The Best American Short Stories 2017

by Meg Wolitzer

  We talked about Angela: her easy laugh, her Bible group, that kidney thing with her mom. We got quiet. That was about all I knew about Angela.

  Gabe Dove spun his cardboard coaster. “So. What kind of Asian are you?”

  “Chinese,” I said. “But I’m from Mississippi. That’s where I was born. I was born in the U.S.”

  “Mississippi!” he said, leaning back. “That’s unusual.” I myself had never thought it was unusual, but more and more, that was the feedback I was getting.

  Gabe Dove searched my face. Finally he said, “So . . . me. I’m from Burma.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I said.

  “Yes. From Rangoon. I was ten when we left.”

  “Cool,” I said, and gulped my beer. I had a feeling there were things I was supposed to know about Burma, that I was supposed to be asking questions. But my brain was Styrofoam, all the way through.

  Gabe Dove asked if I’d been to China, seen all that it had to offer.

  “Nope,” I said. “For so long it was hard to go there. Laws and stuff.” That part I knew. Mom used to complain—not because she wanted to go back, but because that era constituted yet another intolerable fact of her life.

  “We lived there for a year,” Gabe Dove explained. Some border town in Yunnan. He described thick winding streams and lush mountain gorges, obviously thinking I’d enjoy this window into my ancestral country, but in truth, I wanted to slap him. I didn’t want his reportage. It embarrassed me.

  “It’s amazing,” he said. “Before that, I’d only known the Myanmar jungle.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said. “What’s in Myanmar?”

  “Oh,” said Gabe Dove. A concerned expression flitted across his face. “They’re the same thing, actually. Burma, Myanmar. Just different names for the same country.”

  My face burned. “Oh, yeah! Of course.” In my lap I squeezed my leg, nails digging in. “Stupid, stupid.”

  “No no, not stupid!” he said. His eyebrows reached out to me. “It’s totally confusing. The history is all screwed up. Lots of people don’t know.”

  I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet. I’d already drunk too much. My heart knocked hurriedly, like it was trying to get out. I dropped my head to my knees and watched the band of my underwear, breathing penitently into the elastic and the frayed, tiny loops.

  I swung open the stall door and blinked into the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, crazy. I cupped a hand under the faucet and gulped. Slowly I could feel my toes inside my shoes. And I thought, Okay, let’s get back out there. Let’s show him what you’ve got. Not quite like I wanted him, but like I wanted to show that I wasn’t who he maybe thought I was. I licked a corner of a paper towel and fixed my shadow.

  “Sorry,” I said when I returned, easing myself onto the stool. “I get the flush.” I pointed to my red face.

  “Do you?” said Gabe Dove, smiling worriedly. “I don’t, but my cousin does. Sometimes he can’t hear. I wonder if it has to do with his vestibular.” He tapped his fingers on the bar, eyeing me. “Maybe we shouldn’t be drinking.”

  “No, no,” I said. “We should.” I swiveled toward the wall of bottles, brushing his elbow with mine. The arm inside his sleeve felt solid, assured. And at that moment something shifted in the gravity around Gabe Dove. He adjusted his posture, pressing back, and it surprised me—this quiet weight of him.

  I’d never been with an Asian guy. I don’t know. They reminded me of my cousins. Too familiar. Wouldn’t Mom like to be here, nodding over her glass, endorsing this scene.

  And I thought, Why not. He’s safe. He’s a known quantity. Whatever happens, he can’t hurt me much: he doesn’t have the power.

  It’s like Angela said. You’ve got to break the seal.

  I yawned fakely. I stretched provocatively. He suggested that we leave. His white-line hair part communicated that he wasn’t the adventurous sort, but as we walked into the sprinkling rain he said, “Want to go back to your place?”

  My place. I pictured my bed: three shoved-together couch cushions on the carpet of a bedroom belonging to my colleague’s cousin’s landlady. No sheets.

  “What about your place?” I said.

  “I’m down in Shelby,” he said. “So . . .”

  “I’m in Dale,” I said. “West Dale. Way west.”

  “It’s just that I hate the bus,” he said.

