Equal Love

by Peter Ho Davies

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgments

  The Hull Case

  Brave Girl

  The Next Life

  Small World

  How to Be an Expatriate

  Frogmen

  Equal Love

  Sales

  Everything You Can Remember in Thirty Seconds Is Yours to Keep

  On the Terrace

  Cakes of Baby

  Today is Sunday

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2000 by Peter Ho Davies

  All rights reserved

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhco.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Davies, Peter Ho, date.

  Equal love / Peter Ho Davies.

  p. cm.

  “A Mariner original.”

  ISBN 0-618-00699-0

  ISBN 978-0-6180-0699-1

  I. Title.

  PR6054.A89145 E68 2000

  813'.54-dc21 99-046755

  eISBN 978-0-547-63005-2

  v2.0615

  The following stories have appeared, sometimes in slightly different form, in these publications: “The Hull Case” in Ploughshares; “The Next Life” in Harper’s Magazine; “How to Be an Expatriate” in Grand Tour and Prospect Magazine; “Frogmen” in Fish Stories; “Sales” in Third Coast; “Everything You Can Remember” in Granta; “On the Terraces” in The Gettysburg Review; and “Today Is Sunday” in The Atlantic Monthly.

  FOR LYNNE

  “For a wonderful physical tie binds the parents to the children; and—by some sad, strange irony—it does not bind us children to our parents. For if it did, if we could answer their love not with gratitude but with equal love, life would lose much of its pathos and much of its squalor, and we might be wonderfully happy.”

  —E. M. Forster, Where Angels Fear to Tread

  Acknowledgments

  For support during the writing of this book, I would like to thank the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown; Emory University; the University of Oregon; and my friends and colleagues at all three institutions.

  For their expertise, faith, and encouragement, I’m greatly indebted to Janet Silver and Heidi Pitlor at Houghton Mifflin and Maria Massie and Joshua Greenhut at Witherspoon Associates.

  Finally, for their unequaled love, my deepest thanks go to my family.

  The Hull Case

  Of modern North American cases, one of the earliest and most widely reported abductions occurred in the early sixties to a mixed-race couple in New Hampshire.

  —Taken: Twelve Contemporary UFO Abduction Narratives,

  K. Clifford Stanton

  HELEN IS TELLING the colonel about the ship now, and Henry, sitting stiffly on the sectional sofa beside his wife, can’t look up. He stares at the colonel’s cap, the gold braid on the rim, where it rests on the coffee table next to the latest Saturday Evening Post and the plate of tunafish sandwiches Helen has laid out.

  “What color were the lights, Mrs. Hull?” the colonel wants to know, and Helen says, “Blue.”

  The colonel makes a check mark.

  “Baby blue,” Helen adds. She looks at Henry, and he nods quickly. He thought the lights were a cop at first.

  “Baby blue,” the colonel repeats slowly, his pen scratching along. He’s resting his clipboard against his khaki knee. His pants leg is crisply ironed, and his shoes glint. Henry wishes he could see what the colonel is writing.

  “Is that usual?” he asks. “Blue lights? In these cases, I mean.”

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t say,” the colonel says.

  “’Cept I believe aircraft lights are usually red and white.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then this wouldn’t be an aircraft?”

  “That’s what we’re aiming to determine,” the colonel says. “Sir.” His smile reminds Henry of Richard Widmark.

  There’s a pause, and then Helen asks, “Won’t you have a sandwich, colonel?” and the colonel says, “Thank you, ma’am. Don’t mind if I do.” He takes one and lays it on his plate, but doesn’t take a bite.

  Henry thought the lights were a cop at first. They’d already been stopped once on the drive back from Niagara. He could have sworn he’d been doing less than sixty. The cop had shone his flashlight in Henry’s face—black—and then Helen’s—white.

  “Any trouble here, ma’am?”

  “Not at all, officer,” she told him, while Henry gripped the wheel with both hands.

  …

  It was meant to be a second honeymoon. Not that they’d had a first, really. They’d been married for seven years. Henry had been serving in Korea, a corporal in the signals, when he’d been caught in the open by a grenade. Helen was his nurse in Tokyo. He’d heard that some of the white nurses refused to touch the black GIs, but she didn’t mind. The first day she gave him a sponge bath, he tried to thank her—not sure if he was more embarrassed for her or himself (he felt an erection pushing at the slit of his pajama pants)—but she told him not to be silly. He always remembered that. “Don’t be silly.” Like it was nothing.

  “I’m just saying I appreciate it,” he said, a little stung. “The nature of the race matter and all.”

  “The race matter doesn’t matter to me,” she told him briskly. “And it shouldn’t matter to you.” Later she came back and he asked her to scratch his back, below the shoulder blade where it itched him fiercely, and she did.

  Perhaps it was the thought of losing his arm. He was so relieved when she told him they’d saved it. She’d been changing the dressing on his hand, unwinding the bandages from each fat finger. He whooped with joy. He asked her to have a drink with him. She said she didn’t think so and his face fell, but then she laughed, her teeth as bright as her uniform. “Oh,” she said, turning his hand over to wash it. “You mean after your release? Why, of course. I’d like that. I thought you meant now. You shouldn’t be drinking now, not with your medication.” And then she wound his hand up again in fresh white bandages.

