Free Moving Forward Sideways Like a Crab by Shani Mootoo

or my sister, Gita, Gita’s son, Devin, or husband, Jaan.
    “I hope I didn’t wake you,” my mother said.
    “What’s happened?” I responded.
    “What are you doing?” answered my mother, and this made me sit up in fear. I repeated my question sharply. She answered, “We have some bad news. Something has happened.”
    “Is Dad all right?” I asked, getting up out of the bed.
    “Yes. It’s not our family. We’re all right.”
    So, what could be that bad? I wondered. Her tone was not one that suggested her reason for calling was mere gossip.
    “What are you doing right now?” she asked again.
    “For Christ’s sake, Mum. Just tell me what happened.”
    “Well, I’m worried that you’re alone. Are you alone?”
    “What happened?” I shouted.
    “It’s Zain.”
    “Zain” was suddenly a name that seemed strange, unfamiliar. For a few seconds, I didn’t know who my mother was talking about. As realization dawned, my legs buckled and I sat back down.
    “There was a home invasion at her place yesterday. She was alone at the time.”
    “What happened?” I asked, but before she could answer I spoke again. “What do you mean a home invasion?”
    The house had been broken into, she said. Ransacked.
    I knew that robberies were never what they appeared in Trinidad. The room was spinning and I started to shake. I couldn’t summon the words to ask if Zain was all right. A small voice somewhere within me asked, “What did they want?” Mum didn’t answer. I knew then that Zain was dead.
    “Oh God. Don’t tell me. Please don’t tell me,” I cried.
    I heard my mother saying, “I’m so sorry, Siddhi. I’m so sorry. I wish you weren’t alone.”
    Between sobs, I had sense enough to ask for details. “Was it really a robbery?”
    “It’s very strange, Sid. The house was trashed, apparently, but according to the reports in the news, the police are saying that nothing was taken.”
    We were both quiet for a moment. I am sure that what was in my own mind was also in my mother’s: the only thing that really mattered had, in fact, been taken.
    “When did this happen, Mum?” I finally asked.
    “Last night,” she said.
    “What day is today?”
    “It’s Wednesday,” she said. “I think Zain had to convert to Christianity when she married Angus, so it will be a Catholic funeral. But I don’t know when it will be. As it’s a murder, I mean. The police will have to continue—”
    I interrupted her. “Tuesday night. That’s when Angus plays cards in Port of Spain with his friends.”
    My mother said simply, “Yes.”
    Somehow we managed to end the call.
    My mother had promised to call again as soon as she had all the details for the funeral, but when she reached me a day later she had other matters on her mind.
    “Siddhani, I hope you won’t mind, but I have something to ask you. Just a minute, I want to shut the door.” There was a pause while she stepped away, then returned. “You there? I want to ask you something, but I don’t want you to get annoyed, you hear? I am not asking this to quarrel with you. I think I know the answer, but I want to hear it from you.”
    My heart pounded. I thought I knew what was coming. I had already decided that Zain’s murder was the work of Eric or of someone hired by Eric. Perhaps Eric had been caught and had said something to the police, to the papers, to the world, about Zain and me lying in the bed in her guest room.
    Had the police arrested anyone? I quickly asked my mother. She said no, and then, bluntly, “I want to ask about the two of you, Siddhani.”
    I was relieved and panicked at once. She waited, and I remained quiet. She tried again.
    “Well? Look, you’re really mashed up about this thing. You’re all alone up there. I don’t know what to do. Were she and you—you know what I mean? Did you like her? Well, not
like
. Come on, you know what I mean.”
    My mother, I saw, was for the first time willing to talk to me—in an obtuse manner