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