by Lisa Unger
Mike forced me to meet his eyes, leaning in front of me so I had to look at him. “What happened was not your fault. And you’re not responsible for anything that’s happened since. You were just a kid.”
“Well,” I said, gently unwinding from his grasp. “I’m not a kid anymore.”
I moved toward the locker room door.
“Revenge seeks chaos,” he said. “Justice seeks balance. That’s the difference.”
His deep, resonant voice bounced off the walls, and the sound of it caused me to pause at the door, my palm on the wood.
“That seems pretty vague to me,” I said. “Open to interpretation.”
“Okay, how about this: when you plan revenge, you should dig two graves—one of them for yourself.”
I decided not to mention that that’s been the plan all along.
• • •
THE FIRST TIME IT HAPPENED, it was an accident. Well, not an accident exactly, but unplanned. I was a freshman at NYU, eighteen years old, and I’d been fighting for four years, not to mention some informal earlier training from Paul—how to make a fist, how to draw power from your stance, in a street fight or to defend yourself, always go for the eyes and the groin.
I’d been studying at the temple for four years. There are no belts in kung fu, not at my school anyway. We earn degrees. The first degree came after two years if you passed a written and physical test. The second came a couple years after that. I’d just earned my second degree.
But I’d never been in a real street fight.
Don’t look for it, Mike always warned us, worried that young people overconfident in their own abilities would go out into the city looking for trouble. Some did.
Even I wondered if outside the temple I could defend myself. Sparring is not the real deal. We didn’t wear guards—except the men wore cups and the women wore breast shields inside their sports bras. But we took blows to the center body and limbs to learn what it feels like to get hit. And in sparring, we pulled our strikes to the head, vital organs, lower abdomen, tapping or slapping when a fist might do real damage, actions that taught control and discipline. But we still got hurt—a lot, marking each other with ugly black bruises, massaging each other when it was done. So I knew what it was like to take a blow. But when fear and adrenaline were part of the equation, what would that change? If someone had a real gun or a knife, was crazy, a gutter fighter, not following the rules of the kung fu temple, how would I fare?
The goal is never to find out, Mike answered when I asked.
It was late, that first time. I had spent my evening at Bobst Library, off Washington Square Park, studying and decided to walk home rather than cab it as my uncle would have preferred. It was early autumn, Halloween approaching, the air crisp but not cold. I wore my eternal hoodie, black jeans, and sneakers. It was the perfect invisibility cloak; tons of people in the city wearing exactly the same thing.
My parents had been dead for more than four years. I was constructed mainly of eggshells, emotionally speaking. I still couldn’t bring myself to talk to anyone but Paul, some of my teachers, people at the temple. So I’m sure I came off as a bit of a freak, hollow-eyed and shrinking (or trying to) into a slate-gray hood. The world, to me, seemed like a field of shadows, everything suspect, everyone untrustworthy. I felt safe only at the temple, among stacks of books, or with Paul. Otherwise, I was a field mouse staying out of sight, always watching for the wings of death.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A shrill voice, young and frightened, startled me as I walked, heading east on Eighth Street. “Get away from me.”
“What the fuck? Do you think I’m stupid?” Brooklyn, big round vowels, hard-edged consonants. “Save yourself, kid. I’m warning you. Give it back.”
“You’re making a mistake,” the kid wailed. “Help!”
I came up behind them, the two men pushing a ratty-looking teenager up against a brick wall. The street wasn’t deserted, but people were crossing to the other side to avoid the conflict.
The boy, a stick-skinny Latino with a row of piercings in his ear and a kind of dirty, neglected aura, had the wild-eyed look of a cornered animal. I’d lived in the city long enough to know a street kid when I saw one. His thick-necked assailants were grown-up frat boys, twin-like with close-shorn hair, red faces, well dressed in auras of entitlement.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” said one of the men, a blond, as he moved in closer.
“Then don’t,” I said.
The two men both swung to look at me. I hated having three sets of eyes on me, took a step back.
