by Nicki Chen
“Finished, sir?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
She took his plate and turned to Diana. “Ma’am? Was everything all right?”
“Yes. It was very good, Clarita. But . . .” Diana looked down at her plate, at the barely eaten rice noodles with their tiny shrimp and thinly sliced pork, cabbage, and onions. “I wasn’t hungry tonight.”
Clarita took their plates without comment and disappeared into the kitchen.
“I talk too much,” Jay said when she was gone. “Sorry. How was your day?”
“My day? Um . . . it was good.” She wished she could tell him about Brother Carlo and the scholarship candidates that she, Gerda, and Madeline had interviewed. She wanted to explain how dear those scrubbed young men were, how earnest in their hopes for making lives for themselves.
Clarita returned with a steaming bowl of rice pudding. She set it in the center of the table and looked at Diana for acknowledgment.
“Oh,” Diana said. “The rice pudding.” She dished some up for Jay and then for herself, a rich raisin-studded custard smelling of cinnamon and nutmeg—the fragrance of her childhood.
“You’re crying,” Jay said. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Nothing. The pudding reminded me of Mom, that’s all. This is her recipe.” She touched the corners of her eyes with two fingers. But the tears kept coming. She grabbed a paper napkin and wiped her face. Abby was her best friend. She didn’t want to lose her.
She blew her nose. Okay. She was all right now, she thought, straightening her back. No more crying. She dipped her spoon into the rice pudding. It was perfect, the cinnamon-sweet custard, the soft rice and plump raisins. Cooking was the one thing her mom had still been able to do for her and Andrew after Daddy died, the one hope Diana had that her mother would someday recover and start taking care of them again. She swallowed, but an involuntary sob surprised her, and she sucked pudding into her windpipe.
Before she knew it, Jay was squeezing her diaphragm from behind and then slapping her back. “Hey,” he said when she stopped coughing. “Are you all right?”
She wiped her eyes with the clean napkin he gave her, but the tears kept coming. By now she was so wound up she couldn’t quit sobbing. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” she blubbered. She was a child abandoned by her father—a woman soon to be abandoned by her friend—a wife waiting for a child who may never materialize.
She had Jay, though.
He put his arms around her. “It’s all right,” he said.
But it wasn’t all right. He and Saudur were arranging a move without consulting Abby. Jay was going off to Korea during Diana’s fertile period. Worst of all, he treated her like a porcelain doll, and it was all because he wouldn’t let go of what happened to Celeste. She took a big drink of water, shoved her chair back, and stood up. “I drove to Mandaluyong today,” she said.
Jay’s face looked blank for a moment. Then, beginning to comprehend, he pushed himself up from the table.
The anger on his face made her defiant. “They weren’t demonstrating on the highway. I was perfectly safe.”
“But why? Why did you lie to me?”
She bristled at the harshness of the word. “I didn’t lie.” She wiped her nose with the back of her finger. “It was a mental reservation.”
“Here.” He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket.
“I had to go,” she said, taking the handkerchief. “They were expecting me.” She blew her nose. “Gerda and Madeline Dinh and Brother Carlo. And all those boys, too. They were expecting me.” She found a clean spot on the handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
“What are you talking about?”
“Scholarships for low-income youth,” she said, sniffing. “So they can learn a trade at Don Bosco Technical College.”
Jay closed his eyes and sighed.
“The boys came from all over the province. Some from even farther away.” She blew her nose.
“On the day of an anti-American demonstration, you’d think they could have sent someone who wasn’t an American.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to mention all the dangerous places he’d traveled for work: the Khyber Pass and Southern Mindanao, the flooded countryside in Bangladesh. She stopped herself. Better to quit while she was ahead. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“I worry about you, Diana.”
“That’s the problem. You worry too damned much about me. Come on. Let’s get some air.”
