by Kathy Wang
But now?
Ella was making whimpering sounds, mercilessly employing the instinct of young children to demand their parent’s attention at the precise moment privacy is desired most. “Mama!” she called. “Play my music. Please!”
“Mama’s finding it,” Kate replied automatically. She fumbled in her bag for her phone to bring up the songs, some grating series featuring tambourines. She called herself Mama all the time now, even when children weren’t around, a habit she’d first been embarrassed and later proud of, as Denny waxed lyrical on the sexual appeal of the mommy. Mama. Mother. Women who dedicated themselves and their bodies to the birth and raising of children. Like her and Isabel Gorgas, she thought, the thought smacking her with unanticipated humiliation.
She scrolled to the selection on her phone, which Ella had already begun to hum to in anticipation. Before it began there were a few seconds of empty noise, and Kate was struck by a calm she hadn’t experienced since that morning more than twenty years ago, when she’d stood and locked eyes with Stanley. The heat from her face faded, her headache receded. And she let the chill wash over her, welcoming it as a familiar friend.
Chapter 8
Linda
All her life, Linda thought, Stanley had given her a raw deal.
The first time they’d met was at what had been a local gathering of Chinese graduate students in Menlo Park—which she’d arrived to an hour late, after her part-time job cleaning houses to pay for Stanford tuition—and she could still recall the way he had swanned up to her, a felted bowler hat in hand like in some old American movie, to say how pleased he was to see her again. She’d never met this slightly short but curiously appealing young man with a mustache before, she was sure of it; yet he was so insistent that she considered there might be a possibility she was wrong, and before she knew it she had her first boyfriend. And so there would begin a trend that would last throughout their entire marriage, of Stanley misrepresenting himself.
Convincing her in the early years that he was ambitious and bright, when he was in fact lazy and incompetent. Singing promises that he’d buy them a fine, beautiful house, only to move her into that deafening hellhole by the freeway. Complimenting her ability to work, work, work—she’d never left IBM as so many of her female colleagues eventually did, to stay home with Fred and Kate, never lost her temper and rashly quit her soul-numbing job in systems management, as he himself did, several times—then ruthlessly snatching away her paycheck, flushing it down the drain.
Even thirtysomething years later, when she’d finally located her courage, had gone and left him, told him that they were going to divorce, leaving him openmouthed and speechless, helplessly steaming in his armchair—even then, he’d managed to come out ahead. Stanley had recovered quickly enough from his brief period of depression, signing up for a series of elite gym memberships a month after he’d moved out, rebounding shortly after with a sequence of increasingly embryonic girlfriends. A series of events he’d then capped off by getting remarried with undignified speed. A marriage he couldn’t help but publicize by braying to everyone about how happy he was, making it appear as if he was the one who’d left her. Because she was still alone, of course.
And now, even in dying, he was still cheating her. Linda understood this to be the indisputable truth, as she sat in the dingy red felt–backed chair at Golden Dynasty, the din of the poorly insulated restaurant clattering into her ears. Waiting (waiting!) for Stanley to walk through the entrance, as he was late (he was late!). The day her divorce had been declared final, she’d made a vow that never again would she find herself following a command from a man. And yet now here she was, once again obeying one’s wishes. And not just any man, but Stanley, again!
Her children flanked her right and left sides like a pair of jailers, the two Judases who had foisted this predicament on her in the first place. “It’s so important to him,” Kate had pled on the phone. “Dad really wants to see you, have a meal together. Like old times.”
Linda didn’t know what Kate was talking about. They’d barely ever dined out at restaurants as a family, except for a handful of occasions at Marie Callender’s or the inexpensive Taiwanese noodle shop in Cupertino. It annoyed her, this revisionist history her children had indulged in ever since Stanley’s diagnosis, as they selected the few moments he’d been pleasant and charmingly self-deprecating and then peanut buttered them across their entire past landscape. But it wouldn’t be seemly to bring up the difficult times at the moment; she knew it would only make her look bad. “Why a meal?” she asked instead. “Why can’t I just meet you after?”
