by Jess Row
They’re not lonely. They just don’t want to listen to us.
So listen to them for a change.
What, Marshall says, they’re paying you now? Must be nice. He’s getting up, too, and now everyone does, stretching, loosening collars and belts. Got to get the kids to bed, he says. Soccer starts at eight tomorrow. No sleeping in these days.
Coffee in a paper cup and muffin crumbs in your lap. That’s Sunday brunch in my house.
Tell me about it.
And I leave them there, as I have to, before they notice and ask the inevitable question, do you have kids, Kelly? I wouldn’t do that to them. It’s kindness, I’m thinking, slipping away, toward the kitchen where the women’s high voices ring out. Not to make them apologize for their lives without meaning it. I never would have been able to apologize for mine.
• • •
Peter Joseph, it was explained to me, used to be on the board of the Urban League with Martin, and also had a fellowship with the Greater Baltimore Commission the same year as Robin; he’s a venture capitalist who made his money on the West Coast—an early investor in Yahoo!—and who now is developing a biotech startup in Harbor East. The party is for Renée Jackson, a City Council candidate with bigger plans. What plans? I asked, and Martin said, national plans. We added a House seat to Baltimore City in the last redistricting.
Isn’t that a bit of a stretch, from not even being elected to the City Council?
Watch her, he said. Watch and learn. We shook hands with her as we came in, all together, and then she disappeared into a crowd, every head angled toward her. Short, slim, very erect, in a navy Hillary-style pantsuit, her hair swept back and folded into a sort of a crest—my god, I said under my breath, she’s younger than I am, not even thirty, maybe.
She’s an Iraq vet, Robin told me, handing me a glass of white. There’s serious political traction there. Great family, too. Her dad’s a pastor; he was up on the dais when you came to church with us.
Yeah. Martin pointed him out.
And her mom’s some kind of an heiress from Atlanta. Real estate money. They’re a Spelman family, too. In fact, I interviewed her. Not that it made any difference. She has a law degree, too. Finished her service working in-house at the Pentagon. Seriously, she’s someone to know.
So why aren’t you in there, pressing the flesh?
Robin doesn’t need anyone’s favors, Martin said, in my other ear. I hadn’t noticed, but they were flanking me, providing security. She dispenses favors. The second-highest-ranking black woman in the whole Hopkins system. One of these days she’s going to cash in and work in administration.
What he means is, Robin said, in his rich fantasy life, I’m going to sit behind a desk, push paper, and pull down something in the high six figures. In reality, it’ll be a cold day in July.
As she was speaking she laid her hand on my forearm, a purely affectionate, nominal gesture, but in the flutter of a heartbeat I felt Martin’s eyes angling downward, noting, noticing, as he noticed everything. And the envelope surrounding us, the membrane of convivial warmth, broke in an instant.
There’s food, right? I asked. Sorry to be so abrupt, but I’m starving. Something about Sundays—I always feel as if I don’t eat enough the rest of the week.
Is there food? Are you kidding? Robin laughed at me, her teeth—not blindingly white, not iridescent, but perfectly proportioned, stainless, neatly arranged—on full display. I don’t know where you come from, she says, but among black people a party from five to eight means serious food. Didn’t you see the Melba’s catering truck? Noreen doesn’t mess around. She’s from South Carolina. Low-country food.
Shrimp and grits?
Like you’ve never had it before. Go eat. She waved at me. We’ll catch up with you later.
• • •
Just after I’ve dumped my plate in the garbage a little girl darts across my path, a blur of pigtails and blue satin, thigh height, poking a smartphone screen. She’s half, I can see that in a second, all Chinese features around the eyes and the mouth, but with an extra broadness in the nose and warm peach tones in her skin. Tall for her age, too. The one time we visited Wudeng with Meimei people came up to us on the street and said, so tall. So fair. So tall. Though Meimei was really particularly neither. And one old woman, a shopkeeper, said, American-born Chinese girls always have enormous breasts. Too much milk! Don’t give her milk. Give her tofu. We all laughed.