They stood on the balcony and watched the red-and-white lights from cars, trucks, and buses flowing in opposite directions along Roxas Boulevard and the rectangles of light and dark in the condo beyond the now-dark garden. When she thought enough time had passed, she told him about some of the boys they’d interviewed. She looked at him for a response, but he just stared into the night, as though he were the sole aggrieved party. “You know, Jay . . .” She pressed her lips together, ready to argue her side of the story. Then, stopping herself, she described in humorous detail how Gerda had scared the first applicant with her crisp commands. And Jay laughed. She leaned into him, and after a few awkward moments he put his arm loosely around her shoulder.
6
She shouldn’t have told him about going to Mandaluyong, she thought as he disappeared into the bathroom. If she’d just kept her mouth shut, they wouldn’t have this rift between them now.
She sat on the edge of the bed listening to the steady spray of water on the tiles and the uneven rattle of the air conditioner. Who was she kidding? Whether she opened her mouth or kept it zipped shut, Celeste would always be there between them.
She stood up again, unzipped her dress, lifted it over her head, and threw it over a chair. On the day he’d told her about Celeste, she’d been sympathetic. Nothing more.
It was their third date. They’d arranged to meet for a drink after work at a place near her office, the Emerald City Café. Looking in through the window as she walked to the entrance, she saw him sitting alone at a small window table, an amber-colored drink in his hand.
“Am I late?” she asked as she slid into the chair across from him.
“No, no. I came early. Thought I’d get a head start.” He held up his glass and sniffed in an unsuccessful sort of laugh. “What would you like?”
She picked up the cocktail menu and skimmed the list, the vodkas and rums, the bourbons and tequilas, the exotic drinks with fruit and cream. An enormous, confusing list.
“Can I get you something?” The cocktail waitress paused in mid-stride and raised her eyebrows at Diana.
“Um. A glass of wine. Something red.”
“Other side.” The waitress pointed at the drinks menu and flipped her hand over to illustrate.
“Bring me a Chianti,” Diana said. It was the first wine that popped into her head.
Jay swirled his ice and took a big swallow. “Another whiskey sour.”
From the start, it was obvious to Diana that something was wrong. They’d hit it off so well before. Yet that day while they waited for her wine and Jay’s whiskey, their conversation seemed stilted. She looked over her shoulder for the waitress. When she turned back, Jay was watching her.
He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze. “There’s no easy way to say this,” he said quietly. “I was married before.”
“Oh.”
He smiled. “That’s all? Oh?”
She shrugged. “I’m shocked a little, I guess. I can’t really be surprised,” she added with a self-conscious little laugh. “You’re a good-looking guy. Thirty years old. Plenty of time to be married and divorced.”
“Chianti and whiskey sour,” the waitress announced.
Jay nodded and waited, tapping his fingers softly on the table as she threw down the paper coasters and set their drinks in front of them.
“I’m not divorced,” he said when she was gone.
“What?!” Now Diana really was shocked. Had she been dating a married man?
“My wife died.”
&nbs
p; “Oh!” She let out the excess air trapped in her lungs. Thank goodness he wasn’t married. But still, why hadn’t he told her? She told him about her dad.
“I lost her seven years ago,” he said, looking out the window. “For a long time I didn’t feel like dating. And then when I did start seeing women again, well . . . let’s just say, it didn’t always work out.” He picked up his whiskey sour and took a big gulp.
“That’s just the way dating works.”
He shook his head. “No, there’s something about having a deceased wife that scares women away. One woman told me she didn’t want to compete with my dead-but-ever-present first love.”
“You’re kidding. That’s what she said?”
“Yeah.”
Diana lifted her wine glass and twisted the stem. Outside, the drizzle was too fine to be seen, visible only in the shimmering droplets on a woman’s dark hair and the neon colors splashing across the wet sidewalks. She took a sip of Chianti and put the glass down. She was already more than halfway in love with Jay, and she had no intention of letting his unfortunate first wife spoil things. “What was her name?” she asked.
“Celeste.” The name was soft as it slipped from his lips. Sibilant. “We went to high school together. Started dating in college.”