“Because Dad loves to dine out, you know that, Ma. Come on, it’s his one request, you know everything he’s been going through. It’ll be great for his spirits. We want him to stay positive.”
“What about me? Don’t I deserve to feel positive?”
“Are you really that hardhearted?”
Linda hesitated. She could always agree and then delay, a cycle she could keep up indefinitely. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“Thank you. Now in terms of timing, I’m thinking it makes the best sense to do it this Thursday or Friday. Fred has to travel to Asia after.”
Now that she was here, unable to extricate herself, it occurred to Linda how unfair the situation truly was. To be dragged into this ordeal out of guilt because Stanley was sick, stricken by a solemn diagnosis—but simultaneously for the point of being cheerful! To convince him he wasn’t dying. That everything was fine! What sort of insanity was that? To get to have it both ways, as he always had, at the cost of everyone else . . . well, she was sick of that. She didn’t have to put up with it anymore. She was going to leave right now, head directly for the door; she could claim she was going to the bathroom and then quickly pivot, duck out to the parking lot and flee, deal with the kids later. . . .
Goddamn! And here was Stanley tottering toward them now, with perfect timing to sabotage her plans, as always. He plopped down with satisfied aplomb, yet another notched win in his eternal quest to ruin her life.
“You came!” he exclaimed. He wore a white sweatshirt that had PARIS! printed on the front in alternating primary colors, a souvenir from their first trip to Europe. Linda chewed the inside of her cheek to keep any nostalgia at bay. “Don’t you like this restaurant?” he asked. “I remember it was your favorite. Did you know that on Fridays the lobster noodles are only $20?”
“The dish isn’t as good on Fridays. They give less lobster.”
“Ha-ha. Always so smart.” A bony shoulder protruded from the sweatshirt, and Linda gulped down an involuntary wave of sorrow. He was even smaller than the last time she’d seen him.
He eyed her in expectant silence.
“How is your chemotherapy?” she finally asked.
“Oh, it’s okay. But I’m very tired after. The room I go to in Kaiser, it is too dark, very depressing. But I have a friend, one of the nurses. The head one. He is a man, can you believe? And black! He says not to worry, because I am very strong. He likes me the most.”
“You are strong, Dad,” Kate interjected. “You’re doing excellent. Right?” She looked directly at Fred and then Linda, for reinforcement. Linda ignored this. She’d never understood the point of these platitudes, which were meaningless without defined parameters. Stanley was strong? Compared to what? An ant? A bear?
“Stanley,” she said. “Did you start the will yet? How much is everyone getting?”
“Ma!” Kate dropped her chopsticks with a sharp crash.
“I have,” Stanley replied, in a shaky voice.
“Very good. You’re doing a trust, yes? With Kate and Fred as the beneficiaries? You know that’s what fathers are supposed to do. Take care of the younger generation. And by younger, I don’t mean your wife.”
“Of course.” For all their righteous indignation, the children, Linda noticed, were listening intently. Good. How else did Kate think she was going to pay for two college educations with one income? Not to mention Fre
d and whatever palace he fantasized about purchasing. Woodside, ha! Better for him to understand reality now, so he could adjust his real estate expectations accordingly.
“What does of course mean? I want to know the plan, Stanley. And exact numbers.” Since Linda saw no way out of the well of human misery that was Golden Dynasty for the next hour, she might as well get some work done. She removed her favorite Pilot pen from her bag, along with a leather notebook. “So? Let’s start at the high level and work down. What’s your liquid net?”
“Oh, it’s enough.” Stanley coughed into a napkin. “I hope that everyone will be satisfied. Happy.” He gave a beam around the table.
Why were Kate and Fred smiling back? Did they think that was anywhere near an adequate response? Stanley was like a slippery eel—he had to be badgered into a corner until there was no room to escape or breathe. Then, only once he’d surrendered the necessary information, did you allow him oxygen.
