Free Food for Millionaires

by Min Jin Lee

  She drummed her fingers on the polished conference table. On the credenza beside the wall sat a tray of glasses and a stainless carafe of ice water, stacks of fresh notepads, and two phones with video-conferencing capabilities. The door closed, she felt safe, private. Just a few yards away, more than a dozen interns in the shared office toiled, seeking to edge out the inferiors in the pack. At least five, if not more, would have to go back to school with no offer letter in hand. The people Casey had worked with in the past eight weeks had been perfectly nice, bright, and interesting. They had been uniformly attractive people. They were also out to beat her, so she them—it wasn’t personal.

  Casey poured herself a glass of water, then dialed Hugh’s number.

  “I was wondering who was calling me from the New York office,” he said, studying the caller ID box near his phone. “Hello, Casey Cat. I had given up on you. Almost.”

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Come on over and have a drink with me.” He didn’t expect her to say yes. But it was always better to make the suggestions. Surprises happened.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  He offered her a drink, but she turned it down. She walked around his spacious white apartment, noticing everything. She felt exceptionally alert. The modern Italian furniture, the black-and-white art photographs of clippers with billowing white sails, the tall fireplace in the west wall. She’d expected more clutter, more books, or old carpets. More men’s club. Or at least dishes in the sink. But nothing was out of place. When she commented on how clean it was, he only said, “I have someone who comes in to do those things.”

  “How nice for you.”

  “You look. . . somber,” he said casually.

  “My, you are observant. A friend died. I went to his memorial service today.”

  “Oh, baby, I’m sorry. Come here,” he said, and put his arms around her.

  Casey froze and drew her arms closer to her body, but he held her anyway.

  Hugh was humored by her visit. It was unexpected, but she was here now, her feet parallel, her back as straight as a post. Her nerves like live wire. Even more so than usual. He was happy to see her. She was young, slightly neurotic—it turned him on. She was frightened to be here. But he wouldn’t hurt her—he wasn’t the hurting kind.

  “May I sit down?”

  “Yes, by all means.” He laughed at her severe tone. “I feel like I’m in trouble.”

  “How are you?”

  “Fine, and you?” Hugh sat by her. He would play along.

  He wore a blue shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a pair of light-colored slacks, loafers, no socks. He smelled wonderful, citrusy yet dark.

  Hugh looked at her square in the face, focusing on her eyes. He removed her jacket, and she didn’t resist. He kissed her collarbone as he unbuttoned her sleeveless white blouse. They didn’t speak anymore, and they did what they had done before. His expertise was a relief to her, the sex enthralling. But she wouldn’t confuse this for love. Seen in the finest light, it was affection; it was comfort—a salve for loneliness. There could be no expectations from Hugh. A woman would get hurt only if she wanted more. Hugh would always disappoint—this would serve as a reliable mantra. He couldn’t help falling short. His emotional stamina was lacking. That was what she had learned from being his friend all this time. When the sex ended, she felt sad again. They didn’t talk much after, but he brought her a glass of ice water. He had a sweetness, so you could not be mad at him.

  He asked her to stay the night, but she had to work the next day. It was only Tuesday.

  “Offers are announced on Friday,” she said. The worries had returned after all.

  “I know something you don’t.” Hugh smiled.

  “What?” she asked, thinking his beauty was almost wasted.

  “You’re in the top five. Charlie told me. It’s yours to lose.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I asked him last week. During the game.”

  Casey nodded, not believing fully what she’d heard. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I thought I could get some sex out of this. And look, I did. Ta-dah.”

  Casey slapped his arm. The sound of it surprised her. A pink mark flashed on his skin.

  “Wow. That was very unkind.” He stroked his arm. “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “I did not sleep with you today or at any other time to get an offer, asshole.”

  “I was kidding. A little sensitive, Ms. Han. I could never have gotten you a permanent offer despite all of your bedroom gifts. Rest assured, you got this because you are a stubborn and hardworking girl. Good for you. Now, don’t hit me again.”

  Casey got up from the bed. She picked up her brassiere at the foot of it and put it on.

