Janet stands, almost triumphantly as the movers busily wheel their handtrucks down the gravel path, depositing stacks of cardboard boxes next to the little backhouse. I recognize my own handwriting on several: clothes, toys, Michael’s, baby’s. On other boxes I can see the hurried handwriting of the men who have handled my belongings: kitchen, television, papers, written in a block script reminiscent of the graffiti lettering I recognize from freeway ramps.
I watch the three men drop boxes in my temporary retreat—the guest house Janet has arranged for us—and return to fetch more. Janet follows them back around the front house, directing their actions.
I look at the stacks, step inside again, surveying the limited space.
I step back outside, waiting for the next load of boxes. A diesel engine ignites, crescendos and lumbers away into the distance. Confused, I walk around the front of the house in time to see the back door of the moving truck heading down the lane. Trusty Movers, the door boasts in bold cursive lettering, Helping You On Your Way.
I turn around and hurry to the front door, thinking to tell Janet they have left with some of my things still inside.
“They brought all of your things,” she asserts. “I watched them pack up the truck.”
“But what about my furniture? What about the mirrors? The artwork?”
“You mean the things from…Pakistan?” The nasal a of her American accent makes the country sound childish to my ears.
“Yes!”
“Well, those were…his things. I arranged for the Goodwill to pick them up.”
“What?!” I curl my fingers into an angry fist. “I bought most of those things.”
“With him,” she says derisively. “You would have had to store them anyway, there’s no place for them in the backhouse. And they certainly would’ve made for a different, how can I say, aesthetic.”
I am dumbfounded. I search for the words to express my anger at her.
“You won’t need them. It’ll be better for you not to have those reminders of your past. I thought about it, Kathryn. I really think it’ll be easier for you to make a clean break.”
I look around, my mind racing about how I can get my things back before they become anonymous curiosities in a musty second-hand shop. I notice a piece of pink paper on the counter, the Trusty Movers bill. Two thousand dollars, written in the same hurried graffiti-like script, circled at the bottom.
I look up at Janet, realizing how much she has paid to give away my things.
She misreads my anger as fear, her expression softens. “Don’t worry about the money, they charged by the mile for the truck. You can pay us back when you have everything settled, and when you’re able.”
I repress the urge to shout at her. I turn and leave through the front door.
“You’re welcome,” Janet calls, the rise in the last syllable requiring a thank you—a response I refuse to provide.
I let the door slam shut.
I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Michael plays with Andrew, wiggling soft toys in front of him and recounting nursery rhymes. How wise Michael is, understanding not to come to me now.
I am still, paralyzed even. But my mind races. How can I escape, regain some control, reassert some power in my own life? I consider every possibility, even the most outlandish. Return to Los Angeles? Repair the window and continue as if nothing had happened? Move to my parents? They have a guest room, I could search for an affordable studio near their prestigious neighborhood. Reach out to Rashid’s mother in Lahore? I have refused to think of her, but surely the family would welcome me—the mother of their male grandchildren. Return to Dubai? Look for a job, any expat position would include a housing package and salary. Stay in a motel here in San Diego? I could find a more permanent place later. Contact my college boyfriend? He never married, has a beautiful house in Carmel. Apply for graduate school? My father’s university offers subsidized student housing. Buy an RV? Park wherever I like.
But any move would require cash, funds I can’t yet access. The bastards at the life insurance company still require more documentation from me to process my claim. Their adjusters’ usual reluctance must be compounded by their distaste for my circumstances. I consider the envelope sitting in the darkness of my safety deposit box. Perhaps I could even sell the rings. Then I remember my wedding gold. A Pakistani bride’s insurance, Sabeen had called it. I will sell that filthy metal and start over.
I hear movement in the garden, the crunch of gravel under several feet. Ted’s daughter, Amanda asks, “So was he really a terrorist? Why’d she marry him?”
“I never want to hear that kind of crap out of your mouth again,” Ted admonishes.
Silence.
“You hear me?”
Amanda mumbles a response to her father.
A knock on our door. I remain motionless, staring at the ceiling. Again the knock.
