by Steph Cha
“Okay, I guess I can figure something out.”
“Here’s a hint, I guess. Someone is paying for this operation. It’s never a bad idea to follow the money. That’s how they got Al Capone. Maybe it’s those rich Turks you mentioned, and all you have to do is get their names.”
He saluted, then looked a little embarrassed about it. “I’ll do my best.” He finished the rest of his beer in a dedicated gulp. “Do you want to stay for another round?”
I’d gotten what I’d come for, but I wasn’t in any hurry to get home. I found I was enjoying myself. “Sure.”
He signaled for our server and we ordered two more beers. Murry curled up against my leg.
*
I slipped into bed with my laptop, thinking about Rob, analyzing my unexpected attraction to him. It seemed kind of convenient, I thought, that I’d meet someone interesting just when I was fretting about my personal life.
I remembered talking to my mom about my dad, back when I was a teenager, long after he’d died. I asked her why she’d married him, expecting to hear something wonderful. She’d shrugged and said, “Timing. Everything in life is about timing, and love is no different. We were ready.”
I’d thought it was a cold answer at the time, but I knew my parents loved each other. My mom was devastated when he died, and instead of remarrying, she put all her energy into raising me and my sister. She wore her ring to this day.
And she was right. My sister fell in love with her high school teacher, a horrid man who’d preyed on Asian girls under eighteen. If I’d been home instead of at college, if she’d been placed in a different period for history, she might never have seen him. She might still be alive.
Timing may have been a practical consideration, but it wasn’t unromantic. It was more like the less glossy, less idealized inner peel of fate. Maybe I would’ve been more closed off to Rob if I’d met him a month ago. But, maybe not.
Anyway, I wasn’t planning our wedding quite yet. For now, I had to deal with my immediate living situation. I had four responses to my Craigslist posting sitting in my in-box, and I had to respond to them. I sent off four e-mails answering questions, offering to show the place. I thought about Lusig’s strange proposal and wondered if it would be so bad to immerse myself in this case. I had to admit it was taking up all of my time and head space anyway.
I sent Enver Kizil an e-mail, indicating an interest in hearing EARTH’s side of the story with regards to the genocide memorial. I put “genocide” in quotes and felt pretty icky about doing so. I didn’t say I was press, but I more or less implied it. I thought that was my best shot at getting an interview.
By the time I’d sent that off, I already had a response from one of the Craigslist prospectives, a woman named Sarah Pitman. She said she was “dying” to see the place, and we arranged to meet at eight the next morning, after her spinning class, before her first meeting of the day. There was a Thoreau quote in her signature: “Success usually comes to those who are too busy to be looking for it.”
It was a lot of personality and information for a one-paragraph e-mail. I wondered if she was trying to convey as much of herself as possible, or if she was just kind of insufferable. I decided it’d be best to turn in early.
Eight
I woke up at 7:30 and checked my e-mail. Nothing from Kizil, but another two responses from prospective roommates. Echo Park was a trendy area, had been since before Lori and I moved here two years earlier. It was about a Target away from thorough gentrification, but still attracted hipsters with its east-side edge. My apartment was old and slightly shabby, but its location was prime—the Echo Park Lake was a quick downhill walk away. I could probably subsidize my rent by subletting for a hundred bucks more than what Lori was paying. Not that I would do that.
Sarah Pitman called when I was making coffee, at 7:48. I had meant to spend those last twelve minutes straightening up the common areas, but she was apparently the kind of person who showed up early for an 8:00 A.M. appointment. I put on a bra while she climbed the stairs.
She was a small, fit white girl in her early twenties, showered and fully made up, wearing a skirt suit with black pumps that looked expensive. She carried herself like a wunderkind CEO. I would’ve been more impressed if she weren’t looking to split rent with the likes of me.
We shook hands and exchanged greetings, and in the next second, she was guiding herself through the apartment. She kept her pumps on, ignoring my bare feet and the pile of shoes at the door.