  “Come here, I like angry women.”

  Casey went back to the bed and settled down. She should not have hit him. Her violence embarrassed her. His hand entered her immediately, and, aroused by his touch, she turned to him. He pushed down her brassiere cup to put his mouth on her breast. She climaxed quickly, far quicker than she’d thought possible. Hugh placed his hand on her head, guiding her downward toward his hips. “Can you finish me off?” he asked her quietly.

  The pressure from the back of his hand against her hair had startled her. She tried to be efficient, letting her mind wander. After he came, she wiped her mouth with a corner of the sheet. It was almost eleven o’clock.

  When she came out of the shower, Hugh was dressed in his shirt and trousers, watching David Letterman.

  “I thought you’d be sleeping,” she said.

  “Ice cream,” he said. “You want ice cream?”

  “Game,” she said, smiling. Ice cream sounded perfect.

  “I will do an ice-cream run. Flavor?”

  “Rum raisin.”

  “I approve,” he said.

  “Shall I go with you?”

  “You stay.”

  “But I should get back—” But her mind had altered somewhat after he’d told her about the offer. Could it be true? But why would Hugh lie? He was a playboy, but he’d never lied to her. She could work at Kearn Davis after graduation. Never worry about money again. It would take only a couple of years to pay off the school loans, then she could buy an apartment, help out her folks.

  Hugh promised to return in fifteen minutes, tops.

  Casey was still in a towel. Her suit jacket on the sofa was crumpled, as was the blouse. From Hugh’s closet, she pulled out a white dress shirt. She’d looked for an older one, something with a blown-out collar or frayed sleeves, but they were all in beautiful condition. She put it on. He had loads of them. His closet was immense, filled with very fine clothing, and above the closet rod, there was a deep shelf lined with cashmere sweaters. Near the sweaters, there was a cache of videos stacked neatly in three rows, and she laughed. “Oh, Hugh,” she said out loud.

  She pulled out the first stack using both hands. She spread them out on the bed to read the titles. They seemed innocent enough, blond college coeds, husky men with mullets. More Playboy than Hustler. She looked over the other two stacks. One of the two dozen or so had an Asian woman on the cover—titled Pearl Necklace. Casey made a face. The two white men on the video box were unattractive, and the woman looked too old to be doing this kind of thing.

  The television and videocassette recorder were set up right opposite the bed. Casey popped the video in the recorder. What would Hugh say if he found her watching his porn? He would laugh his head off.

  In less than two minutes, the story became explicit: The Asian woman, who looked even less attractive in the film than on the touched-up video box, enters an office. She wears a red Adolfo-copy suit, long black hair with bangs, crimson lipstick, black patent-leather stilettos. Naturally, she wears a string of gumball-size pearls around her throat. The woman Pearl is the secretary for four men who work in an accounting firm. Two of the men head home after a long day. She stays behind a
t the request of the other two, Craig and Kip. Without much dialogue, she takes off her red suit, keeping on her black bustier, revealing the tops of her impressive breast implants, a wasplike waist, and short, thin legs in garters and black fishnet stockings. She leans one hand against the wall, leaving space on both sides for the men to sandwich her. One enters her vaginally, then the other joins her from behind. She moans and cries out continuously. Casey reddened with shame. Nausea brewed in her stomach.

  After Pearl has a series of orgasms, Craig, the tall one who’d been with her from the front, says nicely, “Can you finish me off?” Pearl gets on her knees and performs fellatio hungrily. His necktie swings with her thrusts.

  Casey stopped the video there. There was at least another half an hour to go, but she saw no point to it.

  Less than an hour ago, Hugh had said to her, “Can you finish me off?” That was what he’d said. Was he aware that was a line from this film? Casey hadn’t given much thought to pornography before; it hadn’t touched her life directly. Jay had found it vulgar and not romantic. Unu didn’t own any. A few guys at Charter used to watch it on Saturdays, and girls trying to be cool would watch along with them, but Casey had never been interested in it. The image of the middle-aged woman between the two ugly men burned in her mind. What could Hugh find sexy about this? Could he have watched it so many times that he had unconsciously memorized a line like that? Would he have said it to any other woman? Or did he think that it was okay to say it to her? She rewound the video and put it back on the shelf with all the others.

