by Ruby Lang
“I know.”
She hadn’t even been assigning blame. But when Flora and Alma automatically said that, somehow they made it feel like a little kid pointing at a deflated balloon and bursting into tears. She wanted to tell her sister something serious. Maybe because Magda was so much younger, it was like growing up with three mothers. She didn’t want to be pacified. She wanted to talk.
Ty, who didn’t even like her, had at least listened. He’d recognized her work. It seems like you’re earning it, he’d said. He hadn’t made her worries seem small.
She should not be thinking of him.
Magda tried another tack. “I know it’s not my fault that the buyer wasn’t interested. But aren’t you—aren’t you wondering a little bit why I would be trying to sell this community garden out from under the people who made it?”
“Oh, Magda.” And it was like Flora had reached out over the phone lines to pat her little sister on the head.
Magda couldn’t complain about it, because it felt good. But at the same time, it seemed sometimes like her family didn’t expect much of her at all.
“I was talking with the gardeners,” Magda continued. “They do such good work. They really have transformed the whole feeling of the block. The space was full of garbage. People wouldn’t let their kids play in it. Now it’s beautiful and safe. I want to sit there and hang out sometimes.”
“You don’t have to try to sell it, Magda.”
“So you think I should quit, try another career?”
“No. Yes. I think you should do what you want to do.”
Maybe it didn’t matter to her sisters what she did. “Why do you think I should do whatever I want to do, Flora? Why?”
A pause.
“I don’t understand what’s going on, Magda. I’m simply trying to listen to you. Clearly, you’re in some kind of a mood—”
“Having a temper tantrum, like a toddler?”
“No, mija, all that all of us want is for you to be happy, to find someone—”
Magda let out a breath.
“Because I can’t do anything on my own?”
“Of course not. But you’re still so young.”
“I’m twenty-nine, Flora! It’s not old, but I’m trying to take responsibility for my life and that means I need you—all of you—to take me seriously, and listen to me. Sometimes I even need you to not let me off the hook every time I screw up. It just feels like sometimes you and Mamí and Alma try to soothe me.”
“Oh baby, that’s not true.”
“I’m trying to tell you something important. I don’t want to be a bad person here, Flora. I think I need to sell this lot to prove I can do this. But I’m wondering if it’s the right thing to do. What if I’m on the wrong side? I know I have to figure out what’s best for me—God knows, I need to finish something. For once in my life. And of course, I expected the gardeners to fight. But it feels so personal.”
“You could never be a bad person, Magda.”
Was Flora listening? Did anyone ever listen? Magda thunked her head on the dining table again. She was going to have a dent in her skull if she kept talking to her sister. And the next time she saw Flora, Flora would probably say a dent in the head did not make her a terrible girl and that she’d known many people with dents in their head who grew up to do great things.
Then again, it was Magda’s own fault for calling and trying to change the entire history of their relationship during the workday, for not doing this face-to-face, for not talking to her sisters seriously about this years ago. There was nothing to do but thank Flora for taking time out of her day.
So Magda did, even though she was more frustrated now than when she’d begun.
“I know jobs can be hard, Magda,” Flora said by way of goodbye. Her voice was already distant as if she’d moved on to other, more important problems. “Don’t worry too much and call us whenever you need help. It’s always good to talk things out.”
“It’s not really—”
But her sister had already hung up.
Sunday
“Remember Jojo’s mom, Mrs. Shi? All the grown-ups used to say she made the best sticky rice but when we were kids, we thought it tasted like shit, but it turned out it was because her sticky rice was just sweet rice cooked in vodka? Like, straight up vodka. No water, no broth, not even a pinch of salt or sugar to let you know how you should feel, aside from numb in the mouth. Yeah, I could go for some of that right now.”
Ty looked up blankly from the sink. He’d been washing the dishes. Jenny was drying—rather she was putting dishes into the dishwasher which Ty used as a storage rack because that’s what Ma had done. Jenny still teased him about it, but she did it his way anyway.
“Ty, are you even listening to me?”
Her voice had taken on a familiar younger sibling whine, which was at least comforting in its ability to annoy him.
“I’m sorry. I’m preoccupied tonight. Did you say something about Jojo Shi’s mom and vodka?”
“To make sticky rice. That’s why the grown-ups loved it. I’d love to figure out how much alcohol cooked off and how much got absorbed.”
“I do not remember one single thing about this. Is this a dish you’re thinking of serving at Golden Egg?”
Jen didn’t answer for a minute. In fact, she was avoiding his eyes.
He blinked. He’d been so preoccupied lately that he hadn’t noticed his sister was jumpy. Jen had cooked a comforting egg and tomato stir-fry, for one thing, even though it was her night off.
“Jen, is everything okay with your job?”
Jen closed the dishwasher. “I’m thinking of taking a job in Portland. My friend, Amina, is opening a place there and she wants me to be her chef de cuisine. It’s an amazing opportunity, and I’d have a chance to expand my skills. Plus, Portland has all those great farmer’s markets.”
