“Hey!” I say.
Cassie turns, arm fat swinging like a flag.
“Nǐ hǎo!” She smiles back, flopping down on the mattress.
“More girls on their way. Should be here anytime,” she says, picking at one of her toenails. “Tao said they’re very good girls. Very pretty.”
“How old are they?” I ask.
Be careful, Runner warns, go easy on the questions.
Cassie shrugs. “Not sure,” she says, readjusting the furry koala currently on its back. “He didn’t say. But they’ll be very happy when they arrive. They come from bad homes.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Veeeery bad,” she repeats.
“Bad how?”
“Their mamas and babas don’t want them. So Tao gives them money. Here the girls have a better life. More school. More opportunity. More fun.” She winks.
More danger. More violence. More abuse, Runner adds.
I sit down on the mattress opposite.
“Need some help?” I ask.
“The room next door needs bed linen,” Cassie says, looking around. “Where did I put—?”
As if by magic, the Banana Hater appears, freshly laundered sheets piled high on her forearms.
“Ah. Good.” Cassie gestures toward me. “You change the other beds?”
“Sure,” I say.
The Banana Hater hands me the sheets.
“Nǐ xūyào bāngzhù ma?” she asks.
“No thanks,” I say, hoping that speaking English will encourage her to do the same, give her a chance to practice. “We’ve got this.”
“Okay, just tell me if you want me to help,” she replies.
Meow.
There is something soft beside my feet.
A tiny gray kitten with watery eyes has wandered into the room and slinks around my ankles in a figure eight—meeeeow.
Cassie kicks it—hissss.
“In China we eat them!” She laughs.
Ella and I exchange a glance and head into the neighboring bedroom to change the sheets. Next to the bed: a table and a lamp mirroring next door’s, four stuffed animals still with their tags, and a rack with no clothes, just several slightly bent hangers. A depressing sight. I plump up the pillows, trying to imagine who will sleep here. What kind of home they’ve really left. How much Tao paid for them—were there negotiations? Or threats?
“Take a photo,” Ella whispers.
Quickly, I take out my phone. Tap, tap.
Evidence #2
One of the bedrooms where the trafficked girls sleep, many of them minors.
Tao Wang, accomplice and brother to Cassie Wang, is trafficking the girls and organizing their exit from “bad homes.”
The girls are bought, amount paid currently unknown.
“Got it?” Ella whispers, stroking a stuffed rabbit.
I nod.
Poi-Poi appears in the doorway. “Have you seen my cat?”
The doll in her hand is naked, hair bunched on the top of her head like a pineapple.
“Yes,” Ella says, “he was next door.”
“It’s a she!” she says, defiant. “Her name’s Tinker Bell.”
“As in Peter Pan?” Ella asks sweetly.
“As in the fairy. Stupid!”
Ella’s mouth curls, but I sliver her a look not to get into anything, Poi-Poi’s sass and strength of voice feeling uplifting, and necessary.
“Navid bought her for me,” she says. “She’s mine. No one else’s.”
“I saw her just a second ago.” I squat down to her level. “She’s very lovely.”
Poi-Poi smiles. “I like it when you talk to me in English,” she says. “It makes me feel not so stupid.”
“Less stupid,” I correct, catching the irony. “And you’re not stupid.”
“Less stupid,” she repeats.
“It’s important to try to speak the language where we live, right?”
“I guess,” she answers. “I like to read in English too.”
“Got a favorite book?” I ask.
“Matilda,” she says, beaming, “and James with the peach.”
“Matilda was one of my favorites too.” I smile. “She’s so smart.”
“Smart?” she asks.
“Cōngmíng. Clever,” I translate. “Now shall we go look for Tinker Bell?” I ask, taking her hand.
“Okay,” she says.
Suddenly, Cassie bursts in, arms windmilling in the air.
“The girls are here! Run the shower, it’ll wake them up.”
I turn to Ella. “‘Wake them up’?”
“He drugs them,” Ella says. “If they’re stoned they’re easier to move around.”
