by Ling Ma
That’s pretty much it, I said, taking my laptop back and closing it.
The Rust Belt series was supposed to be the first of several on declining industries in America. I had planned to do another series on coal mining in Appalachia, including about the effects of strip mining. I never managed to apply for the grant that would fund the project. I moved back home to take care of my mother. Everything seemed pretty irrelevant afterward. And there was that nagging sense that, though I was taking photos that were supposed to say something about these communities living in the aftermath of folded industries, I didn’t really know what it was like to live there. One night, at a bar in Youngstown, this grizzled old man came up, looked at me coldly, and said, Go back to where you came from. I had retorted, politely, Where’s that, sir? He’d responded, Korea, Vietnam. I don’t give a shit. You don’t belong here. You don’t know us.
I changed the subject. What’s your fiction like?
He took a puff of his cigarette. I’m working on a novel about this family in small-town southern Illinois. It’s inspired by my family. Well, we’re all from there, generations and generations living in this same place. No one ever leaves.
Except you, right?
He nodded. I left when I was eighteen. I moved to Chicago, lived there for years. Then I decided I needed to get even farther away, put more distance between myself and my family. That’s when I ended up in New York.
What did you do in Chicago? I asked.
He told me the story of his first job. Right after college, he worked as an assistant editor at a magazine in Chicago. It was a storied indie culture publication, started in the eighties, that had, at the time, recently been acquired by a giant media company.
It’s the first and only time I’ve ever held down an office job, he said.
I have a hard time picturing you in a tie. How long did you work there?
Three years, believe it or not. He continued. By the end of his first year, the corporate owners made changes to the vacation benefits policy: Instead of allowing for unlimited rollover vacation days, they would only roll over a maximum of ten from that year to the next. In response, some of the older employees, many of whom had been there since the eighties, took early retirement in order to capitalize on the months’ worth of vacation days they’d amassed before the policy could go into effect. It was essentially a forced retirement of senior employees with higher salaries. The magazine founders also left.
By the end of his second year, corporate announced that policy regarding severance packages would be changed. Severance would no longer be scaled according to the number of years that employees had worked, but the company would provide a flat fee for all employees who had worked there for fewer than ten years.
Within the following year, almost all of the senior staff had been laid off, given their diminished severance payouts. The editor who’d hired him was also let go.
By the end of that third year, the magazine was run almost entirely by twentysomethings. They were paid entry-level salaries. Jonathan was promoted to Senior Editor and he was tasked with managing others, but it was a promotion in title only. The budget for freelance writers was severely slashed, so everyone started staying late at night. Anyone who didn’t was considered disposable. The quality of the publication diminished.
Jonathan lit a second cigarette. If you are an individual employed by a corporation or an institution, he said, then the odds are leveraged against you. The larger party always wins. It can’t see you, but it can crush you. And if that’s the working world, then I don’t want to be a part of it.
In Chicago, he told me, he lived in an apartment on Milwaukee Avenue, above a laundromat. And he took the 56 bus, which stopped right outside his apartment, downtown. Sometimes it felt like he only lived on one street, just shuffling to and from work. During nights and weekends, he would write. Then he would go to work.
One day, he just stood up from his desk and walked off. He never went back.
I’ve never worked a full-time job again, Jonathan said. He exhaled a plume of smoke. I work enough to get by, doing part-time or freelance gigs. Most of all, I want my time and my efforts to be my own.
I took a sip of water. The ice had almost completely melted. I have to get up early to get to work in the morning, I said.
We laughed, awkwardly.
Before I thought about it too much, Jonathan picked up my hand and held it to his face, as if examining it. Then, without warning, he bit the back of my hand, like it was an apple.
Ouch, I said, feeling the sting of his teeth. His eyes were on me, waiting to see what I was going to do. It was dark enough that he couldn’t see me blush. So I bit him back, on the soft spot where his neck met his shoulder. And then he bit me again, this time on the soft inside of my arm, close enough to the ticklish pit that I burst out laughing. Then I bit him again. Everything hurt, but nothing broke skin. It continued this way.
