Linny knew she had almost reached the convention center when she caught a glimpse of the distant Ambassador Bridge that connected Detroit to Windsor, Canada. In the foreground the Renaissance Center, the skyscraper that used to have a revolving restaurant at the top, mirrored back the spring sky. It had once seemed romantic to Linny, before she knew what it was really like. Senior year in high school, she and her friends would drive all the way to Windsor because the drinking age there was eighteen. Some people preferred to take the eerie orange-lit tunnel but Linny liked the long wiry bridge and the way she could clearly see herself crossing from one country to another. Once in Windsor, they would head straight to the casinos, smoking and playing the ten-cent slots, pretending to be in Las Vegas. It had all seemed so innocent, full of play. The same as when Linny’s guitarist boyfriend called her “Yoko Ono.” She had laughed too, and it had taken years of dating enough guys to understand what the subtext meant. Linny wondered if Van had ever encountered fetishists—maybe the nerdy, engineering ones. As far as Linny knew, her sister had only dated one or two other guys before settling with Miles.
They had agreed to meet in the lobby of the convention center but the place was massive, a wide expanse of navy carpeting. Several conferences were going on, with signs pointing to hair care and chiropractic exhibits. Van had called Linny earlier in the week to report that their father’s audition would probably fall around the midafternoon; somehow he had procured a number guaranteeing a tryout. He’d checked in with Linny, too, to make sure she would be there.
Linny was about to dial Van’s cell phone when she saw her standing by a far pillar, under an electronic billboard that blinked 16th Annual DHA Members, Welcome!!!! Linny walked toward her just as Van started moving in the opposite direction. Linny sped up, wanting to call out, Wait for me. It was like being ten years old at SeaWorld, where their mother had taken them one time, and not knowing how to find the actual sea lion shows. Back then Linny decided all she had to do was let her sister, who never seemed to get lost, guide the way. Sure enough, they found the sea lions. Van could read maps; she stayed on course.
Linny followed her into the ladies’ bathroom. She reapplied her lip gloss and smoothed down her hair, motions that had become second nature to her. In one of the stalls a toilet flushed, sounding like a bowling ball hitting a strike, and Van emerged.
“Oh!” she said, startled, fixing the hem of her shirt over her pants. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Just now. Have you seen Dad yet? I was shocked that he didn’t call me while I was driving.”
Van washed her hands and Linny was struck by how briefly she glanced in the mirror. Didn’t pull any products from her bag, didn’t even seem to care that the side part in her hair lay crooked. “They’re already upstairs in the waiting area. You and I have to register first.”
“What do you mean, ‘they’?” Linny immediately thought of Nancy Bao but Van rolled her eyes.
“Your new boy toy Tom drove Dad here.”
“Really?” Linny swiveled toward the mirror again, checking her face one more time before Van led the way back to the lobby.
“Are you two together or something?” Van spoke the words with a tone of something like distaste.
“I only saw him at that party,” she answered. “We’re e-mailing. Why? You act like there’s something wrong with him.”
She shrugged. “I thought you didn’t date Asian guys.”
“That’s not true,” Linny argued, though she had to admit Tom was the first Vietnamese guy she’d ever really been interested in. She could imagine, suddenly, how her mother would have smiled at Tom, a little dimple showing in her right cheek that conveyed her approval. She would have fawned a little, talked too loudly so other people would know about his dental practice. And here he was, wasn’t he, a good Asian son, shuttling her own father to and from Wrightville.
It took them five more minutes of walking to locate the lone registration booth for Tomorrow’s Great Inventor. It looked like one of those kiosks where people hawked credit cards on college campuses. The plastic sign drooped in the middle.
“This is it?” Linny had expected it to be something akin to American Idol, with teams of producers wearing headsets and lines of geeky guys holding on tight to their secret inventions. Her father among them would stand proud, attaining at last his long-held goal nurtured from years of infomercials.
The girl at the registration table had Linny and Van write down their information on clipboarded sheets. They signed a confidentiality agreement and video release form, then received adhesive tags printed with the show’s logo.
