“Exactly what order?” Georgie asks.
“First cousin, second cousin,” Ma says. “Very important.”
“For whom?” Georgie asks, seemingly perplexed. “Dad’s dead.”
I can’t help but laugh. For someone so smart, she can be so dense. Sometimes, she really can be such a robot.
“Chan jie,” Ma says, jabbing me with an elbow and introducing me as Dad’s younger daughter. Dad’s wife has short-cropped, over-dyed black hair, and drawn-in eyebrows. She’s tall, possibly 5’5”. There’s something weathered and broken about her. She’s heavy set, and when she takes a step toward me, it’s obvious she has arthritis in the knees. Her skin is dove white, almost doughy. Maybe she douses herself in Shiseido every night. Still, from the low bridge of her nose, wrinkles spread across her face like roots.
I offer a hand. “Hi.”
“Hello, Aunty,” Ma corrects. The expression on Ma’s face vacillates between embarrassment and smugness.
“Ga haw ke,” so good looking, she says, speaking in Shanghainese. “Gen Mommy yi yang,” Just like your mommy.
“Na li, na li,” Ma says, politely. Not at all, not at all.
Ma had said she might be the lucky one. Now, I get why. Chan Jie is twenty years younger than Ma, and yet Ma’s right—she’s ancient and fat. He deserves a few years of happiness. Chan Jie had given Dad her best years. Had she been successful in making him happy?
It’s possible that losing Dad was the best thing to have ever happened to Ma, and from the smirk on Ma’s face, there’s no doubt this possibility crossed her mind. Chan Jie got Dad, all right. In the end, she got what was coming to her.
Karma. Wow.
Peter goes to the front of the line. His mother follows immediately behind. Then, Ma. Georgie sandwiches herself between Ma and me. Silently, the line circles the casket. Peter leans into it and kisses Dad on the forehead.
Then, Chan Jie.
I shrink back. Is this what we’re all supposed to do? Dad’s face looks fake, as if the embalming process drained away what was real and left behind a mask.
Ma follows Peter’s and Chan Jie’s lead, pecking him on the cheek.
“Well, this certainly is an arcane ritual if I’ve ever seen one,” I hear Georgie mutter.
“Don’t do it,” I instruct. There is absolutely no way I’m going to touch, never mind kiss, a corpse, even if the body used to be my father.
But Georgie bends to the casket, and as if in tune to some kind of melody, kisses Dad on the forehead.
Then it’s my turn.
Ma shoots me a stern look that says, He’s your father.
He’s dead. “Expired,” as Georgie had put it. But even as I’m thinking this, the rest of me moves in rhythm to this strange, soundless music. With my heart beating in my ears, I reach closer and closer to the mask that resembles Dad’s face until my lips touch his clammy, cool forehead.
Death. The cold moves through me. My entire body shudders and I recoil. Then I’m back in line, towed along with everyone else, and maybe I’m going to be sick. My lips feel soiled. I want to spit. Wash my mouth, both inside and out. I want to cry.
Peter leads us to the open area facing the coffin. The visitor seating area has been pushed back. On the floor are flat yellow pillows, the kind I’ve seen used in meditation centers. He moves to the pillow furthest left in the front row. With a great deal of difficulty and a stifled groan, Chan Jie kneels at the pillow beside him. Ma settles next to her. Like dominoes, the rest of us follow, until we are three rows deep on our knees.
The casket. Sparkly copper with a silver trim and a silky soft interior. A closet into eternity.
A man appears with a microphone.
“Who’s that?” I ask Georgie.
“They said they got an emcee.”
“A what?”
“To host,” Georgie says. “I suppose.”
“Everyone ready,” the emcee says, in Cantonese. “Bow!”
The entire family kowtows to the floor. After a pause, we rise back to our knees.
“Everybody ready,” he repeats. “Bow.” On cue, we all do as instructed.
And then, for a third and final time, we all move in unison. We are one.
Peter sniffles, and I see he’s crying. Everyone is, including, I realize, myself. The tide of movements has washed away my revulsion, and in its place is the possibility of a brother and the comfort of being with all these people, many of whom I’ve never met before, and whom I will now know, maybe only for this one singular moment, as family.
Lost and Found
Come Monday morning, every team is in the office by 7:30 AM. The strategy meetings start at 8:30 AM. We’re accountable to the new CEO—Jeff stepped down last year—for soft sales three weeks in a row. I examine the numbers, take some quick notes. I sip my latte. It’s still hot when the buyer for Men’s Apparel appears at my desk. “We’ve got a problem,” he says.
“Welcome to the witching hour,” I say, setting down my latte.
The buyer shows me the invoice from a new manufacturer making a line of men’s blazers. He points out cost inconsistencies. Contractually, we agreed to a price five dollars and 15 cents cheaper than they are now charging. “I had a bad feeling about this manufacturer,” I sigh, handing back the loose pages. “Oh well. What’d they say?”
“Take it or leave it.”
“Fine.” I sign off on it, which means we’ll take a major loss. While we would win this conflict in a court of law, we are contractually just as obligated to our retailers who are expecting the blazers in just five days. The last manufacturer who did this kind of detailed work for us shut down. “Just make sure to black them from our lists,” I say.