The mattress hadn’t been dressed with a liner and proper sheets. The surface was itchy against my skin as he attempted to take off my pants. Wait, I told him, and peeled them off cleanly, as he unzipped his jeans and took out his Schwarzenegger dick and plowed into me, harder and more aggressive than circumstances of introductory sex usually dictate, the raw mattress surface chafing our skin pink. The sex we were having was not romantic. It was matter-of-fact sex, sex that was trying to do something, to stake a claim, to mark territory.
I felt my whole body pulsating through the night, skin raw and bruise-blooming, an electric wire left askew.
In the morning, Jonathan drove me to work in the U-Haul. My office was en route to the rental site, somewhere on Eleventh Avenue. We ordered coffee at a drive-through. He took the slow, scenic route from Brooklyn to Manhattan, through Battery Park and Wall Street and past the 9/11 Memorial. It all looked desolate early in the morning, though it was only an hour or so before the working day officially began.
I worked the usual hours and then I took the train back to his new apartment in Greenpoint, retracing my steps. I could feel a gravitational force inside me, a near dread, a stomachache, dragging me toward him. It wasn’t even a choice.
In that first year of working at Spectra, I would spend many nights at Jonathan’s apartment. Lying in his bed, I would have this recurring dream:
I’m at a Bible Sales Expo in a large, glass exhibition space that looks like the Javits Center. The place is a labyrinth of Bible salesmen in identical suits, pacing in front of their expensive, classy exhibit booths. In each booth are prototype displays of their latest and newest Bibles, most of which I’ve spec’d or produced. There’s the Outdoors Bible, housed in a lightweight steel case that opens with a clasp, for the adventurous types. There’s the Alternative Bible, featuring a blank cover and packaged with Sharpie markers, for the alt-Christian teens to decorate however they want. Then, in the center booth, there’s the showstopper, the Bible Handbag, a portable Bible enveloped in the customized front compartment of a Coach-like satchel, for the housewives to show off at study groups and prayer circles.
I walk past the exhibit booths, fronted by all these white guys in suits. They know and I know that they are all selling the same thing, year after year, in different translations and with different packaging. I’m too smart for them. I see through everything. They can’t touch me. I go up one escalator, then another. Rooms open into other rooms, unlocked with keys, security codes, secret passwords that I magically possess. Though I know how to open these doors, I don’t know what it is that I’m actually looking for. Finally, I end up in an empty room where it looks like there are no other doors. I can hear the din of voices, balloons popping, laughter scattering wildly like dice across tile. The sounds seem to emanate from one wall. At the foot of that wall is a tiny doorway, fit for a cartoon mouse. I get on the ground and squeeze myself through, but my hips don’t fit.
Half-in, half-out, I look around at an enormous red ballroom, decorated with gold bows, balloons, and banners, and crowded with people sitti
ng around round tables, piled mountainously high with pig offal and Peking ducks and KFC buckets, toasting one another and smoking cigarettes. In one corner, a bunch of Chinese children crowd around a giant TV screen that plays movies without sound, only captions. It’s playing Jaws. On the opposite wall, there is a karaoke stage where Bryan Ferry sings languorously to his own songs, stumbling confusedly on the lyrics. He’s singing “Avalon.” My father loved that album, and Roxy Music, and most British New Wave.
At floor height, I see people I recognize, but it takes a moment because they are all dressed in formal evening wear, their makeup done, their permed hair souffléd into intricate styles. My grandmother and my grandfather. The other grandmother and grandfather. My great-great-aunt, eyes blinded, world-weary. My mother’s two younger, slimmer sisters, mischievously confiding in each other. My four uncles, dressed in tuxedos, patting one another on the back and smoking so hard like it’s still the eighties. My father, sitting next to them, peeling an orange with his bare hands.
