Birds of Paradise

by Diana Abu-Jaber

  Brian works his jaw; a popping sound. “Now? There’s already a second wave?”

  “And they will have people lining up to buy. Couple weeks turnaround, maybe.”

  “No waiting period? No ninety days?”

  Javier shrugs. “Come on—things don’t apply to some guys the way they do to other guys. I don’t have to tell you. You got enough cheese, you write your own rules.”

  Brian feels breathless; dismayed by a sense of his own collusion: for years he’s ignored such items as the company’s practice of issuing complicated investment IOUs to overextended clients, Parkhurst’s love of tiptoeing up to the financial line, overextending himself on costly architects, building materials, bribes for political candidates. Brian rubs one hand over his face as if erasing each feature. “Don’t like it.”

  “No problema. But—you ask me? The thing is? You’re walking away from the sweetest, easiest bundle you’ll ever make in your life.”

  “Please. Do not patronize me.”

  Javier laughs. “What patronize? Life is beautiful! Let yourself enjoy a little. It’s only top, top, top players in on this one. We’ll have the deal in the bag and the money spent practically before morning.”

  “What about you? You going in on this glorious deal?”

  “Yeah, just a little, little strapped right now.” He runs his tie between two fingers. “Hey, I make a couple of the commissions on your excellent investment, I’ll be right in line myself.” Javier’s voice lowers, smug and cagey. “You’ve got to have faith.”

  Brian gazes at Javier. His mouth feels papery, even the tips of his fingers seem desiccated. “This would be funny if it weren’t so . . .” There’s that tremor again in his hands. He holds them in loose fists, and sits back. “If I didn’t want to buy one of those townhouses in the Grove for two hundred sixty K, why on earth would I go for this spaceship?”

  Javier spreads out his fingers on the desk top so they seem to float on its green glass surface. “These guys are young and lean and hungry. They want to make their mark and they’re being smart—” Javier ducks, lowering his voice to a hiss. “This is the kind of discount you’d never see from Parkhurst. Or any of the other viejos around here. Not in a billion years.” He gives Brian a narrow look. “This is the jackpot, buddy. I’m not talking to you as your realtor here, I’m talking as your compay, your compañero. I haven’t seen a deal like this in forever.”

  Brian locks his arms across his chest: he can envision his son’s face so clearly, eyes downturned in disapproval. “Then it’s too good to be true. Or it shouldn’t be true.”

  Javier nods slowly; moving closer; his hand is on Brian’s arm and Brian straightens, terrified Javier might try to embrace him. “Man, I am worried about you, you know? You’re being weird at work, you’re being weird about your kid . . .”

  “Kids—I have two children.”

  Javier closes his eyes. “Hombre. I know that.”

  “What do you want me to say, buddy?” Brian’s hands come together then separate on his desk. “I don’t even know . . .” He looks as if he’s holding something broken open—a nut or a shell. “Your kids—it’s okay between you and them, right?” He squeezes his hands back together. “After Felice—you know . . . I think I did it wrong. I mean, should’ve come home more. Something.” He tries to speak conversationally, but his voice is humiliating, jagged and bouncing. “And Stan . . .” He shakes his head. How does it work, this process of rethinking things?

  “Stanley’s a great, great kid,” Javier says softly. “He grew up to be fantastic. He knows you love him, brother.”

  When Brian smiles this time, it really does feel as if something on his face must be cracking. “Why does he know it?”

  Javier shrugs again, but cheerfully. “I don’t know, man. Seems like kids just kind of love their parents, right? One way or another. No matter how crappy we are. Crazy system, huh?”

  Brian’s face has gone numb. “Really crazy.”

  “Fuck, man.” Javier stands, scooping up his files. “What do I know? I’m a realtor. Forget the stupid deal—I get carried away. Just. Don’t worry so much, right? You can’t be a lawyer every second, you know? You can take it easier than that.”

  As Javier scrapes together his papers, Brian’s hands and face relax. He clears his throat and says, “Tell me again—about those condos?”