“Already done,” he says.
“Run the numbers and get back to me. We may need to take this up with the lawyer.”
He’s barely out the door when the buyer for Women’s Apparel sticks her head in the door. “Got a minute?” she asks.
“Did you get out of the jumpsuits?” I ask.
“First thing I did.” She tells me she’s getting estimates from a couple other manufacturers for the slip dresses, which were the best selling items for two weekends in a row. The current manufacturer cannot go beyond commitment if we need more. “There’s just a slight problem with the couture line,” she says.
“Oh, no.”
“The maxi dress,” she nods. “Apparently, one of the shipments is ‘lost’.”
I gasp. During a recession, if it isn’t design theft, it’s this off-the-back-of-the-truck thievery that can put a company out of business. “Did you track it?” I ask.
“The box arrived,” she says. “But the dresses did not.”
I rub my temples. “Contact the manufacturer for more supply.”
“Already done.”
“Call insurance,” I say.
One of the marketers interrupts by knocking at the door. I tell the women’s buyer to check in with me later with status. When she leaves, the marketer takes a seat at my desk. I hold up a finger so she’ll wait, giving me a moment to gulp down the rest of the latte. It’s cold, but still yummy. “Okay, shoot,” I say, once the cup’s empty.
“Neiman Marcus Houston just called,” she says. “The buyer insists we modify the decoute on the print midi and the hemlines on the sheath dresses.”
“So speak with design,” I say, getting annoyed. Retail always asks for something “special” that’s specific just to them. Especially Neiman’s.
“I have,” she says, cautiously.
“But?” I say, impatient now. “Out with it, already, Ms.—”
“The manufacturer finished ahead of schedule. They shipped yesterday.”
It takes a moment for me to comprehend what is happening. In a world where nothing is ever ahead of schedule, our dresses are not only way ah
ead, but already shipped to retailers, one of which is insisting on alterations to two of the designs. I ask about dates. “Are you telling me that you okayed the design with the manufacturer before the retailer came back with approval?”
“No, they loved the pre-collection presentation,” she says. “And the modifications we already made for them.”
“Who’s the buyer again? Randy, right?” I say, fully comprehending now why Jeff insisted I work a few years in marketing. I travelled to Houston at least twice a year. “This doesn’t sound like her.”
“It’s not,” she says. “There’s a new buyer. Randy moved to Saks.”
My phone dings. I have it set so that it sounds when Jeff texts. 1PM appt w/ Dr. P.
“Hold on a second,” I tell the marketer.
“I’ll meet you there,” I text Jeff. “Oyster rolls!”
After Jeff meets with the doctor, a “movement disorders specialist,” we always have sushi at the Japanese restaurant across the street. It happens to be one of the best in the city.
“How was sales?” he writes. Then, a moment later: “Strategy!”
“Oh, shit,” I say, jumping up from the desk and grabbing my iPad and notes. “The meeting! We’re late!”
The marketer races with me to the conference room. I tell her to arrange a call to the new buyer at Neimans this afternoon and conference me in. I suggest she speak with Marco, Jeff’s favorite designer, to come up with a dress for our fall line, which will be sold only in JJ boutiques and Neimans.
The team is seated around the conference table with the CEO at the head. He’s got an Ivy League haircut and dons a Brooks Brothers pin-striped suit that’s slightly too long in the jacket. Anyone at this table would say it needs to be taken in more at the arms. It’s a statement, a reminder that there’s a division between the business side and the fashion side. I sit in the open seat beside the CEO. The tension is palpable, though the meeting has yet to start. Marco refuses to look at me, though I can see he is flustered. He doodles on a pad. He uncrosses his legs and re-crosses them the other way. I wonder what, if anything, has already been said.
“Sorry, I’m late,” I say.
“I was just commenting on the numbers,” the CEO mentions.
Jayne, the buyer for Women’s Apparel, shoots me an exasperated look. “I was mentioning some of our more recession-proof ideas,” she says.
“Spring line,” I say. Creative has been developing this idea for months now.
She nods. “Marco’s Punk Oriental.” The Met is having a retrospective of the China exhibition “Through the Looking Glass” from over a decade ago. Marco’s designing a line of dresses and jackets using technology to create lace similar to the one Jeff used for my wedding dress. Retro meets history … meets fire. Marco’s line is timed to come out the week of the Gala opening, an event which is sure to have an impact on the season for most couture designers.
“I just want to be sure the numbers are substantial enough considering the market,” the CEO says.
Jayne and I exchange glances. “The only thing not substantial enough is his dick,” she likes to say.
I try not to smirk as she and Marco present their drawings and samples. Research provides graphs and diagrams. The CEO takes notes as the team gives their presentation.
When they are finally done, the room falls silent as the CEO continues to scribble and make calculations. When he finally looks up, he asks Jayne, the marketer, and the research team to provide more specific figures regarding latest trends and breakdowns. He wants them by the next morning. “I need proof that this ‘Oriental’ line will succeed,” the CEO says.
“Punk Oriental,” Marco corrects. “And it will.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“I know.” Marco crosses his arms in front of him.