Then I spot my mother. She’s the only one not in a dress, but a navy skirt suit she used to wear to church. She sees me at the same time that I see her. Coming over, she bends down and pulls me through the mouse door, my hips squeezing through with a pop. I stand up, dust myself off.
Have you eaten yet? she asks.
In this dream, I can’t speak. I try to open my lips, but I have none. I have no mouth, and even if I did, I have no language. I have deep emanations though, indigestive blubberings coming out of my stomach. My mother seems to understand.
You’re hungry, she tells me. Sit down, you look tired.
I sit down. She sets a bowl of shark fin soup in front of me. The smell is so delicious, unbelievably rich, that I understand why sharks have to die to make it. I open my mouth.
I wake up.
12
As soon as we had left the scene of the past behind, we were revisiting it. Bob was driving us back again in his SUV. We sweated on his leather upholstery as he drove us toward Ashley’s house, cautiously creeping down the shoulders of the freeway. Adam and Todd followed in another vehicle, close behind.
From the backseat, I tried to give instruction of the route. The whole landscape looked different, unremarkable and ordinary, from the night before. I looked to Evan next to me, waiting for him to chime in or to correct me on the directions. But he just looked quietly out the window.
Bob was quiet too. He had listened attentively but hadn’t spoken much since our return. His face, hidden by a pair of Ray-Bans, appeared willingly neutral. He drove smoothly and patiently, as if we were just out running errands on a Saturday, making a bank deposit, filling up on gas. When I said, Get on the freeway, he got on the freeway. When I said, Turn left, he turned left.
The Jordanwood sign appeared in front of us.
Go right when you get to the exit ramp, I said.
Bob nodded.
As we drove in silence, I became aware of the body odor, emanating from both Evan and me, in Bob’s car. It was a strong funk, sour and astringent, amped up by what must have been our bodies’ response to stress.
Sorry about the BO, I said.
There are more pertinent things to apologize for, Bob said. He took the exit, and shortly, after a few turns, he slowed to a stop, engine idling. Is this the place? he asked.
It took me a moment to recognize it. We had arrived so quickly, in mere minutes. It wasn’t a blue house. It was gray. There were rust stains going down its sides. Yet I recognized it. The door was ajar. We must’ve left it like that running out. It looked even smaller than it had the night before.
Yes, Evan confirmed, the first time he had spoken. This is the place.
Okay, hold on, Bob said, before launching into the most impressive parallel-parking job I’d ever seen, a three-point turn into an impossibly tight space between two rusty sedans. Behind us, Todd shut the engine off in the middle of the street.
Nice parking, I said. When I reached for the door handle, the lock clicked. All the door locks clicked.
No, Bob said. Stay here. Keep warm. Drink some water. He gestured to something in my hands.
I looked down. In my hand was a bottle of Poland Spring water, its crinkled plastic slightly crushed from my tight grip. There was a heavy woolly blanket over my lap, its bristly fibers scratching my legs.
I turned around to look at Evan. He also had a blanket on his lap. A full bottle of Poland Spring lay on the seat beside him. They thought we were in shock, I realized. They were treating us as if we were in shock. Then: We were in shock. Probably. This must be shock.
I uncapped the Poland Spring bottle and took a sip.
Bob walked around to the hatch of the car. He opened it, pulled out his M1 carbine, then closed it. The whoosh of air as he slammed the trunk closed.
How are you feeling? I asked Evan, once Bob was out of earshot.
Bad, Evan said. Worried. How are you feeling?
We’re in shock, I informed him.
I know exactly what I’m in. I’m in trouble. He corrected: We’re in trouble.
Drink some water, I said, shaking my Poland Spring at him.
He shook his head.
We’ve been awake all night, I said, as if that explained everything.
Actually, I have something else, he said, and from his jacket he revealed a Ziploc bag holding a ridiculous number of white pills.
What are those?
Xanax. I’m taking one. Do you want one?
No, thanks.
You sure? I’ve been saving them on our stalks. There’s at least sixty. They say a person only needs six Xanax to overdose.