“Kathryn?” Ted calls.
Michael approaches me, gingerly leaning against the edge of the bed. “Mommy? Uncle Ted is here.”
I wish we had already left. I should have just kept driving when I picked up Michael from school.
“Kathryn, please open the door. I’d like to talk to you.”
Michael tugs on my hand. “I can open the door, Mommy, do you want me to?”
I close my eyes and nod my head with a tiny motion.
My son, now the man of the house, opens the door. “Hello, Uncle Ted. Sorry, she’s not feeling well.”
“We brought you some pizza,”Valerie, the younger one, says. At ten, she must know something is wrong, her perky pre-teen cadence sounds coached. “Here, let me set it on the table and get you some.”
Michael stands aside, allows her passage. Amanda approaches Andrew, makes artificially happy cooing noises.
Ted sits on the edge of the bed. I cannot greet him, cannot move.
“Um, I understand there’s some issue about the moving process and your stuff.”
I close my eyes. I don’t want to dwell on this topic, have to keep my thoughts moving forward. After a long pause, I force myself to speak. “Don’t worry, we’ll be gone soon.”
“That’s not the point. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want. I mean, look, we’ve made a place for you, Janet has bought everything you would need, dishes, food, everything.”
I stare at the ceiling. I can’t bear to see him.
“Really, I know this sucks for you.” He lowers his voice to nearly a whisper. “I can only imagine…your husband turns out to be someone else, but he’s dead before you understand that. You’re stuck with everyone’s judgment for marrying the enemy. You’ve got to raise his kids, protect them from this shitty aftermath. And then, just as a kicker, you get a four-letter brick through your window.”
His chronicle of my life sends me into a miasma of self pity.
“I know you think Janet was harsh, but you probably owe her a shitload of thanks.”
“For giving away my things?”
“She managed your whole fucking flight from Los Angeles, it’s no small thing.”
I roll my eyes.
“The least you could do is show a little gratitude.” He is angry. “It’s not exactly a cakewalk for us either. And I didn’t sign up to play peacemaker between my wife and my sister.”
Through the noxious mists of my mind I understand that Ted is not my ally. I feel my self shrinking inside my skin, whatever energy animated me, whatever sense of self-worth or responsibility once fueled me, shrivels, dries, retreats, leaving a hard little ball in my stomach. I close my eyes and take shallow breaths, allowing in only the bare minimum of oxygen my lungs require.
“All right, if you’re going to play mute, at least get some good sleep. We’ll deal with this tomorrow.” I feel the bed spring back from his weight as he stands.
“Girls, go ahead and finish your dinner with the boys. I’ll leave the back door open for you.”
I wish they would leave immediately. Their immature voices grate on my ears as they pretend to enjoy my children. Michael says evenly, “You don’t have to stay, I can put away the dishes. It’s OK. Thanks for the pizza.”
I keep my eyes shut, trying to protect myself from the humiliation of their forced hospitality. And they are gone.
I exhale, the tension in my eyelids abates, and I allow a bland comfortless sleep to dull my consciousness.
Then the baby is crying. Michael is talking, trying to get my attention. But an invisible lead weight above me presses, paralyzes.
A baby’s angry cries grow louder and I hear Michael grunting with effort. I feel a plucking at my blouse. “Please Mommy,” he pleads, “feed him, he’s hungry.”
The words mean nothing to me, they cannot penetrate the murky distance to my desiccated interior.
Like a spider, I understand some movement at the extremity of my web. Something sacred made profane. A baby’s body is clumsily shoved over me, and a little hand haltingly positions my breast. I perceive heat, pressure.
Michael cries. The baby is quiet. I feel nothing.
I go through the motions for days, I’m not sure how many. My limbs perform everyday tasks like washing and dressing and feeding. I observe myself without judgment, I have become incapable of higher-level thinking. I prepare the same dinner for Michael night after night. I feed Andrew formula. I speak only as necessary. I neither laugh nor shout at the children. I do not try to retrieve my belongings, or even think of them again. I watch myself in the mirror as I comb the short hair of a woman, a person I can no longer name, a woman I no longer know.
