The Price of Silence Page 12

“He wants to surprise you.”

  I heard the buzzer from downstairs. One, two, three blasts. “Dad’s waiting.” She caught my shoulder and kissed my cheek. Her breath didn’t smell good. “About yesterday with An-ling, I want you to know—”

  I stopped her with a wave of my arm. “I don’t have any clean jockeys.”

  “Look in the dryer.We’ll talk when you get back.”

  “Sure. Bye.”

  “Have fun.”

  Halfway down the hall I heard, “Josh!” She was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, one pajama leg rolled up above her knee. It made her look crooked. “I love you, Sweetie.”

  It made me feel squishy and I didn’t know if she expected me to go hug her or what.The buzzer blasted again.

  “Bye, Mom.” I ran to the kitchen and grabbed my jockeys from the dryer. On the table, propped up on Dad’s dirty coffee mug, was an envelope with Mom’s name on it in his handwriting. Probably our itinerary. He’d sealed it, which was a bummer. I splattered water in the mug and put it in the dishwasher, my goodbye present. The envelope ended up on top of the tea kettle, below the drawing of the ugly Chinese kitchen god An-ling had given Mom.That’s where she’d see it for sure.

  Mom, when she said she loved me, I should have told her I loved her too.

  Dad drove up the coast, final destination—Maine.Any place facing water was a good food stop. Sometimes we went swimming.The water was freezing. He didn’t talk much, just some stuff about the old days in places we were passing through.Who came over when from England, what battles they fought. I’m not big on history so I didn’t really listen. Dad said it’ll come later, when I’m older and get a sense of the importance of consequences, of how past events affect our lives, like I didn’t know that already. Every once in a while I’d bring up the gig at Sissy Klein’s.

  “I know. I know,” he’d say.

  Dad started talking about his parents one night after he’d had a couple of beers. His father died in the Korean War.

  “With Dad gone, right away I felt I had to be strong and good. I had to take care of my mother. Never mind that I was only five years old.”

  He still missed his dad. His mother died of a bad heart when he was in college.

  “It hurt a lot.All loss is painful, but it teaches you things.”

  Sure, Dad, loss is great, I thought, but I could tell he was really into this, so I asked,“What things?”

  “It steels you to tackle anything that comes your way.

  What seems terrible and frightening changes with time.

  Fades.You forget the hurt for long stretches. It’s like a muscle you’re not aware of. It might cramp up sometimes, then ease back.”

  I didn’t buy the sometimes. My sister’s death was a permanent cramp with him and Mom. That’s what I thought he was talking about. I wished I could have a couple of beers too and find the guts to tell him he didn’t have to hide Amy from me any more.

  In a place called Sorrento, Dad paid a fisherman to take us out to check his traps. For almost two hours we watched Mike remove the lobsters from each trap, measure them and throw the little ones back in the water.

  “You see, Josh? As long as you’re young, you get a second chance,” Dad said.“Consider yourself one lucky kid.”

  I wasn’t sure what he was talking about this time.Maybe how he and Mom were getting old and maybe we shouldn’t have gone off without her. Like maybe she’d think we didn’t want her around anymore because of that one thing in the bathroom. All I could really think of was getting a second chance with An-ling naked, how I’d touch her all over and then maybe she’d let me in and we’d fuck for six days straight. And then I’d show up at Sissy’s party and play better than Alvin Jones and Buddy Rich put together and maybe there’d be a music producer, a friend of Sissy’s dad maybe, and he’d hear me and hand me a contract.That’s the kind of dumb thinking I did on that boat.

  Dad decided it was time I learned how to drive.We went out on the back roads when the sun was just coming up and the sky wasn’t much lighter than the road I was trying to keep the car on. I couldn’t see that far ahead, but Dad said that was good. It would keep me focused and at that hour the state police would care more about catching a cup of hot coffee than a thirteen-year-old kid driving.That was the best part of the trip.That and the lobsters, our visit to LL Bean and dreaming of sex.