  “Who doesn’t?” I said, staring ahead at the sidewalk dampening under our shoes. Not to budge: that was the challenge. I wanted desperately to kiss a man, to remember the dormant powers inside of me, but also to be far from anything that reminded me of my life. So we walked. His suitcase squeaked behind us. I let us shift along in silence, the rain blowing through a triangle of streetlight, pricking my eyelids.

  Finally he said, “It’s not the greatest place. It’s sort of embarrassing.”

  “I don’t care,” I said, and I didn’t.

  We waited for the 64. In the bus shelter was a backlit ad for Pawsh Dog, and Gabe Dove stared at the slender hand brushing the terrier. We gripped the bus loops, swaying with the corners, and I tried not to step on his shoes each time the bus hit a pothole.

  By Exit 32 the sign for Fantasy Hair rose up from the earth like a ghost. Somewhere inside was the ripped card table, the clinking tiles, Mom’s friends talking too fast to understand. I watched my hands, the little curled hangnails. Generally I tried not to linger in Shelby.

  The home of Gabe Dove was right off the highway, behind the erected wood sound barrier: a squat, cube building of schoolyard brick. “Here goes nothing,” he said, unlocking the second padlock. His apartment was one long hallway, with doorways slinking into low square rooms. Two-burner stove. Stacked milk crates for bookshelves. He kept apologizing. Doctor, yes, but there was all that debt and helping out the fam.

  Gabe Dove gazed into the cabinet, selecting a crystal-cut tumbler and a scratched jam jar. He gave me the tumbler, poured us Campari, said cheers, and plopped a hand on my shoulder. It didn’t move. I didn’t move either. We both let it hang there, as if we’d just made roadkill of a squirrel and didn’t know what to do. But I tell you: it was nice. The refrigerator humming at my back, the jittery ceiling fan, and me thinking, I don’t have to do anything. I don’t even have to speak, I can just keep lowering this syrupy red medicine into my mouth. Things will happen.

  The first time Ex kissed me, we were below deck on his family’s boat. His parents, his sister—their flip-flops above our heads, dragging around the bar cart. That was the thing about Ex: he didn’t give a shit. It felt wonderful to be around that—he made me feel bigger, made me want to be somebody. He gripped my body like every piece of me was worth something immeasurable. My butt, my back, my neck, my stomach. He tried lifting my shirt but I tugged it down—I have always been self-conscious about my breasts. They hang down my front like the breasts of an old lady, like two bags. Sometimes I wear a bra to bed, thinking it will help, knowing it won’t help. There is nothing I can do. I have consulted all the forums.

  What I do like are my legs—long, muscular, with shapely calves. Swimmer’s legs. Sometimes in store windows I see my reflection and think, Are those attached to me? I made sure that Ex got a good long look at them, flexing them in the air, balancing my elbows on the bolted cushions.

  I followed Gabe Dove to his bedroom and he closed the door, as if someone might interrupt us. He flipped off the lights. Then he removed the whole suit, all at once, belt and pants and tight white underwear, like a fitful toddler, like he couldn’t wait to be out of his clothes.

  He had a tattoo on his chest: curls of writing, indecipherable, faded to blue.

  His breath was herbal. His mouth hard, gyrating, searching in the dark.

  Overall I’d say he was blunt and methodical, his limp hands pausing nowhere. Like someone working over me with a mop.

  When we were having sex I sort of wished that I wasn’t, that maybe this was a mistake, I’m not ready, it would have been better if I’d ju
st kissed him quickly and gone home before I ended up V-legged and jiggling underneath this person: Where was my dignity? Here was the moment I had dreaded and craved. But it didn’t feel like things were happening. It didn’t feel like much was being accomplished.

  Through the rain, through the sound barrier, an eighteen-wheeler grumbled down the highway, the driver suddenly accelerating, as if seizing a lane or waking from sleep.

  When it was over, Gabe Dove got me a glass of water. He stroked my hair while I sat on the edge of the bed, sipping. “Sorry,” he said. “That was kind of fast.” But I wasn’t sorry; I had wanted him to hurry up. I wasn’t sure what to make of him holding my waist like this, easing the glass from my hand and lowering it to the nightstand. He thanked me. “Thank you,” he said, bending to kiss my shoulder. “Thank you for being here.” For being here? I didn’t know what to say.