Tonight I sit at the table, another day’s ration of pasta and tomato sauce before us. Michael places a piece of paper on the table, the outline of a tree photocopied on its surface.
“I need to fill in my family’s names here. My parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles.”
He looks at me and then at two lines at the center of the image. “I know your name, I can fill in Kathryn Capen.” He slides his finger across that line to the blank next to it. “What about this line? What should I write?”
I understand the line is intended for Michael’s male parent. I cannot conjure the name. I see only a daunting void, a line that leads to painful questions of who and why. I consider the line no further, just lift another forkful of pasta—penne tonight, we had linguine last night.
Michael understands I will not help him, cannot help him. He looks again at the paper, crumples it up in his hands. I hear him say under his breath, “I wish I were dead too.”
The words reach me, hurtling through the fog of my mind. And I see him, see this tiny man, alive before me. In my sabbatical of self pity he has suffered through abandonment, not just once, but twice. He appears before me, as if out of thin air, his brown hair shaggy, his nails dirty, his clothes mismatched. He is so beautiful. I have neglected this living boy as I wallowed in my self defense against the dead.
“Let me help you.” My voice sounds like a croak after so much silence. He pulls the paper away. “Michael, let’s see it. We can work it out together.”
His little hand releases the ball of paper. I smooth it out and he looks at me, his need so obvious.
“Go and get me a pencil, we can write in the words.”
He dutifully opens one of the kitchen drawers and finds a pencil. How did he know it was there? He hands it to me, waits, watches me attentively.
“Let’s do the easy ones first. Here is you. Write your name, can you write your name?”
Slowly, the letters take shape, his childish handwriting deliberate, careful not to cross below the line.
“Good. And now your brother, here, next to you.”
“How do you spell his name?”
I say the letters one at a time, waiting for him to transcribe each one. We continue in this fashion through my side of the tree, listing my parents, Ted, Janet, and their girls. As the weight of people on my side of the tree threatens to topple the whole thing we arrive at the empty line that could lead to others that would balance the tree, the whole cast of paternal aunties and uncles, cousins and grandparents that would connect Michael with the other side of the world.
His hand hovers above the line. He fidgets in his seat, bites on the corner of his lip.
“Write, ‘father’,” I say. “f-a-t-h-e-r.” He looks at me and I nod my head. When he finishes, I hold my hand out for the pencil and in my own hand I write in parenthesis deceased.
“What does it say, Mommy?”
“It says your father’s dead. If anyone asks, you tell them he died in an accident.”
His eyes are trained on me, waiting for me to say more. “You don’t need to explain anything else.”
He exhales, relieved. He pushes his way onto my lap. “Thank you for helping me. I was scared you’d be mad.”
“Oh Michael, you should never be scared of me. I’ll always be here for you. I won’t ever leave you.” I hold him tightly, gripping him to me, my hands moving almost frantically from his shoulders to feet, his head to chest, ensuring he is still whole.
I carry him to Andrew’s play pen, lift the baby and hold them both to me, feel their breath on my skin. We are all alive.
In the morning, I wake early, before the children. I walk to the door and open it. Morning shadows stretch long. The crisp air carries the scent of flowers Janet has so carefully planted. A humming bird dives to a shrub near the house, feeds from the blooms.
I have a plan today. After I drop Michael at school, I will go to the mall. I will buy the boys new shoes, new clothes. I will take Michael for a hair cut. I will find a park and take them to play.
I inhale deeply and return to wake the boys. I see our living space; a pile of dirty clothes at the foot of the bed, a stack of unopened mail on the counter, fruit flies hovering above unwashed dishes in the sink. It’s too much. How can I possibly handle it all?
And then I see the boys. Andrew sucks on his teddy bear’s paw and whimpers. Michael holds tight to an object, red and blue plastic protruding from the end of his fist. I kiss him to wake him. “What’s this?” I pull his fingers back, recognizing the Spiderman toothbrush. Defensively he pulls it back from me.
