Everybody's Son

by Thrity Umrigar

  They all turned to look at her. Anton made his eyes beg: Please don’t make a scene. “Well, I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s a complicated issue.”

  Anton let out a sigh of relief. He racked his brain for a way to quickly change the subject.

  But then Carine placed her right elbow on the table and turned sharply to look at him. “But let’s ask Anton,” she said. “After all, I’m not the only affirmative action baby at this table.”

  This time there was no mistaking her tone or attitude. Delores sat up in her chair. “Excuse me,” she said pointedly. “I’m not sure what—”

  “Honey,” David said, cutting his wife off. “It’s okay.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and smiled pleasantly at Carine. “Actually, Anton is not an affirmative action case at all. He’s a legacy admission. Because, you see, both his father and grandfather went to Harvard.”

  The senator thumped the table so hard, the wine leaped off his glass and spilled on the tablecloth. “Which, if you think about it, is just a different kind of affirmative action.”

  To Anton’s great relief, Carine laughed. “Exactly.”

  “There you go.” Pappy thumped the table again. Anton eyed his grandfather, suspecting that he was a little drunk. Pappy turned toward his son. “There’s another legal challenge coming up, you say?” He shook his head. “It never ends. I remember when Johnson signed the affirmative action executive order for federal contractors. A lot of people were not happy back then, either.”

  “I’ll bet,” David said dryly, exchanging a look with Anton.

  Carine rested her chin on her elbow as she spoke to the old man. “So who was the best president you worked with?” she asked, and Pappy was off, regaling them with stories about JFK’s inauguration and the civil rights movement. “That Bobby Kennedy was a ripe bastard when his brother was president,” he reminisced. “But I tell you, I never saw a man evolve as much as he did. He would’ve made a mighty fine president if we’d been so lucky.” Pappy’s eyes were wet. Anton discreetly moved the bottle of wine out of easy reach.

  Though he had heard the stories a hundred times, Carine seemed enthralled. “Did you know Dr. King?” she asked.

  The senator gave her a quick glance. “I only met him once,” he said quietly. “He was a man of uncommon dignity.” He looked around the table. “Do you know how old he was when he was shot?”

  “Thirty-eight?” Carine said.

  “Thirty-nine.” The senator pulled out a white handkerchief and blew his nose. “Imagine that. He was just a young man. But he had the wisdom and grace of men twice his age. And because of this, he changed our country forever.”

  They were all silent for a moment, and when Carine spoke, her voice was deferential. “Do you really believe things have changed much, sir?”

  The senator’s eyes grew large and his face flushed red. “Young lady, did I hear Anton say earlier that your people are from Georgia? Yes? And you still dare to ask me that silly question?”

  Carine wasn’t chastised. “I know some things have changed for the better for sure,” she began. “But I mean, income disparity has not changed. Housing segregation is still terrible. If you look at average wages for blacks versus—”

  Pappy suddenly looked tired. He waved his hand as if to brush away her words. “My generation did what it could,” he said. “We got the laws on the books. Now you young folks have to finish the job.”

  “Carine—” Anton began, but she ignored him. She stuck out her hand across the table toward the senator and said, “Agreed.”

  Startled, the old man took her hand and held it. “How’d you get your skin to be this smooth?” he said, stroking it with his other hand.

  “Oh, Pappy.” Delores was embarrassed. “Give the poor girl her hand back.” She looked around the table. “Well? Shall we make a fire and have dessert in the living room?”

  While Delores warmed the pies in the oven, Carine and Anton cleared the table. By the time they entered the living room, David had built a fire and he and Pappy were sipping on their sherry. Anton dimmed the lights and watched the glow of the fire on the faces of the four people he loved most in this world. Outside, flashes of lightning lit up the sky. For the longest time, the only sound was forks clicking against dessert plates. Anton felt relaxed for the first time since he had pulled up here yesterday with Carine. Despite a few bumps, dinner had gone well. Pappy seemed genuinely amused by Carine, and his old war stories had clearly won her over. As for Dad and Mom—he knew they were hurt by the fact that he hadn’t disclosed his relationship to them, but he wasn’t worried. Their unconditional love for him was his North Star, one of the few things he never had to doubt.

