by Min Jin Lee
“Yes. Very.” Casey tried to be dignified about her disappointment.
Unu pulled out two irons, one with each hand. He whistled, exactly the same way the guys had at Kuriya. “Gor-geous,” he said.
“I have to sell them.”
“What?” Unu looked hurt. “You can’t do that. That’s a gift.” He seemed shocked by her statement.
They were Koreans, both educated in good private colleges, but he was the son of millionaires, grew up in an affluent suburb, private school from kindergarten on. On either side of his parents’ family, there wasn’t a single person who didn’t graduate from Seoul National, Yonsei, or Ewha University. Her folks never went to college. She’d grown up in a tacky apartment building bracketed by the Maspeth gas tanks and Queens Boulevard. Her parents still lived in a rental, and their only asset had just burned down. Could he ever understand her?
“Listen up, rich boy, I need some dough. I can’t afford two sets of clubs. You get me? Get real,” she said, scowling.
“Rich boy?” Unu said. His eyes shrank, as if he were trying to hide them.
Normally, she’d have apologized, but Casey didn’t feel like it. She spotted the Camels on the console. There was a lighter in her skirt pocket.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.
“I’m just up to my ears in debt again. I can’t stop thinking about my school loans and this idea of compounding interest. And of course, of course. . . there’s always my credit card bills.” Casey sealed her lips. “I know. It’s my fault. I blame myself for this mess. Okay?” Her voice sounded more defensive than she’d have liked. But Unu hadn’t accused her of anything. “And you are trying to help me on that score. I do appreciate it. Really.” She shook her head, feeling angrier by the second. She hated explaining her problems. Money made her feel ashamed, angry, and afraid. And she had done it to herself. She’d dug the grave, one handful of dirt at a time. Her debts made her want to disappear in the hole.
“I’m going up. To have a cigarette.” She picked up the Camels.
“Hey,” he shouted, trying to keep her from walking out the door. “And how was your day, Unu?” he said sarcastically. It wasn’t his nature to fight. Besides, common wisdom in the frat house held that it was worthless fighting girls because they couldn’t be wrong. Their grudges became tattoos. But Casey was being unfair.
Casey stared at her shoes. When anyone got angry, she grew silent. A long drag of smoke would clear the swamp in her head. She wanted to leap up the emergency staircase to the roof two steps at a time. She inhaled deeply, unable to deal with Unu’s angry face. She opened the front door and caught a whiff of the garbage piling up in the incinerator chute down the hall. Whether it was on the Upper East Side or Van Kleeck Street, apartment garbage smelled exactly the same—melon rinds and roach spray mingled in her nose like a cocktail.
“Can we please talk later?” she asked meekly.
“No,” he said indignantly. “Frank says my bonus is shot this year. And I’ll probably get laid off if I don’t start making more reasonable stock calls. Everything I like is a long shot, it turns out. But I did the research and I know what’s good, it’s just that the market is filled with a bunch of fucking hedgers. No one believes in companies anymore or wants to hold ’em. Flip, flip, flip. That’s all they do. Isn’t that a fucking riot?” Unu laughed meanly. “And baby, the market wants some returns some of the time, but I am calling for the big time.”
Unu walked away. He hadn’t realized how disgusted he was by what was going on in the Asian equities market. Wall Street was about plundering and making as much money as possible. Did it even matter how? He walked back to the sofa. “The true believers have left the room,” he muttered to himself.
Casey put her hand across the back of her neck. Unu had been hinting here and there that his calls were poorly received. Despite all of his research, charting, and analysis, the market was behaving irrationally, he’d mentioned at dinner last week. It happened when motives were at odds, he’d explained. Casey hadn’t completely understood. She’d been tired herself, absorbed in trying to figure out the random mix of personalities in her business school assigned section. His boss, Frank, was always telling Unu how smart he was, but lately Frank was saying he was too smart for his own good. Unu’s stock picks were too risky for their business or, worse, too conservative because the returns wouldn’t come in for years. The company’s investment philosophy varied sharply from Unu’s. Frank said a lot of little bets were better than a gigantic loss or the attractive windfall. Unu railed against hedging. He called himself a true believer. When he liked a company, there was no way he’d back off his position.