“It’s mine,” he says. “He protects me at night.”
“You hold him every night?”
He clutches the toothbrush to his chest and nods.
How long have I been gone? How much have I missed? Will I ever be able to fully return? I have so much work to do, maybe too much work. I see Andrew smile at me before the bear paw is back in his mouth. Just take a little bit at a time, I tell myself. Today just the new shoes and the laundry. Tomorrow I can look at the mail and call about Michael’s haircut.
I emerge from the elevator into the mall’s giant gleaming concourse. Upbeat pop music pumps through speakers. Giant potted palm trees tower over me in the light that shines down from skylights four stories above.
No one notices me. The shoppers, mostly women in groups of two or three, or pushing strollers like me, all appear perfectly at ease here, carrying giant paper bags emblazoned with store brands. I long for their contentment. I marvel at how they seem so perfectly adapted. None of them are crying, none appear grey with grief. One woman smiles at her companion, a dazzling smile of bright red lips.
Maybe that’s it, bright red lipstick. I turn the stroller and walk deliberately to the department store cosmetics counter.
“Can I help you find something?” the salesgirl asks.
“Lipstick,” I say quickly before I change my mind. “I need some bright red lipstick.”
“Sure. Every woman should have some bright red lipstick now and then.” She comes to the front of the counter and pulls out a wide drawer to reveal lipsticks in a rainbow of pinks and reds, oranges and browns. She looks at my face more carefully, her eyes glancing up to my hair, taking in the streak of white blonde hair. “I think you need something with a bit of cool tones, more to the maroon than the orange shades.”
I simply wait until she finds the right color. As she dabs a bit on the back of my hand, soliciting my approval, she notices Andrew in his stroller.
“Oh what a cute baby! He’s yours?”
“Yes.”
“Wow, his color is just so different from yours. What’s his father?”
What’s his father? Does she mean is he animal, vegetable, or mineral? Does she mean is he a butcher, a baker, or a candlestick maker?
“He’s dead.”
I watch her blanch, she flusters to recover. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
I smile, feeling a bit like Cruella deVille myself. “Just the lipstick please.”
She busies herself with the purchase, thanking me with excessive formality.
I immediately apply the color to my lips, observing myself in the countertop mirror. I see my brittle expression, my haircut and bright blonde streak, red lips like a target in the middle of my face. I force myself to smile. I frown and pull the corners of my mouth down. Comedy, tragedy. I smile again.
I look different. I can be different. I will assume another identity—one I choose. I kneel down and kiss Andrew, leaving the imprint of my lips on his cheek. He kicks his feet and smiles. Once I have bought new shoes for the boys I will go to the jeweler to sell my gold.
Michael smiles out from the stylist’s chair, pumped up to its maximum height. His eyes are so clear beneath the neatly trimmed bangs.
“You look so handsome, little man,” the stylist coos as she pulls off the drape, revealing a bright green shirt, one I just bought today. He reaches up and touches his hair, darker than mine, but not black. No one can tell he’s half-Pakistani. Maybe Turkish, Greek, Italian even. I will say Greek if anyone asks me. Something apolitical, non-threatening.
“Should we have some dinner to celebrate your new haircut, maybe some pizza?” I ask.
“Really?” he is almost incredulous, “could we even have pepperoni pizza?”
“Whatever you want.”
We will eat pepperoni without even a moment of hesitation, without a care for whether the meat may be pork, in some way haraam, forbidden by some long-dead prophet. Our family is mine now. I will make the decisions, I will care only about my culture, my set of rights and wrongs. “We can even have it with Coke,” I pronounce it deliberately, almost defiantly, seeing my bright red lips form a nearly perfect o shape in the mirror. How American I will be, consuming our national drink, my beautiful sons dressed in matching Levis and little Ralph Lauren shirts. No one will suspect anything of me. We will be indistinguishable from the people in magazines, on billboards, in malls; people who are safe and happy and whole.