I stand there, still by the garbage can, transfixed for a moment. Her mother comes trailing after her, so obviously Chinese, so obviously transplanted—the same dress pants with chunky black heels, the same long ponytail—that I don’t have to wait to hear her piping voice speaking Mandarin and her mother answering back. They see me looking at them; how could they not? And the girl pulls her mother across the room and asks, holding out the phone, in her most polite four-year-old’s voice, excuse me, can you please take a picture of me with my mommy and daddy? I want to show my baby brother, he’s home with the babysitter.
We descend into the living room, with its faux-retro shag carpet, its leather couches and wall-sized TV, its woven baskets and Kara Walker silhouette and Basquiat poster, a room that announces optimism and arrival, a room that makes me wish I had money to give to someone. And I shake the father’s hand. Willard, friend of Peter’s, partner at Accenture. We take photo after photo. Isabella with Daddy, Isabella with Mommy. Mommy and Daddy holding Isabella up in the air like a cheerleader. Isabella Chang-Thomas, she tells me proudly. Finally she loses interest and runs off to join the others, still out on the lawn, and Willard moves off to grab more Lowenbraus, and I turn to the woman, Shen, and say, almost in a whisper, a conspiratorial sotto voce, wo nu’er jiao Meimei.
Conjugating verbs in Chinese is much looser than in English, and depends much more on context. In English you would have to say my daughter’s name was. Or my daughter’s name is. In Chinese the verb by itself seldom has so much power. To be technically correct I should have said, wo nu’er jiao Meimei le, the le indicating a finished action, or, even more unbearably, zhiqian wo you jiao Meimei de nu’er, danshi yinian qian ta sile. I had a daughter named Meimei, but she died two years ago. But you don’t introduce yourself to a stranger this way in any language. Much less the parent of a young child, whose body hasn’t yet acquired the solidity, the independent gravity, the fixed status of a separate human being; who is still for all intents and purposes an extension of your own body, an extra limb.
Your Chinese is excellent, she says. Where did you learn it?
Wudeng, in Hunan, on the north shore of the Yangtze. And where are you from?
Shaoxing. But I met Willard in Shanghai. And where is your family now?
Out of town.
But you live in Baltimore? How does your wife stand it?
What do you mean?
The Chinese families here are so provincial. She wrinkles her nose. No one speaks Chinese to their kids. All they care about is soccer and getting into the right private school. We bought my parents an apartment in Shanghai, and we’re there nearly half the year.
Noreen Phillips appears out of nowhere—it helps that she’s no more than five-two—takes her arm, and says, sorry, Kelly, but I’m going to be rude and steal Shen away for a moment.
Not at all, I say, grateful not to have to come up with a reply. And they leave me there, no drink in hand, temporarily unable to move, staring up at an enormous African mask mounted to the wall: a man’s face, with upraised eyes, his chin sticking out, mouth open, as if he’s trying to swallow raindrops.
The morning of the accident, Meimei was playing with a red boa from her dress-up bin, tying it around herself and twirling through the house, scattering downy feathers everywhere. When I finally returned from the funeral home, after making all the arrangements, it was mid-morning the following day; I’d been up all night in the chaplain’s office at the hospital,
waiting for the bodies to be transferred, signing paperwork and trying not to fall asleep. My parents had arrived after midnight. They brought me into the house, all but holding me up at the elbows, and the feathers were everywhere, like a trail of rose petals. We tended to leave her messes till the evening, when we had time to get out the vacuum and clean up. My mother disappeared into the kitchen and brought out a broom, and I said, no. Leave them there. And they stayed for weeks, blowing into clumps, gathering lint.
I had no interest in the future. The future was erased. When you have a young child your world is their world: Meimei’s friends’ parents became our friends; Meimei’s school was the hub of our social life; Meimei’s needs were our needs; all with the promise that this is a full and justifiable life, this is a rationale for staying alive, a bridge to the future, and the arguments and complaining and sorting and competing—speak only Chinese at home? Speak Chinese with Mom and English with Dad? Buy an apartment in the city, or a house in the suburbs? Settle in Boston, or move somewhere with an actual community, like Flushing, or Vancouver, or L.A.?—were just the pulsing blood of that life. Without it, then, now, I’m a dry sponge, I’m thinking with a kind of muted, helpless rage, I’m like this guy, waiting for rain that never comes.