She clicked the pen impatiently. “I want to write the numbers down, so that there’s no confusion. It should be very simple. First, you determine your net worth. Then you define a token—that means small, Stanley—amount you give to Mary. Everything else goes to the children.”
“I have to take care of Mary,” Stanley said. “I am everything to her.”
“Ma.” It was Fred. “Maybe we should do this later.”
Linda was surprised. Fred was going to be the roadblock? Mr. Future Mayor of Woodside? She crossed her arms. “There is no later,” she said. “We are already too late.”
“Ma,” Kate warned. She tilted her head quickly toward the left, in the direction of the entrance. Linda looked over.
Mother of God. It was Stanley’s wife. Before Linda could prime her next move, Mary had already reached the table. “How are you?” she called out, in that fake Beijing accent of hers. She was limited to only the most rudimentary words in English, though in Linda’s opinion Mary’s Mandarin wasn’t much of an improvement. “It has been far too long. What sad circumstances bring us here today! How upsetting, that a good man has to endure this!”
Linda suppressed a bubble of supreme irritation and deleted those words—a good man—from her brain. “How come you didn’t arrive with Stanley?” she asked. If she had seen the two of them walk in together—Stanley in that sweatshirt and Mary in . . . dear God, what was she wearing, some sort of sheer netted item—she would have definitely fled. Dashed right past them at the door, slowing to give a brief wave but not stopping until she’d reached her vehicle. Some things in life were worth being rude for.
Mary took a seat on the other side of Kate. “We did come together. I dropped Stanley off at the entrance, so he didn’t have to walk far, and then parked by myself. I got my license two years ago. Isn’t it fortunate that Stanley has such a team of capable people to help him? Especially the women.”
A team? She and Mary were a team in the same way Warren Buffett and Stanley could both be considered investors. Linda glanced desperately to her right, and then left. Who was going to save her from this idiot?
Kate spoke up. “Are you cooking a lot of new foods lately? I know you’re a very good chef. Dad always tells us about all the dishes you make. Did I hear that you mastered sweet taro balls? Though I’m not sure if that’s what he should be eating right now. . . .”
As they chattered, Linda took the opportunity to study her opponent. The tight black blouse Mary wore, she now saw, wasn’t actually that sheer—there was a layer of nude fabric underneath, which made it less provocative but somehow even more tacky. Her hair was nice—that she would admit—though most of it would probably go by the time she passed fifty-five, with all that dying and perming. Of course, of greatest concern was the way she managed Stanley. She watched as Mary ladled beef with stir-fried flat rice noodles onto his plate, a dish everyone knew not to order at Golden Dynasty because they used too much oil. Stanley selected a piece of glistening meat with his chopsticks. His hand shook as he brought it to his mouth, which drooped open like a fish gasping for air. When it finally made its way in, Mary rubbed his back in circles and motioned for him to have another. Was she trying to kill him? If so, food was her accessory of choice.
Fred leaned over. “What do you think?”
“About what?” Linda said flatly. She knew very well what he was asking, but if he and Kate were going to treat her like a leper for saying out loud what they all secretly thought, she was going to make him spell it out.
“About the will.” Then he added, in a private voice: “And what he said about Mary.”
She shrugged. “Your father makes his own choices, eh? Didn’t you say that earlier?”
“Come on,” Fred hissed. “You feel the same way I do.”
“Oh? So now we are thinking the same? I didn’t know.”
“Fine.” He sat back in his chair. “Then he should give it all to Mary.”
“Of course not!” Despite her efforts to remain aloof, the idea was instantly maddening. “That’s why you have to act quickly. Push him! He has to finish his will, and then you must insist on verifying it, what your inheritance will be. Know all the numbers! Before it’s too late.”
She watched with open disapproval as he tipped back his glass of beer. “I tried to talk to him a little the other day,” Fred said. He wiped his mouth. “Dad said Mary’s never once mentioned the will, so I shouldn’t be concerned either. How can I keep asking after that? It makes her look like a saint and us like the greedy ones.”