I run water in the sink until it turns warm so I can wash the dishes. The ritual of scrubbing and rinsing plates and utensils comforts me. I have performed this task in so many different places, always feeling a satisfying sense of accomplishment to see the sink empty, to see the dishes stacked for drying. Only in Pakistan was I not expected to wash dishes, as the bhai, the housemaid, did them quietly, a faded tribal tattoo on her forearm bobbing in and out of the water as she worked. I close my eyes, allow the memory to fill my vision, before I remember the event that has changed everything. Perhaps the bhai also perpetuates this culture of revenge. Perhaps she raised her little son to seek vengeance for wrongs committed against his family. And a door in my mind slams shut, pushing away the image of her hands at the dishes. I am exiled from my memories. Those once happy places are no longer safe for me. I must remain here in the present.
As I place the last dish on a towel on the counter, I hear footsteps in the garden coming toward my door. My brother calls my name from just outside.
I open the door, pleased at the distraction. “Come in, come in, the boys are sleeping.” I move aside and gesture for him to join me at the table. He looks around, taking in the whole scene before he turns back to me and sits down.
“Something different in here?” he asks.
“I’m different.” An awkward silence settles. “And, uh, I guess I cleaned up a bit, it had gotten pretty bad in here.”
“Yeah, Janet was getting a little worried.”
I get up from the table, suddenly self conscious about having a guest, and open a cupboard for glasses. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Water?”
“No, I’m good. Just doing mail delivery.” He places a stack of envelopes on the table, bearing yellow forwarding stickers from the post office. “You know Janet set up the forwarding request, but it doesn’t last forever, you should let all these folks know about your new address.”
“Yes, you’re right, I’ll look in to that.” I take a wine bottle out of a cupboard, suddenly craving company, conversation. “Can you stay and have a glass of wine with me?”
“Well, now. That’s a switch. Guess you’re back in the land of the living?”
I pull out the cork and let the red wine splash into the glass. “I guess one can only retreat for so long.”
Ted tips his glass toward me before taking a drink. “It was getting a little bit old. I wondered if I was going to have to come in here and smack some sense into you.”
I flinch, drink my wine so I can change the subject.
“What do you think about a car, Ted? I’m thinking I should trade in my car for another.”
“What’s wrong with your car?”
“Nothing. I just want something different. It doesn’t have to be new.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“And I think I want an American car.”
“Why?” He rotates the glass in his hand. “Your Toyota will probably last forever.”
“Yes,” I shrug. Does it look like a nervous shrug? “I just think, well, I was thinking, everything else from my old life is gone almost, so why am I holding on to this car?”
He nods his head in thoughtful agreement. “And an American car will make you more American?”
“I am an American and so are my kids,” my shoulder twitches defensively. “We can drive around in an American car.”
“Suit yourself, drive American, go Yankees.” He takes another drink.
“And can I ask you a favor?”
“A favor?”
“Another favor,” I say quickly, looking into my empty glass. “If I were a man, I wouldn’t ask, but you know how car salesmen are about dealing with women, especially a woman with children.”
“You want me to play husband?”
My back stiffens. I grip my glass with both hands. “I don’t need a husband, even a pretend one. I’d just appreciate another opinion on a car, and the fact that you’re a man might be helpful. If it’s too much to ask, nevermind.”
“Down girl. It’s no problem. I can help you with the car, just tell me when.” He gulps down the rest of his wine, and stands quickly. “Glad to see you starting to move on. Do you all want to come for dinner this weekend?”
I soften my posture, suddenly so grateful for an invitation. “Yes, we’d like that. What can I bring?’
He is at the door already, his hand on the knob. “Nothin’, just wear the same lipstick, Janet will get a kick out of that.”
I smile. I am starting. The new identity is emerging. I can do this.
I pour another glass of wine and pull the stack of letters toward me. I sift through them. A couple of credit card bills, a regular insurance statement, some junk mail, and an odd-looking envelope—no forwarding sticker and the return address of my old apartment building in Los Angeles. The address, typed directly on the envelope says: Kathryn Siddique, c/o Ted Capen, followed by Ted’s address. I hold the envelope before me, try to stare it down, as if it is some kind of challenge. I gulp my wine, and push the other letters out of the way. I study the postmark, Los Angeles, dated yesterday. I carefully tear at the corner of the flap, anxious at the thickness of the contents. The tear reveals another envelope inside, which I slide out and turn over. I recognize words I have seen before. For the Family of Rashid Siddique.
