by Yiyun Li
But which country are you working for? Lilia had asked.
Canada, America, Britain, what’s the difference? I work for world peace, he replied, but you’ve got to laugh about that like you laugh about any country.
What’s so laughable about everything?
When you go to a circus show like this, where people take themselves so seriously they don’t even know they’re part of a circus, what else can you do but laugh?
Are you sure it’s a circus show? Lilia asked.
’Tis so, Roland said. ’Tis so. Why, did I break your little patriotic heart?
Lilia said she didn’t see why she would be bothered by his attitude toward any country. As long as there is not going to be another war, she said, my brothers will be okay.
But there will be, Roland said. Mark my words.
Then, what are you doing here?
You can’t prevent a war, Roland said. Like you can’t stop a storm coming. But at least you can have a sense of where it comes from.
So you’re like a weatherman? Lilia said.
You could say that.
Are you good at what you do?
I know a thing or two before others know. I have good instincts.
Lilia wondered how much she could trust Roland’s words. Perhaps he did know a thing or two, including not staying around to learn what would become of her. When she had come to the city with another excuse, two weeks after her visit to the hotel, he had left, this time not leaving a trace for her. Later she thought about how, or whether, to write him about the pregnancy. She supposed there was a government agency she could send a letter to, to be forwarded to him, but what was the point. He knew where to find her but chose not to. Gilbert did, so Gilbert it had to be.
Was there ever another woman who had borne his child? Lilia did not believe so. In February 1946 Lucy was born—Roland was crossing the Atlantic then, to join his future bride, Hetty. Lilia had seen movies of glamorous people on such ocean liners, the women wearing something that could flutter in the sea breeze, the men dapper. Some of them must have had to bow out of life while not yet ready, sunk with the Titanic or struck by a cold turned pneumonia. But Roland was the kind of person who could never be aboard a sinking ship or a crashing plane. He had died an old man, hardly a tragedy.
In the right mood Lilia would allow Roland to be a movie star, the same role she had given him when she was younger. The right mood: not a sentimental one, but one that Lilia—an actress sharing a scene, an audience watching it—could enter and leave freely as she had not been able to in the past. Lilia had lived long enough to know a movie is no more than a lollipop. A lollipop does not cure insomnia or kill pain.
LILIA’S FIRST PREGNANCY WAS DIFFICULT, the motherhood harder than what she remembered her own mother’s had been. But being young, being doted on by a new husband, and being confident that the baby’s father hadn’t entirely vanished from her life—all these made Lilia contented enough. Her beauty, like her temper, had softened, which many people had noticed and commented upon.
Lucy was a colicky baby. You would expect that, just as none of Gilbert’s children would be so difficult as infants. But Lilia and Gilbert had accepted all those sleepless nights and exhausted days, he out of love for his wife and humankind, she out of her respect for his love, and the memory of someone absent.
Those early days of a new marriage—you could always call them happy memories. Picnicking on the bench in front of the opera house where Lilia and Gilbert had met. Moving out of his parents’ house to their own place, rented yet still making them feel legitimately grown-up. Listening to Gilbert talk about his work at dinner, even though one day was much the same as another. Taking walks with Lucy while pregnant with Timmy. So soon—Lilia remembered feeling dismay, but she had concealed this feeling from Gilbert, who was overjoyed. Poor man who didn’t mind being a replacement. He deserved a baby of his own.
People peeking under the muslin shade on the pram were often in awe of that angelic face, framed by the bonnet. Such a beautiful baby, just like her mother. Lilia could not see much of Roland in Lucy then. It was the best for everyone. There was no reason for Gilbert to be reminded constantly of the baby’s origin. There were days when even Lilia didn’t think about Lucy’s real father. Still, when she cried tirelessly—in Lilia’s arms, in Gilbert’s arms, late into the night, too early in the morning—Lilia wondered if this near-blind rage was Roland’s punishment for her, for not at least informing him of the birth of his daughter. But such a thought put Lilia into a rage, too. She had given birth to Lucy. No one—not Roland, nor Gilbert—would have any right to tell her for which father Lilia was raising Lucy.
When Timmy was a little over two Lilia again became pregnant. Another child would be a strain on their finances, and Lilia thought about finding a job. Her twin sisters were both out of school now—Margot training to be a nurse, Lucille working on the floor of the Emporium. Lilia could learn typing and shorthand, but discussion ended when Gilbert was offered a promotion at the printer. Mr. and Mrs. Dupree had decided to move back East for some time, to be closer to her sister, who had just lost the last of her three sons, this time in Korea.
Lilia was not close to the Duprees. Mrs. Dupree was like a second mother-in-law, but unlike Gilbert’s mother, she did not have any grandmotherly tenderness toward Lucy and Timmy. Still, what sad news about her sister. Imagine sending little Timmy into a war, or Lucy as a soldier’s widow. Had Lilia been a sentimental woman, these possibilities would have made her despair. But Roland had said no war was ever going to be the last war. She’d better prepare herself.
So much for your talk about world peace, Lilia said.
Gilbert sighed and agreed that he had been shortsighted. But we all believed in peace at the San Francisco conference, he said. If only you had been there.