  “Do you want to stay?” he said, lips resting on my skin.

  “Do I want to stay . . .” I said I didn’t have a toothbrush. Or stuff for my contacts.

  “Stay,” he said. “In the morning, we can go to this bakery down the street. Their donuts are otherworldly.”

  And I am telling you that I stayed, on the promise of a maple-glazed donut. I told you: I was sad.

  I slept well. In the morning, the unfamiliar cracks in the ceiling made me think I was dreaming. Gabe Dove snored loosely, his hand asleep on my stomach. I saw that he had hair all over: torso, chest, sprouts from his nipples. Despite the clicking of the radiator and the fact that I had to pee, there was, overall, an unmistakably peaceful feeling. His bed was a real bed—thick mattress, solid frame. A pot on the windowsill, with an orchid arching effortlessly.

  The body of Gabe Dove shifted. He stuck his nose in my ear. “Hello.”

  “Hi,” I said. Then Gabe Dove burrowed his face in my armpit. I laughed.

  I wanted a shower. He brought me a toothbrush on a folded towel, like a ring bearer. The water was extra hot, the pressure strong. I filled the bathroom with steam, wiped my hand over the mirror. I looked dewy, refreshed: wouldn’t Coach be proud. Here I go. Taking it easy.

  I went to the living room. Papers slopped on the coffee table, paint-chipped trims—what had depressed me the night before now seemed like homey clutter. I made us coffee. Percolation, rich smells. Gabe Dove hummed from the bedroom, folding things.

  He emerged, hair wet. We did it again. In broad daylight this time, on the couch. It was more fun this go around. I got into it. I even took off my shirt. Why not? I was never going to see this guy again.

  Afterward he searched between the cushions and found me my underwear. “Donut time,” he said.

  We walked. To my relief Gabe Dove left his suitcase at home, making him seem lighter, more spontaneous. He whistled. I listened. The arm of Gabe Dove was around my shoulder. The streets were desolate, so many parking spots open. Sunday morning: everybody’s at church. Only later did I realize that Gabe Dove wasn’t, that he must have made a decision about it, that maybe Angela would see him missing from the pews. He led me down the broken sidewalk of a strip mall, to a shop between a laundromat and a Claire’s.

  Okay: so these donuts. They were good. Crusty and soft—they deflated when you bit in. Sugar smashing on my tongue. I ate four. Gabe Dove kept bringing napkins to our plastic wobbly table. He was grinning, but not from the donuts. He was grinning at me, at something on my face or something goofy I was doing. But I wasn’t doing anything. I was eating my donut.

  A glistening crumb dangled from his chin, and again I had the urge. I wanted to reach across the table and slap his sticky, dumb expression.

  “I’ve had a great time,” he said. “Do you enjoy bowling?”

  Gabe Dove. His was a name that compelled you to utter it in its entirety. And in general that seemed true of Gabe Dove: you looked at him and had the feeling you were seeing all of him, all at once.

  “Sure,” I said. “Okay.”

  In Mississippi, back in the day, you would never go out with a white guy. Or—as my mom put it—they would never go out with you. She’d see them everywhere—driving to sock hops, slurping milkshakes, tutoring black boys on the weekends for church. You can look but you can’t touch. Laws and stuff.

  Not that you’d want to, Mom would say, brushing the memory aside with her hand. So rude. So entitled.

  But I wondered. When she spoke of it, her eyes would gaze at some far-off mountain. What had she wanted? Who? But it didn’t matter. She turned nineteen, they selected my father. Arrangements were made.

  Years passed. The government changed. They lifted the dam from the river. Now all of Quitman County could have at each other.

  And yet, my mom would say. The rivers didn’t mix. Not in the way you’d expect. She’d shake her head, gazing again at that invisible mountain. You still couldn’t have them, see. Or, more accurately, they wouldn’t have you.

  But Ex’s family: they loved me. His mother squeezed my thick hair and marveled at my creaseless eyes. I was this special thing. On the boat his sister and I would compare tan lines like old girlfriends. “Of course she tans,” his father said once. “She’s a Chinese.” His wife laughed, nervous, looking at me. I laughed too, loudly. I let them know it was A-Okay.