God damn it. How did this get here? I feel the flimsiness of my efforts, the residue of lipstick at the edges of my lips. I want to throw this envelope out, to call Ted back and demand he take it away, to complain to the post office about this intrusion into my place of exile. My hands shake as they tear open the inner envelope. Hundred dollar bills, the bewildering, infuriating symbols of value that someone is forcing into my life. I count them out, exactly the same amount as before.
I want to scream. I want to escape. I stand up and open the front door, step out into the chilly night air, look at the sky, clench my fists. I feel no relief. I turn around and storm to the bathroom, wash my face with very hot and then with very cold water. The mask is gone, the same grey woman of days past looks out at me. But in my chest the depression of the previous weeks gives way to defiance. Fuck it. I will fight it. I will never be the martyr’s wife.
I return to the kitchen, pull out an unopened bottle of Scotch. I pour myself a hefty quantity and throw it back in two gulps. I stand over the sink, waiting for the alcohol to perform its task, to dull my perception. And when I start to feel the distance, the disassociation, I slide the money to the inner and outer envelopes, before shoving it into the darkest recess of my purse, until I can deliver it to the darkness of the safety deposit box, from where it cannot harm me.
I prepare for sleep, lying beneath the covers, eyes wide open, limbs stock straight. The weight of my body burdens me. I cannot tolerate the unease, the encroachment of this money. I throw off the covers and head to the bathroom, desperate for something to do. An impulse to purge overwhelms me, so I strip off my clothes. The mirror reflects my body. How long since I have noticed it? I spread a towel on the tiled floor and lay down on it, closing my eyes, bringing my hands to my skin, feeling my belly. I move my hands down my thighs, feel the muscles tighten as I lift my hips off the floor. I feel my own touch in my long-dormant sex. The contact rustles a sensation, a flow of warmth as my body reacts. My actions are thoughtless, devoid of emotion. I simply long for the energy, the nerves firing in once familiar ways. My fingers press inside my body, registering heat, moisture, pressure. I ride my hips up and down, without a partner. I press against myself, without tenderness, with only a need to reach a limit. And the orgasm arrives, radiating through my pelvis, a wave passing through my consciousness. I hold, hoping to grasp it, to make it last, to dwell in the heat. I laugh. I have asserted some authority, some independence within my tiny geography. I do not need a man. But the pleasure passes, like a handful of steam.
The same young banker opens the bank vault door for me. Today, his tie catches my attention, an abstract dragon impaled on a knight’s sword. He notices my look. “We’ve all got dragons to slay. But mostly I just use lollipops.” He smiles and pulls a handful of candies out of his pocket.
I wave my hand to refuse them, step past him, lugging Andrew, asleep, in his car seat. The man leaves and I bolt the door, then lean my head against it, wanting to cry. I remember last night’s dream, the nightmare. I heard an explosion, saw fragments of red cloth in the air. A man had come to me, wearing a white turban, like the terrorists we see on television. I could not see his face, but knew he was Rashid. He pushed me to the ground, kicked me in the back. I tried to scream but could make no sound.
It was only a dream, I tell myself, even as my lungs tighten with the memory.
Enough. I should finish this task quickly. I fumble with the keys. Will the FBI know about this? Try to subpoena this box? I reach for the envelope in my bag and drop it inside. I slam the cover closed, trying to prevent even the fragrance of the contents from escaping.
As Andrew and I round the corner of Ted’s house, I am startled by two men in coveralls checking the gas meter on the side of the backhouse.
“Hello?” I call out, to alert them to my presence.
Only one looks up, “Hello ma’am, just checking your meter.” The other man quickly gathers his tools.