She was there. She had seen the Arabs in their long white robes and the Indian women in their colorful garments. She had seen the foreigners at her father’s ranch, though she had not seen them through Gilbert’s eyes. You would think life would be particularly cruel to a man like Gilbert, but no, it had been extra careful with him. He didn’t lose either brother when so many brothers had been missing or killed in action. He didn’t have to please a difficult boss. He never understood what it meant to wake up some days, knowing himself to be loved but still feeling lonely. On those mornings, Lilia would stay in bed just a few minutes longer, taming her heart as though it was a difficult horse. Here’s your apple of a house, a good husband, and two cute children, she would offer with an open palm. And let’s be good, easy now, easy now.
Oh well, I’m older and wiser, Gilbert said.
Two billion people loving one another unconditionally, Lilia thought. How fast that future for mankind had lost its golden hue. Roland was right. You either choose to be in that circus, or you watch the acrobats and clowns taking themselves seriously. But Roland laughed at everyone. Lilia would still applaud because some people’s feelings should not be hurt. Aren’t we all older and wiser now, she agreed with Gilbert.
And I haven’t done so poorly, now that Mr. Dupree trusts the business to me, Gilbert said.
Lilia bent over to pick up a rolled-away ball so that Gilbert would not see the impatience in her eyes. This, she thought—to manage a tiny printing press—is the limit of Gilbert’s ambition.
A few weeks later, Lilia received a letter from Roland. He had sent it to the ranch. Kenny and his friends were coming to the city for a Friday outing, and he stopped by to drop off the letter, showing little curiosity at the Canadian stamp. If anyone at home had noticed that, Kenny did not mention it. Lilia gave two half-dollars to Kenny, and told him to treat himself to something nice.
Bills arrived regularly in the mail, but nobody ever wrote Lilia. She remembered the days when her mother had gone to the mailbox the moment the postman left. Lilia had pitied her mother, perpetually
waiting. What if there were a fire and the letters were burned in the mailbag—no one would know what was lost. What if her friends woke up one morning and realized that it was pointless to write—all those words would make no difference to their lives. Waiting for a letter is worse than waiting for happiness. The latter may never happen, but you don’t allow yourself to believe that. A letter—when it’s not coming it means too much, but once arrived, it never brings enough.
Even Roland’s letter was no exception. That he had written meant he hadn’t forgotten her, but between that fact and happiness there were a thousand questions. What made him send the letter? Had Lilia been a feebleminded woman she might have believed that it was the pull of Lucy, his blood; had she been blindly proud she might have thought of herself as the magnet. But neither made sense to Lilia. And why on earth did she allow herself to think of happiness upon receiving a mere one-page letter?
Lilia thought of her marriage as a happy one. Keeping a house and raising children were rarely tedious tasks for her. She had been born to do things, like the horses were born to toil. What bothered her was that she had stopped watching herself from someplace hovering above. Before there had always been two Lilias: one studying herself in the mirror, and the other watching the girl inside and outside the mirror with the same interest; one speaking to a sailor with a pouting face, and the other watching the half-smile hidden underneath. In every moment she had had with Roland there was the other Lilia, assessing herself and Roland. But that Lilia had vanished, and now when she went to the market or exchanged news with her neighbors, when she fed Timmy or played with Lucy or, even, when she lay in bed with Gilbert after the children fell asleep, she felt she could live this life with her eyes closed. A good neighbor, a good wife, and a good mother. Good enough for everyone.
She read the letter again. She missed the thrill of being two Lilias. Was that what she wanted as happiness—knowing that she had the freedom to go from one Lilia to the other? But did that mean then that she did not have real happiness even in a happy marriage?
Lucy clamored, wanting the letter, and right away Timmy made the same demand. Lilia shushed them. When neither child gave up, Lilia screamed.
Mrs. Murray, are you all right? someone called from outside. Mrs. Nelson, of course.
Lilia gave Lucy a stern look, whose small face looked frosty and her eyes more gray than blue. It baffled Lilia that Lucy could in an instant turn into this strange child. If Lilia had had time she would have shaken Lucy’s shoulders and said something sharp. But Mrs. Nelson called out again, and if Lilia didn’t answer, that woman would be knocking on their door the next moment.
Lilia went to the window, her upper body stretched outward so she could see the end of the street. Mrs. Nelson from next door was standing on the sidewalk, looking concerned.
I just tripped on Timmy’s ball, Lilia said. Don’t worry.
Don’t lean out of the window, Mrs. Murray. You must take care of yourself now.
Lilia wondered if Mrs. Nelson spent her days by her window, watching for any sign of change in the bodies of married women. Or perhaps her attention was even more astute when it came to the few unmarried daughters on the street? That Lilia was too young to be a wife or a mother of two children was Mrs. Nelson’s opinion, which she had expressed to other neighbors. Some of them had passed the judgment on to Lilia.
Yes, I will, Lilia replied, and then said she must be off to get Timmy to nap. If Mrs. Nelson could notice the change in Lilia’s body, would Roland, too? Oh, Lilia, she laughed. In his letter Roland hardly said anything worth hoping for. You’re not sixteen anymore.