“Let him go,” I said. I couldn’t believe the way my voice sounded, deep, calm. My pulse wasn’t even slightly elevated.
Taking advantage of the distraction, the kid tried to run. But the man with darker hair and one of those giant diver’s watches that are supposed to let people know you make a lot of money, grabbed him, wrenching his arm. The boy—he was a boy, maybe not even as old as I was—let out a cry of pain.
There wasn’t even a thought in my head. I moved in quick and brought my heel down hard on the darker man’s expensive loafer, feeling a small bone snap beneath the strike. I was pushed back by the sound of his scream. The kid looked at me with something like awe, then scrambled down the street.
“What the fuck?” the blond, scared, angry, turned on me. “He took my wallet.”
He reached in with both hands for me. I threaded my hands up through his arms and vise gripped his wrists, using his arms and weight to stabilize myself and bring my heel hard into his groin. He crumpled soundless into a pile of himself on the concrete, his neck gone bright red against the lavender checks of his Brooks Brothers Oxford. I knew it would take him a second to find sound. By the time he did, a great helpless wail of pain, I was gone, running up the street, heading east, pausing only when I got to Avenue C, ducking into a doorway to catch my breath. I tried to disappear into the dark.
“What the hell did I just do?” I asked no one.
There was a homeless man sleeping in the next doorway, buried beneath a pile of papers, emitting an impossibly strong stench, snoring peacefully.
That street kid probably did have that guy’s wallet. But I didn’t care. It wasn’t any excuse for brutality.
“Oh, and that wasn’t brutal?” my dad asked. Did I mention that I sometimes see my dad? That he lingers in the edges of my life, offering commentary and unsolicited advice. Well, I do.
“It was defense,” I said. “I defended the kid. And then I defended myself.”
“Oh, really,” said my dad. He issued a little laugh. “That blow to the jewels was strictly necessary, was it? You couldn’t have gotten away without it, once the kid was clear?”
He lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall beside me. He was wearing that denim shirt over a navy blue tee, the one my mom loved because it made his eyes look like sapphires. He had that sleepy look, like he used to after he’d worked overtime and then slept in. He used to smoke out behind the barn, hiding from my mom.
“Meanwhile,” my dad said. “The kid was a thief.”
“A street kid,” I said. “He probably needed the money for food.”
“A junkie,” he said with a sharp exhale. “He needed the money for drugs.”
“You’d let those two goons pound him into the wall? They were looking for it. They wanted to hurt him, wallet or not.”
“You don’t know that.”
My breath came back, my head cleared. There was no wash of regret, no shaky, post-adrenaline nausea. I was calm and solid as I slipped out of the doorway, confident that I was one with the night. I wasn’t concerned that the police would be looking for me. I didn’t feel bad for hurting those men. In fact, I rarely felt anything at all.
“Sometimes right is right even when it’s wrong,” I said, walking by my father.
“You keep telling yourself that, kid.”
As I moved up the street, heading back to Paul’s—he was bound to be worried
by now; might even come out and try to meet me on the path he knew I’d take home—another shadow slipped out of another doorway. He must have seen me run by, waited.
“Did you?” I asked as he came into view. “Take his wallet.”
He held it out, and I took it from him.
“Did you take the cash?” I asked.
“No cash,” he said. “Just credit cards. No one has cash anymore.”
“Do you need money?” I asked.
He nodded. I had a twenty in my wallet, not more. I’d have to ask Paul for money for lunch tomorrow. I handed it to him. I didn’t know if he was hungry or if he needed a fix, that was his karma.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why not?” I answered. He just shook his head at me like I was an apparition, something he couldn’t quite believe in, stuffed the bill in his pocket. Then he ran off without a word of thanks. Weirdly, I didn’t need one.
I walked a little way with the wallet and then ducked into a dive bar where cops from the Fifth Precinct hung out, around the corner from Paul’s, told the bartender that I’d found it in his doorway. He said he’d take care of it, and I knew that he would.
Paul was waiting for me when I got back, his brow knitted with worry.