I nod, but do not move toward the door, I feel safer in the open air of the garden. The first man jots something in a little notebook and they make their way out of the yard, past the gas meter on Ted’s house, without another word.
“More steak?” Janet offers me the platter, three sizable fillets remaining.
I help myself to another piece. I see Ted smirk as I begin slicing. I feel so hungry, ravenous.
Janet refills our wine glasses with an expensive wine. The girls chatter away about a reality fashion show.
“Seems like you, my little sister, have discovered a taste for some expensive things, huh?”
“What do you mean, Ted?”
“Well, you know that all the shopping you’ve been doing doesn’t come free, right? Soon enough, the credit card companies come knocking.”
“Sure. I’ll deal with that later. For now I need to give my kids what they need.” I bring a forkful of potatoes to Michael’s mouth, urging him to eat more.
“Right…but I expect pretty quick you’re going to look around and figure out that you need a job. We aren’t made of money, you know. That backhouse isn’t paying its own mortgage.”
I look up, fork mid-air, feel my stomach drop in fear. I try to read his expression through his well-trimmed goatee.
“I’ll get the dessert,” Janet says, leaving for the kitchen.
“Ted, is it time for me to leave? Are you asking us to leave?”
“Look, there’s no rush. I’m just saying this isn’t a permanent situation, hiding out with us. You’re going to have to get a job, get your own place, make your own life.”
He stresses the word own, as if I had somehow been living his life, her life, their life.
“Is this about the money, Ted? As soon as the insurance settlement comes I can pay you for the movers and the utilities. We can even work out some kind of back rent.”
“No, Kathryn,” he catches Janet’s eye before she sets down a chocolate cake. “It’s not about the money…” he pauses, brings his hands to rest on his lap.
“Is that why you called out the meter readers today, to see how much electricity I’m using?”
“What?” He looks at me with a combination of confusion and disgust. “Nobody called any meter readers. We don’t even have a meter on the back house, there’s only one meter, one utility bill.”
I set my wine glass down, thinking back to the afternoon, trying to recall the name of the agency on the van or the men’s coveralls.
Ted continues. “I have a buddy, a guy at the San Diego Sentinel, sports section editor. He says they’re always looking for good writers and editors. I told him about you.”
“Ted, I specialize…I have specialized in foreign policy, I don’t know anything about sports,” I say derisively.
“Oh, I know you specialize in all things foreign. Tell me, how’s that working out for you?”
My cheeks flush. I have no retort.
He leans his elbows on the table, his tan forearms exposed. “I don’t think your old journal is going to be calling for your services right about now. So maybe you should think about a little reinvention of your brainiac self.”
I push my fork to the edge of my plate, look down, feeling the same diminution as when our father would lecture me at the dinner table, pontificating on some topic ostensibly for my own good.
“Use your imagination, sports is more than just football and locker room reporting.”
Michael whispers in my ear, “Can I be excused?” I nod, he and his cousins head for the TV.
“Look, why don’t you just meet my buddy for lunch. It never hurts to meet some new people.”
I pause a moment too long, unintentionally allow Ted a final volley.
“It’s not like anyone else wants to talk to you.”
“Ted!” Janet admonishes from the kitchen.
“I meant professionally.”
I feel sick. Why did I eat so much?
“I’ll tell him to expect your call.”
I step out of the back house, careful not to wake the sleeping children with the creaking door hinge. I hear crickets, let my eyes adjust to the moonlight. I scan the garden before making my way to the side of the house where I had seen the men earlier today. I walk past the lupines and sage, the toyons and native grasses that Janet has cultivated. In this idyllic setting, my suspicion strikes me as paranoia. What made-for-TV movie do I think I am part of? I stand in the place where I saw the men, notice the gas pipe coming up out of the ground and entering the wall at waist level. The shutoff valve is turned perpendicular to the pipes, as it should be so the gas will flow to the stove and the heater. At the top of the pipe, at the junction with the house I see a little metal box enclosure. Not a meter, not a joint in the pipe, not anything that looks functional. I reach for it, feel for a latch, a hinge, some opening. Nothing. I look at the unusual octagonal screws that hold it in place. No regular screwdriver would open them. I look down at the ground, notice what looks in the moonlight like paint flakes on the gravel, as if the wall had just been screwed today.
