomen, the blows to her head, to her face, the twisting of her arm, her screams. She covered her face in her hands, shook her head.