Year of the Goose

by Carly J. Hallman

  The rain beats down on the roof, rhythmic except for the few out-of-sync plops. Then I realize that those aren’t plops I’m hearing. They are footsteps. I leap up, my heart rattling in my chest. I blink and I am standing on the roof of my house, soaked, shivering, barefoot. How did I get up here? Before me, next to the chimney, stands that black-clad figure, the shape of which I can barely make out through a sheet of falling water. Maybe I’ve suffered an aneurysm, a stroke, a heart attack. Maybe I’m dead. Maybe this is the lesson, the moral: You cannot escape the suffering of this world until you…

  Until you what? I’m not dead. This figure isn’t one of the death figures; it doesn’t have an almond head, and there is no white light behind it. This figure stands in the rain, the unrelenting rain, and it throws back its head and, gargling raindrops, it releases a scream.

  We are inside now, me and the figure. Everything went black and now we are inside. I turn the heating on—this is not a farmer’s house. I sit at the kitchen table. I lean onto the tabletop and I cradle my head in my arms.

  The figure stands before me. It speaks. It says, They blamed it all on greed. Literally, on Greed. They’ve pressed charges against Greed and now Greed must stand trial for the crimes it has committed.

  I imagine Greed as a spindly demon, as Gollum from The Lord of the Rings, as a badly burned beggar I once saw outside a train station.

  What do you mean? I ask. That sounds awfully philosophical. I am a simple man now, haven’t you heard?

  The figure says, I mean that Kelly Hui has been let off the hook, that the powers that be have determined that she wasn’t the one who killed her father, that it was Greed who chopped Papa Hui into bite-sized meat morsels, that the will that left the company to you has been declared a fake, that Kelly Hui is the rightful heir to the Bashful Goose Snack Company and accompanying fortune, and that she should be the one to lead our great nation forward. What I’m saying is…

  The figure pulls off the ski mask. It—no, he—says, “You are free.”

  I remove my head from my arms and I sit up straight. Is this really Stefan standing before me or is this someone who’s had plastic surgery to look just like Stefan? I’ve read 1984. I’ve traveled to Bangkok. I know what’s possible. Anger overcomes me. Anger that my solid mind, my principles, my belief, and my once immovable trust in myself have been eroded. How did I get from the roof to the kitchen table? How did he get here? Why was he on my roof? How did I get on the roof? Wasn’t this whole mess his fault in a way, wasn’t he the one who helped Lulu run away, who sent me spiraling into madness, a madness that made it easy, too easy, for someone to pin a murder on me?

  Maybe he can read my thoughts. Maybe the way my eyes are darting back and forth gives them away. He stares at me, this Stefan or Not Stefan, looking down on me.

  I want to scream at him. I want to scream, “Isn’t it your fault that I got dragged into this disaster in the first place, fate unwilling to let me have peace when I needed it most?!”

  I don’t scream. I stand up and, with both hands and with all my strength, I shove the unmasked figure. He lets out a surprised yelp and flies backward. There is the hollow sound of his elbow hitting the kitchen counter. Silence. Then he starts to laugh—a maniacal laugh, a laugh uncaged, the laughter of a man who, after many years of toiling, of despair, of hopelessness, has been set free.

  Stefan sits down at the table with me and asks me to get him a cup of water. He drinks this water and then something behind his eyes changes. His head whips around, taking in this strange home of mine and, finally, taking me in with recognition. His whisper-voice is shaky. “Where am I?”

  I stare at his ghostly white face, and all at once, I remember again that Village Witch story my great-grandmother told me, one I’d always half assumed was little more than a fairy tale, and maybe he can read my thoughts because he begins jabbering, saying that he remembers cutting hair and then glancing up in the mirror and seeing a Pomeranian looking back at him from some woman’s Gucci bag, and then he remembers nothing else. He wonders how that haircut turned out (“Probably stunning,” I say, because his work is always stunning). He says his arm hurts and I apologize for pushing him, and he says, “Don’t be sorry for something I can’t remember.”

  When he is finished tracing his path, I tell him my great-grandmother’s story.