  Her tour had finished three weeks later, but she’d stayed on in Tokyo, and by the time his discharge came through, they were lovers. They ate sushi together and she wore beautiful multicolored kimonos and it all seemed perfectly natural. He’d been in the army for nine years, so he hung on to her now as the next thing in his life, and one night after a fifth of whiskey—“Why, Henry Hull, you’re stinko”—he asked her to marry him. “Of course,” she said, and he laughed out loud. “Of course!” They’d gone back to New Hampshire, where she had a job in a hospital in Manchester. He’d found work at the local post office, and they’d been married within the month.

  They’d made a good life together. Helen’s parents had been kind to him, after some reservations. “They know better than to try and stop me when I want something,” Helen told him. Her brother called Henry a hero and a credit to his race at the small reception after their wedding at the town hall. Henry appreciated it, but it only reminded him that he was the one black man in the room. His own parents were long since dead, and his sister, Bernice, back in Summer Hill, had refused to come when she heard Henry was marrying a white woman. “What for?” she wanted to know, and when Henry said, “For the same reasons anybody gets married,” she told him no, she didn’t believe it.

  Henry didn’t know what to say to that. He could hear her kids, his nephews and nieces, in the background, yelling, and then a baby’s sharp, sudden sobs.

 
“I gotta go,” Bernice said. They hadn’t talked since.

  His brother, Roy, had been more sympathetic. “You and me been dreaming about white girls since we were boys. Bernice thinks that’s all wrong and maybe it is, but a man’s got to follow his dream. ’S only natural to want what you can’t have.” But Roy hadn’t come either.

  Henry and Helen did have a good life, though. Decent friends. Enough money. Helen had even taught him to skate. He liked his job, was proud of the uniform, and Mr. Rhodes, the postmaster, treated him well. The first week, when there’d been a little trouble over Henry’s eating at the local sandwich shop, Mr. Rhodes had stepped across the street and told the owner that none of the postmen would be eating there again if Henry didn’t. And just like that the shop integrated, although Henry told Helen he wouldn’t have made anything of it himself.

  “Why not, for Pete’s sake?” she’d asked him, and when he shrugged she’d exclaimed, “You’re too darned dignified for your own good sometimes.”

  He was the only black man he knew in Manchester, but he followed the news of lunchroom sit-ins and the Freedom Riders and joined the NAACP, although he was a lifelong Republican, like his father and his grandfather before him. He met more Negroes, but they all seemed a little shy of each other, almost sheepish. “Far as civil rights goes,” one of them pointed out to him, “New Hampshire ain’t exactly where it’s at.”

  What nagged Henry was that it was all too good, unreal somehow, more than he deserved. He thought of his brother and sister and all the kids he’d grown up with. Why had he been the one singled out, plucked up by life and set down here? It made him a little scared to have something. Helen said he was just being superstitious, but he couldn’t shake the idea. He thought one day he’d wake up, or someone would come along and take it all away. When Helen had miscarried the first time, the spring before, along with the worry for her, he’d felt an awful relief that finally something terrible had happened. He’d been so ashamed he hadn’t known how to comfort her, except to keep trying. But when she’d miscarried the second time, that summer, he’d decided they couldn’t go through it again. They’d been distant these last few months, Helen insisting she still wanted a child, had always wanted one, Henry doubtful, thinking She wants one more now she maybe can’t have one, wondering if this was how she had once wanted him, wondering if he was no longer enough for her, which was why the idea of a trip to Niagara felt like such an inspiration.

  Helen had laughed and called him a romantic but taken his hand across the dinner table.

  …

  The colonel wants to go back over the details again, as if he’s trying to trip them up. “I thought you said it was cigar-shaped, Mrs. Hull?”

  “From a distance,” Helen says impatiently. “Up close, you could see it was a disk.” She looks at Henry for support.

  “We had a pair of binoculars along for the trip,” he says. “I thought it might be a star at first. But when I pulled over at a lookout and used the glasses, whatever it was was definitely moving.” The colonel is silent, so Henry hurries on, a little breathless but feeling that more is required of him. “A little later it came to me that I’d left the car running the first time while I leaned on the roof with the binocs. I thought the vibrations from the engine might have been the problem, see, so I pulled over again, stepped away from the car before I put the glasses on it. And it was still moving.”

  Henry wants the colonel to write this down, but his pen doesn’t move. The colonel doesn’t even ask him about the binoculars—his service issue 10 X 42 Weavers.

  “Spinning,” Helen says. “Don’t forget it was spinning. That’s what gave it the twinkling effect.”

  “Right,” Henry says. “The lights that looked like they were moving across it from a distance were actually fixed to the rim.” He makes a circling motion in the air with his index finger while the colonel stares at him.

  “Did you write that down?” Helen asks, and the colonel blinks and says, “Yes, ma’am. I got it. ‘Twinkling was spinning.’”

