by Wendy Lee
Julian had been acting strange all weekend, distracted on the hike they took and the chilly lake swim. Even the sex had not been that enjoyable, although that was partially due to the springs on the bed that seemed to date from the same time period as the Revolutionary War–era headboard. Emily had wondered about Julian’s unsettled behavior, since it had been his idea to pry her away from her law books and spend the weekend away.
Then, when they’d arrived home, he had ransacked the bookcase, muttering about something being gone or lost, she wasn’t sure which.
“What are you talking about?” Emily had asked him.
“I had it right here. Someone must have taken it.”
“Are you accusing my brother of stealing something?” She must have spoken more sharply than she’d realized.
“No, no, of course not. But maybe he had a friend stay here with him?”
“You mean a girlfriend? Michael? You’ve got to be kidding.” What she meant was that she couldn’t imagine her seventeen-year-old brother being old enough to date; she still saw him as the twelve-year-old that she’d left behind when she’d gone to college, even though by now he had grown taller than her.
“I don’t know, maybe a friend who’s involved with drugs or something and needs money?”
Emily stared at Julian. “What exactly is it that you’re missing?”
But he wouldn’t tell her, and eventually she gave up trying to figure out what he was looking for and started to put away their luggage. Then sheepishly he’d come up with a box that had apparently been filed behind the wrong book. Even before he’d opened it, before he dropped to one knee, Emily knew what he was going to say, and that knowledge did not flood her with a sense of elation. Instead, she felt the rising tide of panic and heard her own voice say yes, she would marry him, but not until she was twenty-five, since that was how old her mother had been when she had gotten married.
Afterward, she supposed it was odd that there had been no one to call with the news. Of course, Julian didn’t speak to his parents, and Emily was afraid of her own parents’ reaction if she told them. The only family member she could have told was Michael, but he would be on a train on his way home, and Emily didn’t know if he would care. As far as she was aware, he didn’t spare a thought toward her relationship with Julian.
From that moment, Emily realized, she had been on an inevitable path that had led her to spend countless hours in her office at Lazar and Jenkins in Chinatown, to the converted farmhouse in Westchester, and now to her brother’s grotty studio apartment in the East Village. If she reached down far enough, would there be anything left of the person she had been almost ten years ago? Then Emily thought of what David had said earlier, about certainties changing. But what about uncertainties? She had been uncertain then, as she was now, just about different things. Back then, she had been doubtful of a life with Julian; now she was doubtful of one without him.
She went into the bathroom, which was so small someone could sit on the toilet and brush their teeth at the same time, and wrung out her wet clothes. She draped them over the shower curtain rod, noticing the toxic orange stain that the curtain left against the side of the tub. She decided she’d scrub it, and the rest of the bathroom, grateful for any activity that kept her mind occupied. When she opened the medicine cabinet door, she noticed it contained a rusty can of shaving cream, some razor blades, and—ugh—condoms. She quickly shut the cabinet door, not wanting to think about her little brother having any kind of sex.
After she was done with the bathroom as best she could, she continued with the rest of the apartment, her energy starting to return. Yes, she’d clean Michael’s place, as a thank-you to him when he got back for letting her stay there, whether he liked it or not. It was the least she could do to keep herself from thinking about what she was doing alone in her brother’s apartment at nearly midnight on a Sunday.
When she got to the closet, she reconsidered diving into the clutter of clothes and other items that clearly had to be stored in there because there wasn’t space anywhere else. Then she saw a corner of something black and solid, and tugged a leather art portfolio from the jumble. She recognized some of the sketches that spilled out as what must have been exercises from art class—shapes, light-and-dark shadings, portrait blockings. But then there were pictures of people she recognized: her mother, her father, even Amy Bradley at her most rebellious-teenager stage with various facial piercings and spiked hair. The one person Emily did not see was herself. Of course, she thought, Michael must have done most of these sketches in high school, after she had left home. Still, she felt like someone who had peeked into another person’s diary, hoping that they had been written about, and finding nothing.
She returned the portfolio to where she had found it, tucking it behind what she recognized as the suit Michael had worn to their father’s funeral. She recalled how at the end of that day, she had gone looking for Michael, since Julian was going to drop him off at the train station on his way back home. When she and Michael had asked their mother if she wanted them to stay longer, their mother had refused, but Emily had insisted. She intended to go back to work the next week, even though her coworkers, especially Rick, wanted her to take more time off. But from the moment she had received the call from her mother, Emily had not allowed herself to stop. If she did, she was afraid that she might let everything in her life, not just what had happened recently, catch up to her.
Michael hadn’t been upstairs in his room or downstairs in the kitchen. Finally, she found him outside on the porch where she’d seen him retreat earlier that day with Amy Bradley. A faint whiff of something illicit came from his clothes, and she knew what the source of it probably was, but didn’t mention it.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. Just tired.”
“We all are.”
“Really?” Her brother gave her a strange look. “You totally seem in control in things.”
“Thanks,” Emily replied, even though she wasn’t sure whether it was a compliment or not.