Why can’t you just do what they want you to do? she thought to say, but couldn’t because this was something they shared: They were both stubborn. What was the worst thing that could happen? she wondered. He wasn’t afraid to be poor, because he had never been poor. And Casey was poor, and she couldn’t seem to make herself rich. But neither was willing to compromise on his or her fragile ideas.
Unu sat on the sofa and stared hard at his cards as if he could see through their blue backing.
Her eyes were tired, and Unu fell out of focus. She could make out the curve of his spine bent toward the coffee table, his head in his hands.
She put down the cigarettes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. And I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay.”
Casey sat close to him, and Unu dropped his head on her shoulders. She couldn’t leave him now.
12 INSURANCE
UNU WAS LET GO ULTIMATELY IN FEBRUARY, and two months passed without his looking for work. Casey tried not to let it get to her. Her mother’s words buzzed in her head: “Never make a man feel bad about his job.” But what if he had no job? Casey wanted to ask.
For ten months, they’d lived together happily, so Casey tried not to change their routines. During the week, she went to classes and did her homework religiously. On Saturday mornings before she went to Sabine’s, she rose early to clean the house and to work on the occasional hat. Sabine was letting her sell them at her store, allowing her to keep the profit without taking her cut. On average, she sold one a month, netting about a hundred dollars or so. Unu woke up with her and read his finance journals, and after Casey went to work, he drove his Volvo to Foxwoods Casino, where he played blackjack. Early Sunday mornings, they ate eggs and toast at home, then attended services together. When church ended, Casey went to work the counter at Sabine’s, which opened at eleven. Unu stayed home and researched companies for his own trades. To save money, Casey fixed simple meals every night. Usually she did the grocery shopping on her way home from school.
April was a busy school month for Casey, and it showed up on the empty shelves of their refrigerator. There was very little to eat in the house.
After scrambling their last five eggs with three slices of American cheese for their Saturday brunch, Casey grabbed her jacket and purse. “I’m going to the market,” she said.
“I’ll go with you,” Unu said, putting away the dishes in the sink.
She had always seen it as her job to make sure there was coffee, cereal, and toilet paper in the house. When she lived with Jay, she’d taken care of these domestic details, and so also with Unu; it had never occurred to her to share these duties.
“I’ll carry the stuff home, and you can go straight to—work,” he said, folding his newspaper. “And I’ll get to spend more time with you.”
“Thank you,” she said, surprised by his offer, not because he wasn’t normally thoughtful—Unu was by nature a considerate man—but because it struck her as odd that she’d viewed marketing as woman’s work. In romance, Virginia used to call Casey old-fashioned because she liked men to do the pursuing. Casey realized that Virginia’s label wasn’t too wrong for other things, too. It was the way she’d grown up, witnessing the things only her mother did at home. Casey felt backward; was that why it was so hard for her to accept
that Unu didn’t have a job?
When Unu and Casey got to the street, she reached for his hand and held it as they walked toward the market on Lexington. Unu talked about Ella and baby Irene living with Ella’s dad. He thought it made sense for her to stay with Dr. Shim until she felt a little stronger. Casey couldn’t imagine going back to her parents. Unu seemed happy just to be walking down the street. With few worries.
At the cleaning products aisle, Casey picked up the jug of store-brand bleach. It was sixty cents less than Clorox.
“I didn’t know there was a store-brand version,” Unu remarked.
“Makes no difference,” she said a little defensively. Unu was staring at the Clorox.
“I’m sure you’re right. I just didn’t know.” He laughed.
“Do you prefer Clorox?” Ever since Casey had left home, she’d bought Clorox herself.
Unu shook his head no. He’d never given any thought to it. He pushed the cart and followed her.
Casey pretended to be occupied by the grocery list. He’d caught her trying to save money, and she didn’t want him to feel ashamed.
“I mean, I’m the daughter of people who do laundry for a living. You should leave the wash to me.” Casey thrust out her neck in mock defiance.
“Okay, Casey.” He laughed. “I trust you.”
