The Unfolding, page 34
“What’s wrong with pearls?” the Big Guy asks.
In the living room the Early-Nelsons are making a toast even though there’s still an hour on the clock. The Big Guy and Eisner join the crowd.
“We stand on the threshold,” Bill says.
“Between this year and next,” Eunice says. “Between past and future.”
“Between George Bush and Barack Obama,” he says. There are a few hisses in the room. “She gave me that line because she knew some of you might have something to say.”
“We come together on this night to enjoy the company of good friends, to celebrate what has been won,” she says. “And mourn all that was lost.”
“A lot of money was lost this year,” Bill says.
“Eat, drink, be merry, and let’s dance!” Eunice says, and the music swells; first it’s Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come,” then about thirty seconds in, it changes to Katy Perry’s “Hot n Cold.” The adults start to dance.
Meghan finds her father and shouts above the music, “Can we go back to the hotel?”
“Now, before midnight?”
“Yes,” she says. “I’m tired. And I hate this part.”
“Sure, okay.” He looks around for Eisner, but he’s vanished.
“Do we need to say goodbye?” Meghan asks, nodding toward the Early-Nelsons, who are “cutting the rug” more suggestively than anyone their age should do.
“French exit,” the Big Guy says.
Mark Eisner is on the front porch, tuned to music coming from a house down the street. He’s singing along. “I’m your captain, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“Happy New Year, Eisner,” the Big Guy says, waving goodbye.
“My favorite song from high school,” Eisner says, gesturing at the music in the air.
“Sounds like your crowd is over there,” the Big Guy says.
“Doubtful,” Eisner says. “That’s Dick Helms’s house, the former director of the CIA. He used to scare the crap out of me when I was a kid. My crowd is right here.” He drops to his knees and feigns playing air guitar. “I’m your captain, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“You’re like a big kid,” Meghan says, shaking her head.
“Good luck with your essay,” Eisner calls to Meghan. “Happy to give it a read if you need any help.”
“What’s this one about?” the Big Guy asks.
“How war is won,” Meghan says, as they get into the car.
Meghan is in bed and asleep before midnight.
The Big Guy, still in his party clothes, makes himself another drink and is sitting on his bed waiting for the ball to drop. He’s startled when his cell phone rings.
“You out on the town?”
“Home now,” he says. “We went over to the Early-Nelsons for a little while.”
“That must have been special,” Charlotte says.
“It was nice. They asked after you.”
“I wanted to wish you Happy New Year.”
“I would have called you but I didn’t want to break the rules.”
There’s a pause, silence.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I think so,” she says.
“It’s not the new year out there yet.”
“It will be soon,” she says.
There is another pause.
“Is there something else?” he asks.
“Maybe.”
“Do you want to tell me?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Give it a try,” he says, speaking softly.
“I let her do me,” Charlotte says.
There is silence.
“It wasn’t my idea—but I didn’t stop her.”
“I’m not sure what you’re saying.”
“Terrie,” she says. “I let her . . .”
“Let her what?”
“Lick me.”
“Sex?” A hot rush runs through the Big Guy—shame, excitement, nuclear confusion.
“Like a cat,” Charlotte says.
“That woman is your lover?”
“I’m not sure I would call her that.”
“Did you do it more than once?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Did you do it to her?”
“God no.”
“Were you drunk at the time?”
“No.”
“And now? Are you drunk or stoned now?”
“I’m not,” she says. “I had to stop with the pot. It was making me eat too much and I started having uncomfortable thoughts about Meghan.”
“What kind of thoughts about Meghan?”
“I don’t know if I was awake or dreaming, but I kept thinking that because she was upset with us she joined the military, and she became a commanding officer, but I was never clear if it was really the military or some rogue extremist organization. Whatever it was, I kept having the dream over and over. I want her to know I love her. Even though she isn’t mine, she is mine. Do you know what I mean?” She pauses. “I worry that she is disappointed in me. I wasn’t a very good mother.” Charlotte sniffles.
“I don’t know what to say. Did you like it? Was it exciting?” The Big Guy pauses. “Forget it. Don’t answer. I don’t want to know. For now, I’m going to pretend you didn’t tell me that she ate you like a cat.”
“You can’t pretend,” she says. “You have to know. That’s the new rule; that’s how we got into this situation.”
“Are you going to keep doing it?”
“I don’t know,” she says, slightly annoyed, as though that was irrelevant.
“Are you telling me because you really want me to know or because you feel guilty about my buying a car for your lesbian lover under false pretenses?”
Charlotte is quiet.
“All right then,” he says. “Well, now you’ve told me. Do what you will. And frankly, I don’t really think that’s sex. I mean there’s nothing a woman can do that’s like what a man does. It’s entirely different.” There is another pause. “Am I now expected to confess my infidelities?”
“No.”
“It’s not like there were many. But I will tell you that once, years ago at the athletic club in New York, I was getting a rubdown and the masseur inserted his pointer finger into my anus.”