Don’t overdose, Evan. I uncapped the bottle and took another sip. And then another. I tried to observe this feeling of shock, to observe its difference, but in fact I couldn’t detect any difference from all the other days that blurred together on this road trip. I couldn’t point to any deviation from the routine, everyday feeling, which was nothing. I didn’t feel anything.
Why do you think Ashley became fevered? I asked.
Candace. Let’s not talk about it right now, he said, but took the bait anyway: She had probably contracted the fever earlier, he said slowly, thinking aloud. It had been incubating inside of her for weeks, latent.
Don’t you think it’s strange Ashley became fevered in her childhood house? It’s like nostalgia has something to do with it.
Shen Fever is caused by breathing in fungal spores. I’m pretty sure it’s not because of memories.
I’m not saying it’s the cause. I’m saying, what if nostalgia triggers it?
He shook his head. Are you sure you don’t want a Xanax? You’re shaking.
I can’t take one because I don’t know how it’ll affect the baby.
He paused. What are you talking about?
I’m pregnant.
Wait, what? Are you serious?
I’ve been hiding it.
Evan hesitated. If you don’t mind me asking, is it your boyfriend’s? John’s?
Jonathan, I corrected. And yes.
So I guess that’s why you don’t drink with us, he said, piecing it together. And why you’ve been throwing up. Does anyone else know?
Only Janelle.
Well, congratulations, he said emptily. I’m sorry that we—well, that I’ve been so clueless.
Thank you. But it’s not your fault.
Outside the window, all three of them—Bob, Todd, and Adam, holding their greasy weapons—were standing, talking, on the front lawn. I squinted my eyes. The opened door was like a grin. I could make out the carpet, and the scattered bits of glass glinting. As was his custom, Bob gave a cursory knock on the opened door. They didn’t wait for a response as they entered Ashley’s house and closed the door behind them.
How do you keep a baby alive in this world? I asked Evan.
Honestly, I would just tell Bob. I would get on his good side. He’ll probably read some symbolic meaning into it, see it as an auspicious sign for our future, et cetera.
He would help you, get you what you need.
But I don’t want Bob to find out. I want to leave. I want to leave with you and Janelle and Ashley. I want to be in on your pact.
What pact?
Yeah, the pact you and Ashley and Janelle made to go off together. Let me go with you guys.
I’m not sure that’s happening anymore, Candace.
I turned back to the window, straining to see something; a shadow, a flicker of movement. Nothing. A few minutes passed. I looked back at Evan. He squeezed his eyes closed.
Evan? I pressed.
He put his hands to his ears.
What are you—
A blast ripped through the air. Then another. Another, and then another.
I ducked my head down and shut my eyes tightly. It took a moment before I felt something wet dripping all over my stomach, my crotch, my legs.
I’ve been shot, I thought. I’m bleeding.
Are you okay? Evan said.
I’ve been shot, I said. I’m bleeding.
I looked down. I had squeezed the water bottle so hard that it had exploded. The water was seeping all over my blanket, all over my shirt. The punctured plastic had gashed my finger.
Here. He reached over, took the bottle out of my hands. You’re not bleeding. You’re going to be okay. You need to keep warm. You need to think about yourself now.
I nodded. I felt cold all over. Things—the dashboard, the wrong time of day—in my vision were stuttering, as if trying to convey messages. This was because I was shaking. Can I have some water? I asked Evan.
Evan took his blanket and put it over my shoulders. He uncapped his bottle and gave it to me. I took a sip.
The back hatch opened. It was Bob, placing his carbine back in the car. His hand bulged with purple and blue veins. He closed the hatch door and came around. His neck too was bursting with veins, his whole body straining to keep the blood circulating.
Behind us, Todd started the engine. He and Adam left quickly.
Bob opened the driver’s door and sat down. He was taking his sweet time. He looked straight ahead through the windshield, his hands on ten and two, his face calm. Then he began to speak.