  Every night Dad reminded me to call Mom. She was never home. I didn’t leave messages. I wasn’t going to play messenger boy for them. She had my cell number.And why wasn’t Dad picking up the phone to call her? I did catch him once, in the middle of the night, sliding the cell phone out from my backpack and slipping out of our motel room. He wasn’t gone more than a minute or two. They didn’t need to say a lot, just “Hello, we’re fine. How about you?

  That’s good. Bye now.”

  I called Max. It was hard to practice without me, he said. “You give us the beat, you know.That’s the drummer’s job.

  To keep us in check.”

  Maybe I should have given my parents the beat.

  Friday morning, we were in Kittery, just across the state line from New Hampshire, having breakfast by the waterside on our way back home. I was going to get to play at Sissy’s party; the water couldn’t have been bluer and the waitress had just plunked my second order of blueberry pancakes right down on the table. Life was rocking.

  Dad asked,“How did you like the trip?”

  “Super, Dad.Thanks.”

  “You’re not mad I took you away from your drum kit?”

  I shrugged.“I’ve got the beat down cold.”

  “Not too boring with just your old Dad?”

  “You’re not that old!” He looked so needy I was embarrassed.“ It’s not boring. I told you, it’s been great.Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I stuffed my mouth with pancake, hoping Dad would change the subject.

  “How would you feel if it was just the two of us for a bit?”

  I stopped chewing.“What do you mean?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  He tried to smile, but didn’t make it. I tried swallowing— the pancake had turned into sand. This trip out of nowhere. Mom telling me she loved me out of nowhere, not coming along. Her not being home and not calling.

  It all came together. “You and Mom are splitting up, right?”

  “No, Josh.”

  “I don’t believe you!” I jumped up, hitting my hip against the table, tipping it. My plate vaulted into the water, pancakes flying.“Great! Just great!”

  “It’s all right, Josh. It’s not your fault.”

  What wasn’t my fault? I stared at the floating pancakes, not ready to look at Dad. The seagulls’ wings made a dry, crackling sound as they swooped down. I got a perverse satisfaction out of watching them tear at the pancakes, hearing them scream at each other, slapping their wings around.

  “What happened, Dad?” I asked in the car.

  “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

  “Then why did you bring it up?”

  “Your mother might need to go away for a while and it’s better to see it coming and be prepared. And then if she doesn’t, we’ll be all the happier.”

  “Why does she need to go away? Does this have something to do with An-ling?”

  “I’m sorry. Forget about it. I was just testing the water.”

  “Dad, talk to me.”

  He patted my knee, again tried a smile. This one almost made it. “It’ll be okay. Don’t worry.You want to drive?”

  It was way past cops-chasing-hot-cups-of-coffee time.

  “I’ll get arrested.”

  “A fine at the most, which I’ll pay.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  At lunch, over hot dogs, I tried again.“Why does Mom want to leave?”

  “Maybe she just needs a break from us.”

  “Is that why we left without her?”

  “In part.”

  “So then it’s fine. She’s had her break.”

>   “She might want more time. Could you handle that?”

  “How about you?”

  “I’ll make do if you will.”

  I’d just been given the job of holding him up in case Mom decided to leave us. “Sure,” I said, like it was no big deal one way or the other.Was it Mom, or did he want out? I didn’t know, but on the drive back I thought about how I hadn’t really missed Mom during the trip, not the kind of missing that hurts. But then I was sure she’d be there when I got back.

  One thing I’ve learned about my dad is that he believes in keeping the bad hidden. Not a word said.Even if it makes things worse. I guess that’s where I get it from.

  If Mom gets convicted, what’ll I do? Let it be?

  Subj: Fairytales and fantasies

  Date: 04-10-05 23:31.53 EST

  From: Chinesecanary@BetterLateThanNever.com

  To: EPerotti@aol.com

  What is significant in traditional Chinese painting is what is left unpainted. I know I should leave a lot untold. What little shine I have left in your eyes would stay, but here goes:

  My legal name is Jean.

  Jean Owens. Forget it. That name is history.