  Maybe it was the wine at dinner, maybe it was the glow of the fire or simply the contentment he felt, but he was drowsy. A log sizzled and fell into the large fireplace, and just then he heard Carine say, as though continuing an earlier conversation, “Even if, as you say, things have improved here, they certainly haven’t in foreign policy. Maybe now that we don’t have Jim Crow here, we oppress people overseas.”

  She was at it again. Anton startled awake, prodded by a red-hot anger. What was wrong with this girl? Did she really not know how to be a guest in someone’s home? “Huh?” he said. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”

  “Really.” It was Delores, seconding him, and in that moment, Anton knew the truth—his mom didn’t like his girlfriend.

  Carine chose to ignore Delores, focusing her attention on Anton. “What doesn’t make sense? Or are you so high on your turkey and mashed potatoes that you can’t put yourself in the shoes of those poor Afghans who are being bombed back to the Stone Age? Or those wretched Iraqis who are about to be?”

  They all spoke at once.

  David: “There’s no need to use that tone.”

  Pappy: “Just what are you talking about, my dear?”

  Delores: “Anton? What is going on?”

  Anton was rigid with embarrassment, unable to believe that she had humiliated him like this in front of his family. He remembered how he had come to her rescue on September 11, when she had provoked the crowd of students watching the horrific events on TV, how he had somehow diffused the situation by making light of her insensitive words. But he wouldn’t—couldn’t—bail her out this time. She had not wanted to come with him to the Cape, and this was her revenge, this unnecessary provocation, this acting out.

  His father was speaking now, and Anton forced himself to listen. “I agree with you about the Iraq situation,” David was saying. “And I hope to God our president isn’t rash enough to take us into war. But I believe that in Afghanistan, we had no choice. We didn’t attack them. They attacked us.”

  “But who attacked us? A ragtag army of crazies? That’s reason enough to destroy an entire country? To kill civilians? And isn’t it important to find out why they attacked us?”

  “Because they are animals,” Delores spat out. “Evil.” Anton could barely believe that this was his polite, well-spoken mother.

  “Oh, come on,” Carine said. “That’s so reductive, it doesn’t deserve a response.”

  “Reductive?” Delores said in the same thick, ugly voice Anton had never heard before. “I’ll tell you what’s reductive. You and your—”

  “Delores.” David stepped in, a warning in his voice. “She’s right. The reasons are more complicated than that.”

  “I’ll tell you why they attacked us,” Carine continued. “It’s because they wanted us to get our military bases out of Saudi Arabia. That was Al Qaeda’s one and only demand—”

  “Young lady,” David said firmly. “You’re crossing a line here. I’ve been governor for many years now. I think I understand politics a little more than you do.”

  “Please don’t patronize me, Mr. Coleman.”

  “That’s Governor Coleman to you,” Pappy roared, making Anton jump. “What you’re saying—where I come from, we call it aiding and abetting the enemy. Treason. I won’t have
it in my house. I won’t have a guest insulting the U.S. government by cavorting with the enemy.”

  “Pappy,” Anton said desperately. “She didn’t mean that. You don’t know Carine, she just likes to—”

  But she was having none of it. “That’s funny,” she said, addressing the senator directly. “In my house, we discuss everything. No subjects are off limits. My immigrant father encourages debate.” She turned her head, looking at each one of them before she delivered the final insult. “That’s what he thinks it means to be an American.”

  Nobody said a word. The crackle of the fire sounded deafening, as if it were enough to burn the whole house down. Then Delores stood up. “I can’t take any more of this,” she announced. “I’m going upstairs to bed.” She looked at her husband. “You coming?”

  David rose heavily to his feet. “Yup.”

  Delores crossed the room to where Anton was sitting and kissed his forehead. “Good night, sweetheart,” she said in a flat, resigned voice. “You better get some rest. You have a long ride ahead of you tomorrow.”

