“Hey,” she says suddenly, one foot already on the snowy sidewalk. “Could you do me a favor? Would you take Dad home? He usually walks, but you know, on a night like this . . . And I’m not really up for driving him myself.”
“Okay. Sure,” Wilson says. “If you think it’s a good idea.”
“Just don’t tell him we fooled around.”
“I wasn’t planning on it. So long as he doesn’t bring it up.”
“That’s settled, then.” She opens her door fully, and a snowy gust sweeps into the car. “I won’t invite you in. You’d just get cold, and a new face’ll excite the kids if they’re still up. Wait here and I’ll send him out in a sec.”
Wilson watches her go, but she doesn’t turn back. He shivers in the lingering draft and then sniffs the air, rolls the windows down one by one, then up again. He sees Mike come out and flashes his headlights.
“Evening,” the older man says, climbing in. His hair is fine and silvery blond, almost like a child’s, and his heavy, lined face is raw from the cold or drink, Wilson can’t tell which.
“How’ve you been keeping?”
“Can’t complain,” Mike says, buckling up. “Course, seeing you doesn’t make me feel any younger.”
“You’re looking great,” Wilson tells him.
“Yeah? Joyce said you’d turned out a charmer.”
There’s an awkward silence, and Wilson pulls away from the curb too quickly. He feels a momentary panic as the car fishtails in the fresh snow. Mike grasps his door handle and Wilson says, “Sorry.” It reminds him of a statistical anomaly, and in his nervousness he starts on a story about how in some countries the accident rates increase after seatbelts are made compulsory. The theory being that people feel safer and therefore drive more recklessly. “No kidding?” Mike says. “There’s even a proposal,” Wilson tells him, wondering what his point is but pressing on, “a thought experiment really, suggesting that accident rates would drop if we sprayed the roads with ice and stuck sharp metal spikes to every steering column.”
“How about that,” Mike says, and then, politely, “This handles nice, though,” as if the car were Wilson’s and not a rental.
“Here we are already,” Wilson says, cheerful with relief.
Mike thanks him for the ride. He releases his belt and it slithers over his shoulder. “I’ll get the rest of your news from Joycey, I expect.”
“It was good to see you again,” Wilson says. “And Joyce,” he adds after a moment, feeling like he’s walking out onto the frozen Charles. But Mike doesn’t bat an eyelid.
“You too. She says you’ve done well for yourself. A kiddie on the way too?”
“Yeah,” Wilson says, and then, because something more seems expected, he surprises himself. “You know what worries me? It’s crazy. I worry I’m going to treat her like a pet. Love her the way you love a dog or a cat or something.”
Mike is looking down, tugging at his knuckles. “If only it were that easy,” he says, with a slow grin. He puts a hand on Wilson’s forearm and squeezes. “God bless.”
Wilson waits until he sees him go inside, worried he’ll slip in the snow, and then waits some more. He used to stand on this corner nights, he remembers, after he left them, before he walked back to his own home. He liked to watch the lights go on and off—the hall, the stairs, bathrooms, bedrooms. When he told Joyce once, she said it must look like the end of The Waltons. “Goodnight, Pa, goodnight, Ma, goodnight, John Boy.” She thought it was funny, but it hurt him. He used to stand there and think about their future.
But now he knows with certainty that it was all already over when he heard that door slam, as they leapt up, struggled into their clothes, covered their nakedness, that it was already over when he thought they’d be laughing about it for years to come, that the door had been slammed too hard, that it wasn’t someone coming home but someone in fury leaving. They’d been caught.
He thinks about Mike’s face in the woods when he told him how he felt about his own parents’ breakup. Mike married at seventeen, a father at eighteen. And it occurs to Wilson that if anyone kept Joyce’s parents together, it was him.