“But that’s—that’s thousands of miles away. It’s on the other coast.”
“I’m glad your notion of geography hasn’t abandoned you.”
“Jenny.”
She ducked her head.
“I’ve been thinking about a change for a while. And watching you, how you’ve reacted to a lot of stuff that went on after mom died, that’s made me think I needed to do something drastic.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You think I’m stuck?”
“No. I think I’m still stuck. There’s nothing holding me here, Ty. My job is okay—fine. But I’m not going to get promoted in that kitchen. Mom is gone. Dad moved. I’m twenty-seven and I have roommates I hate. My last two relationships didn’t work out the way I thought they would. I’m tired. I don’t want my job to be everything, but it’s so competitive here. My old friends, the people we grew up with, they have regular 9-5 hours. No matter how hard we all try, it’s hard to stay connected. A babysitter cancels, and I don’t see some of them for another year. At least in Portland, I’d know Amina and a couple of other friends from culinary school.”
“But I’m here.”
Ty understood what his sister was saying. He sympathized. It wasn’t easy making new friends at their age. But he was stuck on the distance, maybe because contemplating everything else was too much.
“Yes, you’re here. And that’s huge. But you’ve got a whole life here now. You live in an apartment you own, in a community you connect with. You’re planning block party fundraisers and texting your friends all the time. Like during dinner I counted at least thirty pings, and for each one, your face changed, like you wanted to answer, but you were stuck with me.”
“Jenny, I love having you around. You’re my sister. You’re important in my life. I’m stressed out, that’s all. And the gardeners aren’t my friends, really.”
“What would you call them?”
He opened his mouth and shut it again. That was a good question. It’s
not like they went to each other’s houses and hung out and played video games. He knew Mrs. E had kids—three, he thought—but no grandchildren yet. That she had nieces and nephews—at least one who worked at Dance Theater of Harlem and had gotten some ballerinas to agree to perform, and another whose choir had been volunteered. He knew Mr. Serra had been sick with cancer—he didn’t talk about it and that was fine with Ty—that Mrs. Freeman had owned a shoe repair shop in East Harlem and had been married and divorced four times. That the teens who’d made their solar panel had hopes of entering the citywide science fair with an even bigger project which they talked about in hushed tones. But he didn’t even know most people’s first names.
Or maybe he had told himself not to learn them.
At some point, even before the idea for a block party started, he’d been invited to meet all the brothers and sisters and spouses and aunts and uncles. Maybe he’d even been introduced to one or two. But he had been polite. He kept his head down.
He didn’t get involved.
“There are a lot of different ways of being friends with people,” Jen added when he didn’t answer. “It’s not just if you’ve been to their house for Thanksgiving, or if you’ve known them since kindergarten. Sometimes, it’s about what you’ve done. Have you been a good friend to them? Have you listened sympathetically? Have you walked them home late at night?”
If that were true, he was probably technically friends with Magda Ferrer.
As if reading his thoughts, Jenny smirked. “I mean, that’s not all there is to it—”
“Thank goodness for that,” he murmured.
“But I’m saying maybe the gardeners are your friends. You care about them a lot and they certainly adore you. They could be like family if you let them.”
“Weren’t you making fun of me the other day for hanging out with old ladies—not that there’s anything wrong with that and a lot of them aren’t old?”
“I was. And then I went back home and I thought about it and I decided I was an asshole. Like I said before, I’m jealous. You’ve found what I want. You’ve found a place where you fit in—”
“I wouldn’t go so far.”
“I would.”
He wanted to protest. He didn’t even plant stuff. He wouldn’t know how. He didn’t have a plot. What was holding him here? The answer was a dozen more texts, people to write, a fundraiser to help plan. Obligations held him there. A stinking compost pile. All things of which he’d been wary.
Fuu-huck.
This was the last thing he’d wanted. He liked his life just fine the way it was—pain-free. He’d watched his mom die for years and every one of those years had been a slow pull of nails on his flesh. He’d watched his father run away afterward, unable to deal with the funeral, the paperwork, barely able to look at his children.
Ty didn’t want to lose anything or anyone ever again.
And here he was on the hopeless side of a fight, allied with people who wanted more from him.
He shook his head, trying to clear it. It wasn’t the same thing. The loss wouldn’t be the same. “You could be part of the garden,” he tried, not managing to convince himself. “Think of the great herbs you’d be able to plant.”
Jenny laughed. “I’ll miss you, too.”
“So that’s it. The decision is made? You won’t join them?”
“No, Ty. It’s something you carved out for yourself. It’s yours. I can see why you want to hang on to it.”
But after Jenny left, after he turned off his phone, and turned off the lights, he wondered if he really did.
Chapter Seven
A Wednesday in Early August
“All of these open houses, and staging bills, floor plans, and photographs, and all you’ve gotten me is another lowball offer.”
It hadn’t seemed low to Magda. It wasn’t full price, but it had been enough to get Magda’s hopes up for the amount of time it took to check and double-check and, with shaky hands, fill out the offer sheet and email it to her uncle.