“You’re late,” he said. He came in close, put a motherly hand on my forehead. “You look a little flushed. You okay?”
“Never better,” I told him. And it was true.
• • •
LEAVING THE TEMPLE, ALMOST SIX years since that night defending the street kid, I made sure my brick-red hood was up, my light backpack strapped on tight. That night long ago was the beginning of something. A wrong turn home led me in the right direction. Since then, I’ve had only one thing on my mind. In our touchy-feely culture, there’s a lot of talk about forgiveness, a commonly held belief that the nurturing of hatred and anger is a toxin. No one ever tells you that it can be an engine, that it can keep you alive. I started jogging toward the TriBeCa loft, thinking about my next move.
nine
His references checked out . . . and then some.
“Oh, Josh,” effused Jennifer Warbler. “He’s not a handyman, he’s a magician. In fact, I should give you a bad reference because I don’t want to share him!”
In the background, Claudia could hear a baby cooing. Oh, that sound! Those little noises and babbles! The tired cry, the checking-out-my-voice yell, all the funny one-syllable stabs at language—Claudia had loved every minute of Raven’s babyhood. She’d never allowed the darkness to touch that; she fought it back with therapy and yoga and meditation. She’d worked so hard not to be like the women she read about who had a baby after rape. She’d read every horror story. The woman who saw her rapist’s face every time she looked at her son. The girl who couldn’t touch her daughter because she was so riven by trauma. More, worse. Claudia didn’t even like to think about some of the things she’d read, worried that those thoughts could wiggle into her, a virus, a contagion.
Raven was Ayers’s child, not his (she didn’t even like to think his name), and her child. Claudia did not look into her child’s face and see the face of her attacker. She had found joy, because she wouldn’t accept anything less for herself or her daughter. It was a jaw-clenched, white-knuckled kind of happiness, but it had worked well enough.
Jennifer Warbler’s baby cooed again loudly into the phone.
“Sorry. He can fix anything!” Jennifer went on. “I’m not kidding. My husband—such a good guy—totally useless when it comes to stuff like that. Can’t even hang a picture straight. I found this table? At a garage sale? It was a mess. But Josh made it amazing! You’re the one fixing up that old farmhouse, right?”
“Yes,” said Claudia. “That’s me.”
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” said Jennifer wistfully. “I have design fantasies. But, you know, with three kids, fantasies are about all I have time for!”
“I hear you,” said Claudia. “I only have one, and she keeps me running ragged. I can only imagine three.”
Mothers of multiple children needed a lot of commenting about how hard they worked, Claudia noticed. They wanted acknowledgment, especially from mothers of single children, of what a challenge it must be to juggle it all. Claudia never minded giving credit where it was due. Claudia would have had more children, always thought there was a big brood in her future; but it just didn’t happen. Life was such a twisting helix of choice and circumstance, especially hers; she found it didn’t make any sense to have regrets.
Ayers had wanted them to have another one. Not even a year after Raven was born, and when they were already pulling apart, they started talking about it. She got pregnant pretty quickly, but then she miscarried within a month. You’re under too much stress, Martha had said. You might be ready, but maybe your body isn’t Give it some time.
But there hadn’t been time. How much sadness could two people endure before it started to take them apart? She could always look at Raven with love and joy. But slowly it became harder to look at Ayers, his face a mirror of her own heart, trying so hard to soldier through it, wanting so badly to be okay again.
• • •
“JOSH IS INTO HIS WORK, you know?” Jennifer went on. “He likes helping and fixing things, and it shows. You can just tell, can’t you? When people are passionate about what they do. You’ll love him. Just make sure he still has time for me!”
Mr. Crawley, the second person on Josh’s list, had similar things to say. “He’s a good boy. A hard worker. He just brought back my vacuum cleaner, all fixed, didn’t even charge me. Said it didn’t take long enough to charge. Imagine that? There aren’t too many honest people around these days, but he’s one of them.”