  They said they didn’t know my Chinese name. They lied. I found it written on the birth papers Hannah kept in her closet. It really is An-ling. I like to think it’s the name my mother gave me, not the orphanage.

  My lie #308

  I didn’t quit Dr. Feldman. He fired me because I told a client that no matter what she did to her wrinkles, she’d still be an old woman. I didn’t want you to think I was asking for a handout.

  A-l

  Emma

  A futon, on which I was sitting, two bed sheets tied into fat balls stuffed with clothes, art supplies and twenty-two canvases— the sum of An-ling’s possessions—crowded one corner of the studio.An-ling untied one sheet and fished around in the jumble of socks, undies,T-shirts, shoes. I was only too glad to rest against the wall and watch.A rain-heavy sky filled the windows, giving off an ashen light that, combined with the August heat, lulled the anger I’d kept inside me for three days, since Tom and Josh left. “We need to breathe some clean air,” Tom had written in his note. I started to call Josh’s cell many times—Tom doesn’t own one—then stopped, not sure my call would be welcome.When the phone rang, I let the machine pick up, afraid I would lash out at Tom for leaving me, at Josh for going with him.There were no messages.

  “We’ll have to get you some furniture,” I said.

  “I’ll go to the Salvation Army.You’ve done enough. Ah, here they are.” She held up two coiled strips of red satin against her chest.

  I wanted to bring up Amy, tell her that Josh knew nothing, ask her not to break our silence, but her face was as bright as the cloth. She was happy.

  “What are those?” I asked. Another moment would come.“Duilan. I’m hanging them on each side of the front door to keep my new home safe.” She let the two strips unfurl along the length of her thighs. To my surprise, the words, handwritten in gold ink, were in English:

  A house full of light is good fortune.

  A good friend is a gift from heaven.

  I felt a swaying inside me, as though some cheerful tune had been turned on.

  “Keep your new home safe from what?”

  “Masons and carpenters have great knowledge of bad spells. They leave things to hurt you. A sword with a silk string tied around it will bring anger in the house.A shoe, a thread dipped in ink, blood, these are all bad things they may have left behind. I’m not sure I believe it, but there are so many bad people in the world, it could be true.” She let the satin strips flutter down to the futon.

  “There is also this.”An-ling fingered through the canvases stacked on the facing wall and lifted the largest one. “Portrait of my new boyfriend.” She turned it around with a sly smile. A warrior in battle dress, with menacing black eyebrows, pop-out eyes and a scowl straight out of a cartoon, swung a sword above his head, one foot raised, ready to stomp on his enemies while bats flew over his head.The colors were loud, garish.

  I laughed.“You’ve got terrible taste in men.”

  “Emma! You’re supposed to be scared. He’s Zhong Kui, the demon slayer. Our St. George. He will protect me from intruders.”

  “You should take him on the subway with you.”

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “I’m teasing, trying to get you not to be so fearful. If you keep your eyes open and your door locked, no one will harm you.”

  “I’ve been taught to be afraid of such good fortune. I’m not really superstitious, but the old traditions are the way of my ancestors, the way of the China that Mao tried to kill. I want to honor that.”

  I stood up and gave her a quick kiss on the side of her head.“Good for you. I’ll get the hammer and a nail.Where do you want to hang St. George?”

  “I think above my futon. Just in case my ancestors were on to something.”

  For the rest of the day we hung blinds, nailed An-ling’s paintings on the walls, and wandered the new neighborhood to shop for food and household goods.Over lunch and dinner, eaten squatting on the floor, An-ling chattered about her fellow students at the Art Students League and about her new job in the admissions office. How she was going to work to be the best painter in the city. As the day passed, I absorbed her eagerness, her hope. I said nothing about Amy or Josh.

  The windows turned dark. A halo of dull light rose above the Manhattan skyline.“Stay with me,”An-ling said.

  There was no reason to go.No one was home. She insisted I take her futon while she curled up on the mountain of her tangled clothes. For the first time in months I slept through the night.