“It’s a little dark in here, don’t you think?” she asked, somewhat forcefully. “Maybe we could put a lamp in that corner.”
I hadn’t thought I was very picky, but I couldn’t imagine living with this woman, having her rearrange the spaces Lori had occupied with such warmth and consideration. I didn’t dislike her, but I thought it unlikely that we’d be friends, or that she’d even tolerate my slovenly habits or irregular hours. Within a minute, I found myself hoping she’d lose interest in the place, so I wouldn’t have to ignore her phone calls or e-mails.
She stayed for twenty more minutes, alternately talking about herself and touching things in the apartment while frowning impolitely. She asked several questions about the place, off of a list she had saved on her phone. She never got around to asking me anything personal, like where I was from or what I did for a living.
She gave me a firm but unenthusiastic handshake on her way out the door, and I was fairly certain I’d never see her again.
I went back to my in-box and read the other Craigslist responses, thinking I could arrange a couple more meetings for later in the day.
The first was from a man who called himself Darren. He introduced himself as a sensitive starving-artist type, and said he’d love to take a tour of my place. In lieu of the usual niceties that ended this kind of exchange, he’d attached a picture of his dick.
My fingers curled away from the keyboard in disgust—not at the picture, which was nothing I hadn’t seen, but at the reminder of the creeps that lived to troll women, on-and offline. I fantasized about responding to the e-mail, arranging a tour, and taking him to task when he arrived. But I knew it wasn’t worth my time to plan even a short con on a guy like Darren. I forwarded the e-mail to Chaz with a warning not to open the attachment, and asked him if he could trace this guy—but only if it wouldn’t take longer than five minutes. I felt better once I sent that off. It might not come to anything, but the guy probably didn’t expect a PI on the other end of his dick pic.
I was remarkably tired for 8:30 in the morning. I opened the other Craigslist e-mail. It was from a twenty-four-year-old USC grad student named Emily. She sounded pretty reasonable, in the scheme of things, and I started to draft a reply e-mail.
I got through a standard sunny line of greeting, then I closed the window. I didn’t feel like setting up another viewing. I met new people on a regular basis, more often than most, probably—it was part of the job. In a way it was funny that the classic investigator was a misanthrope who drank alone with the shades drawn. There weren’t too many jobs that required more human interaction. That a lot of it was adversarial didn’t make it any less taxing.
But there was something invigorating about it, too, about narrowing in on answers, rhymes, and reasons. The perverse pleasure of wrested victory—I knew that feeling, how wonderful it could be, even when Pyrrhic, vicious and empty. It made the slog of chasing interviews well worth it. There was no equivalent reward for meeting people about apartments. I could interview a dozen people in a day without collapsing, but personal nuisances drained me quickly. I had very little energy allocated to my private affairs. A psychiatrist might point to my dead dad, my dead sister, my dead best friend, all the demons in my past that might have led me to fear direct dealings with my life. I didn’t need to pay a psychiatrist to know that, and it didn’t matter anyway.
I checked my e-mail again, but there was nothing in my in-box from Enver Kizil. No word yet from Rob Park either.
I called Lusig to give her an update on my meeting with Rob. She picked up immediately.
“News?” she asked.
“I have an update,” I said. “Some progress, at least.”
“Can you tell me in person?”
I knew I could give my report on the phone just as easily, but she sounded so eager I decided to humor her. “Sure. Are you at Rubina’s?”
“Obviously.”
“I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“No, don’t come here. I’ll go to you.”
“You sure?”
“This living situation is driving me fucking insane. I need to get out of the house. I’m literally talking to this fetus like a crazy person.”
“Sane people talk to fetuses all the time.”
“I know, but I’m not, like, playing Mozart for him and telling him he’s a sweet baby or whatever. I’m mumbling to him and imagining him rolling his little fetus eyes with me when Ruby isn’t looking.”
I laughed. “Okay, suit yourself. Drive carefully. Very carefully.”