Deep in my pocket, now, against my thigh, my phone comes to life, actual life, with three short buzzes.
Where are you? Didnt leave, did you? Were in the back, come join. M
—
Beyond the pool, the outdoor bar, and the second buffet, at the far edge of an amoeba-shaped patch of grass, I find Martin in a teak easy chair, his legs up, like a mogul, one hand thrown easily over a half-drunk vodka, the other toying with his phone. Robin is gone. How did he do it? I wonder. How did she allow him to disappear so ostentatiously, to sit and—to all appearances—sulk in a corner?
Sit, he says, and slings his feet to one side, giving me a square foot of the end of the chair. Where the heck were you? I thought maybe you’d gotten cold feet or something. I wouldn’t want to be you at this party. Always hate having to go where I’m constantly introducing myself on a Friday night. It’s too much like work.
This is work for me.
Well, okay. That doesn’t mean you can’t have a good time. I should have had you more under my wing, had you meeting people. That would have been the polite thing, right? But I figured it would be just as good to have you be a fly on the wall. You’re the writer. You have to have your own point of view.
I’d be an outsider no matter what.
You sound offended. Isn’t that the whole point?
No, I say. Look, I’m not offended. Just a little tired. A little overwhelmed. All this double vision. This double life. You’re used to it. You chose it. I’m just a visitor here.
He gazes at me for a second.
Like on Seinfeld, he says, that one where Kramer gets an intern. You know what I’m talking about? Kramerica Industries. You get to live inside my craziness. Well, no worries. It won’t last forever. You’ve got your finger on the button, frankly. You’re the one who has to write it all up.
My mouth hangs open for a moment, and then I start to laugh. Sorry, I say. It’s just the last comparison I was expect—
You’re forgetting how much of the Nineties I spent inside. In that crap-ass old house turned crash pad. I watched so much TV it would make your eyes bleed. Kept it on during the day, while I was answering calls and fiddling on the computer. It’s an easy way to neutralize bugs and wiretaps. Damn, I must have watched every episode of Seinfeld and Friends six or seven times. I’m a walking encyclopedia of about six years of pop-culture detritus. JonBenét Ramsey? Monica Lewinsky and Linda Tripp? The O.J. trial? I watched every minute of the O.J. trial on Court TV. What I wouldn’t give to expunge all that nonsense from my brain. While you were in college becoming fluent in—how many? five?—languages, I was at home selling drugs and watching Oprah.
This last line booms out across the pool, and I look up, wondering if anyone is paying attention. The crowd is beginning to thin out; I can see a couple inside through the French doors, the woman jingling her keys, wishing Paul and Noreen into view so they can say a quick goodbye.
Martin, I say, are you afraid, at all, of what’s going to happen? Of—losing this? Has it even crossed your mind?
Because what? People won’t talk to me once they know?
You think they will?
Frankly? It’s immaterial. We won’t be able to stay here for long. We’ll have to relocate to someplace with more privacy. Once the payouts start coming in we’ll get a place in L.A. or New York. Maybe one of those towns in Westchester or North Jersey or Connecticut. There’s going to be paparazzi. At least for a while. Sherry and Tamika will go to prep school. Maybe Europe. Or, ideally, Asia. Someplace that teaches Mandarin and has tight security.
That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?
Well, okay. Presumptuous, anyhow. First I have to convince Robin that it’s all okay. You’re not wrong, you know. I’m concerned about it. I need her on my side. Publicly and privately. I’ve got to strategize that part. But that’s my concern, nothing for you to worry about. You’ll get paid no matter what. As long as this is a viable operation, you’ll get paid.
Speaking of which, I say, I’ve been thinking that after we get back from Bangkok I’m going to want to spend some time on my own. Getting my thoughts together. Writing the manuscript.