Sometimes Linda wondered whether she had taught her son anything. Didn’t Harvard Business School have a class on second wives and end-of-life estate planning? For the tuition it charged, it should at least have offered it as an elective. “Of course Mary wouldn’t ask; that’s not her place! She hasn’t earned any of it! Does your house cleaner ask whether you paid your taxes this year? This is something between the family, the parents and children. Your father, he should understand this.” A pinprick of guilt flared; Stanley, of course, wasn’t very understanding. But Fred should at least try.
“Linda, Linda.” That woman was babbling at her again. “Have you been to Chung Herbal Supply, in San Francisco Chinatown? I went with Stanley last week.”
Why would she ever go to Chinatown? The restaurants in the South Bay were much tastier, without the loud crowds or exasperating parking challenges of San Francisco. Was Mary actually attempting to navigate the maze of one-way streets of the city with Stanley in the vehicle? There was a good chance he’d die of that, way before the cancer. “No.”
“Oh, it’s very good,” Mary yapped. “I’ve visited a few times now. Last week they brought in a special tree bark I ordered; it had to be sent from Hong Kong. I’ve been brewing it into a tea for Stanley. It’s supposed to be very powerful against cancer. For many people, it is a near-instant cure.” She prattled on, detailing all the various acupuncturists, healers, and meditation gurus whose skills were being summoned. Next to her, Stanley preened, lapping it all up.
Linda decided she’d had enough. “Please inform your wife that I am a full supporter of Western medicine,” she said to Stanley in English. To her left, she heard Kate sigh. But she didn’t care. Lunch was over.
Chapter 9
Fred
If there was a hell at San Francisco International Airport, Fred thought, it existed in the American Pacific business-class lounge. Of course that was the case with most lounges these days, at least the US-operated ones, which unfortunately—due to Lion’s policy of flying the lowest-cost carrier and his own desire to accumulate airline miles efficiently—Fred usually opted to fly. But there was something particularly sordid about the American Pacific location in SFO, situated in between a Yankee Candle store and one of the identical newsstands that constituted a third of the terminal.
Each time Fred visited he was invariably confronted at the entrance by the same two ill-tempered dragons, each with a highly developed radar for unsanctioned social climbing, who together managed their roles as if guarding the g
ates of Valhalla. No matter how he gamed the line, Fred always got the meaner one, the one who, contrary to logic, was slightly younger and prettier. When he arrived at the front, her usual routine was to ignore him for several minutes while she stared blankly at her screen before eventually taking his ticket and staring at it with resentment. A few moments would then pass before he was allowed in, only to inevitably encounter crowded bedlam and a food display resembling an end-of-shift Costco sample station.
Better fare, Fred knew, was actually in the food court, where there was at least a decent ramen restaurant and half a dozen organic salad purveyors. But due to a pressure to conform—and the bourgeois inclination to indulge in the most luxurious option regardless of actual preference—Fred always visited the lounge when his ticket allowed. Which was where he was now, waiting for his flight to Hong Kong, where he and Erika would spend two nights before connecting to Bali for the Founders’ Retreat.
For several precious minutes now Fred had been silently debating the effort to unzip his luggage to confirm that he’d packed a phone charger. It would be a difficult operation, as his bag was sandwiched between the wall and his chair, where even closed shut it stood slightly in the way of foot traffic and was glared at indignantly by fellow travelers. He had quickly claimed the very last table available, shoved in an undesirable corner near the toilets; next to him, parked in the grouping of soft chairs he would have preferred, was one of those enormous families where the ages seemed to span four generations. They looked to have been settled for a span ranging from half an hour to overnight: Fred could see travel pillows strewn about, trolleys in various states of unpack, and an enormous makeup valise open on the low table. Closest to Fred sat a morose-looking teen wearing padded earphones, while next to the teen several cushions had been strategically arranged into a makeshift nest, where an overweight man in his sixties leaned in repose. A great-grandmother slumped in a wheelchair nearby, picking miserably at lint on her sleeve.