“Quick, shower!” Cassie shouts, clapping her hands.
“Why not just let them sleep?” I ask.
Cassie sighs, her hands now clasping her head in exasperation. “Because they have to work!” She taps her watch. “Webcam at twelve o’clock.”
Poi-Poi skips out of the room.
“Tinker Bell,” she calls, “nǐ zài nǎ? Where are you?”
She clicks down the stairs, narrow toes gripping the supersize fluffy mule slippers.
Click, clack.
Click, clack.
“Tinker Bell. Nǐ zài nǎ? It’s not polite to hide. Our new friends are here. Hurry. We’re going to make a movie. You can see how smart I am.”
Click, clack.
Click, clack.
41
Daniel Rosenstein
Clothes have been appointed Post-it notes. Orange for beachwear, yellow for daywear, green for evening and formal—the latter, the note states, to be packed neatly on top to “avoid creasing.” A traffic light of orderly neurosis, I think, examining her handwriting for clues.
On first glance, I regard the letters: loose, pretty, and joined up, indicating openness and friendliness, but intuition tells me a tinge of passive domination lies beneath Monica’s looped g’s and slanted a’s. I wonder who else color-codes their packing. And what the act might achieve or soothe psychologically.
Control, I conclude; when one feels out of control they will attempt to control others. I picture the time Monica taped handwritten labels to the entire contents of my fridge. “You need to keep a check on your expiry dates,” she ordered. “No point getting sick.”
This morning I was given more instructions as she slipped her slim, exercised legs into pale fitted jeans. A glimpse at her lace bra, the pearl buttons set free on her blouse.
“I’ve laid everything out on the bed,” she said, hand hovering over her iPhone, “you just need to pack it, neatly, then change some cash and pick up the dry-cleaning. I’d do it myself but I’ve got this work thing.”
Then she smiled, sliding her feet into tall black shoes. “You said you didn’t mind.”
“It’s fine,” I said, “I’ll do it later.”
So here I am. Doing it later. A green Post-it note in one hand and a pair of shriveled bollocks in the other. My backbone slowly crumbling as I gently place Monica’s silk slips and flimsy evening dresses in our suitcase. I wonder if other women ask the same of their boyfriends. If when they reach customs, they lie, claiming they’ve packed their own luggage. A quick glance from the customs officer when he catches a subtle flare in their eyes.
I consider the times Monica has lied—once insisting she was going on a spa trip with friends, but I later discovered her ex-boyfriend had tagged along. Or the weekend she disappeared, claiming illness, even though she sounded perfectly fine on the telephone. Then there was the night I showed up at her apartment at two a.m. (admittedly a little suspicious) to find her out, gone. A text the following morning saying she’d stayed over at her sister’s place. And then just last month, I saw an unknown number calling her phone in the early hours as she slept soundly beside me. The silencer switched on.
I sometimes wonder why we’re still together. Fear of loneliness? Or laziness? The great sex? Fatigue at the prospect of having to start over with som
eone new? Or is it because I also lie? Acceptance permitted because I’d be a hypocrite, otherwise.
I think about lies a lot—about the lengths people go to in order to maintain duplicitous lives. The secrets, the hiding, the shame, the covert shenanigans. A memory of when I was drinking collapsing at the front of my mind and sending an uncomfortable icy chill down my pathetic spine. I imagine Monica engaged in an affair, suspicion slowly rearing in my gut as dissatisfaction propels her into the arms of another man. My fear of commitment suitably perverse and threatening.
Charged up, I reach for one of Monica’s evening dresses and scrunch it into a tight ball, then stuff it at the bottom of our suitcase. Fear and spite forcing my hand. An orgy of resentments suddenly let loose in my mind.
42
Alexa Wú
“Drink?” Cassie asks, wiping down the bar.
“No thanks,” I say. “Heading off now.”
“There’s an apartment in Angel I wanna go check out,” Ella adds, excited, while leaning across the bar with her elbows, eyes ablaze.