“Ugh. Stop.”
She arrived fifteen minutes later and I opened the door when I saw her car parking on the street. I went down to meet her and walk up the staircase with her. There wasn’t much I could do to help, but it felt wrong to watch a giant pregnant woman lumber up stairs alone.
“Coffee?” I asked. “Oh, right. Sorry.”
“You know what? Sure. My doctor says a cup a day is fine. Ruby is paranoid.”
I heated up the pot and poured out two mugs.
“Milk? Sugar?”
“Sure.”
I rummaged in the fridge and found the half-empty quart carton Lori had left behind. I flipped up the cap and sniffed. “Actually, I don’t have milk.”
“That’s fine.”
I sat down next to her and handed her a cup. She took a grateful sip.
“Can I vent for a minute?”
“Of course.”
“It’s bad enough that Ruby put a tracker on my car and forced me to move into her house. But she has to FaceTime me every two hours, too? I swear to God I left my phone in my room while I went to take a dump and when I got out there were three missed calls.”
I laughed. “That’s pretty rough.”
“I’m just glad she works.”
“What’s her husband make of all this?”
“Van? He doesn’t love it. He thinks she’s being unreasonable. But he won’t really intercede for me. She’s his wife. I’m his wife’s cousin.” She rolled her eyes.
“Are you not close?”
“We’re close, in our own way,” she said. “But obviously not like me and Ruby. It’s a little weird living in his house.”
“What’s he like? I didn’t get a good sense of him.”
She shrugged. “He’s a type-A doctor, a surgeon actually, which, if you know medical stereotypes, is much worse. Too soft-spoken to be cocky, but quietly dominant. Kind of moody, especially lately, with the baby coming and Ruby acting like a psycho. He works a lot, so he isn’t home much, even though he doesn’t have much of a social life.”
“Is he pretty into the whole baby thing?”
“Yeah, but it isn’t turning him into, like, a second-act horror movie villain.” She dropped her face into her hands with exaggerated exhaustion. “You don’t know how good you have it, living without a baby in your stomach and a monkey on your back. You have no idea how controlling she can be.”
“I mean, I think I have some idea. I am literally getting paid to help her control you,” I said. “Do you regret it?”
“Ha! Only every forty seconds.”
“If you had the option of turning back time, would you decide not to do it again?”
She slurped at her coffee, looking terribly thoughtful. “It would be tempting,” she said. “I’d certainly be less gung ho than I was the first time around. But ultimately, I’d do it all over again, God fucking forbid.”
“Why?”
“One, because I love Ruby. I would really do anything for her, as long as I get to complain about it.”
I looked appreciatively at her belly. “I guess you’ve earned the right to say that.”
“I also owe her, not that she ever brought that up, or even really thinks so. She basically saved my life when I was sixteen.”
“How so?”
“Did I mention my mom died when I was in high school?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay now, but back then … Are both your parents still around?”
“My dad died, but I was really young. I don’t remember him much.”
“Oh, that sucks. At least I remember my mom. She was pretty great.”
“How did she die?”
“Car accident.”
“Fuck.”
“I was a mess. I was depressed, I didn’t eat, didn’t want to see anybody. And not just right after she died. This went on and on and on.”
“I know what that’s like.”
“My dad was grieving, too, and besides, he didn’t know how to talk to me. The only person I really wanted to talk to was my mom, and I was vicious to everyone else. Said some truly horrible shit to my dad and my aunt, Ruby’s mom. To Ruby, too. But she kept checking on me, even though she was busy with residency. She called every day, even when I told her to go fuck herself, and when I started dropping weight and alluding to suicide, she got all the adults together and forced me to get help. Long, long, long story short, I got help. So, yeah, I owe her one.”
I nodded. I didn’t have a great response. “I guess you couldn’t just write her a card?”
She laughed. “There’s another reason, too.”
“What’s that?”