Okay, she thought. That’s quite enough. She did not want to know anything else about this woman he’d loved and married. Besides, he was obviously uncomfortable talking about her. So she should just let it go.
And yet . . . yet, she did want to know. “Jay,” she said.
He reached across the table and took her hand.
“How did she die?”
The color drained from his face as his hand tightened around hers.
“It’s all right,” she said quickly. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
He shook his head. “On our first anniversary, we went to Mexico on vacation.” He spoke in a flat voice, looking somewhere just over Diana’s shoulder. “Puerto Vallarta. We stayed in a new hotel north of town.” He paused and turned, gazing now at the people sitting around the room at scattered tables, men in suits and women in professional clothes, laughing, talking, ordering happy hour dishes to go with their drinks. “I chose the hotel,” he said finally. Outside it was raining in earnest now. People were flipping up their hoods and opening their fold-up umbrellas. The fat raindrops clattered so hard on the awning outside their window that Diana could barely hear what he was saying.
“That’s where . . .” He swallowed. “Puerto Vallarta. It’s where she died. I was playing beach volleyball,” he said, his voice rising from its studied flatness. “Playing with some guys I didn’t even know. She wanted to go for a swim, and I said I’d join her in a few minutes. I didn’t want to leave the game because the score was tied, and . . .” He pressed his lips together. “I wanted our team to win. Then, when we did win, the other side begged for a rematch.” He stifled a sob and continued, his voice thick with sarcasm. “I could have said no, but I wanted to be a good sport.”
The bloated blood vessels in his forehead scared Diana. She wrenched his glass away from him and squeezed both his hands.
“She went swimming without me. Searchers found her body the next morning three miles down the beach.”
“Oh, Jay, I’m so sorry.”
He pulled his hand free and took a gulp of whiskey. “She was pregnant with our first child.”
Diana unhooked her bra and threw it on the bed. It had been years since that evening in the Seattle café, yet they’d never again talked about Celeste’s death. Diana still didn’t know where she was buried.
She walked into the steamy bathroom and opened the shower door. “May I join you?” she asked, stepping inside without waiting for an answer.
7
Her five fancy goldfish rode home from Cartimar in five plastic bags filled with water. Riding next to them in its own water-filled bag was an ugly catfish. The pet shop owner had insisted that a bottom feeder that ate algae was essential for the health of her aquarium. Fine. As long as the dark-spotted, prehistoric-looking creature rested quietly at the bottom of her tank, she’d try to ignore him.
She would have liked to dump the goldfish into her aquarium immediately. But there were rules for acclimating fish. Who knew this supposedly relaxing hobby would have so many meticulous requirements! First you had to take off the rubber bands, roll down the sides of the plastic bags and float them in the aquarium until the water in the bags was the same temperature as the water in the aquarium. Then you had to test the pH in both waters and add a little aquarium water to each bag every fifteen minutes until the two pH’s were the same, or nearly so.
Two hours later the goldfish were swimming free in their new home. Diana pulled up a chair. They were like kids let out for recess. Up and down and around the tank they swam, propelling themselves forward by wiggling their fat bodies from side to side like legless bulldogs. Disappointed that they weren’t as graceful as she remembered, she focused on their flowing tails and listened to the bubbling water filter.
The longer she sat still and tried to relax, the more everything annoyed her. The trucks rumbling by on the street below. The honking taxis. Clarita in the kitchen slapping something soft and wet onto the cutting board and then hitting it hard. Diana imagined a cleaver breaking through flesh and bone before thudding to a dull stop and then coming down again and again.
She shook her head to clear out the sounds. Just watch the fish.
Instead, she thought about Abby, wondering why her friend hadn’t called. Hadn’t Saudur told her yet about moving to Vanuatu? Or was Abby so upset she couldn’t dial the phone?