She called another woman, Wanda Crabb, but the woman didn’t answer, so Claudia left a message. But she’d heard enough when the landline rang and it was Josh.
“Hey, Mrs. Bishop. It’s Josh. The handyman? I don’t want to be pushy, but I was just following up on my visit yesterday.”
It was good to want something bad enough to call and follow up, right? It meant that he was eager, that he needed the work.
“Your ears must be ringing,” she said. “Your clients have been singing your praises.”
There was a bit of a pause where she wondered if the call had failed.
“That’s nice to hear,” he said finally.
Claudia glanced at her cell phone, watching the little blue dot that represented Raven. She’d spent the afternoon tracking Raven, between bouts of trying to peel off the wallpaper in the kitchen. Her daughter had departed the train and was now wandering around Ayers’s neighborhood. Was Ayers with her? she wondered. Raven and Ayers had a good relationship, the kind Claudia had always wanted with her father. It was easy, loving, they liked the same things, could hang out. Claudia loved it, for both of them. They were kindred; more proof as Claudia saw it of their biological bond. And more reason not to care if there was one.
The wallpaper featured a hideous pattern of cornucopias, rows and rows of them, and it clung onto the wall as if someone had affixed it there with cement. She tried to imagine who might choose that kind of wallpaper. What about the beige background and shades of brown, orange, and gold appealed? She knew almost nothing about the last family to rent the house; it had sat empty for more than ten years. She kept meaning to look into it but just hadn’t gotten around to it.
“I’m struggling with the wallpaper in the kitchen,” she said to Josh. She stared in dismay at the mess around her, her ruined hands that were raw and red, glue embedded under her nails. The rumble was over. She’d lost.
“I can help you with that,” he said easily. She liked the sound of his voice, sweet but masculine, not deep but resonant somehow.
The steamer she’d rented from the big box hardware store was not cutting it. It looked so easy on the YouTube video she’d watched. Except the paper wasn’t peeling off in big sheets but in frustratingly small pieces.
She glanced at the clock. It wa
s after two already.
“Can you come by today?” she asked. “We can talk and I’ll show you what I need done?”
“I can come now, if you like.” Was there something suspicious about someone who could “come now”? Everyone she knew in the city was so busy-addicted. Schedules were tight, not a minute to spare, dinner dates and lunches and coffees planned weeks in advance. No one she knew ever said, “I’m free right now.”
“That’s perfect,” she said. “You can see what a mess I’ve made of the kitchen.”
He laughed a little. “I’ll look forward to it. Hey—remember, everything looks like a mess when you’re in the middle of it. See you in a while.”
After she’d hung up, she stood staring at the useless steamer humming in the corner and decided she was beaten. She’d attacked the job (like so many things), with so much vigor but all that initial energy had drained. She’d decided to make an espresso to give herself a little jolt. She picked up her phone and watched the little blue dot that was her daughter arrive at Ayers’s Upper West Side building. She received a text from Raven just minutes later.
You can stop tracking me! I’m here. Love you.
Okay. Love you. Have fun.
“What’s the point of tracking her if she knows you’re doing it?” That’s what Ayers wanted to know.
“I don’t want to spy on her. I just want her to know I’m watching,” she’d said. “With her—even when I’m not.”
After some of the trouble Raven got into in the city—sneaking into clubs, some drinking, lying about where she was and who she was with—Ayers wanted to install spyware. It monitored everything that passed through her phone—calls, texts, emails, social media activity. It created a map of her activities. It could even turn the audio and camera on to see what she was doing in real time.
Claudia had balked, though it was tempting. What parent didn’t want to know exactly what was going on in her teenager’s brain? And monitoring Raven’s cell phone was a pretty good clue. But Raven was still close to both of them, still talked to them about things. Sure, she was pushing the edges, but wasn’t that normal? Wasn’t secretly installing spyware crossing some kind of line, the line between caring and smothering, between being there and hovering? Didn’t it say: I don’t trust you or the world we live in and I expect bad things to happen? Didn’t it put them and their daughter on opposing teams?