Hiding in the parking lot, sneaking up on two people I loved dearly—it was like a scene from a tasteless movie.
“What the heck are you doing here?” Inez asked me when I walked into class half an hour late.
“Sickness come and gone,” I told her.
Subj: Fairytales and fantasies
Date: 04-11-05 03:02:13 EST
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Josh came three times to our street. I watched him from the window. If Josh comes here, where we live, he’ll take you back with him. That was my thought as I watched your son from my window.
Also I thought, what will he say to me, this boy? He’ll cover me with insults, yell at me. “You’re a thief!” And I’ll bow my head to acknowledge the truth of his words. Or he’ll say, “I miss her every day,” and make me cry.
I didn’t call to him.
“I want to see you,” he said on the phone.
Josh called me. In your anger why did you forget that?
To a stranger you owe only a glass of water. Josh was your son and I welcomed him.
He brought no insults with him, just a sweet, embarrassed face. He wanted to see the place, he said, but he didn’t look. His eyes stayed with me.
I invited him to come back. I wanted him here, sitting in front of me.
Wanting me.
This time I would be the teacher. This feeling of counting, of being important in a good way, I wanted more. I’ve become a junkie.
You were the first to make me feel that An-ling Nai Huang deserved anything at all. Why did you love me so? I’m a throwaway girl. I warned you many times, but you didn’t believe me. Now you see I was right and it’s made you very angry.
Your throwaway girl :-( :-( :(
Joey Thanapoulus owns a coffee shop at 200 Lowry Street. He’s a wide, balding man in his fifties, with thick black eyebrows, a warm smile and sagging eyes. He is looking at a photograph of An-ling Huang.
“Did you ever see Miss Huang?” Guzman asks.
“I didn’t know her name but when one of your cops showed me this picture, I recognized her right away. She was one of my regulars. A cup of tea and a bacon sandwich to go. Every day.” “Did she ever come in with the defendant?”
“Saturday morning, they’d be at my place. Ten o’clock, sometimes ten-thirty. The Chinese girl would have a bacon sandwich and the lady here an English muffin, no butter, and black decaf coffee.” Thanapoulus taps his forehead. “Everybody’s order’s right here.”
“Do you see anyone else in this courtroom who came to your coffee shop?”
Thanapoulus jerks up his chin. “The boy in the first row over there with the green, short-sleeved shirt.”
All eyes turn to Josh Howells. Mr. Howells extends his arm toward his son, but the boy, red-faced, squirms out of reach.
“Can you remember when you first saw the defendant’s son?”
“After Christmas the lady starts coming early on Saturday.
Eight o’clock, for coffee to go. Maybe a couple of weeks later, half hour after she’d come and gone, the boy shows up.”
“Did he come with Miss Huang?”
“One time. After that he comes in alone but orders her food.
A bacon sandwich and tea to go. For him a Danish.”
“Only on Saturdays?”
“Only on Saturday. Never on Sunday.” He laughs at his own joke.
Fishkin forgoes cross-examining the witness.
Josh
Her mother tattooed a boat on her back, just above the hill of her butt.A Chinese boat, a junk with a quilted sail, about twice the size of my thumb.
“She was going to paint a seabird to protect me on the voyage, but I wanted a boat to cross the ocean.”
I lay my cheek on the hill and blew on the boat. “I thought your mother died when you were twelve.”
She turned over, her hip bumping my cheek. I landed on the flat of her stomach. I blew on her pubic hair, shifted my fingers through it. It was wet from me and her—sticky, bogged down with love like I was.
“In a dream my mother saw me swimming,my arms slicing the water, the waves falling open like two halves of a plum. She knew one day I would come to the States.”
I spread myself on top of her, slipped my fingers between hers, stretched out both our arms, like the two bald eagles I’d seen on TV, interlocking claws and spinning through a dark blue sky.A bonding ritual, the narrator called it.
“These are the best of times and the worst of times,” I said.
“That’s from a book.”
“That’s how I feel. I can’t say it any better.You’re the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“What’s the worst?”
“I don’t like sneaking around. I don’t like lying to my parents.To anyone. I think lies suck. I like stuff to be out in the open. Nothing’s ever been open in my family and now I’m making it worse.”
“I don’t like lying to your Mom. I always feel like she’s with me, her hand on my head, hot and heavy, tugging at me. She’s great, but it gets to me sometimes.” She brushed her hand over my chest.“I like you too much to give you up.”
I kissed her, sucked at the smokey taste on her tongue.
“Why does Tom hate me?”
“He’s mad, that’s all. He doesn’t hate you.You took Mom away. Do you think they’ll get a divorce?”
“No, your dead sister will keep them together.”
“What do you mean?”
“Guilt glue.”
She straddled me, pushing down until I was deep inside her and I was suddenly in the eye of the hurricane. Everything around me was flying around, going crazy, but in the pit of my stomach I was in this incredible quiet spot, like a suspended beat between two notes. A place where nothing was ever going to be bad.
“Why me?” I asked, putting my pants back on.
“Because you’re sweet. Because you won’t hurt me.”