  His eyes widen, and he remains silent for a long while, and then he takes another sip of water and says, “But if the weasel is a fairy working on behalf of baby spirits, who does the Pomeranian work on behalf of?”

  “Rich spirits,” I say, and even though he laughs, even though he says, “Like they need anyone to work on their behalf!” and even though I laugh too—an uncaged laugh, the laughter of a man set free—I’m still not quite sure if I’m joking.

  What’s next is that we pack up everything into the Bentley and speed off, kicking up mud as we zip away from this country house, and I settle into my seat and I flip on the radio, which comes in staticky. A man speaks in a thick Beijing accent, announcing, “It has been mere minutes since the verdict that rocked our China! In case you’ve been living under a rock and haven’t heard, investigators determined that it was in fact Mama Hui—who ‘mysteriously’ committed suicide yesterday—who murdered the Bashful Goose founder, framing both her daughter and Hair Inc. CEO Wang Xilai for her crime. The judge, fearing ghostly vengeance, has opted not to posthumously charge the old bat, and the case has been dropped. Thank heavens this mystery has been solved! Now our nation can breathe easy at last! In other news, officials from the Health Ministry warn children, the elderly, and any individuals who may have medical constraints including but not limited to frequent common colds, sleepiness, and/or possession of one or more lungs to avoid any outdoor activities today, including opening windows, due to undesirable air quality. Thank you for your cooperation. We will return with a special two-hour Cross-Talk Comedy Extravaganza after a brief message from our sponsor.” The man had hardly finished speaking when a nasally child’s voice blasted from the speakers: “Pirate Liao, you sure look like you’ve got a bad case of scurvy there. How about a Bashful Goose Tangerine Treat—”

  What’s next is I shut off the radio. So it was almost all true, what Fairy Stefan had said, but was it enough? I’d wanted Greed to be found guilty; inexplicably, above everything else, I’d wanted that part to be true. But that kind of thing only happens in stories. I’m not a gullible child; I’m an adult and smart enough to know that a concept, like a body, is an empty vessel, dependent on human spirit to carry out its will.

  What’s next is I turn the radio back on, and I change the station, and I look at Stefan, who smiles back at me, and together, we hum and then sing along.

  What’s next is that I should be paying attention to my driving, but as I sing, I can’t help glancing over at him again and again. His lips curl in that familiar smile, a smile that is no longer vile to me. But which one of us has been transformed here? Or have we both? I am not the boss now. He is not an employee. We are just two people on an unpaved road. We are just two people with a third person tied up in the trunk.

  What’s next is we sing louder. Our voices fill the car until it feels like it’s going to burst, and I roll down the windows to set them free. To set us free. What’s next is no one falls in love like this, in an instant. Love is a process. A journey. It is one of those things that takes a very, very long time. But here, here I have a start.

  IN THE NEWS

  MAMA HUI, 53, DEAD OF APPARENT OVERDOSE

  WUXI, CHINA —…and our great nation will not miss Mama Hui, not for a second! How could we force even a single tear from our collective eye for the old, shriveled-up murderess who attempted to frame her innocent, virginal daughter for a most unspeakable crime…

  Though not a known drug user, Mrs. Hui, an avid gamer, did display the addictive behaviors that might plausibly lead her to blend an entire bottle’s worth of sleeping pills into a banana-berry smoothie. Authorities vehemently deny any alleg
ations of foul play…

  KELLY HUI ACQUITTED, RELEASED FROM HOUSE ARREST

  WUXI, CHINA —…Judge Li acquitted both Kelly Hui and Wang Xilai of all charges pertaining to the murder of Bashful Goose CEO Papa Hui. The dishonorable judge, who has since resigned, issued a formal written apology to Ms. Hui and Mr. Wang, and was made to deliver a self-criticism speech before a stoic audience of government officials…

  YANG NAMED NEW BASHFUL GOOSE CEO

  WUXI, CHINA — Last Tuesday, courts named Kelly Hui the rightful successor to the Bashful Goose throne. Ms. Hui, however, failed to appear at four different summonses. Sources close to Ms. Hui claim she has all but disappeared, failing even to answer phone calls or e-mails. “Grief,” a psychological expert explains, “is an inexplicable journey, and it is not uncommon for those affected to react in mysterious ways.”