Byron had killed that with a message Sent from his Android phone in less than a minute. He’d rejected her work on the go.
Then, less than two days later, Uncle Byron showed up unexpectedly from Florida. He’d arrived in the middle of a tour she’d been giving to a record exec and her partner. And while Magda couldn’t gauge whether they’d been interested, her uncle’s heavy-browed presence made her stumble over her words. She’d shortened her usual talk. She’d been about to launch into the history of the house, but with one living component of that history casting a critical eye (and maybe ear) over her she couldn’t dig into it with the same gusto. At least Byron hadn’t followed them from room to room, nagging her.
Like he was doing now.
“Don’t see why we had to have new photos and floorplans made when we had perfectly good ones from before,” Byron grumbled.
Magda kept her voice level. “You’ve made quite a few changes to the house since the last time those other brokers at other firms took their pictures and had plans drawn up.”
“And this staging business,” he continued as if she hadn’t been talking. “I don’t understand how people can charge to make up a bed and set a table.”
“All the rooms are bare, Byron. It’s a little easier to sell if people know what they’re for.”
“So get a label maker.”
Usually, she tried to talk to Byron as little as possible. Other brokers must have gone over this ground with him in the past, although the last two hadn’t bothered with staging at all. And of course, the last two hadn’t sold the place. “It helps tell the story,” Magda said. “People want to be able to picture themselves using the rooms, throwing a dinner party, reading on the couch, baking cookies, playing with their dogs in the backyard. We’re selling a house, sure, but we need to help people picture their life in that home. The more real it becomes the more they want it. It’s like...it’s like we want buyers to think they’ll have good memories even before they’ve lived here.”
Something passed over Byron’s face before he turned away.
In a moment, he said, “Is that hooey what they’re teaching you?”
“Yeah, that’s what they’re teaching us.”
“No one’s table looks like that,” Byron said, gesturing toward the gleaming glassware of the dining room table.
“It’s an idealized version of the future.”
“You don’t need that many plates. There are plates here that are just for holding other plates—you don’t even eat off of them.”
“They’re called chargers.”
“They sure are charging me for them. Same with all those throw pillows upstairs in the bedroom. More like throw-money-away pillows.”
“Well, like I said before if you’re feeling squeezed, you could always stop renovating. While I’ve been here, you’ve already freshened up the foyer and the kitchen, the backyard and the master bath, and the security system. You got new trees. Not to mention all the other things you’ve done over the last few years. We’re in good shape for September, when the market starts picking up more.”
She tried not to shout that her uncle was willing to spend money renovating rooms that were perfectly fine—and that any new owners would likely redo anyway—but that he was grumbling to her about a few plates and pillows. It was like he wanted the whole house to be completely transformed into something unrecognizable. He didn’t seem to care about the cost of constant renovation, and anytime she brought it up, he ignored her. And it was work—for her. She had to keep it all clean, ready to show at any minute. And the workmen would inevitably track in dirt, or the rumble of their machinery made dust drop from the ceilings. She couldn’t be annoyed with the contractors and plumbers and landscapers. They were doing their jobs, and for the most part, they tried to clean up after themselves. But the place needed dusting. Plates, and glasses
, and silverware, and tables needed polishing. She was cleaning his damn house, and supervising his workers, and mopping up after them because mess was inevitable and he took for granted that because she was here, she’d do it.
Byron was quiet.
This wasn’t her real uncle. He wasn’t related by blood. He certainly hadn’t been around for the last ten years. He was a client. She couldn’t take it personally. She could not quit. She put on her most professional voice. “We listed in summer. We’ve had two offers”—at least one of those was perfectly reasonable—“and I’m confident that we’ll have more in fall. These things take time, I’m sure you know.”
“I gave it to you even though you’re young and you don’t know anything because you’re family and I thought—I thought I was doing one last good thing for Ariana. But you’ve come in and put in furniture, made it look like the place belongs to someone else.”
Magda held her breath. She said as gently as she could, “That’s sort of the idea.”
“I know. I understand that’s what we’re trying to do. My great-grandfather bought this house. I grew up in it. I played with my brother in the backyard. We had dinners all crowded together in this room and spilling into the next, all the aunts, and uncles, and cousins and my parents. But over the years, we all dispersed. My brother got killed in Vietnam. I lived here with Ariana until she got sick. My wife died in this house. People want to make memories? They want to picture a life here? I got memories. I had a life.”
“I’m sorry, uncle.”
She didn’t know what to say. She hardly knew him. Most of her recollections of him were of his worry and his anger when Ariana was dying for such a long time. The grief that cloaked the family during those long years had made it difficult for her, still a teen at that point, to see him.
She knew sellers often had a hard time letting go. Keith would roll his eyes and tell stories about people haunting their open houses, and reacting angrily whenever buyers brought their architects or held up swatches. But what could she say to her uncle? To a man who she’d hardly known a long time ago, who wanted to be rid of his home, but who couldn’t let go?
