The Bones of Grace by Tahmima Anam Read Free Book Online Page A

Erasmus, and Eric. Hello. Hello. Even sitting, they were almost as tall as me. Their teeth gleamed in their faces.No one had asked me if I wanted anything to eat, so when you let go of my hand and moved towards the piano, I made my way to the table and found mismatched casserole dishes, pie plates, and baking trays holding lasagna, cold salads, cheeses, and sticks of vegetables. There was an open bottle of wine on the sideboard and a woman pouring herself a glass asked me if I wanted any.
    A loud, rhythmic tune exploded from the piano. ‘Thelonious Monk,’ you called out above the crowd, ‘Grandma’s favourite.’
    â€˜Oh, stop that now. Play something with a tune,’ someone said, but the crashing jazz continued. The woman who had offered me a glass of wine now asked, ‘Where are you from?’ She had a milky, freckled face and a beautiful mouth, her long hair pulled into a French braid.
    â€˜Bangladesh,’ I said, then realised she was asking how I came to be there. ‘I’m a friend of Elijah.’
    â€˜You know, my grandma once made us watch a documentary about Bangladesh. And we spent the next few weeks chanting “Joy Bangla”.’
    â€˜That’s something of a national slogan.’
    â€˜Grandma was an old leftie.’
    â€˜You must be Elijah’s sister.’
    â€˜That’s right. Ada.’
    When she leaned down and hugged me, I wanted to cry.
    â€˜I recommend the tuna casserole. My mother is a terrible cook.’
    In the meantime, you had started to sing. ‘Imagination is funny/It makes a cloudy day sunny.’
    Ada joined in, with a strong, practised voice. ‘Makes a bee think of honey.’ She led us to the piano and then you were sitting side by side on the stool. Others circled you, and the chorus of voices was sweet and loud.
    I stepped back, holding the plate of tuna casserole, watching your back sway to the music, and then I drifted away, down a corridor and past a pair of swinging doors into the kitchen. I found the countertops worn and scrubbed, the whole place smelling of old trees. I leaned against the wood-burning stove for a moment, enjoying its warmth even on this very hot day, before examining the photographs on the fridge. A collage of willowy, beautiful people smiled indirectly at the camera, holding dogs and babies against backdrops of mountains and dark lakes. I opened the fridge and found an open tin of cat food and a jug of lemonade crowded with spears of fresh mint.
    The song had finished. I liked how no one noticed as I came and went. When I went back inside, a wave of warm air swirled through the room, the smell of lavender drifting in from outside and settling on the furniture. I saw, then, that there was a large portrait of your grandmother displayed on a side table. Someone had pencilled her features, a strong jaw and wide-apart eyes and a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. She wore a small smile, as if she had just seen someone she knew and was about to wave hello. Beside the drawing there was a notebook on which people were writing messages. I looked closer. May you be as treasured above as you were among us . And: Tell God it’s getting hot down here! And: Grandma, as you left the planet, you sent me a gift. Thank you .
    A few people carried plates into the kitchen and I heard the sound of water running. I found your mother reclining on the sofa. The sun zigzagged against her face. Your brothers were outside, huddled together beside an old swing set. In a gazebo at the back, I spotted Autumn sitting on her own, and I wondered if I should go andtalk to her. A man was narrating a story about how Clementine had crashed his parents’ wedding dressed as a camel. I watched you as you listened to the story – you had obviously heard it before – and I wondered what it was like to be so sure of your provenance, to talk about ancestors whose lives were documented, birth certificates and university degrees