Michael looked out into the backyard. “I was thinking that this isn’t the first funeral I’ve been to.”
“What do you mean?”
“Remember just after my sixth birthday?”
She followed his gaze out onto the lawn. “You mean when your goldfish died?”
“You wrote a poem or something. About how good goldfish go to the great pond in the sky.”
“I can’t believe you remembered that.”
“Well, it meant a lot, you know, to a little kid.”
Emily looked down. Although she’d known what to do when she was twelve, she couldn’t do anything for Michael now. The only thing she could think of was to put her hand awkwardly on his shoulder. She could feel the bony point of his shoulder through the fabric of his suit jacket, like what she imagined the joint of a bird’s wing to feel like.
“Come on,” she said. “Julian’s waiting with the car.”
Emily thought of the note Michael had left behind, which was still on the table where David had left it on Friday night: “Gone away to take a break. Am fine.” In that moment, she saw just how similar she and her brother were. They might not be close in the way that she’d always imagined siblings should be—she may not have even known, at least consciously, that he was gay until two days ago—but they were undeniably alike. They were both running away from people who, for whatever inexplicable reason, loved them. Only Emily hadn’t gone as far away as China to do it. Again she thought back to her conversation with David, his unwavering faith in his feelings for her brother. She hoped that faith would be rewarded.
She drew out her cell phone. First, she hit the number for Rick. When he answered, she could hear some kind of commotion in the background, the thumping of feet, splashing water, the querulous voices of children being readied for bed.
“Hold on,” Rick said, and she could hear him move down a hallway and close a door. “I can’t talk for long. Lisa’s going
to kill me if I don’t get the kids in bed on time.”
“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for what happened yesterday.”
Rick lowered his voice. “Me too. I mean, I’m not sorry that it happened—but I’m glad that it didn’t go any further.” She could hear his breath, as if it were against her cheek. “Lisa and I had a long talk this morning, and I think we’ve come to some kind of agreement. One that doesn’t involve separation.” She was quiet for so long that he asked, “Emily? You still there?”
“That’s great news. I’m happy for you two.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that. You still coming into work tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, I’ll be there.” She did need to go in, to offer up her resignation and pack up the few personal items in her office. If she explained herself well enough, she knew Mitch Jenkins would let her go without the customary two-weeks’ notice. She supposed both she and Michael would be out of work, but they’d manage somehow.
“See you tomorrow, then.”
“Good-bye, Rick.”
Emily began to get ready for bed. She used Michael’s toothpaste, dried her face with his towel. Sliding between his sheets on the futon, she noticed that he slept with his pillow doubled over, just as their father had. Maybe there were ways that she knew him that she hadn’t noticed. Then, after turning off the light, she reached for her cell phone again.
“Hello?” came a voice on the other end.
In the brief silence that followed, Emily imagined Julian sitting in the dark by the phone, the vastness of what lay beyond the windows pressing in on him, just as it was on her.
“It’s me.” She took a deep breath. “I’m ready to talk now.”
CHAPTER 15
Upon Michael’s return, Beijing seems bizarrely big and modern, covered in billboards hawking bottled water and electronics, neon lights spelling out the names of Western companies. He stays in the same hotel as when he first arrived, which seems like the Four Seasons compared to where he stayed out west. Since his flight leaves the next afternoon, this is his last night in China.
Michael thinks of what he’s returning to: a lack of work, a lack of air-conditioning, a lack of quiet since he suspects David, Emily, and his mother will all want to know what he’s seen and done in China. Perhaps he’ll make it easier on everyone and have them convene in the same room, which means that his mother will meet David, but perhaps that’s unavoidable. Maybe that’s even what he intended, by disappearing in such a melodramatic fashion.
What hadn’t been dramatic in the least was coming out to his mother. Or, rather, being outed by Emily. He wonders if she knew before. It isn’t like they’d been around each other much besides the holidays since she left home to go to college. Also, when she moved away, he’d been a preteen, too distracted with the what and how of hormones to spend much time wondering why. Even when they did see each other, she was always preoccupied with work and her totally bourgeois life with her husband. But maybe it wasn’t so bad that Emily had paved the way for his conversation with his mother, softened the blow, and for that he is grateful.
He should, Michael thinks, get both his mother and sister some souvenirs. Maybe he’ll have time to do that the next morning, along with the other task he needs to accomplish. But for now, he’s intending to make the most of his last night in Beijing.
He decides to have an early dinner at a nearby restaurant that is literally a hole-in-the-wall, a place with concrete floors and folding stools instead of chairs. When people are finished with their food, they push the scraps onto the ground to be swept up later. Even after almost a week in this country Michael still doesn’t know what to order, so the waitress brings him two Beijing delicacies: one of shredded and spiced potatoes and the other of eggplant, green peppers, and potatoes cooked together—dishes he’s never seen before in the States. He washes everything down with the weak Chinese beer he’s grown to like.