“You renting?” Cassie asks.
Ella nods. “I need my own place,” she says.
“You live with your mama?”
“And my sister.”
“This is good for you, yes?” Cassie smiles. “More independence. More fun.”
“More commitment,” I jeer, knowing Ella will need to make rent every month.
Cassie gives me a look. “Commitment is good. It requires focus. Determination.”
Yeah, and a dependency on you and this place, Runner says.
I take a wad of tissue from my pocket and wipe a spot on the bar close to Ella’s elbow.
“Missed a bit,” I say, staring at Cassie.
She ignores me. “Tell you what,” she says, leaning over the bar and squeezing Ella’s shoulder, “I’ll buy you a new sofa. A bed. Or a fridge. Whatever you want.”
“Really?” Ella glows, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Really.”
Don’t let her do it, Runner warns. She can’t be trusted.
Or believed, Oneiroi adds.
But she’ll need somewhere to sit, Dolly whispers, won’t she?
Shhh, this is for grown-ups, Runners says. Now go play.
“That’s so sweet,” I intervene, squeezing Ella’s hand three times, “but—”
“I insist!” Cassie says, her eyes locking first onto mine, then Ella’s.
“Thank you.” Ella shines.
More payoffs, Oneiroi laments.
Hearing sounds of laughter, I look behind me. Two familiar girls I remember from back at the Groom House goofing around on the nickel pole. One of them attempts a yogini, then box splits.
How come you know what those moves are called? Oneiroi asks.
I stare at Ella.
Right, sorry. I forgot.
Ella spins around on her stool, cups her hand around her mouth. “Those moves are too advanced for you!” she calls.
One of the girls gives Ella the finger.
“Don’t get fresh with me!” Ella warns, suddenly on her feet.
“They don’t know what you’re saying,” Cassie says, “they’re stupid.”
“Maybe you should teach them English, or send them to school,” I say.
“Pfft. Waste of time. And money.”
“Or maybe it suits you that way,” I add, “them being stupid.”
Ella turns back to face us. “Anyway,” she says, cutting short my vex, “about the apartment. Do you think you could give me a reference? You know, for the landlord?”
Cassie keeps her gaze fixed on me, my face. No blinking.
“Sure I can. I like to look after all our girls,” she says, aiming her comment at me. “It builds trust. And I can trust you, can’t I?”
“Of course,” I say, my palms turning damp.
“Because I’d hate to think there was a bad influence in here at the club. Or back at the house.”
“What do you mean?” Ella asks.
Cassie sips her vodka, her eyes still pinned on me. “Well, I’d be disappointed to find it’s just an act, that you’re really here to cause trouble.”
“What? Me?” I ask.
“You’re privy to a lot of information. A lot of information.”
I let go of Ella’s hand, resting both palms on the bar to steady my nerve.
She’s onto you, be careful, Oneiroi warns.
“What’s your point?” I speak, an attempt to appear casual.
“Shaun said you don’t approve of what we do here, or what we do back at the house. He said you thought it was wrong.”
Little snitch, wait til—
“Shaun?” Ella interrupts. “Shaun can’t be trusted. He was hanging out with Annabelle while she was working at that other club—even though Navid said none of us were meant to see her. Did you know that, Cassie?”
“How do you know this?” she snaps.
“Amy told me. They’ve been hanging out together, all three of them.”
Cassie pauses, leans in closer. “Navid trusts him.”
“Well, he would. He’s a man!” I dismiss.
She lets out a cackle. “This is true,” she says, lightness suddenly found in her voice. “But your mistake was thinking you were the only one.”
“He said I was,” I spit.
“He lied.”
“Exactly!” I say, slapping the bar. “So what makes you think he’s telling you the truth about me not approving of what you do? Have I ever given you cause to think otherwise, Cassie? Anything at all? It hurts to think you don’t trust me, considering our paths and where we both come from. Like you said, we were neighbors. Like family. But instead you chose to believe some white boy.”