I shiver. Gravel crunches as I step back and look again at the metal box.
I return to the house, relieved the boys have not moved in their sleep. I stand in front of the stove, approximating the position of the gas line. I climb up onto the counter to peer behind the stove. What do I expect to see? A tiny camera? A little microphone? I wouldn’t even know what they would look like, if in fact someone had bugged the kitchen. I run my hand down the wall in the little gap between the stove and the drywall. I feel only dust. In the quiet of the house a voice begins in my head, person of interest the voice repeats over and over. I am a person of interest, surveillance is required. From the edge of the cupboard my hand frightens out a spider, his long thread-like legs carrying him to safety behind the refrigerator.
The house must be bugged, the FBI would not have spent so much time questioning me only to let me go freely. I imagine that all of my actions are being observed, I start to feel self conscious. What happens if they know I am aware of their surveillance? What are they expecting to see me do? How long have the cameras been here?
I slide off the counter and stand in front of the stove as if an actor on a stage. I smooth my hair with my fingers, brush the dust off my pants. I clear my throat and address the stove. “If you are observing me, let me just tell you directly. I know nothing I haven’t already told you. I did not know of any plot before the…” I hesitate, I have tried not to speak of the incident—the reporters have dubbed it the double freeway bombing—since I arrived in San Diego. “I didn’t know of anything before the bombing. I’ve not had any contact from anyone of interest since the event.” I think of the cash-filled envelopes. Did they see me open the second one a few days ago? Do my eyes blink in a telltale expression of deceit? No, my statement is true. I have not had contact with anyone. I have only had contact, unwanted contact, with someone’s money.
“So stop watching me. I have nothing you want. I’m just trying to start a new life, to raise my boys. Leave me alone!” In the silence that follows, the stove does not respond, my imagined audience does not react. How absurd I must seem, addressing an appliance. So I start to dance, I sing a song from Sesame Street. I tap dance with an imaginary muppet. Is some intelligence agent laughing somewhere? Would he call his colleagues to watch? Pronounce me emotionally unbalanced? As I come to the end of the song’s lyrics I turn around, stick my backside to the stove and slap it with a satisfying crack. “And fuck you!” I say with a bitter smile over my shoulder.
As I stand, Michael startles me. He is perched on the edge of the bed, a bewildered expression on his face.
“Michael,” I exclaim, as much embarrassed as surprised. “I thought you were asleep.”
“What’re you doing? Who are you talking to Mommy?”
“Um,” I stall, “I was just playing.”
The corners of his eyes turn up with interest. “Playing?” He slides off the bed, and reaches out for my hand. “Can I play, too?”
I start to refuse, beginning to retrieve my stock excuses about how late it is, how much sleep he needs. But I see the wonder in his eyes that I might play again.
“Yes. Yes! Come and play with me.” I lead him to the circle of light in the kitchen. “Same song again?”
He nods enthusiastically and we begin singing together, shuffling our feet and tapping our toes. When the song ends, Michael suggests another, one I don’t know as well. We sing until my remembered lyrics run out. When his run out a few lines later, I jump back in, making up the words, singing about Michael, lines about a little boy who is strong and fantastic, shmantastic, absolutely grantastic. He giggles at first and then laughs, one lungful and then another, waves of giant, trilling laughter. The sound is so delightful, so magnetic that it draws out more songs. Row, row, row your goat, quickly all in green, merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is just whipped cream. He doubles over, holding his stomach, rolling on the floor.
“Stop! Stop!” he cries gulping for air, “I can’t breathe…more… sing another one.”
And I sing. I sit down on the floor and gather him in my lap, singing an imaginary world for us of animals eating with chopsticks, boys floating to the moon with toy tops, mothers who cook nothing but saltwater taffy. Let them listen to me, let them watch. My only crime is loving this child, lavishly, helplessly, as if my life depended upon it.