I kissed her goodbye.
She held my jaw real tight between her hands. “You’re not fucking me because you’re trying to get back at your mother, are you?”
“No way. I love you.” I was so full of love I could feel it on my skin, like sweat.
“Tell me again.”
“I make love to you because you’re the most wonderful, most beautiful girl I’ve ever met, the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Tell me again.”
“I love you.”
“Then stay.The mountain is high and the emperor is far away.”
“Not so far. Mom’s class was over twenty minutes ago.”
I kissed her again, for a long time. I wanted to take the taste of her with me, on my tongue. It never lasted long enough. By the time I got to the subway stop I’d have to light a cigarette to try and get some of it back.“I miss you already.”
“Promise you’ll come back?”
“Always.”
She reached into my shirt and unclasped my great grandmother’s chain with the St. Christopher medal.
“What are you doing?”
She slipped it in her pocket.“Now I know you’ll come back.”
Emma
Drummer Boy
Skin, stretched, longing.
Strike and a bud Opens.
Petals widen, moist With music made By you.
A sheet of paper with An-ling’s careful writing left carelessly on her paint table.Another sheet, a bed sheet from her futon, still wet with semen, left for me to wash. My ears roared.A train was coming over the bridge, heading straight at me.
I bit into the sheet, tore it with my hands. Strip after strip, like so many bandages that wouldn’t stanch the wound.
“Why did you pick Josh?” I asked her when she came home.“Of all the boys you could have, why him?”
She stared back at me, lips in a pout of sullen defiance. I wanted to shake a response out of her. “Why, An-ling? I deserve an answer.”
“Why not Josh?” she finally said.
“What have I done to you?”
She didn’t bother to answer. What lay underneath my anger was pure pain. I felt kicked, spit upon. “Do you love him, is that why you did this?” I told myself I could forgive her if there was love.
“He’s hungry for it,” she yelled.“Hungry for love and for fucking. I give him the fucking. I don’t have any love in me.
You know what your son is doing? Do you get it? Fucking me, your son is telling you to fuck off.You deserve that for leaving him. He’s your blood, your family. Leaving your own son, how is that not worse than my fucking him?”
I slapped her.“What you did is vile, disgusting!”
I lived in my office at school, slept in the hallway on the sofa. I joined the gym five blocks away so I could shower.
Inez offered me her home. I refused. It was penance I was after, not comfort.The old Catholic habits die hard.At night I prayed, even as I didn’t believe any Greater Power existed to hear me. I prayed out loud to listen to the drone of my voice, a lullaby to ease sleep. I prayed that my son would forgive me; I prayed to find forgiveness for myself.After my prayers I wrote a letter to my son:
“Dear Josh,
I killed your sister, ran her over. I loved her with my heart, my bones, my flesh, my breath. I loved her the way I had dreamed of being loved, the way any child should be loved.
When you came I was carrying a capsule of grief and guilt under my tongue as lethal as cyanide and I wanted to abort you. I thought I had no right to another child. I had already killed one baby; I could kill another. But as the days passed I began to feel you.You weren’t much more than a cluster of cells, but I could picture you coiled inside me. I could picture you, a bloody mess between my legs, screaming your head off. I could picture you suckling at my breast. I could picture you growing into a fine young man.
I love you, Joshua Howells. I feel you with me, part of me, the best part. I have always loved you, but I’ve been afraid—knowing I didn’t deserve you or the happiness loving you would bring. I was afraid of breaking my pact with God, afraid retribution would be meted out and you would suffer, and so, for all these foolish reasons that I know are based only on superstition and ignorance, but that are so imbedded in me that I could not shake them loose, I have loved you in silence, behind a curtain of fear.
An-ling I loved because she reminded me of Amy, because she was so openly in need of love, because I needed to love openly. For these reasons I didn’t want to give her up.
What you did with An-ling, behind my back, that came out of anger. I understand that and I deserve your anger, but now I’m asking you to forgive me. I want to come home.
Please give me another chance to be a good mother to you.
Love, Mom
Every night I wrote the same letter. Only a few words varied. I tried to explain myself, even though part of me wanted to lash out at Josh for showing me how wrong I had been to leave him in the first place. I made no mention of his father.
It was a sincere letter. It was a self-serving letter. I didn’t send it.
Five days after I had left I went back to the studio.An-ling stayed behind her screen. I could hear the tapping of her laptop keys.We said nothing to each other as I packed my belongings. I hadn’t brought a lot. I took away even less.
“You have to vacate the loft at the end of June. I’ll pay the maintenance until then,” I said aloud. I dropped a check on the kitchen counter.A week’s pay, enough for a flight to China for the trip she’d always wanted. That was what I wrote in my note. I also wrote, “I’m too angry, too dumbfounded to talk to you, An-ling. All I can say is that I feel betrayed.”
At the door I buttoned my raincoat slowly, jangled my keys,waiting for her to peek from behind the screen she had meticulously painted with a scene of filial piety.
Please don’t go.
I’m so sorry.
I didn’t mean to hurt you.