“You’re all set,” the girl told them. She couldn’t have been older than twenty. “You can go on to the Oakland Room upstairs.”
“Do you know when the show will air on TV?” Linny asked.
The girl shrugged. “I’m not sure it’s been sold anywhere. My aunt’s a coproducer and I’m just helping out for the day.”
Linny mulled this over as she and Van took an escalator to the second floor. She doubted her father knew about the status of the show. She began to worry about how he might react if he got rejected, if some young judge dismissed his lifetime of products for short people. Mr. Luong had never yet appeared to waver in his confidence about his inventions, yet this moment, this hour at the convention center, seemed all too typical: the big break he had aimed for could turn out to be another false hope, another rotted shoe pulled up on the fishing line.
As they headed down a carpeted hallway, Van suddenly spoke up. “Miles called me.”
“What’d he say? What’d you say?” Linny talked too fast, glad that Van had brought up the subject.
They reached the doors of the Oakland Room. “Well, I took half the money out of our bank accounts.”
“Good,” Linny said. But then they were inside the waiting room and there was Mr. Luong, in the same navy sport coat from the citizenship ceremony, sitting next to Tom Hanh, who jumped up and waved. He looked like a bodyguard the way he hovered near Mr. Luong, and Linny realized he kind of was—he’d brought her father here, ushering him safely across the state. They stood out in the room of mostly white contestants, family members, and friends. Of course, the would-be inventors were easy to spot—gawky and fidgety, mostly a pale lot. Engineers past, present, and failed, Linny guessed. The last of the Science Olympiad hangers-on. Guys with video cameras were rolling tape but not much seemed to be happening. Linny felt a little let down, wishing for something grander for her father.
Tom crossed the room to greet them. “Hi, Van,” he said. “Hi, Linny.”
“You’ve known about this all along?” Linny asked.
“I helped him with the application a few months back,” he admitted.
“How?”
“Nancy Bao. She came to get her teeth cleaned and asked for my help. I guess your dad doesn’t use the Internet and Nancy barely understands e-mail, but she saw an ad for the tryout in a magazine. I was going to tell you at the party, but then I thought I would surprise you.”
Linny was actually filled with relief that he was here. “Thanks for doing all of this.”
Van, clearly losing patience, moved ahead of them to sit down with Mr. Luong.
“Hey, Dad,” Linny said as she and Tom reached their row of saved seats. “Good luck today.” She had never known how to greet him. Her voice came out stilted, careful-sounding.
“You girls been taking your time,” he said with a scowl. He studied a crinkled page of notes, the cuffs of his pale yellow oxford shirt peeking out from the sleeves of his jacket. He had the Luong Arm and the Luong Eye near him, tucked in a box, plus a suitcase, and a ladder that stood behind the chairs.
“What’s with the ladder?” Linny asked.
“Shh. It’s for the show,” her father said.
“I’m sure you’ll do well,” Van told him, like a schoolteacher. She knotted the straps of her purse in her lap.
“Did you see the cameras?” He nodded his
head toward the video guys across the room. “Be careful what you say. They catch everything. They’ve got to make the best TV.”
“Did someone already interview you?” Linny asked.
She was glad when he answered, “Not yet. I see some other guys talking to them but I’m going to wait. It’s almost my turn.” He pointed toward a set of double doors. At that moment they opened and a man in plaid pants emerged, unsmiling, carrying a contraption that appeared to be made up of small wheels. “Guess he got the reject too. So far that’s everyone except two people.” He looked back at the papers in his hand. Linny could see English and Vietnamese words mixed together, with underlines and exclamation points.
“We’ve been here about three hours,” Tom said.