Afterward, he takes a long, rambling walk. Apparently, he is in Haidian, the university district. He figures that where there are college students, there must be some kind of entertainment going on. He passes by gates manned by guard stations; these are far more prestigious universities than the one in Qinghai. The air is dense and sticky and permeated with the sound of thousands of cicadas chirping. So far all Michael can see are karaoke bars and more hole-in-the-wall-type restaurants. Nothing that looks like the kind of nightclub that Ben referred to. Michael has to admit that he’s curious as to what one looks like. Finally, a taxi driver catches on that he’s a foreigner and idles by the side of the street, asking him in serviceable English where he wants to go. “A club,” Michael says, without specifying what kind.
“Ka-la-okay?” the driver asks.
“What?” Michael blinks. The driver mimes holding a microphone.
As Michael tries to figure out a way to express himself, a small group of men starts to gather around them, made up of shop owners and a few passersby who look like they are students. One of the shop owners appears to think that he is lost. Another thinks that he’s looking for a place to stay and suggests the guesthouse his brother runs. Meanwhile, the taxi driver continues to mention places and different kinds of clubs, each seedier than the last, without hitting on the one that Michael is thinking of. Everyone is trying to be helpful, but in the end it just creates a lot of noise.
Finally one of the students steps forward and says in almost perfect English, “I know where you want to go.”
“You do?” Michael stares at the young man. He’s wearing tight black jeans and a black T-shirt, with his hair slicked back in a pompadour. Michael is reminded of the image he himself tried to project as a teenager: the Chinese greaser.
The young man smiles and gestures at the three other students with him. “Come with us. We are going to Jiu Ba Jie. Bar Street.”
For a moment Michael hesitates. But the boys look harmless, and besides, he is leaving tomorrow. What could happen? There’s enough time for one more adventure. So he gets into the passenger seat of the taxi, while his four new friends pile into the back. They are skinny enough that they can fit, laughing as they throw their legs over each other and jab elbows into each other’s sides.
Michael watches them through the rearview mirror. The one who had invited him seems to be the leader, and the best-looking out of all of them. There’s another whose face is unfortunately pocked with acne, and another who wears thick black-framed glasses. The fourth has hair cut short on the sides, in a rudimentary Mohawk. Something in the easy way that they banter with one another in Mandarin makes them seem younger than college students.
In the mirror Michael catches the eye of the ringleader. “What’s your name?” he asks.
“Donny.”
“Donny?” Michael almost bursts out laughing.
“It is my English name.” Donny introduces his friends, who have Chinese names that Michael immediately forgets.
The taxi is heading southeast on what Michael supposes is a Ring Road, although he isn’t sure which one. It looks like any freeway in America, passing by high-rise apartment buildings and even an IKEA. At times bicyclists can be seen peddling down a side street, but for the most part there are only cars and trucks on the road. The taxi takes an exit and immediately gets mired down in a jam of similar red vehicles, all apparently heading toward the same place. After a while, Donny and his friends pile out and motion for Michael to do the same.
Michael starts to hand the driver some bills, but Donny stops him.
“It is my treat,” he says.
Donny takes the lead down a warren of streets lit by strings of white lights. People sit outside underneath umbrellas bearing the name of some beer company while girls wearing short skirts and T-shirts printed with the same name loiter outside. The clientele appears to be mostly well-dressed, heavily made-up young Chinese women hanging on the arms of much older white men or wealthy-looking Chinese men. Otherwise, sloppily dressed foreigners mill about. Some Chinese and other languages can be h
eard, but a lot of the dialogue taking place, between the beer girls and their customers, the foreign men and their escorts, is in English.
Down a side street, there is a door from which a thumping bass can be heard. A man who looks too slight to be a bouncer takes more bills from Donny and allows passage into what appears to be a replica of an airplane hangar. Posters from American movies, no matter whether they are military movies or not, hang from the walls: comedies warring with gangster flicks, 1940s musicals with horror films. Fighter-jet propellers are suspended from the ceiling like idle fans. In the middle of the floor is a woman in a leopard-print bikini doing a pole dance; the effect would be sleazy if it weren’t so out of place. Everything about this scene is so stereotypically American that it can only be located outside of America.
Michael wonders if he has been taken to the right place. But when his eyes adjust to the dim light and haze of cigarette smoke that casts a pall over everything, he sees that almost all the people in the club are men. Aside from the occasional foreigner, most of them are Chinese. There are couples sitting at the tables on the side. Sometimes they just look like two Chinese men out for a drink, but there are also pairs of older white men with young Chinese men, in a dynamic very similar to the foreign men and Chinese women out on the streets.
“Do you want to dance?” Donny asks, raising his voice to be heard.
Michael shakes his head. “Can we sit down?” he shouts.
Donny finds a table, and a waiter takes their orders. The drinks here, Michael calculates, are as expensive as they are in the States, but when they arrive, appear to be watered down. Michael doesn’t even feel a buzz, but the faces of Donny and his friends rapidly turn red. Even though he can’t understand what they’re saying, being among them makes Michael think of his father and Liao Weishu and their Red Guard friends, although the setting and circumstances couldn’t be any more different. What would they think if they could see what Beijing was like forty-five years later, the flash of money and Western influence?