  IN THE STILLNESS following Javier’s visit, Brian paces his office, circles the computer stretching his arms and neck, checking on the cityscape below. There’s a stinging hum through his body: if he still had a bottle of single malt in the filing cabinet, now would be the moment for a belt. Instead he leans forward, allows himself a glance down the corridor to Fernanda’s office: through the glass wall, he catches the gleam of her hair as she bends toward her screen. He feels, in some way, off-kilter. All these years of working for a developer, yet simultaneously holding himself aloof from participating in development: as if, he thinks with a great inward roll of the eyes, he could remain unsullied, untouched by the flow of money beneath his feet. Just as he’d once believed that Avis carried within herself some proof of Brian’s own innate decency. Because Avis had married Brian—because she loved him—ipso facto, he must be a good man.

  He holds a contract folder and gazes mournfully at his immense blue-gray view until he realizes that he’s staring at a reflected face. He turns and Fernanda is there, standing over his visitor’s chair. Had she seen him spying? Her eyes cut toward his, an amused, slippery glance. “Can I steal you for a second? I’d really like to get away from this place.”

  “Away—out of here, you mean?” He puts down the folder.

  “I don’t care where—just anywhere. You pick.”

  As soon as they leave the parking garage, she turns to him. “First of all, I’m so sorry.” He glances up from the traffic. She is gazing at the dashboard as if she were fond of it. “I acted like an idiot the other day. That’s just—that’s not how I am. All the tears. It’d been a long day and I haven’t been getting enough sleep.”

  “My dear,” he starts, but Fernanda cuts in. “Wait, please. I’m so embarrassed about the things I told you. About me and Jack.”

  “But you shouldn’t!” He tries again. “I’m glad you told me. I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

  “Oh, please don’t,” she says with a laugh. She glances at him from the corners of her eyes. “It’s all fine. I’m learning a lot from Jack—we’re having a great time together. We get each other. It’s a very simple relationship.”

  He frowns at the road. “I don’t see how you can say that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not!” He lifts his hands from the wheel. “The power dynamics. He’s too old and rich and you’re too smart for this kind of thing.”

  He turns into the South Miami shopping district: UM students jaywalk in front of the SUV, apparently convinced of their immortality. Brian turns down a side street and pulls into one of the diagonal parking spaces in front of the Whip ’n Dip. This was the place his children had wanted to go when they tired of pastries.

  Fernanda’s eyes darken with laughter. “Ice cream?”

  He feels the back of his neck grow hot and wonders if he should pretend to be making a joke. But she’s already pushing open the passenger door.

  Fernanda orders a small cup of vanilla and Brian asks for a black coffee. They walk down the block to the small park and settle on a wooden bench She smiles and faces him. “I’m flattered that you’ve been worried for me. Really. But things are good. I don’t want to change any of it. And I don’t want to leave my job.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that you—”

  Fernanda sighs, a subtle lilt, instantly raising apprehension in Brian. “Do you remember Vicky Asafi? She used to work in H.R.? Really cute blonde, late twenties?”

  Brian watches her a moment, nods slowly. “Her husband got transferred someplace. To Atlanta?”

  “Did you ever meet Vicky’s husband?”

/>   Brian doesn’t answer. He studies Fernanda’s eyes.

  “Because, you know what, she didn’t have a husband,” Fernanda continues. “That was just a story they cooked up. She was having an affair with Jack and when she decided to break things off, she was ‘let go.’ ”

  He lowers his eyes. Of course. “She could’ve brought charges against him.”

  Fernanda shifts back on the bench and gazes into her ice cream. “Yes, gone through an ugly, protracted sexual harassment trial, the full legal weight of PI&B, leading to uncertain results: no job references, that’s for sure. Or she could just start her life over somewhere.” She tucks the spoon in her cup. “Be done with it.” Her voice, in trying to sound untroubled, seems to trip. “Thanks but no thanks, Brian. I need my job. More than that, I like my job.”

  Brian takes a sip of coffee but it’s sour. He walks to the wire trash container and tosses the Styrofoam cup. His head is filled with coppery echoes. He gazes at her as he returns to the bench: her eyes seem heavier, like a sleepy child’s, her lips are plum-colored, sulky. She places one hand on the elbow of his jacket, an infinitesimally delicate touch. He inhales strands of perfume and vanilla ice cream and recalls the Regaleses’ yard—the white adobe house, its front lawn filled with waxy starfruits, their sweet, sweat-ish funk, and the nodding gardenia blooms. She frowns and looks patient and sympathetic. “Brian, if it makes you feel any better—I do think you care about me and are trying to protect me.”