  Meanwhile, Mr. Yang, Bashful Goose’s former CFO, is thrilled about his new position. “I will take up where Papa Hui left off,” he told reporters. “I will do my best to ensure that Bashful Goose Snack Company remains a beacon of hope.”

  LOCAL PARENTS GIVEN SECOND CHANCE

  NANJING, CHINA —…Ten months after their daughter lost her life to a tragic fire that obliterated a provincial fat camp, Mr. Feng and his wife welcomed a new baby boy to their family…

  “Our only hope,” Mr. Feng says, “is that this one doesn’t develop that awful obesity like the last.”

  …In addition to the lifetime supply of Yam Jam Snack Cakes given to all fat camp families as part of a larger compensation settlement, the Bashful Goose Snack Company has generously donated a one-year supply of its new Mango Madness Milk Powder…

  BASHFUL GOOSE CEO YANG RESIGNS IN LIGHT OF BERRY SCANDAL

  WUXI, CHINA —…a tainted batch of Blueberry Bubblers led to thousands of hospitalizations throughout the country and has resulted, thus far, in 17 deaths…

  It is rumored that Mr. Yuan, currently an operations manager, will take his place…

  KELLY HUI AND WANG XILAI: WHERE ARE THEY NOW?

  NANJING, CHINA —…with not a single sighting of either Ms. Hui or Mr. Wang since the pair was acquitted of charges in June of this year…

  Some sources speculate that Ms. Hui may have returned to Los Angeles, where she is undergoing extensive plastic surgery in preparation for a role on a reality TV show in which previously unsightly contestants attempt to land a hunky husband. Others speculate that Ms. Hui has become a woman of the robes, giving up all earthly desires and praying daily in a monastery. Still others believe that Ms. Hui may be…

  THE TURTLE

  I believe that the purpose of our life is to seek happiness.

  —DALAI LAMA XIV

  To get rich is glorious.

  —DENG XIAOPING

  LULU PURSED HER LIPS. SHE STUDIED HERSELF, THE WRINKLES AROUND her eyes and mouth, in the rearview mirror of her Land Rover (a “gift” from Government Official Xia) and waited for the light to change. A bead of sweat trickled down her back. She rifled through her bag, reapplied her lipstick for the sixth time that morning, and realized in that moment that she had never been more bored in her entire life. It was time to end it once and for all. To just push the gas pedal. To invite some speeding car to plow into her own in the middle of this intersection.

  She lifted her foot from the brake and positioned it over the gas. The car inched forward. She gasped and then slammed on the brake—she wanted to be gone, but she had no desire to take anyone else with her.

  This was the longest light in the history of the world.

  In some ways, signing up for the agency (Beautiful Girl Talent Ltd.) that government officials used to find mistresses had been the best decision she’d ever made. What a terribly dismal thought that was. Sure, she received a massive stipend and was set up in a nice apartment and had even happened to get matched with the rare official who actually wanted to remain loyal to his wife but had to maintain a mistress on paper to keep up appearances and deflect homophobic slurs at banquets. Regardless of her “good fortune,” she was tired, the type of tired that sleep couldn’t cure, and she was bored to her very core.

  “Life,” she said aloud to no one, “sucks.” She tasted lipstick on her teeth. She was one of those girls now, one of those poor little rich girls: claustrophobic, cornered in by the meeting of these streets, by the meaninglessness of traffic’s steady stream, by the waxy taste in her mouth. She considered again just gunning it, but stopped herself once more, this time to watch in fascination as a toothless woman with a face twisted and tan like a sweet potato hobbled over and tapped on her passenger-side window. Though she knew this knock was coming, Lulu jumped in her seat. She peered out with trepidation. The woman held up a turtle by its dinosaur-like tail, held it like victory. Not an unusual sight; in Beijing during the warm months, Lulu often spotted workers hawking turtles they’d found on or near the road. Eventually these workers-turned-hawkers would get lucky and some superstitious driver would buy the creature, take it home, and cook it up in a special soup, which was said to contribute to longevity and male virility—neither of which she had any need for. The woman tapped again. Lulu, now entirely detached from herself, watched her own finger pressing the button to roll down the window.