Earlier, before driving to Cartimar to get the goldfish, Diana had spread the atlas out on the dining room table. She’d leaned low over the table and squinted, looking for Port Vila, Vanuatu’s capital. She finally found it on an island so small that the words had to be written on the ocean. Port Vila was a town on an island that was nothing but a tiny dot in the middle of a huge ocean. Not the kind of place Abby would like.
Suddenly she was aware of her legs vibrating, shaking the chair. She squeezed her knees together and gritted her teeth. Then she crossed one leg over the other and rubbed it hard and fast. She’d never been bothered by this . . . this restless leg syndrome—not until Dr. Feliciano came along and accused her of being stressed. She glared at the ugly catfish, somnolent as a snake on a hot rock. Nothing restless about him. He flicked a whisker, expressing his disdain as he continued resting motionless at the bottom of the tank.
Damn! She jumped up and tromped across the room. How could this fish-watching help her relax? She was more nervous now than when she started.
“Sorry, fish,” she whispered, circling back to the aquarium. “It’s not your fault.” She touched her fingertips to the glass. Maybe by tomorrow her beautiful long-tailed goldfish would have settled down. Maybe then she’d be able to sit still and watch them.
In the meantime, she needed to get out and move.
Clarita was standing over a pot staring out the window when Diana poked her head in the kitchen door. “I’m going for a swim at Seafront.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The room smelled of onions and garlic. “Beef for dinner?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.” Clarita put a lid on the pot. From the side, her usually animated face was expressionless.
“Smells good.” Diana started to leave and turned back. “The goldfish are very active in their new tank now. You should take a look.”
The elevator door opened to reveal . . . great! One of the yakuza soldiers and his girl. Diana stepped onto the elevator without looking at them and jabbed the already lit button for the lobby.
She’d ridden the elevator more than once with this gangster and his partner. There was no mistaking them. They dressed to stand out. You’d think yakuza would want to blend in, but obviously these two didn’t care. Either they had friends in high places, or they didn’t realize how tasteless their flashy clothes we
re. A Filipino would never step into public in brown and orange plaid pants, a purple shirt, and a shiny gold jacket. Why anyone would was a mystery.
This wasn’t the first time Diana had seen one of them with a pretty young Filipina. If only she could warn the girl that the “good paying job in Tokyo” would turn into something else. These men weren’t interested in singers; they were recruiting prostitutes.
After a slow drop from the sixteenth floor, the elevator came to rest at the first floor, and Diana stepped out into the lobby. The poor girl would enter Japan as an entertainer on a fake passport and visa. That’s how they’d keep her there—that and the money she would owe for her airfare.
Diana knew these things now. These and many more. She wondered what her mom would think of the things she knew.
The swimming pool at Seafront was untouched, a perfect blue mirror image of a perfect blue sky. Diana left her bag and towel on a table and descended the ladder into the cool water. It was early afternoon. In another hour, the pool would be filled with children. Now there was only a toddler in the kiddie pool and a couple of babies sleeping in strollers while their mothers sipped sodas and chatted. The toddler’s mother was daydreaming, watching the swirls of water around her bare feet as she sat on the edge of the kiddie pool kicking in slow motion. Diana sighed, closing her eyes as she lowered herself into the water. Mothers could be so blasé, as though the existence of their children were as ordinary as a glass of two-percent milk.
She pushed off, starting her laps, as always, with the freestyle. Ever since she was twelve, she’d followed the same routine, alternating between freestyle, breaststroke, backstroke, and sidestroke.
She did a flip turn and pushed off the wall, automatically changing to the breaststroke. Before her dad died, she didn’t swim laps. In the months following his death though, she was too keyed up to stay in bed waiting for her alarm to go off. Eventually she realized the swim team started practice at five thirty. She could watch their practice and squeeze in a few laps of her own when they finished. By now, the routine she’d invented in seventh grade had become such a habit that she couldn’t swim laps any other way. A habit now, but that first year swimming had been her salvation, a prescription for survival that she had written for herself. Her mom, deep in grief, had been in no condition to help her out.