“Really?” she says. “And you never told me?”
“I was embarrassed.”
“Did you like it?”
“I didn’t not like it,” he says. “I don’t think any of us are as simple as polite society would like us to be.”
“Voilà.”
“Voilà.”
“Happy New Year,” Charlotte says.
“Same to you.”
“Where’s Meghan?” she asks.
“Fast asleep,” he says. “I’ve been trying to keep her busy. We went to the zoo.”
“That’s nice. You always loved the zoo.”
“And we went over to the White House and said goodbye. G.W. was very nice to her.”
“He should be for all the money you gave him.”
A moment passes.
He rinses his mouth with what is left in his glass, scotch, neat, 63.5 percent alcohol as compared to Listerine’s 26.9 percent.
“When does Meghan go back to school?”
“A couple of days.” He’s talking quietly because he doesn’t want to wake her.
“Then what?”
“We go from there.”
“Sounds good.”
“We build it again, from the ground up.”
“What are you doing now?” Charlotte asks. Her voice is soft, almost seductive.
“I’m getting undressed,” he says. “I can wear the costume for only so many hours.” He sits down on the bed and takes off his socks. “And you?”
“Just wishing you Happy New Year,” she says. “Be in touch.” She hangs up.
Licked her like a cat. He lies back and gives the member a little tug. Nothing good comes of it; he’s not sure why, could be anything, alcohol, age, or the weight of history.
Our balls are in the water; our balls are going under. Mayday. Mayday. He hears Dick Richardson’s voice echoing in his head. The signal is seven short blasts of the whistle followed by one long one.
The captain goes down with the ship, the Big Guy reminds himself.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Alexandria, Virginia
8:40 a.m.
“What should I wear?” Meghan asks her father. He looks at her blankly. “Who do I go as?”
“You go as yourself.”
“Which one?”
“Casual,” the Big Guy says. “The real one.”
Meghan wants her biological mother to like her, to think she’s a nice young woman. She puts on a skirt, dark tights, and loafers. Except for the fact that the skirt isn’t plaid, she looks like she’s ready to play field hockey.
“Perfect,” her father says. “You look perfect.”
He is well-groomed in a yellow shirt and his favorite houndstooth blazer. “Tie or no tie?” he asks, holding the tie against his neck.
“No tie. The tie makes it look like a business meeting.”
They take the elevator down to the lobby. The room that the night before was decorated for New Year’s Eve in black and gold balloons, a 1920s speakeasy like the Stork Club or Cotton Club, has righted itself. There are no puddles of champagne on the floor, no remnants of confetti or noisemakers. The tables are set with white cloths—carafes of fresh-squeezed orange juice are resting in buckets of ice; tiered trays of croissants and pastries are at the ready. Meghan inhales—and remembers that she’s hungry; they never ate dinner last night.
The ride to the meeting place is silent, the air suffused with feeling but no language. It reminds her of when they went to a great-uncle’s funeral a few years ago; the man had killed himself without warning.
“Are you nervous?” the Big Guy asks.
“Yes.”
“Me too. I haven’t seen her in a very long time.”
“What do you know about her?”
“She had a mother and a father.”
“Everyone has a mother and a father.”
“And some siblings.”
Another pause.
“Does Mom know we’re doing this?”
“No.”
“Do you expect this woman to be my family now? Like I’ll go celebrate holidays with her?”
“What?”
“Are you handing me off to her, like getting rid of me?”
“Are you out of your mind? Of course I’m not getting rid of you. I’m just trying to help you—us—navigate. I don’t expect you to do anything except put out your hand and say hello.”
There’s a pause.
“Do you not want to meet her?” he asks.
“I want to meet her,” Meghan says. “It’s just all so strange.”
“Indeed.”
When they get to where they’re going, he has the driver let them out far from the door to the restaurant.
He gets out of the car. He’s wearing his camel hair coat. His slicked-back gray hair is over his collar—he needs a trim. His body inside the coat is thick, stiff, like an old bear’s.
Meghan thinks of them going to vote. It’s been only two months ago, but the Big Guy seems smaller. He’s occupying space differently, as if he’s trying not to be seen.
They get to the door and he pulls on the handle; it’s locked. A flush of panic washes over him; whatever is going to happen, he doesn’t want it to happen in the parking lot.
“You okay?” Meghan asks.
“Yeah,” he says, knocking hard on the wooden door. There is a sound, some fiddling with keys, the lock, then the door opens.
“Happy New Year,” the waitress says, holding the door open for them. “First customers of 2009. Coffee is on the house.”
“Thank you,” the Big Guy says.
“Sit wherever you like.”
They take a booth across the room. He sits facing the door.
The waitress brings menus and the coffee.
“Tea for me,” Meghan says. “If you have it.”
“Sure do.”