  There’s a flicker of warmth at the base of his chest as he watches her. “But you see—you understand—” He opens his hands. “That story you just told me? That’s exactly why all of this—with Jack—it has to end. It just—it isn’t right for you.”

  Her smile is almost transparent. She looks different out in the natural light—younger and plainer and more lovely. “How exactly do you know what is good for me? What do you suppose you know about me?”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure I know what isn’t good for you.” Brian lowers his gaze.

  She sits back against the bench, a honeycomb of tree-filtered light illuminating her hair, the dot of silver sparkling at the center of her clavicle. “My father says, To know the person you have to know the tribe.”

  “So he’d say I have to know your family? To give you advice?”

  “Something like that.” She lifts her face: the day is mild. Overhead, white smudges of cloud drift past, bits of steam from a teakettle. “My grandparents and my mother left Cuba with nearly their whole synagogue. My mother—for years, she told me—she used to cry over the little group that stayed behind—always worrying would they ever survive. Afraid Castro would just—” She lifted the flat of one hand, her fingers straightened, nearly curved backwards, her head slowly shaking in a kind of denial. “Mother used to think in ten or twenty years that there wouldn’t be any of us—any Jews at all left in Cuba.”

  Emboldened by this bit of personal information, Brian asks, “And your father? Did he come with them?”

  She drops her hand. “Papi? He’s just Catholic. That’s what he liked to say, just-Catholic. He came here before my mother did—with his family. My parents made a big scandal when they fell in love—mixing religions. Papi said—first my mother’s people survive the Pharaoh, then Hitler, then they have to go out and find Castro—that’s professional suffering.” She smiles at her scraped-out cup of ice cream. “The truth is—my parents went through so much just to be together, I think it burned most of the religious feeling out of them. We didn’t go to any services when I was growing up. There were just a few things—the silver candlestick holders. Sometimes my mother lit them and said the Friday blessing. Sometimes, braided bread—challah. A pewter mezuzah by the door—I thought it had special powers. That’s all. Oh, and Papi said he gave me his Catholic guilt.”

  “So if you weren’t raised in a traditionally—”

  She’s already shaking her head. “There are some things that—go deeper. More than prayers. There’s a way of seeing who you are that remains—after everything else.” She says this delicately, like a doctor delivering complicated news.

  Her clean hair falling forward and her back so straight and brave, Fernanda looks to Brian as if she could be twelve years old. He feels another twist of protectiveness toward her. Leaning closer . . . Ah yes. The silver sparkle is a tiny Star of David on a short silver chain. It rests there like an amulet, investing her with layers of private history. He should, he thinks, be able to draw on his education and experience—all those years of helping others in their restless goals, years of observing ambition and power—in order to help Fernanda. Did he learn nothing from losing his daughter? “I’m not like him,” he blurts. “I’d never try to take anything from you.”

  “I know that!” Fernanda presses his hand between both of hers. “And I’m grateful for your friendship. Honestly, you have no idea. But, Brian, you know what? I’m happy.” An indentation forms on the verge of her left jaw. She smiles, brushing away a wisp of hair. “I love adventures. I love men. All kinds,” she says with a little laugh that stabs him to the quick. “I’ve learned from my parents that this world—well—amazing, impossible things can happen out of the clear blue sky. Dictators, pogroms. I don’t want to marry Jaime Roth, who took me to my high school prom, and lead a pure, holy, traditional life keeping house and producing babies—as my mother would like. Oh, it doesn’t matter that she didn’t do it—that only makes her want it all the more for me . . . I want to have another kind of life. A life like my mother’s.” She pauses, scrutinizing him: Brian notices the lilac tint of her lids and looks down at his lap, subtle emotion moving in him, a roll of smoke inside a glass bottle. “It’s very basic,” she says. “Don’t expect your kids to want the things that you didn’t want.”