  He was too embarrassed to respond.

  David turned to his father. “Come on, Pappy,” he said. “I’ll walk you to your room.”

  After the three of them had left, Anton sat staring at the fire. Later, much later, he felt rather than heard Carine move. “Anton,” she began, but he put up his hand as if to shield himself from her. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t say a word.”

  She sat mutely for a few seconds and then rose. “I’m going to bed, too. Good night.” She looked at him uncertainly, as if she wanted to say more, but he remained still, staring ahead at the fire, and she left.

  He sat up until the fire died, watching the last ember spark itself into oblivion. He tried his damnedest not to think that this was an apt metaphor for his life.

  The senator stayed in bed the next morning and wouldn’t come downstairs to see them off when they left. Delores had roused herself to make them turkey sandwiches for the trip and pack a couple of apples. Carine said an awkward goodbye and received a stiff “You be good” in return. After Carine was in the car, David put his hand on Anton’s back and gently maneuvered him toward the garage for a brief talk.

  “I’m really sorry for how last evening went, son,” he said.

  “Dad. It’s not your fault. She was completely out of line.”

  David nodded. “I’m sure we’re an overwhelming bunch to be around. But . . .” he hesitated, his eyes probing the young man’s face. “I’ve never quite seen such a display before.” He smiled weakly. “I thought the Black Panthers were defunct.”

  “She’s not a Black Panther.” Anton’s defense of Carine was automatic.

  “I know. But really, Anton . . .”

  “I told you, Dad. I get it.”

  “Okay. Well. We’ll talk soon, okay, sport?”

  “Sure.”

  “And drive safe.”

  When they reached the car, Delores was leaning in and talking to Carine. Anton’s heart swelled with love. He put his arm around his mom, turned her around, and kissed her on the cheek. “Bye, Mom. See you soon.”

  “Sweetheart. You take care, now.”

  He pulled out of the driveway and fidgeted with the radio, looking for a station that got good reception. He gave up after a few seconds and reached under the sun visor for his CDs. At this time in the morning, there were few cars on the road, and he scanned his CD collection before settling on Nirvana because he knew the music would drive Carine crazy. She had made her opinion of Kurt Cobain quite clear—according to her, he was a spoiled, whiny white boy who wrote songs for other rich, whiny white boys. But Anton loved Cobain, and as the music filled the car, he relaxed, thankful that he wouldn’t have to talk to her.

  They drove for a few miles before she turned the volume down and said, “So are you never going to talk to me again?” And when he didn’t respond: “Can I ask you something? What did I say that was so offensive that you all turned on me?”

  He took the bait. “Let’s see. Maybe the part about Al Qaeda being justified in what they did?”

  She tugged at her seat belt so that she could turn and look at him. “When did I say that, Anton? I just said that there was a reason—a political reason—why they attacked us. Not because they’re savages or—What was the word your mom used? Animals. Is that so wrong?”

  “Carine,” he said as if talking to a child, “you were in the presence of a retired U.S. senator and a current governor. You were also my guest. Don’t you think you should have modulated your opinions a little bit?

  “But that’s just it. These are the people who make policy decisions that the rest of us have to live with, Anton. These are precisely the people whose views we need to change.”

  “But they are liberal Democrats,” he cried. “Pappy was one of the first senators to come out against Vietnam, for chrissake. My father has been one of the most progressive governors in the country. So whom do you want to change?”

  “And yet they got so bent out of shape because I was stating an easily documentable fact? Just think on that, Anton.” Her voice was hoarse. “Don’t you see what’s going on? A year ago it was Afghanistan. Now it’s Iraq. Doesn’t it scare the shit out of you that we are getting ready to invade another country?”

  “Of course I care. But my father doesn’t get a vote in the U.S. Senate.”

  “But your mom said he’s going to attend the governor’s ball at the White House in December.”

  “So what should he do? Boycott it? You think that will change Bush’s mind about Iraq?”

