C H A P T E R 21

THE COST OF LIVING

When the old house had closed its bleary eyes and settled into

sleep, Ammu, wearing one of Chacko’s old shirts over a long white

petticoat, walked out onto the front verandah. She paced up and

down for awhile. Restless. Feral. Then she sat on the wicker chair

below the moldy, button-eyed bison head and the portraits of the

Little Blessed One and Aleyooty Ammachi that hung on either side

of it. Her twins were sleeping the way they did when they were

exhausted—with their eyes half open, two small monsters. They got

that from their father