WHERE’S THAT LETTER FROM ROLAND? The problem with walking down memory lane is that you want to find that very thing the moment you think about it. But life is never arranged accordingly. If there was a memory lane, it would not look like one of those shaded drives leading to a grand country house seen in films, maintained by diligent groundskeepers, flowers blossoming reliably, dead things raked away. “In fact, I take that back,” Lilia said aloud. Hetty’s memory lane would be just like that: picture-perfect and unvisited.
Lilia’s trip down memory lane was more of a wild hike. Even so, she had placed a few markers here and there. Think, Lilia, think. She knew she had not one but two letters from Roland. Ah, with the little tales her mother had written. Lilia went to her closet and searched, and when she couldn’t locate the manila envelope, she thought again. Yes, the leather trunk, a wedding gift from Mr. and Mrs. Williamson. Aha, two manila envelopes tucked in the lining inside the lid, just as she remembered. One, marked IMPORTANT, included all the legal documents her children would need once she went poof. It had three rubber bands around it. Lilia pulled one. No longer elastic, it snapped unceremoniously. The other envelope was blank. Time to correct that, so in capital letters Lilia printed: TO BE BURNED BY LILIA HERSELF. IN CASE OF SUDDEN DEATH: MOLLY MURRAY-LAWSON AND KATHERINE A. TINGMAN MUST BOTH BE PRESENT TO RECEIVE THE ENVELOPE AND BURN IT TOGETHER UNOPENED.
Better to give a task to two rivals to share. Neither would then peek out of curiosity.
12 JULY, 1950.
Dear Lilia, I wonder if this letter will reach you. I suppose you may be happily married by now, with a sweet nest and a loving husband, a daughter pretty just like you, or a son who is his father’s pride. It is hard to imagine you as a mother, Lilia. You yourself were not much older than a child then, but who am I to protest the passing of time and the changing of human hearts?
Well, Lilia, here is the reason I am writing you. I will be in San Francisco from the 10th of August till the end of the month. I wonder if I can pay you a friendly visit. Do say no if this will cause any inconvenience, but it would be lovely to see you in your present life. I always remember you as the audacious girl with the golden-red curls from sun-drenched California.
Roland did not mention that he was married, nor that his ostensible motivation was to meet a few rare-book dealers in San Francisco, though the real reason was to take a break from his wife and recover from what he called “a bout of melancholy.” All this Lilia pieced together later, though only partially, from Roland’s diary. What did happen he had not recorded in detail. Roland could be a pain. So much of what mattered was missing. Not one of the stories he told was the full version.
Lilia opened the other letter, sent four years later but worded so similarly that you would think Roland must have had a stack of letters ready, waiting for him to fill in the name and date and a few details (sun-drenched California, golden-red curls). Oh, Roland, you silly goose of a man. If someone like him walked into Katherine’s life, Lilia would pat white powder on his cheeks and smear red paint on his nose. Clown on, she would say, let’s see how long this show will run.
In August of 1950, Lilia sent a note to the Fairmont, right before Roland’s arrival. She would stop by on Wednesday afternoon, and if that was inconvenient, she wrote, she wished him a good stay in San Francisco and a happy life in Canada.
Had she worried about missing him? Lilia could not remember. Ah well, life never stops in the middle of a day or week for you to sort out all the memories. But there was plenty of time later. What she really needed to do now was to make a few calls. She could not afford stalling because Thanksgiving would soon be here.
She called Katherine after she had secured an invitation from Molly.
“Did you talk with Carol?” Katherine asked.
Carol lived in Southern California. That was eight hours minimum in holiday traffic. Molly was an hour away, an hour and a half at most. What part of the math did Katherine not understand? “I did,” Lilia lied. “I even talked with Will. But if you don’t want to go to Molly’s I understand. I can go by myself.”
“Who’d be driving you?”
“That’s not for you to worry about,” Lilia said. Lilia could see Katherine, wavering between wanting to love (her husband, her daughter, Lilia herself, even Molly) an
d wanting to be able to stop loving. Katherine had a muddled head around that L word. She took after Lucy, who had always loved indiscriminatingly until she had stopped loving, also indiscriminatingly. Oh, poor Lucy—was it why life was so hard for you?
“Listen, do what’s best for you. I don’t have to go to Molly’s,” Lilia said, feeling magnanimous in her pity for Katherine. And for Lucy.
“Shhhh, let me think,” Katherine said.
“Think!” Lilia said. It was surprising how many people had the habit of saying “let me think” when they did not know how to think at all.
“Would it be cruel to leave Andy here by himself?”
“Shall we order him a few teddies so he won’t have to cry himself to sleep?” Better to be cruel than to be receiving cruelty. That was the lesson Lucy had taught everyone by killing herself.
“What about—I know this is a lot to ask…,” Katherine said. “I’d be happy if you took Iola to Molly’s. I can drive you there. I don’t have to see anyone.”
“Where are you going then? Back to Andy?”
“I can go out for a drive along the coast.”
“Who are you visiting?”
“No one. I can spend a night in Arcata or Eureka. Just a day by myself, to clear my head.”