  They had agreed before the colonel arrived that Helen would do most of the talking. Henry hadn’t wanted them to tell anyone about what they had seen right from the start, but Helen insisted on calling her sister, Marge. Hadn’t Marge seen a UFO herself in ’57? Henry shrugged. He’d never believed Marge’s story, but he knew Helen needed to tell someone, and Marge at least wouldn’t make fun of them. But it hadn’t stopped there. Marge put Helen on to a high school science teacher she knew, and he told her they should really notify the air force. Now here was the colonel with his clipboard. Henry hadn’t wanted to meet him, but Helen had had a conniption fit.

  “Henry Hull! How’s it going to look,” she said, “if I’m telling this story and my own husband won’t back me up?”

  Henry told her it wouldn’t make any difference, but what he really thought was that nothing he said would help her, might even make her less believable. “You’re a white woman married to a colored,” he wanted to tell her. He didn’t think anyone would believe them, but Helen wasn’t having any of that. “Of course they’ll believe us,” she said. “So long as we tell the truth. We have to try, at least. You’ve no gumption, Henry, that’s your whole trouble.” It seemed so easy to her, but Henry had had to work hard to be believed most of his life.

  Now he can see that Helen is getting tired of going over the same story again and again.

  “I’m not telling you what it means,” she says. “I’m just telling you what I saw. We were hoping you could explain it to us.”

  But the colonel just spreads his hands and says, “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “You act like we’re lying.”

  “No, ma’am,” the colonel says quickly. “I assure you.”

  Henry knows what’s coming next. Helen wants to get on to the part inside the ship, the stuff Henry doesn’t remember. He asked her not to talk about it, but she told him she couldn’t promise. “What if it’s a matter of national security?” she said. “It’s our duty, isn’t it? Think what it could mean for the future of everyone.” So now she explains to the colonel how she only remembered this part later, in her dreams. Henry feels himself shrink, but the colonel just makes another scratch with his pen, and Helen starts to tell him about the aliens—the short gray men—and their tests.

  “Gray?” The colonel looks from Helen to Henry, Henry to Helen.

  “Gray,” she says, and he writes it down.

  “And short,” she adds. “But not like dwarfs, like children.”

  In her dream, Helen says, she remembers them scraping her skin with a strange metal instrument. “Like a dentist might use, only different. It tickled,” she recalls, without a smile. Then she remembers them pushing a long thin needle into her navel. “That really hurt,” she says, “but when I cried out they did something and the pain stopped at once. They seemed sorry. They told me it was a pregnancy test.”

  The colonel, who has been taking notes with his head down, not looking at them, glances up quickly.

  “Oh, of course I’m not pregnant,” Helen says brusquely, and Henry sits very still. This is what he feared all along—that they wouldn’t be able to keep their private business out of this.

  “Have you ever heard of anything like it?” Helen asks. The colonel tells her he hasn’t.

  “You have no memory of this?” he asks Henry, who shakes his head slowly. He’s racked his brains, but there’s nothing. Helen can’t understand it. “How can you not remember?” she cried the first time she told him, as if he were the one being unreasonable.

  “Helen tells me I was in another room on the ship, drugged or something, but I don’t recall.” He wishes he could support her now, but also, in the back of his mind, he resents her dream, his weakness in it.

  Helen presses on. She says she knows how it sounds, but she has proof. “I’m just getting to the best part,” she says. “The part about Henry’s teeth.”

  “Teeth?” the colonel says, and this time Henry sees a twitch to
his lips that makes him feel cold inside.

  “That’s right,” Helen says, and Henry can tell she’s seething now. The aliens, she explains slowly, as if to a child, were surprised that Henry’s teeth came out and Helen’s didn’t. “They didn’t understand about dentures,” Helen says. Henry feels his mouth grow dry. They have argued about this part. He didn’t want her to tell it, but Helen feels it’s the clincher. “How could we make that up?” she asked him last night. “Plus there’s the physical proof.”

  “This was after the other tests,” Helen says. “They were as curious as kids. I’m jumping ahead a little, but don’t mind me. Anyway, after we were done, the one I think of as the doctor, he left the room, and the grayer one, the leader, he told me they were still finishing up with Henry. Anyhow, a few seconds later the doctor runs back in. He seems very excited and he asks me to open my mouth. Well, I don’t quite know why, but I wanted to get this over with, so I obliged, and before you know it he’d pushed his little fingers in my mouth and he was pulling on my teeth. Well! You can imagine my surprise. I slapped his hand away quick as I could. He was pulling quite hard too, making my head go up and down. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I said, and then he held out his other hand, and can you guess what he had?”

  The colonel shakes his head slowly.

  “Why, Henry’s dentures. There they were, sitting in his little gray hand. Well, I snatched them up at once. I don’t know what I was thinking. It made me so worried about Henry, I guess. That and the fact that he’s always losing them, or pretending to lose them, anyway.”

  She pauses, and Henry thinks he should say something.

  “They pinch me,” he mumbles. “And they click. I don’t like them so good.”

  Helen laughs. “I tell him he looks like a fool without them, but he doesn’t care. He has such a fine smile, too.”