He starts the car, begins to trace his way back through the white, familiar streets to his hotel. McGrath to Monsignor O’Brien Highway. But as he drives, another memory, something so oddly vivid he wonders if he dreamed it, comes back to him. Joyce was already asleep, but he had woken from a drowse, pulled the covers up and over his shoulder, and in doing so glanced at her body beneath them. It was a bright afternoon and the sunlight penetrated the comforter, so he could see her quite clearly. The sheets were rosy, a pastel shade he remembers distinctly because they were more girlish than she usually allowed herself to seem. He watched her for a moment in that warm, pink light, the soft folds surrounding her, watched her chest rising and falling with her breath, listened to her, fancying he could hear her heart—or was it his?—watched her curl into a loose ball, her knees tucked to her chest, her hands loosely cupped beneath her chin, and he was filled with a desire to protect her. And it was that desire, he thinks now, that filling, sweeping desire, that he first called love.
He finds himself driving faster, reckless in the snow, thinking about his wife and his about-to-be child. She’ll be home soon, he calculates. It’s almost late enough to call.
How to Be an Expatriate
GO TO AMERICA. You love the books, the TV shows, the movies. Tell people you’re tired of being a tourist and you want to live in a foreign country for a few months. You know, really live there. Tell your mother it’s what you’ve always wanted. Remind your father how often he’s said you should get out of England if you have the chance. Say it’s only a master’s degree. In American lit. One year.
Pack two suitcases and give away your guitar to a friend who plays it better than you anyway. Give away your TV and your tennis racket. Sit in the pub on your last night home and wish for any excuse—fire, flood, earthquake—not to go.
At Heathrow your father slips you five hundred dollars in cash that he’s changed at the bank that morning. Then he warns you to look out for muggers. Give them the money, he says. Everyone has a gun over there. Your mother wants to make sure you’ve got your tickets and your passport. You say yes. She makes you show them to her. You are an only child, and sometimes you think your family takes this to mean you’re only a child.
Tell your parents on the phone how much you like Boston. How friendly everyone is. The size of the portions in restaurants. Tell them you’re happy, so they won’t worry about you. Hear the worry in your mother’s voice. Marvel at how clear the line is. And how cheap international calls are from the U.S. Promise to call every week. Tell your father that you miss football. Tell him, “They call it soccer here.” In the post the next week, receive a week’s worth of cuttings from the sports pages of English newspapers. “What else do you miss?” your mother wants to know. Tell her you can’t get English marmalade, but by the time some arrives in the post (which you now call the mail) you’ve found a little store in Faneuil Hall that stocks it. Don’t tell her and continue to get a new jar of marmalade every month.
At night, lie awake listening to sirens—the distinctive American wail—and wonder if they’re from the street or your neighbor’s TV.
Walk the Freedom Trail. See the sites of historic importance. Realize you don’t know any of the important history. Get bored and stop halfway. Go to Filene’s Basement and the Bull and Finch Pub, the one Cheers is based on. The Bull and Finch doesn’t look much like Cheers inside and doesn’t feel like a real pub to you. You haven’t been asked your age in a pub for years and you don’t have a driving license and you don’t feel safe carrying your passport everywhere. Have a Coke. Explain to your mother on the phone that they only use the outside of the pub on TV Learn to call pubs bars. When you feel homesick, eat at McDonald’s or Burger King or Kentucky Fried Chicken, just like at home. Think if anyone ever invents teleport booths, they should all be placed in fast-food joints around th
e globe to minimize the effects of immediate culture shock.
In the supermarket find jars of Coleman’s mustard, Cross and Blackwell pickled onions, Lea and Perrin’s Worcestershire sauce. Feel the tang of homesickness. Defend English food to your fellow students. Explain what Yorkshire pudding is. Complain that you can’t get a decent curry in Boston.
Work out how much everything is in pounds. Phone calls are cheaper. Food is cheaper. Gas is cheaper than petrol.
At parties, people come up to you and ask you to say weekend or schedule or Scottie Pippen. Discover you can bring the house down by saying, “Whatchoo talking about, Willis?”