“Ruby and Van need to reproduce. They owe it to the world and the world owes it to them.”
“They are pretty fine specimens, I guess. Two good-looking doctors.”
“Two good-looking Armenian doctors.”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“We can’t let the Kardashian clan be the sole reproducers. You know how there’s that memorial going up?”
“Yeah, on the centennial, right?”
“That’s right. April 24. Do you know what happened on that date?”
“It was the start date of the genocide, right?”
“Sort of.” She smiled, avoiding condescension. “April 24, 1915—there were so many dead Armenians by then, their names could fill a hundred memorials. But April 24 is probably as close as there is to an official start date. It was when all the intellectuals got deported.”
“Just deported?”
“Apparently ‘deported’ is Turkish for ‘massacred.’”
“Ah.”
“They massacred Armenians for years, but we picked April 24 as the day to memorialize.”
“What do you mean by all the intellectuals?”
“They rounded up over two thousand of our community leaders, something like taking the head off the totally innocent beast. They put them in holding centers, eventually deported them. Clergy, teachers, lawyers, politicians.” She smirked. “Writers. Obviously the greatest tragedy, in Nora’s mind.”
“Pretty big blow.”
“Yeah. Imagine if that many of the U.S.’s most visible citizens were all murdered in one day. Obama, Angelina Jolie, Toni Morrison, all snuffed, plus a couple thousand more. Imagine what that would do to our culture and morale. And we are much bigger than the Armenian community was even before the genocide.”
“But the genocide was recorded. They didn’t get all the writers.”
“The genocide was recorded, sort of. There were some American and European witnesses, thank God, because without them, what power did we have? The Turks recorded the genocide with their own euphemistic language, and they beat us down bad enough that their story has yet to be bulldozed for all time.”
“Were there no Armenian writers left?”
“I wouldn’t say that. For one thing, tragedy begets writers. You take a whole p
opulation and put them through some shit, a few of them will find a voice. Outrage has a way of getting through, even coarsely.”
“Is that what Nora’s writing is about? Outrage?”
“Outrage, pride. Two sides of the same coin when you’ve been victimized. And you know what, it’s been a hundred years, but we Armos, we’re still defined by our victimhood.” She paused and tilted her head, not liking the way that had come out. “Not in a pathetic way or anything, but getting genocided, that’s still on our minds all the time. And it means, for one thing, that Van and Ruby have to have some babies.”
“But you don’t want kids of your own, right? I think Rubina said something like that.”
“Me? No. I’m not mommy material.”
“You don’t owe it to your blood like Van and Rubina do?”
She laughed. “They’re smart people. Professionals, you know? I’m just a shithead. This is how I’m doing my part.”
“You could change your mind. Maybe you’ll meet a nice Armenian dude and pop out a soccer team.”
She shrugged. “I’m not saying it could never happen. I know anything’s possible. But it’s unlikely. Not every woman needs to be a mother, and I’m not so young I have no idea what I want.”
“And you don’t think you owe the world some babies.”
“Don’t tell me you think I sound selfish.”
I remembered Rubina calling her cousin a classic only child. “No. Have you been told otherwise?”
She rolled her eyes. “Ruby said I was selfish, huh?”
I geared up to deny it or shrug it off, but Lusig stopped me.
“I don’t care,” she said. “It doesn’t bother me any more than her hiring a private detective to follow me around.”
“True.”
“Anyway, I am selfish sometimes. I know that. No one’s perfect, okay? Not even Ruby.” She cackled and sighed. “That bitch.”
“I haven’t seen you acting particularly selfish,” I said.
“I am the center of my own universe. I’ve done things I’m not proud of, probably hurt a few people. But this baby stuff, it doesn’t count against me. First of all, really selfish people love nothing more than to force themselves on the world. And if your main goal is to do that, then isn’t five of you better than one? The only people hurt by my not reproducing are potential ones, these dumb eggs that don’t get a chance to get fertilized. They’ll never know any better.”