They turned the corner to canned goods. They needed soup. Casey picked up six cans. Three for a dollar ninety-eight.
“I’ve never tried that one before,” Unu said. “Do you like Manhattan clam chowder?” he asked. Casey didn’t like tomatoes. The soup was meant for him.
“This company is fine. I’ve had it before.” She put back the chowder and picked up three cans of sale-brand chicken noodle.
“I like Progresso better.” He deliberately mentioned the one that wasn’t on sale. He watched her. She was trying to shave off a few cents, and there was no need to do this.
Casey kept three sale cans of chicken noodle in the cart. She handed him two cans of Progresso clam chowder. “Thank you,” he said. She walked ahead, studying her list.
Unu stopped pushing the cart and waited for her to notice.
When she reached the end of the aisle, she turned around. He wasn’t moving. She waved at him to come to her, but he didn’t budge. Casey walked back to him.
“What’s the matter?” She was trying not to sound caustic.
“I don’t want you to worry about money, Casey,” he said. “There’s enough money for Clorox and Progresso soup. You shouldn’t skimp on these things. I told you I’d take care of you while you were staying with me.” He felt desperate, wanting her not to doubt him.
She opened her mouth to say something but didn’t know how to begin. On Unu’s desk in the living room, near the bank of double-hung windows, he kept a deep rattan basket filled with unpaid bills. Many of them were marked “Second Notice” or “Third Notice.” Occasionally, there were messages left on his answering machine—the speaker’s tone of voice ominous and entitled: “We are calling to inquire about the January payment for the loan in connection with your automobile.” When they heard the messages together, Unu would dismiss it: “I’ve just been too busy to take care of them.” Jay Currie used to hand her a book of signed checks to pay his bills, so when Casey had mentioned this method without attributing its source, Unu replied, his voice quiet and vaguely annoyed, “No need. I’ll take care of it.” And in the past two months, he did occasionally empty the basket and pay them. She had no idea how much money he had or how much of it came from his severance or from blackjack winnings. For her, hell would look like a room lined with laundry baskets overflowing with unpaid bills, message machines blaring with the voices of creditors, and she their sole debtor.
“It’s just that I’d like to pay for the groceries. You already do so much,” she said, her tone anxious. This was true. For the past ten months, he’d paid for the rent, utilities, and cable. “I’m sorry. About the soup. I didn’t mean to make you eat sale soup. I’m the student, so I should be eating the—”
“Casey. . .” Unu spoke sternly. “Eat the food you want. Stop worrying about this stuff. For God’s sake, I told you I’d take care of—” He caught himself and took a breath. He was losing his temper.
“Okay, okay.” Casey got quiet. She didn’t want to fight with him. Suddenly she felt so tired, worrying about his pride and their lack of money, and there was her stupid future to consider. She still didn’t have an investment banking job lined up for the summer—the top-tier firms paid the highest internship salaries. Lots of Internet companies were looking, but she had no interest in that world. Hugh or Walter might be able to help her get a spot on the Kearn Davis banking program, but she was embarrassed to call them for a favor. It seemed like another backdoor entrance. Kearn Davis didn’t bother to recruit at Stern; the only New York business school they recruited from was Columbia. Sabine had been right after all. Names mattered so much.
“I’m sorry, Unu,” she said, not knowing why she was apologizing.
“We will be all right.”
“I know,” she said, unable to look at him. “I know. I’m sure of it.”
At the checkout aisle, Unu refused to let her pay for the groceries. He paid for everything with cash and kissed her good-bye on the street before she went to catch the 6. He carried four bags of groceries, two in each hand, and watched his girlfriend running to the train station.
Casey was a conscientious student and didn’t find B school to be difficult. On Fridays, after her class in corporate finance ended, she met with her section to work on their group projects. The section went out for beers afterward at Mariano’s, but as usual, Casey begged off. She said good-bye to her friends, then headed for Ella’s house in Forest Hills to see her goddaughter, Irene.
The train ride to Queens was less than thirty minutes, making it an ideal time for her to read for pleasure. She’d begun Middlemarch again recently, finding comfort in the familiar world. She opened the book and found two letters from Virginia in place of a bookmark. One of them she’d read last night when she got home, and the other she had put aside to savor later.