Drink a lot. American beer is weaker, and the bars stay open all night. Get a reputation as a drinker. Completely fail to explain to people why Budweiser was once fashionable in England. Smoke pot for the first time. Amaze your new friends with the fact that it’s your first time. One of your fellow graduate students refuses to believe you. She lived in England for six months and she says she smoked pot. Be slightly annoyed that this person is telling you about your own country. Wonder how well you know your own country. She says words like chemist and dustbin and you share a taxi home with her. She is from New York, and you can hardly believe you’re sleeping with a New Yorker. In bed you tell her you hear it’s a wonderful town. “The Bronx is up,” she observes, lifting the covers and sliding under them, “and the Battery down.” Afterward, she lays her head on the pillow next to yours, whispers, “If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.”
“Do you have Oprah?” someone asks you, and you say, “Yes, we have Oprah. And Cosby and L.A. Law and Baywatch. And electricity and microwaves and indoor plumbing too. Just no guns and drugs.” Get into stupid arguments. Insist that the movie Glory is a western, “maybe not geographically, but generically.”
There is an election. You follow it with interest. It seems like a grand thing to be in another country during an election. When Bill Clinton wins, you feel slightly superior to your friends in England, with John Major for prime minister. When they call or write and ask you how you like America, think of that map on election night. Say you like Boston fine but you don’t know enough about the rest of America to judge: “It’s like asking someone in London what they think of Vienna.” Feel like an experienced traveler when you say this.
At Thanksgiving, call your parents and tell them, “It’s Thanksgiving.” Explain that it’s just like Christmas, “except without presents or a tree.” Spend the day with the family of the New Yorker. Her mother tells you she loves your accent. She knew a girl from England who was evacuated to the U.S. during the war. Maureen Johnson was her name. You nod, not that you know her, but as though you might know her. They ask you all about England, what you think of the Queen, Princess Di, Northern Ireland. Form some opinions. They tell you how much they admire Margaret Thatcher. You compliment the pumpkin pie. No, they don’t have pumpkin pie in England. You tell your parents all this on the phone, and your mother says, “Americans are very hospitable, aren’t they? I’m so glad they took you into their home.” Feel suddenly like a refugee receiving charity.
You tell your parents that you’re not coming home for Christmas. You want to experience an American Christmas. Break up with the New Yorker, just too late to buy a ticket home. On Christmas Day, spend forty bucks on the phone to your parents. Tell them how much you like America, so they won’t worry. Listen to your father tell you how much your mother misses you. Listen to your mother tell you how much your father misses you. “All we want is for you to be happy,” your mother says. Microwave the Christmas pudding they’ve sent you. Hope your father liked the Red Sox cap you sent him.
Discover that you’re more popular with women than you ever thought. Ask them what they see in a bloke like you and make them laugh. You think they like your accent, these graduate students, and then you decide there’s just a more mature approach to sex in the U.S. And then you realize it’s because they’re expecting you to leave the country in a few months. You’re just a holiday romance. Sleep with them anyway.
Between girlfriends, when you are lonely, do a lot of academic work and in the spring get offered a Ph.D. place and a full ride. Fly home at the start of the summer to explain your decision to your parents. Bring live lobsters from Logan. Your mother says you look tired. Your father asks when you’re going to get a job. “I thought you were only going for one year,” he says. Take a deep breath. Tell them you don’t want to fight. You’re only home for a fortnight, shouldn’t they make the most of it? In the silence afterward, listen to your lobsters scratching against their cardboard box.
In the days that follow, notice that instant coffee is undrinkable and that the service in Britain is terrible.
Back in the U.S., call and write to your parents, inviting them to visit. Tell them, “You don’t have to wait for me to come there.” Your mother says she’d like to, “but you know what your father’s like.” Call in the middle of the day with the news that you’ve had an article accepted for publication in a journal. “That’s nice,” she says, and tells you about her garden.