“What was the name of George Washington’s horse?” Meghan asks.
“Chestnut?”
“Blueskin,” Meghan says. “He was one of Washington’s two main horses. And he was half Arabian, sired by a stallion known as Ranger.”
“I didn’t know that,” the Big Guy says.
“Isn’t it amazing? Washington had a connection to Ranger, sort of.”
“What was the other horse called?” he asks.
“Nelson,” she says. “He was chestnut color, so you’re only a little wrong.”
“Half right. That doesn’t get me very far.”
They sit nervously attending to their drinks. The Big Guy pretends to read the menu. Then he looks up, does one of those fast-flash check-yourself things, stands, and goes toward the front of the restaurant.
Meghan waits in the booth. Her back is to the door; she’s not sure what to do. At a certain point, she stands up and turns around. As the woman approaches, she puts out her hand. “I’m Meghan.”
“I’m Irene.”
“I know.”
There is a moment of awkwardness about who should sit where.
The Big Guy sits and Meghan slides in next to him in the booth.
“You are so beautiful,” Irene says.
“Thank you.”
The waitress comes by. “Can I get you something, coffee, tea, hair of the dog?”
The Big Guy chuckles. “I’m the dog.”
“What grade are you in?” Irene asks.
“I’m a senior in high school, applying to colleges if you can believe that.”
“Do you know what you want to be?”
“No idea. Maybe something in the government.”
“I wanted to be a doctor and deliver babies.”
“That would have been wonderful,” Meghan says.
Irene shrugs. “I went to school for two years, but then I had to work. You’re lucky. You’ll go to a good school and have opportunity.”
“Thank you,” the Big Guy says, but the women aren’t looking at him.
“Do you study Spanish in school?” Irene asks.
“French,” Meghan says. “I picked French because Thomas Jefferson went to France, and when I was thirteen, I was obsessed with Thomas Jefferson. He was my hero until I learned more about him, and then I left him for Eleanor Roosevelt.”
There is a long pause.
“It’s super uncomfortable,” Meghan says. “He had children with Sally Hemings; I wrote a paper about it. When we went to Monticello, the guide talked about it but in a hush-hush way like he wanted us to know and not know at the same time.”
They are quiet.
“History is complicated,” the Big Guy says.
Irene nods. “There are different kinds of knowing. My mother is half Spanish and half Colombian, and my father is white. They live in Florida near my two brothers. I never told any of them I was pregnant. My parents are religious. I am religious as well. Or I like to think I am.”
“Me too,” Meghan says. In her heart she is religious; she has conversations with God that she doesn’t tell anyone about.
Irene hands her a little box. “I brought you something.”
Meghan opens it. She sees a necklace—a chain and a coin with a hole in it.
“This was my good luck charm when I was a teenager,” Irene says. “It’s a Colombian hundred peso coin and that is the Andean condor, the bird of Colombia.”
“I love birds,” Meghan says, putting it on. “I bought a necklace with a phoenix on it just a few weeks ago. Thank you.”
The waitress comes by to ask if they’re ready to order. “I’ll have a toasted corn muffin,” the Big Guy says. “And tomato juice.”
“Virgin Mary good with you?” the waitress asks. “I just mixed up a batch, hot and spicy with fresh celery, get your veggies in.”
“Sounds like a plan,” the Big Guy says.
Meghan feels like she’s supposed to order something. “Could I have the silver-dollar pancakes?”
“With or without fruit?”
“With, thank you,” Meghan says, feeling obligated to run up the bill.
“I’m fine.” Irene holds up her hand as if it were a Stop sign. “Just the coffee.”
“I’m trying to think of what else I should ask you,” Meghan says. “Favorite color? Favorite food? Does any of it mean anything?”
“My favorite color is blue. Favorite food, egg rolls. What about you?”
“Green,” Meghan says. “And I like”—she pauses—“date shakes.”
Irene smiles. “I’ve never had a date shake.”
There’s another pause.
“I worked at the dentist’s office for a long time,” Irene tells Meghan. “People would talk to me while I cleaned their teeth. They can’t speak clearly while you’re cleaning but they still talk. I pretended I understood what they were saying, and sometimes I’d ask a question in the general ballpark. They had no idea that I couldn’t understand them.”
The Big Guy excuses himself to go to the bathroom; Meghan isn’t sure if he needs to or if he is giving them a moment alone. “Three cups of joe on an empty stomach,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
Irene leans in and squeezes Meghan’s hand. “You never knew until now?”
Meghan shakes her head.
“I’m sorry. I would have thought they’d tell you. Your father had a lot on his mind. He loves you so much and always wanted the best for you. And I can only imagine what your mother felt. It was so hard to give you up. But to lose a child, you don’t recover from that.”
Irene is staring at Meghan.
“What?”
“You are so grown-up,” Irene says. “In my mind, you are still a very little girl. You look like my Titi Isabela, my mother’s aunt.”