Casey tore open the envelope. In it was a card with a Caravaggio painting on the front—a young boy with a succulent vermilion-colored mouth—and inside were folded sheets of Florentine marble paper where Virginia had continued the writing when there was no more space left on the card. At the sight of Virginia’s girls’ school cursive writing, so much like Ella’s—full of fat loops and highly dotted i’s—Casey felt happy.
She laughed out loud when she read the first line in the card—“Brace yourself”—anticipating one of Virginia’s ugly-American-in-foreign-country escapades. Virginia didn’t avoid scrapes, she yearned for them. At the sound of her own laughter, she remembered herself and looked about her. But none of the passengers had noticed, and none peered over her shoulder to read her card. The train—full of weary passengers heading home—trudged along its tracks unremarkably, fulfilling its usefulness. The train lights didn’t flicker, the stops were smooth, and they weren’t stuck in a dark tunnel listening to a sad story from a drunk panhandler passing his paper coffee cup—the predictable moments attached to a daily train ride. With a long letter to keep her company, it was cozy sitting there between a pair of commuters in light jackets, headphones over their ears. From one of their headsets, she could make out a voice that sounded like Ray Charles and piano playing. Her eyes strayed to the second line of the first paragraph: “Dearest beloved Casey, Jay Currie is to be married.” Had she misunderstood Virginia’s florid language? She reread the line; her eyes had lost track.
“I’ve gathered intelligence about the bride from friends who attended the engagement party at the Metropolitan Club,” Virginia wrote. Jay, a member of Terrace, had been close with members of his own eating club as well as those of Ivy—Virginia’s eating club. Their worlds had mingled often.
He was marrying Keiko Uchida, Virginia wrote—a taciturn foreign student with large brown ey
es and pale lips who wore gray pearl studs in her ears. Her mother’s family was crazy rich, and her father was a high-ranking salaryman who worked for Hirano, a porcelain company. Her mother’s father gave something like a gymnasium to Brown University, where Keiko and her brothers later went to college. Her mother’s best friend in New York was a member of the Metropolitan Club and hence the engagement fete there. The boys of Terrace and Ivy said the fiancée was pretty and congratulated Jay. The girls of Ivy found her ordinary and little.
No doubt Virginia had added the women’s snipey comments to make Casey feel better, but Casey didn’t mind Keiko’s attractiveness. So be it. What threw her was the fact that he was with another Asian woman—as if they were cogs to be replaced on a machine. That was the problem with fetishes, wasn’t it? There could be real love, but one couldn’t feel certain what was the basis for attraction. It gave her some relief that she was with Unu now, a Korean, as opposed to a WASP who’d fallen off his class rung. Somewhere she’d read that when Yoko Ono was asked, “Why do white men like Asian women?” she’d apparently replied, “Maybe Asian women like white men.” Well, Casey liked Unu, but she had also liked Jay. Ted had long ago remarked that Jay was the type of white guy who ended up with Asian women, as if Asian women were consolation prizes for these white guys who couldn’t score high with one of their own kind. Ted was such a prick, she thought.
Casey skimmed the rest of the letter for more news about Keiko and Jay, but there was none. Virginia had written more about her love affair with Paolo. When she was in the initial throes of romance, Virginia sounded even more literary and precious than usual. In the final paragraph, she wrote, “I’ve given up the prospects of my degree. It is impossibly hard to remain cloistered in these glorious libraries and pretend that I care any more about my subject when I fear that it is irrelevant.” What? Casey shrugged, then read the last lines: “I left Paolo in Rome, because, well, because. A love affair can die, Casey. You know that. He didn’t love me enough, so I began to love him less. My heart responded less because he gave so little. He never gave me a birthday gift. That seems so silly, because I didn’t want anything as much as to know that he had thought of me. I’d wanted some token to remember him when we weren’t together. Oh well. Is that very American? Then I met Gio at the American Express office in Bologna. So I wrote to Paolo to say good-bye. He was devastated, and I’m not sorry. It had to end. Darling Casey, I have news. I think I am carrying Gio’s child. Be happy for me.”