The CEO laughs. Is that a hint of derision in his voice? He flips through the handout. He circles some numbers, makes a calculation, then tosses the pages so that they slide across the glass table. “Perhaps you should reconsider the expense of manufacturing a fabric when you could be using machine-made lace at 1/4 the cost?” he says.
“This is couture!” Marco insists, his eyes bulging from the sockets. He looks around the room, an expression of incredulity and disgust across his face. “This man has no business in couture.”
Everyone shuffles uncomfortably in their seats. The CEO looks unruffled, but there’s a vein pulsing at his temple.
“What Marco means—” I start to say.
“What does it matter what he means,” the CEO says, cutting me off. “Because Marco’s redundant as far as I’m concerned. There are younger designers who need far less pay and can work more demanding hours.”
Marco leaps to his feet and announces he can’t be fired because he’s quitting.
“Dime a dozen,” the CEO states.
“Wait,” I say, standing so quickly that my seat falls back, thudding against the floor. “Stop!” Everyone freezes. “Everyone sit down. No one’s going anywhere. Marco, that includes you.”
Marco returns to his seat. I’m about to talk about how we need to work together, but the CEO cuts me off again. “It’s plain and simple, there’s not enough research to support the line.”
“Enough?” I say, and this time, I stare him down. He thinks that his job is to rip everything to shreds. In fact, he takes pride in it. But what he doesn’t see yet is that he’s destroying what we are creating faster than we can actually create it. He may “win” this game he’s playing, but in so doing, he will also destroy the company, us, as well as himself. “Sometimes knowing is enough,” I state. “It’s all we’ve got.”
“That’s sweet, Ms. Wong,” he says, “but can we get down to business for a moment?”
I’m at a loss for words. Can he really be patronizing me? After all, I’m the Executive Creative Director. Everyone at this company reports to me.
“If Jeff was here—” I say.
Again, he cuts me off. “He’s not, Ms. Wong.”
My entire body goes rigid. I’ve never heard anyone ever dismiss Jeff in such a manner. “My married name was Jones. That might be confusing since I look Chinese.”
He opens his mouth to speak and I say, “Even if corporate were the brains of this operation, this company is nothing without its creative heart.” I circle a finger around the table. “This here? This is Jeff Jones.”
The CEO looks at me, clearly amused by my pronouncement.
If Ma could see me, now. Who you think you are?
For the first time since Jeff “retired,” the impermanence of it all becomes palpable. Empires rise and fall. People are born and then they die.
Outside the glass walls, the Men’s Attire team convenes for their 9:30 meeting. Seeing them, Women’s Attire automatically concludes and files out of the conference room. I watch them leave.
My resentment gives way to sadness. I think about Jeff, who, until recently, groomed himself impeccably, dressing only in the finest button-up shirts and jackets. Jeff was part of a clinical trial for new medication. That, along with a battery of daily supplements, exercise, memory games, and a host of other therapies, successfully kept the LBD at bay for the past ten years. Recently, however, there’s a stiffness about the way he moves—especially the legs—and the nurse tells me he needs her help to get dressed.
Giving up. I feel like I’m letting Jeff down just by thinking it, but maybe it’s time. Jeff Jones. Maybe it’s the end of the legacy.
I arrive at the neurologist’s office just as the nurse appears to call Jeff into the room. Jeff’s personal day nurse hangs back in the waiting area so I can go in with him. She’s blonde, and young, and Jeff insists she wear normal clothes instead of nursing scrubs. Jeff doesn’t want people to know he needs a nurse; he’d rather people think he’s with a twenty-something year old. In the room, he sits on the examining ta
ble. The paper crinkles. I sit in a plastic chair by the wall and set my purse in the chair next to mine. Jeff gets up from the table and moves to sit beside me. I pull my purse to my lap.
“You look like you got raked over the coals,” he says, smirking.
“Yeah, well.” When it comes to the company, I usually tell him as much as possible about the positive things going on and as little as possible about the negative. His health depends on it. Today, after a series of Not-Substantial-Enough meetings, I’m too spent to hide my resignation. “There’s been some friction between Creative and Corporate.”
“Oh.” He waves it off. “Tell me something new.”
“It’s a real problem, Jeff.”
“One that every company has experienced since the beginning of time.”
“Morale is pretty low.”
“Well, now you know why I’ve got you there,” he says, “where you are.”
Executive Creative Director. Isn’t it supposed to be someone strong and confident about her abilities? I gaze into his eyes. “Why am I there?”
“Because you’re my man.” He brushes a hand up my thigh. “Woman.”
“Stop teasing,” I say, smacking his hand away.
Jeff laughs. “Come on,” he says, nuzzling my neck.
“Jeff! This isn’t a joke.”
He sits back. Rolls his eyes, exaggerating his boredom. “Go on, then.”
“I understand the financial responsibility the company has to the shareholders, I really do,” I say.
“But?” He picks off a piece of lint from his slacks.
“It’s the CEO. No one likes him.”
“Is that what people call him? He doesn’t even get a name?”
“Actually, to some people, he’s ‘Not Substantial Enough’.”
“Which ‘some people’ would that be?”
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