Cassie pauses, stares at us both, and it’s all I can do not to run. She waits, watching to see if we flinch, or stir. Trails her manicured hand through her alabaster-streaked hair.
“I believe you,” she says, “but why would he lie?”
“Because he’s moved on,” Ella answers. “Because he’s a dick.”
Cassie snickers. “To Amy,” she says.
“Exactly,” I say, staring her straight in the eye.
“Drink?” she asks.
I pause.
“Why not? There’s no rush, right?” I say, turning to Ella.
Ella smiles. “Vodka. On the rocks.”
“Good girl,” Cassie says. “Then you can be on your way. Go check out that new apartment of yours.”
I hear the two girls behind me laughing, then suddenly a thud.
“Zhùshôu!” Cassie shouts.
Runner takes out a Lucky Strike, her Zippo. Watch yourself, she says. Cassie; she’s the smartest person in this joint.
43
Daniel Rosenstein
“Hey, man, it’s John.”
John?
“From the meetings,” the voice adds. “AA.”
“John!” I explode. “How are you? Haven’t seen you in a while. Are you still going to the gym?”
“I’m still a member, but you know how it is. Busy at work.”
“Right,” I agree.
“I hope you don’t mind,” John says, “I got your number from directory inquiries.”
“Sure,” I say, “everything okay?”
“Well.” He pauses. “Not really. I’m struggling, Daniel.”
“Your mum?” I ask.
Another pause.
“I can’t seem to accept it, that she’s gone. The finality of it all.”
I suddenly realize John’s call is an outreach.
I check my clock: 11:56 a.m.
“John,” I say, mindful of Emma’s arriving in less than five minutes, “I’m just about to meet with a patient.”
“I wouldn’t call, but—” he cuts in, clears his throat, “I’m desperate.”
“Desperate how?” I ask, alarmed.
Silence.
“John?”
“Look, sorry to bother you, man, I shouldn’t have—”
“Listen, it’s fine. Really,” I interrupt. “Can we speak later, say, around, six-ish?”
But already he is gone, our conversation killed. Shame, I imagine, pulling on his wrist to end the call. Damn.
With just a few minutes to spare until Emma arrives, I feel a rise of panic and irritation with myself for not taking the time to talk. But what could I do? I soothe, I have to prioritize my practice, my patients. I make a note to call John back after work to check that he’s okay. Maybe I’ll suggest we meet for coffee, or that we go to AA together sometime next week.
Poor guy. It wasn’t long ago that I was in a similar place. How, soon after Clara passed away, I’d found it so difficult to seek help. Ironic, really, thinking now that John—the Old-Timer—had listened, checked on me, wiped me off the floor. His counsel at AA both consistent and sound. I hadn’t realized at the time how deeply reliant I was on Clara, how codependent I’d become, and now that she was gone I was half the man and shaken to the core. Finally, I thought, this is what alone feels like. And I was scared.
A knock on the door.
I gather myself, catch a breath, and open my office door.
“Hello, Emma.” I smile. “Come in.”
Emma looks at me, ill at ease.
“Are you okay, Dr. Rosenstein?” she asks. “You look awfully pale.”
44
Alexa Wú
The Tiger stares at me with slim silky eyes, his paw pinned on a pale twitching hare—its throat torn and puce. A circle of blowflies compete for the sticky wound, the warm clot a bull’s-eye, the flies speeding darts.
Run! a voice cries in my head, but I am unable—icebound—the Tiger striding closer to me at speed, the limp hare now clenched in his jaw.
He stops, amber eyes fixed on my shaking hands. His jet markings so confident that I fear they might leap out and blindfold me, demanding that I crouch and stoop and grovel while the other tigers watch. Cold savagery in their eyes.
I step toward him and stroke his orange paw to appease, yet secretly I think: I will skin you; I will make you into a magnificent rug that covers my entire bedroom floor; I will remove my sneakers and cartwheel across your back with my small naked feet. Feet you wish to cripple and bind.
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