  The next morning, while I was out getting breakfast, she ordered a mattress.“For when the guys go away again,” she said when it was delivered. She wouldn’t let me pay for it.

  Two days later, as I was getting ready to go home, she stuffed a bag full of M&Ms into my handbag.

  “For Tom and Josh.”

  Her sweetness gave me courage.“You know about Amy.”

  She looked taken aback for a moment, then walked across the room to sit on her futon.“I wanted to say I’m sorry you suffered so much, but Amy is your secret.”

  I sat down next to her, surprised I felt only relief. No shame.“How did you find out?”

  “A teacher at the League recognized you when you came to visit that one time. She grew up in Mapleton.”

  “Why did you tell Tom and not me?”

  “It doesn’t matter if he gets angry.”

  I took hold of her hand.“We never told Josh. It would have been a terrible burden for him. Even worse now.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “I do. I hope you still trust me.”

  “Don’t worry, Lady Teacher. I don’t blame you.”

  I studied her face but could not read it. I needed to believe her too much.“Thank you.You may be the only one who doesn’t.”

  Back at the apartment I waited for Tom and Josh to come home and wondered if, after Amy’s death, trust had ever resided in our home.

  ELEVEN

  TOD CURTIS, A tall, hefty painter and sculptor in his late forties, rents the loft directly above An-ling Huang’s. He is wearing chinos, running shoes, and a black T-shirt.

  “Where were you on March thirtieth of last year?” Guzman asks.

  “In my loft, preparing for a show that is now up at the Sogni Gallery in Chelsea. I didn’t leave it all day. Or night for that matter.”

  “Did you, in the course of that day, hear anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Yes. In the morning, around eleven o’clock, the defendant and the girl, An-ling, started fighting. They were very loud. I had to turn up Mahler—the Fifth Symphony—to drown them out. I always listen to music when I’m painting. It unleashes the imagination.”

  “Can you describe the fight.”

  “Not really. I heard ‘What you did was vile, disgusting!’ That’s it, I’m afraid.
”

  “Were you able to recognize the voice?”

  “Her.” He points. “The defendant.”

  “Emma Perotti?”

  “No doubt about it.”

  Emma

  “Have you made up your mind?”Tom lowered his dinner plate into the sink. I was still at the table, eating grapes. Josh was in his room, studying. School had started. In the ten days since they’d come back from Maine,we had gone about our family business—eating together, asking routine questions, giving each other goodnight pecks—in slow motion and with great deliberation.The air around us had turned to sludge.

  “Made up my mind about what?” I dropped a grape in my mouth.

  “Are you still seeing An-ling?”

  The fruit was tart, filled with seeds.“Yes.” I spit the seeds out. I’d seen her only once after my two-day stay with her. A quick lunch between her classes.“The M&Ms Josh gobbled up were a present from her for the two of you. She says sweetness breaks curses.”

  “I asked you not to see her.”

  “She found out about Amy from an art teacher who used to live in Mapleton.” His face registered disbelief. “Our guilty secret is safe,Tom. She won’t tell.”

  Tom splashed water in the sink, turned off the faucet.

  “That girl’s no good.”

  “You have no idea what’s she’s like.You’ve never given her a chance. I’m going to help her for as long as I can,” I told Tom’s back as he left the kitchen.

  That night Tom moved into the study.Over the next few weeks Josh spent a great deal of time with Max.Whenever he was home and I asked to talk to him, he shielded himself with a test to study for, a paper to write, a song to rehearse, an urgent call to make to Max. Scared that he too would ask me to give An-ling up, I didn’t insist.

  I felt marooned.

  When not teaching, while Josh was still at school, I would take the train to DUMBO. I brought flowers to An-ling’s loft, cleaned up, ran the washing machine and dryer my colleague had left behind. I filled the refrigerator with food, scoured the junk shops in the area for furniture that An-ling might like and that she could afford. I sat on a stool by the window overlooking the bridge and the slice of the East River and fed on the brilliance of September in that loft. Being there suffused me with warmth.