Where do you want to be? Where does a writer like to be a writer these days? Want me to rent you a studio in Brooklyn? Or Paris? Short-term apartments are a breeze in Paris. Though if I were you I’d stay in Thailand. Get a house on the beach in Pattaya, or Krabi. For what you’d pay for a studio in Park Slope you could have your own beach house in Pattaya with a staff of six.
I’ll take care of it.
You’re turning down free rent? If I were your wife, I’d say that’s a terrible fiscal decision.
It’s such an odd and hurtful thing to say that I shrink back, as if he’d pinched me on the arm.
No, no, no, he says. What I meant was, you need a friend, Kelly. A second opinion.
What I need, I say, is my own time and space.
Because you’re ambivalent about signing on? Still? I thought we went over this. I thought you gave me a pledge.
Martin, I say, stretching out my legs, who wouldn’t be ambivalent? Who, in their right mind, would be one hundred percent in? Can you think of someone? Maybe you should hire them instead. I mean, have you considered the long-term implications of this, the things they’re going to say about you? This is going to make Malik Williams look like Mister Rogers. What you’re talking about—one way of looking at it—is that this is the most fucked-up reverse-eugenics experiment since Tuskegee. You’re going to be accused of some kind of bioethical genocide. Trying to destroy race as a category.
I’m not on a mission to destroy racism, he says, and I’m not on a mission to destroy races. What I think is that people should have options. I believe in free choice. That’s the American way, right? I mean, not now. Now it’s purely a matter of speculation. The technology has to develop, the procedures have to develop, the processes have to get streamlined and affordable. I’m like a hand-lathed Daimler-Benz back in the 1890s, twenty years before Ford invented the assembly line. Maybe I’ll never even see it in my lifetime. But you want to know the essence, the kernel, of this thing we’re doing? It’s just that. Choice. Options. All that outrage, all that kicking and fussing, it’s always just a period before the whole thing gets absorbed and normalized. All that energy has to be expended.
Okay. Okay. Anyway, beyond all that. Beyond the theoretical questions. You’ve been incredibly generous to me. And you’re promising more—
I am. You want specifics, now, finally? Let me break it down. Fifteen percent of the whole package. Interview deals, photo deals, the book, the movie. Whatever else. Corporate sponsorships. Other
relationships. We’ll get it on paper when there’s some product from your end. For now it’s a handshake deal. But this is what I mean: serious money. Money for you to have a fresh start.
Can I be completely honest? It’s freaking me out a little. The numbers. You know I’m not a money person. But the check, the offers, the language you use: it’s disturbing to me. It doesn’t feel right.
Because?
Well, if I knew that, I’d have said it already, wouldn’t I?
You think I’ve got some hidden agenda other than my hidden agenda? Some meta–hidden agenda? I think you’ve been dipping into too much postmodern theory. Foucault will screw you up. I learned that after one semester in college. You’re always looking for the man behind the man behind the curtain.
Well—and here I give him my best teacher’s laugh, my seen-it-all Harvard laugh—one of my professors said, you can hate Foucault, but you can’t argue with him. In other words, just because you’re not paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.
Listen. Maybe we should turn this conversation around. I mean, look, you’ve heard just about every bad thing there is to know about me. What about you? What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done, Kelly? Isn’t that fair game?
Nothing I’m too ashamed to admit.
Seriously? No secrets, in a whole thirty-odd years of life? Never cheated on Wendy? Or anyone? No secret girlfriends, no escorts, porn habits, nothing?
You make me feel like a Puritan.
And what about what happened with Alan?
My face turns hot, then cold; my pulse skitters in my wrists. What do you mean? I say. What happened with Alan when?
Oh, come on. You mean you didn’t see my car? Really, Kelly? You didn’t see it?
See it when?
See it pulling up behind you when you left? When he OD’d, when you were in the house to see it? I mean, evidently. When I went in it couldn’t have been more than five minutes later, and he was gone. I mean stone-cold dead. I kept meaning to ask you about it. I thought you’d come forward. Even at the funeral, I was expecting you’d say something.