Go to an American football game. Tell your friends at the tailgate party how everyone in England admires American sports crowds because they’re not hooligans. Your friends have brought something called a suitcase of beer, and you take turns smoking pot in the portable toilet. Get into the stadium and realize that you’ve never seen a crowd of drunker people in your life, but marvel at the absence of violence. Have this revelation: there’s no crowd violence at American sports because there are only home fans. The country’s just too big for fans to travel to away games. That’s why so many sports are decided by series. Think, this is the kind of deep insight you came to the U.S. for.
Watch the Oscars live for the first time.
Manchester United, the soccer team you’ve supported since you were a kid, wins the Premiere League Championship for the first time in twenty-five years. You tell your American friends and they say, “Cool.”
In the spring go to your first basketball game. In the summer go to your first baseball game. Nod your head knowledgeably about the Celtics and the Red Sox and the Patriots. Say, “So that’s what a raincheck is.” Learn to call them the Celts and the Sox and the Pats.
At the end of your second year, go home for Christmas. Sit in the departure lounge at Logan and feel oddly embarrassed for all the English people and then suddenly shy about your own accent. Sit in the pub at home and tell your friends about American girls, every British boy’s fantasy. New York, California—these words in an English pub sound like sex. Let slip words like fall and soccer and have them make fun of you. Apparently you don’t even sound like you anymore. Hear the way your tone goes up at the end of a sentence? Feel the anxiety of influence. Listen to them talk about bands and politicians and TV shows and sportsmen you’ve never heard of. When they say you look tired, say it’s jet lag. Try to sound more English, and wonder if you’re starting to talk like the Artful Dodger. Gor’ blimey! Stone the crows! Lor’ luv a duck!
Your best friend tells you you’ve changed. He tries to sound pleased, as if he told you so, but he looks at you as if it’s a betrayal. Tell him, you should hope so. Tell him, didn’t you go to the U.S. to change? Wasn’t that the point? But later wish you’d asked him how you’ve changed. Wish you could be sure yourself.
In the pub on your last night home, call your friends “mates” and tell them, “Cheerio.”
Meet a girl from California. Sleep with her and think, “She’s from California.” On your first date, she makes you wait in line for a table at a pizzeria in the North End. You’d never queue this long for fish and chips, but she says it’s the best pizza in the world and you nod and listen to her tell you how the Mafia makes the North End safe by running off muggers and junkies. This makes about as much sense to you as queuing for pizza.
At the end of the summer, take her home to meet your parents. “Tell us about California,” they say. They like her. She likes England. Would
n’t mind living there one day. This seems terribly attractive to you. Fall in love. Marry her. When your parents get off the plane to come to your wedding, they look smaller and older than you’ve ever seen them. They tell you your wife is lovely. They’re really happy for you. They look scared in all the photographs.
Take your wedding album to the immigration interview. Tell the INS inspector how you met. Melt her heart. Get your green card and discover that it’s pink. Your wife comes out of the interview looking a little pale. She says, how strange to think that her government could deny her something and she wouldn’t have any rights. As if it weren’t her own country. She is trembling slightly. Tell her everything’s okay now. At the party to celebrate your new permanent-resident status, someone asks if you’ll take citizenship. Say no. Say you can’t imagine yourself swearing allegiance to any country. Tell your parents you’re a legal alien. Never use the words permanent resident to them.
Lose track of how many months you’ve been in the U.S. Say eighteen months when it’s been two years. Argue about it with your friends on the phone. Do well in your Ph.D. program. Have your parents tell you they’re very proud. Explain your achievements to them carefully. Understand that to them, every success you have in your new country keeps you from going home. Have your professor write a glowing recommendation for a tenure-track position. Go out for jobs, even though you’re still writing up and the chances are slim. Talk with your wife about moving back to Britain and getting a job. Remind her that she’d like to live there one day. What about her mother? she says.
Get a position in the U.S. In Wisconsin. Think about it for about two seconds. Accept it. Call your parents with the good news. “All we want is for you to be happy,” your mother says. “I thought you were only going for one year,” your father says. Call your best friend to give him the news. Have him tell you he’s marrying his fiancée of two years, whom you realize you’ve never met.
Equal Love Page 7