  One time we docked and tied the rigs, the family yawning from the sun. I followed their strolling bodies to the city center and watched them kneel in a little park with cars zooming all around. They flapped out a blanket. We ate salty cheeses, plush bread, slices of watermelon dribbling to my elbow. It was a wonderful feeling, licking my fingers like that.

  But then they started rolling up their jackets. They stuffed their sweaters into purses. I didn’t get what was happening, until they lowered their heads onto the grass, onto the makeshift pillows. They slept. I put my cheek on Ex’s chest, shutting my eyes against the chirps and swishes of people walking by. I didn’t sleep, but I will never forget it: the rise and fall of his lungs, the sun warming my face.

  I described the scene to my parents. That night they were in the kitchen, using a calculator to check a pile of receipts. My father coughed into his fist and said it was something he’d never do—he would never sleep in public. Mom rubbed her temples, as if just the image gave her a headache.

  Because they had ideas about what could happen. They said people would steal your stuff, would call the cops, call anyone. People would think you were a drunk.

  “Gabe had a great time,” Angela said, grinning and rubbing her hands together. She described my whole date back to me, but with more sparkle than I would have put in: the colorful bar, the misty rain, the speeding bus driver.

  “He’s a great guy.” I dropped my purse on my desk. “But he looks—how do I put this? He looks like my cousins.”

  Angela frowned. “He does?”

  “I mean, he’s so nice. No question. But he looks sort of like my brother.” I didn’t have a brother, but what did Angela know?

  She crossed one leg over the other. She seemed to be inspecting my clothes, the whole outfit I had chosen. “It’s not like he can control it,” I said. “That’s just the way he looks.”

  Angela leaned back in the swivel chair, her arms behind her head. I had never seen her do that before. That was something our boss did. “Don’t you think that sounds a little . . .”

  “A little what?” I said.

  “Like something you shouldn’t say?” Angela bit her lip as if to stop more from spilling out. Great. So here we were. My white friend trying to tell me what’s what.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “Sure thing.”

  I kept sleeping with Gabe Dove. I made sure Angela knew.

  And at any rate it was fun; it was good to get back into practice. We would meet after work, or sometimes on the weekends. I started saving him a Friday or a Saturday. Sometimes he wanted to have dinner first, or walk along the river, which was nice, sure, but really I wanted to hurry back to his bed, where I could take off my clothes and remember what it felt like to be irresistible.

/>   We kept on for some weeks. Some weeks became months. I don’t know: it was nice. His apartment. His humble body, rounded at the edges. The way I could let my gut hang out: I didn’t care.

  One night we’d just finished doing it. I helped myself to his T-shirt and gym shorts, crawled under the sheet, and put my cheek on the chest of Gabe Dove. “You know, most people call me just Gabe,” he said.

  “Gabe. Gabe. Gabe.” I tried it out. “Nah.”

  He laughed and kissed my hair. “Fine. Have it your way.” The blue loops of his tattoo stretched to my horizon. I tapped it with my finger. “What does it say?”

  “That?” he said, looking down, as if he’d just noticed it was there. “It’s nothing.” He shifted underneath me. “I was young.”

  “Is it a saying?” I said, rippling my fingers over the words. “Is it some sort of poetry?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” He spoke like someone shooting an arrow into the ground.

  “Is it a lyric from a song?”

  “It’s a name,” he said.

  “A name!” The thought excited me. “An old girlfriend?”

  The arm around my shoulder went still. It seemed careful not to move. “Not a girlfriend.”

  “Someone important?”

  “Hey,” said Gabe Dove. A hand squeezed my shoulder. “Do you want to go on a double date? Angela’s seeing someone.”

  I stopped. Okay. It’s not like I even really wanted to know. So I let us turn our attention to this guy of Angela’s. Rory, or Rufus. Some dude she’d met at the pool hall. I didn’t exactly want to be out with the three of them. Gabe Dove was someone I liked enjoying in private, out of sight of anybody else. “Um,” I said. “When would this double date be?”

  “I don’t know. We can coordinate.” I listened to him describe his schedule at the hospital, the upcoming visit to his dad’s. It made me tired. “I hope it isn’t weird for you,” said Gabe Dove, kissing my hair again. “It’s just that I’m excited. I feel really comfortable with you.”