  Casey put his shirt back on the hanger. She dressed in her clothes. Should she leave a note? she wondered. Was this the way he saw her? How could she ever know what he really thought of her? Was that his fantasy? Was that why he had once said to her that he had wanted to fuck her for a long time? The girl looked nothing like her, but Casey used to own a red suit, and Hugh had complimented her on it. But he had often complimented her on what she wore. That was the way he talked to women. Feeling the lurch in her gut, Casey ran to the bathroom and threw up. After, she rubbed toothpaste on her teeth with her finger, then gargled repeatedly.

  In the hallway, she met Hugh, who was stepping off the elevator.

  “Hey, I got ice cream. And they had Mallomars.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Where?”

  “This was a terrible mistake.”

  “What are you talking about? It was great. Where are you going? Come back in. I have rum raisin and vanilla Swiss almond. Don’t be silly, Casey Cat.”

  “I saw Pearl Necklace. The thing in your closet. I thought it would be funny to watch it with you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. I had no business doing that. I went to get a shirt to wear. You said the same thing that. . . guy says to the girl. ‘Can you finish me off?’ ”

  “What are you talking about?” He looked incredulous.

  “I can’t talk about this.”

  “So I watch porn. I never thought of you like that girl. She’s like a hundred. I use it to jerk off, I don’t actually follow the story.” Hugh looked at her incredulously. “Why are we having this discussion in the hallway? Come back inside.”

  She shook her head slowly, unable to move from her spot. “I’m sorry. Never mind. You’re not a bad guy, Hugh. I shouldn’t have called. I just will never forget. . . that picture. You know? I’ll always think of it when I’m with you.” Casey had never felt so viscerally revolted before. It wasn’t Hugh’s fault, was it? This was something he had every right to do, but she couldn’t imagine him ever touching her without thinking of that woman in her fake pearls making those over-the-top sex groans.

  “Casey. C’mon, Casey. Don’t be ridiculous. We can talk about this.” He unlocked his door. With his free hand, he gestured for her to come to him. His brow wrinkled with concern. “Casey—”

  “I know you’re not like that, that’s not what I’m saying.” Casey closed her eyes, trying to forget what she’d seen, but she couldn’t. The image only seemed to burn brighter. Men had these fetishes, she knew that, but she’d never imagined it would be so ugly.

  “Casey. I don’t see you that way. You’re my friend. You must know that.” Her disbelief was apparent, however.

  “We are friends, Hugh. I know. I’m sorry about this evening.”

  “Okay,” he said. Casey was now pushing the button for the elevator. “I’m sorry, too.”

  “I have to go. Bye.” The elevator door opened, and she disappeared into it.

  In front of Hugh’s place, there were many cabs, but Casey walked back to the Gottesmans’, moving briskly through the clammy air.

  15 SKETCH

  CHARLES HONG DID NOT KNOW WHO SHE WAS. The only reason he answered the door at this hour in the morning was that he’d seen from the window that it was a young Korean woman.

  “I’m Casey,” she said, wondering if he’d let her in. “May I?” She peeped into his living room. His house was enormous.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.” Charles was getting annoyed. Was she a former student from Juilliard? “And this isn’t a good time. Maybe you can come by tomorrow. I’m home on Saturdays.” He checked his watch: 7:10 on the dot.

  “I’m Leah Han’s daughter. You know, Deaconess Cho? She sings in your choir. I realize that it’s very early, but I have to get to my office, and this was the only time I—”

  “Oh.” Charles opened the door wider. “Is she all right?”

  Casey walked into the living room. She didn’t sit down but stood by the grand piano near the front window. On top of the dusty piano was a thick pile of handwritten sheet music.

  “My mother told me that you’re a composer. Besides directing the choir.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “This? Did you write this?” Casey smiled at him almost flirtatiously, touching the papers on the piano. The markings were beautiful.