  “Baby, listen,” she said urgently. “You’ve never been to a third world country. I have. The way those people live, Anton. They already have so little. Such hard, miserable lives. And we’re going to punish them some more? For what?”

  He took his eyes off the road to look at her. “So who is disagreeing with you about Iraq? You’re preaching to the choir, don’t you get it? What I don’t get is why you had to disrupt Thanksgiving dinner with your little diatribe. Isn’t there a time and place for everything?”

  She looked out the window for a moment, and he saw her brush away her tears. “So that’s what matters more? We’re on the verge of invading a sovereign nation, and you care about—table manners?”

  He exhaled loudly. “You’re impossible to talk to when you get like this. Forget it.” He cranked the music up again. It was Brad who had introduced him to Nirvana. But by the time he had fallen in love with the group, Cobain was long dead.

  A few hours later, he pulled in to Cambridge, his anger beginning to recede, replaced by a gnawing sense of loss. They had hardly talked on the way home, and although he had instigated the silence, he didn’t know what that meant. Were they still a couple? Had they broken up? Did he want to be with her still? He stole a sideways glance at Carine, and the flip that his heart did was the answer. Chemistry. How the hell did one battle chemistry? Besides, he was beginning to wonder if she wasn’t the only one who had behaved badly. Why had Mom sounded so shrill and hysterical? Why had Pappy been so dismissive when he spoke about the Caribbean? Dad had been okay, but he certainly hadn’t defended Carine. Neither had Anton. In fact, the four of them had closed ranks against her. And then suddenly, swiftly, he knew—if Carine had been a white girlfriend arguing exactly the same points, they would’ve indulged her, cast a bemused eye toward her politics, maybe even admired her sensitivity toward the earth’s poor. What’re you, a Commie? his father would’ve teased. It was Carine’s skin color, her blackness, that made her suspect, that made them feel there was an alien in their midst, a spy in their own country. Carine had posed the wrong question when she’d asked Pappy if he’d known King. The correct question would’ve been whether he’d known Malcolm. Anton would’ve been interested in that answer.

  He opened his mouth and then shut it, unable or unwilling to share this revelation lest she think he was apologizing. In any case, they had reached her apartment building, and he double-parked ne
ar the front door. He left the engine running as he got out to get her bag from the trunk. He carried it to the stoop and set it there.

  “Don’t suppose you want to come in?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Okay. See you around?”

  “Definitely.”

  They looked at each other, and he kissed her chastely on the forehead, ignoring the incredulous look on her face. “Wow, that’s cold,” she said softly enough that he could pretend not to have heard her as he walked toward the car.

  “Anton,” she called, and he turned around, his left eyebrow raised in inquiry. “Yeah?”

  She took a few steps to close the distance between them. “You know what confuses me?”

  “What?”

  “I can’t decide if you’re the blackest white man I’ve ever met or the whitest black man.”

  He sucked in his breath, the words crashing into him. He felt as if she had unmasked him, laid bare the central conundrum of his life. For the rest of his life, her words would haunt him. He knew this with an immediate and fierce surety.

  She watched his face for a full moment and then moved away, as if putting her sword back in its sheath. “Bye, Anton,” she said over her shoulder, and then ran up the four steps that led to her apartment.

  He stood still, his chest heaving, as he stared at the closed door. He fought the urge to beat on that door with his fists, demand that she take back those malicious words. But after a few moments, his shoulders sagged and he made his way home, carrying an exquisite riddle that he would spend a lifetime trying to solve.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Anton stayed away from Carine for the rest of Thanksgiving break. On Monday night he returned to his apartment after a long day of classes to find a note of apology slipped under his door. He went to bed with a heavy heart that night, but the next morning, he called her while walking to school. When they finally got together for a quick lunch on Wednesday, it was as if they’d arrived at an unspoken agreement not to discuss the disastrous holiday. The same code governed his conversations with his parents, although during his first phone call to Pappy, the old man, true to form, boomed, “So how is that Trotskyite friend of yours?”