  Avis

  AVIS PRESSES THE PHONE AGAINST HER EAR HARD enough to leave an impression. The sun is barely up, but Stanley has always been an early riser like his father. He answers on the fifth ring, “Yes, Mother?” He responds to her questions with one-word snippets—terse, but unable even now to cut her off entirely. So she learns: the baby is due late November, they don’t and won’t know the gender (Nieves doesn’t want to know), Nieves feels hurt and disappointed in Avis. Stanley feels whatever.

  She walks through the house with the phone as she humbly receives these tiny, wounding words. She fingers her chopped hair; peers through the French doors to the back. As Stanley confirms that, yes, they need the money, yes, the market really is in danger, Avis flicks on the TV, volume low. On the Weather Channel, a fleecy mass hovers due east of the Turks and Caicos, about to head for South Florida; an announcer mutters predictions in a dire tone: wind speeds, organized system, making landfall . . . Avis sits heavily on the couch only half hearing her son, imagining the food- and water-hoarding scene at Publix. It’s been several years since the last real hurricane came through, but she remembers it well: the shuddering “outer bands” of rain, the hollow clap of the silver palms, the susurration of the fronds, archways of blowing branches.

  “So if there’s nothing else, Mom . . .”

  Already dismissing her. She holds the phone with both hands. “You do know there’s a hurricane coming? Thursday? It’s on the TV right now. It looks big.”

  There’s a pause just long enough for a muted sigh. “You’ll be fine, Mom.”

  “No—I know, but I’d like you to come. Or—or at least—” she stammers. “Please—just be careful,” she finishes in desperation.

  THE SPIKING HUMIDITY is a disaster for her baking. She has to discard two batches of meringues that turn soft. She’d abandon puff pastry for the whole summer if she could, but the customers want their crisp, light crusts. Avis sets up her usual stations of flours and spices. At 7 a.m. it’s already so hot she assumes Solange won’t come out. But a half hour later, as Avis is stirring cocoa nibs into a vanilla batter, she glances at the window and spots her neighbor squatting at the edge of her yard. “Not in your usual place,” she calls from the door. />
  Solange stands nimbly, and Avis sees her apron contains dark strips. “There are interesting things in your yard.” She leads Avis to the stubby bushes in the far corner, a place their landscapers have elected to prune and ignore, instead of doing the more surgical work of weeding. “Here’s a plant going to waste.” Solange strokes the long, spiny branches between her fingers. “This is good medicine. You boil it for tea, for restorative properties.” She picks the quills, adding them to her apron. “This is granny bush—you use it for women’s trouble—pain and bleeding.”

  Avis looks around at the land she’s inhabited for nearly thirty years. Years ago, when she’d studied the constructions of stem, blade, stamen, ovule, she loved the infinite possibilities of the plant kingdom—but she had been interested in color, scent, presentation: the beautiful names—cloth-of-gold crocus; ash-leaved trumpet, star-of-Bethlehem; meadow saffron—the loveliness of a blown field of asters or irises, a ring of roses to bed a wedding cake, the careful depiction of a peony in cross section on the page, a gentian constructed in icing. She knew all about beauty and almost nothing of utility. “All kinds of good things here,” Solange says again, her fingers combing the weeds. “You boil that thistle to cure asthma—its sap will take away warts. The leaves of that lime tree are fine for the skin, the guava calms the stomach and nerves. Over there? The bark on your lignum vitae regulates the system.” She stands, one hand holding up the pouch of stems, the other pointing out plants.

  Avis plucks a stem of a pointed, glossy leaf that’s established itself in that far corner. Solange says, Wild coffee. Avis holds it under her nose, studying the musty green fragrance. “Could I bake with this?”

  “You roast the seeds, to make a brew.”

  Avis smiles, twirling the bit of twig. “My son would love this.”

  Solange lifts her head so the sun turns her dark irises amber. “I told my son that there used to be one flavor only. Everything was pressed together. The universe, the people, animals, vegetables, dirt, water—everything—in the smallest seed. That’s what people try to do—eat and touch small pieces of the world to try and get back into the whole thing again. Sweet and sour. That is how bush medicine works.”