  Charles smiled at the young woman. She was attractive, but she didn’t look anything like Leah. Maybe her open brow and the fair coloring. The height threw him off.

  “It’s a song cycle. The world premiere is in—”

  “Where are you?” Kyung-ah called out, descending the stairs. “Professor—” She laughed.

  It was her mother’s friend, Kyung-ah ahjumma. She was wearing a tight black skirt, a rose-colored lace brassiere, and no panty hose. Her toenails were dark pink against her powdery white skin. Casey had never realized how beautiful Kyung-ah ahjumma was. Dishabille, she was ravishing in a dangerous sort of way. The choir director’s teeth were clenched, as if he were trying to lock up his mouth. In contrast, he was fully dressed: jeans, white shirt, and navy socks.

  “Are you fucking her, too?” Casey asked him, wide-eyed, pouting her lips.

  Kyung-ah coughed, then turned around. She’d never suspected that he might be involved with Leah’s daughter. The girl must have been twenty-six or -seven at most. It had dawned on her long ago that he might have girlfriends. They had never discussed such things. After all, she had a husband and children. That morning when she had showered, she had bent over and stared at the faint bumps behind her thighs in her closet mirror. She had worried about meeting him in the mornings, though it was the best time for her to get away (no one would miss her then, because her sister could open the store for her), mainly because she feared the unflattering lighting of daytime. But their screwing had been so great that she’d figured it wasn’t important that she had some crow’s-feet, a little fat behind her thighs.

  Her mother’s friend covered her chest with her left arm, her body rigid at the top of the stairs.

  “Ahjumma,” Casey cried out. Her voice sounded almost cheerful. “Where are you going?”

  “Uh-muh. . .” Kyung-ah’s left leg wouldn’t budge. This girl could ruin her life.

  “No, don’t go,” Casey said. The amusement hadn’t left her expression, but her tone grew far more serious. “You should know something. He fucked my mother. Probably raped her, then he moved right on to yo
u. Who knows who else he did in that choir.” Casey tidied the pile of sheet music on top of the dusty piano.

  “What?” Kyung-ah exclaimed. She had misunderstood. “Was that your baby?” The blood from Leah’s miscarriage had covered her shoes. Kyung-ah had had to throw them out.

  “You know, I wondered about that, too. My mother thinks it might have been. She thinks she should die because this son of a bitch date-raped her.”

  “I didn’t. . . I didn’t do that.”

  Casey stared hard at him. His mouth quivered almost unnoticeably. He was afraid. No matter what, she would hold this gaze. Her father had taught her this—to not look away—the intensity was worse than the pain that would surely come.

  “Did she say I raped her?”

  “No, worse. She thinks it’s all her fault. But you know what? She did tell me what happened, motherfucker.” Casey had lowered her voice, then laughed coldly, because that’s what he was. “Did you hear her say no? Did you ever hear her say no to you in that fucking car?” She wanted to shake him. “Did you hear the word no?”

  His memory was perfect: Leah had hesitated; she’d said no, had asked him to please. That was the word she kept using—please. But she had responded to his kissing. And when he went inside her, she had been ready for him. Their connection had been beautiful and passionate. He would never have called it rape. And neither did she. They had made love; they had felt passion for each other.

  “Did she say no?”

  Charles nodded once. He had slept with married women before. He was an artist, and he possessed his own morality—a higher standard from that of the rest of the world. If any of the husbands had ever asked him if he was screwing their wives, Charles wouldn’t have denied it. But none of them ever did. Leah had hesitated and pushed him back a little, but she had come willingly to the backseat of the car with him—there had been no force, and he had accepted her pliant body like a sacrifice, a gift expressing her love, and he had reciprocated with his true desire. He would have taken her into his life. She could have left her husband, and he would have never abandoned her. All Kyung-ah wanted was a good, steady lay. This suited them both. Had he taken advantage of Leah? He had never thought of it that way. He had loved her. He cared for her still. It was out of respect that he was keeping his distance.