I’ll miss you.
Thank you, Lady Teacher.
She let me leave in silence. As though she had always expected it. As though that was what she wanted.
FIFTEEN
ON THE WITNESS stand is Inez Serrano, director of the Welcome School where the defendant teaches. She is a handsome woman in her forties with long black hair twisted in an old-fashioned bun at the nape of her neck. She is wearing a black suit and a scowl on the perfect oval of her face.
“When did Mrs. Perotti start teaching Saturday morning classes?” Guzman asks.
“The first week of January of last year.”
“She taught from nine a.m. until one p.m., is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Four classes in all?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ask her to teach those additional classes?”
“No, she asked for more classes and I offered the Saturday morning slot as the regular teacher was going on maternity leave.”
“Did she tell you why she wanted to increase her workload?”
“She said she needed the money.”
“I see. Did she ever miss a Saturday class?”
Serrano sucks in air, looks at the defendant.
“Once she called in sick, but she got over it and was in school by nine-thirty.”
“Do you remember when that was?”
“No, I didn’t remember,” she says in an angry tone. “You made me look it up, that’s how I remember. It was March twentieth.”
“Thank you. A few more questions, Miss Serrano, and your ordeal will be over. On the afternoon of Tuesday, April nineteenth, did you answer the school telephone?”
“Yes. The receptionist was on her lunch break.”
“Please tell us about the phone calls you answered?”
“You’re only interested in the one for Ms. Perotti.”
“Mrs. Perotti received a phone call?”
“I just said that.”
“Did the caller identify himself or herself?”
“She said she was An-ling. No last name.”
“Do you recall what she said?”
“She wanted to speak to Ms. Perotti.” Serrano stresses the Ms.
“What time did the call come in?”
“Just after two p.m.”
“How can you be sure of the time?”
“Ms. Perotti’s first afternoon class starts at two. She doesn’t like interruptions.”
“Did you interrupt her?”
“Yes. Miss Huang said it was urgent. She sounded upset.”
“Did she tell you anything else?”
“No. I called Ms. Perotti out of her class and she went to take the phone call in her cubicle.”
“What happened after that?”
“After a few minutes, I saw Emma, Ms. Perotti, go back to her classroom. After class she came to my office and said something had come up and she had to leave. I told her not to worry, that I would teach her last two classes.”
“Did Mrs. Perotti explain why she had to leave?”
“I don’t need explanations from Ms. Perotti.”
“Did she seem angry?”
“Objection!”
“Overruled.”
Serrano takes a moment before answering, seemingly searching for the right words. “She seemed concerned,” she finally says.
“Do you know what time Mrs. Perotti left the school?”
“Yes. I accompanied her to the elevator, which is on the way to her class. She took the elevator at ten after three. The next class started at three-fifteen. I did not see her leave the building.”
“Thank you. No further questions.”
Subj: Fairytales and fantasies
Date: 04-12-05 03:31:54 EST
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
You want to hold everything tight in your hand because you think that way you’ll keep it forever.
Amy with her black curly hair and sweet grin. How do I know what she looks
like when you have no photos of her in your apartment? Curly black hair, smiling and wearing a yellow sweater with Winnie the Pooh sewn on it or a pink striped outfit with ballooning shorts.
You were going to leave me. I just gave you a reason to go sooner. I made it my call.
The Chinese believe that once you save a person, you’re responsible for her for the rest of your life, but we live in America. You saved me for a little while. Thank you. I think for a little while I saved you too.
An-ling
PS. Go to Tom’s office. Sit at his desk and open his left-hand filing cabinet. Amy’s there. She looked like you.
He has photos and photos of Amy. Filed under D. For Daughter?
Dead?
Without pictures will you remember me?
“I won’t take up much more of your time, Ms. Serrano,” Fishkin says in cross-examination. “I’m sure you’re anxious to get back to your work.”
Serrano nods.
“You’ve known Emma Perotti how long?”
“Twelve years in September. I hired her.”
“Do you consider her a good teacher?”
Serrano smiles for the first time. “Her students love her and her colleagues respect her, which, believe me, doesn’t happen a lot.”
“You told the jury that An-ling Huang sounded upset on the phone when she asked for Emma Perotti.”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us just how upset?”
Guzman stands with a raised arm. “Objection!”
“Your honor, I’m trying to establish An-ling Huang’s state of mind prior to her death. It is paramount to the defense’s case.”
“I’ll allow it,” Judge Sanders says and turns to Serrano. “You may answer the question.”
“The girl was crying into the phone.”
Josh
Over spring break, Dad and I went to Washington, D.C. for a couple of days to see the sights: the war memorials, the Capitol,Abe Lincoln sitting in his chair, the whole bit. It was my first time and it should have been great, but Dad wouldn’t let me take my laptop with me. He said he wanted my full attention. I couldn’t e-mail An-ling and she wasn’t answering any of the messages I left on her cell. I called the loft every day, got Mom sometimes, no answer the rest of the time. I was miserable, but I didn’t think anything was wrong.
The Price of Silence Page 16