  Ten minutes later, she was unable to recollect what had happened in those last few seconds at the red light, but when she took a good hard look at herself in her building’s elevator mirror, she was clutching her Chanel bag in one hand and the turtle by its tail in the other.

  She found an empty cardboard box in her bedroom from an air purifier she’d bought the week before in a post-romantic-comedy-DVD-viewing fit of environmental rage and then appeasement (“Why is the only sky I know gray?” she spoke aloud to no one from the sofa as the credits rolled on the TV screen. “Why don’t I just move to Switzerland or something? What the hell is keeping me here?”). Now she dragged this box into the living room.

  Just as she set the turtle inside and situated the box in what she determined to be an ideal location (in front of the sofa, next to the coffee table, in only partial sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling window), the door buzzed. Lulu stood up and plodded over to the video screen—pure white, as though someone was holding a piece of paper over the downstairs camera. But there was a voice. “Let me up!” After a long pause, the voice added, “It’s Official Xia.”

  There was something different about his voice. Deeper, maybe? More serious? Perhaps the time she’d feared had come, and he was here to cut her off; no more funds, no more fun, the end. But why wouldn’t he just sever ties through the agency? He was too nice, that’s why; he’d want to do it in person, let her down easy. And what would she do without the income? Maybe lack of cash flow would mobilize her to do something with her life. But was she cut out for this competitive job market? No, definitely not. She never finished her degree, her acting career had tanked after an unfortunate encounter with a skeevy director, and her looks were fading fast.

  Or maybe it wasn’t this at all—maybe it was worse. Maybe his wife had died in some tragic accident and, knowing he couldn’t get by without a woman around the house, he was coming up to ask for Lulu’s hand in marriage. How might she fair as a replacement wife? Would he expect her to cook and to wear matronly outfits and to give birth to his baby? Or would he expect her to play a decidedly more familiar trophy second-wife role?

  Not a feeling or emotion existed regarding these possibilities; they were merely words that scrolled marquee-style through her head.

  And anyway there was no use pondering what wasn’t yet real, so she buzzed him up and then cracked the apartment door open. She took a step toward the living room to check on the turtle, but a tingling in her fingertips told her to stop. She lingered in the entry, waiting for the ding of the arriving elevator, the hum of its automatic doors. There it was, and then footsteps, and then a stranger pushed her way through the door and past Lulu. This stranger—a teenage girl—plopped down on the sofa, kicked off her shoes, and settled in
as though at home.

  After an initial back-and-forth, the girl tucked a piece of her hair, cut into a short bob, behind her ear and gave up her game, telling Lulu who she was.

  “Oh,” Lulu said. She didn’t know what else to say. She shut the front door and took a few hesitant steps toward the sofa. “Um, you did a very good impression of him. His voice, I mean. You’re really his daughter, huh?”

  “Correct. And you’re a concubine whore.” The girl, probably no older than fifteen, pushed up the sleeves of her hooded sweatshirt, slouched into the sofa cushions, and removed her iPhone from her pocket. She made a show of swiping at its screen.

  Lulu froze, unsure of what to do or say next, but that was always the problem, wasn’t it?

  Luckily, the girl took it upon herself to break the silence. “My dad is a real dick, isn’t he?”

  A lump clogged Lulu’s throat, constricting her airways. This had to be some sort of trap. This clever little devil was trying to get her to talk shit so she could record it on that phone and then play the recording to Official Xia. And anyway, it’s not like there was anything negative to say really. He was a quiet man who met Lulu every week for dinner, on the same night, in the same block of time, reducing their “illicit affair” to little more than a regularly scheduled business meeting. Each time, he asked her polite questions about her week (“Fine,” she’d lie) and about her studies (“Fine,” she’d lie again—she’d long ago quit studying for any exams; what was the point?), and spoke not a word about himself. He always insisted she eat more and that she was too thin. When they finished eating, he’d pay the check and they’d both hop into his Audi or Benz or whatever car he was driving that week and head to the apartment he had put her up in. There, he’d say good-bye, drop her at the curb, and leave. That was it. That was all there was.