Mr. Luong had always claimed independence, saying no one could boss him or tell him what to do, but in truth, people were always helping him. Even when he and Mrs. Luong fought she still left meals for him and kept the rice cooker on warm. She made sure the basement bathroom was stocked with enough toilet paper and sometimes she left the newspaper leaning against the door for him. And how many times had she, Linny, and Van gone to the stairwell to listen for music? If the telltale Vietnamese folk and opera songs were playing, they knew Mr. Luong would be at work in his studio, which meant he couldn’t be disturbed. They had flowed around him, treated him like a stubborn rock in a river. When late at night Mrs. Luong would sometimes awaken, frightened by the sound of explosions and fistfights playing out on the basement TV, she rarely told her husband to turn the volume down. Epic action movies were what he liked, disaster films, the more outlandish the better, and Linny and Van had watched them too. Even now Van was still sending him checks, and they both still traveled back home to clean up the house and look in on him. For all of his independence, Mr. Luong needed many people in his life.
Van, looking restless, checked her watch and excused herself. “I’ll be back,” she said to Mr. Luong before he could object.
Tom caught up Linny on how many people had gone to and from the audition area. Mr. Luong fidgeted, shifting his legs and reaching into his coat pocket as if he’d forgotten something important there. It took a while for Linny to understand: this was as important to him as citizenship, the first time he had truly struck free of his own basement. It was a moment of exposure, and Linny hadn’t even considered that until now.
“So what do you get if you win?” she asked, wanting to encourage him in some way.
“Being famous and having a hundred thousand dollars,” he answered. “That’s a lot of commitment.”
Someone flung open the double doors and yelled, “Number three-oh-six!”
A man with a layer of sweat on his bald head leaped to his feet. He had a giant metal case that looked like it held a trombone.
“He looks sick,” Mr. Luong said. Then, “I wish we didn’t wait so long.”
“It’s going to be fine,” Linny said, though she didn’t manage to make the words sound convincing. Was that all she could come up with? “I think your inventions are great. I use the Luong Arm all the time.”
Her father’s face swung toward her. “You do?”
“Yeah,” Linny said, though it wasn’t true. “And there are tons of short people out there.”
“Of course. But don’t say anything too loud. I don’t want anyone to steal the idea. Where your sister go?”
A few minutes later the sweaty bald guy burst into the room and shouted, “I’m going to Las Vegas!” His family started shrieking and the camera guys moved in. Even Mr. Luong looked excited.
“Now it’s finally like TV,” he said with satisfaction. “Where’s Van? Linh, go get her.”
“I’m sure she’ll be back.”
“Go get her.”
So Linny did as she was told and wandered out into the hallway, where Van, apparently, had been all along. She was leaning against the low windowsill, her arms crossed, backed by a view of long stretches of parking garage.
“You’re missing all the excitement. Some guy just got the green light for the next round. He’s all in a lather.”
Van didn’t crack a smile. “Did Dad tell you to go fetch me?”
“Of course he did. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What do you mean, what’s wrong with me?”
Linny had momentarily forgotten. “Sorry,” she said. While Van stared into space, Linny went on, “I thought you were doing a good thing. Taking out your half of the money?”
“It’s an aggressive action.”
“You should have taken all of it.”
“He might file now, after this.”
“File for divorce? Why don’t you do it first?” Linny couldn’t believe that her sister, in spite of everything that had happened, still seemed not to grasp the state of her marriage. It gave Linny a strange sense of having changed places, of having become the older sister.
“You don’t understand the way Miles works.” Van opened her purse and let the magnetic closure snap it shut again. She did this two, three times.
“You know what I think of him. He’s a phony. One of those I’m-so-self-aware Asian American guys.”
“Actually, he’s an optimist, even if that seems phony to you.”
“I can’t believe you’re defending him.”
“It was a mistake to follow him.”
“Where is this coming from?” Linny leaned against the windowsill too, lowering her voice as two men rode up the escalator and headed toward the Oakland Room. They didn’t look like inventors—more like Gary types, the kind who did vague finance work. One of them turned to stare at Linny and Van and when Linny looked back he gave a little smile.
“Jesus Christ,” Van said, not missing a thing. “You’re like Blanche Devereaux on The Golden Girls.”
Linny laughed. “I love that show.”
“I know. We used to watch it when we were kids.”
“He was looking at both of us, by the way. If you pay attention, it’s not hard to see what guys are thinking. Most of the time they’re pretty transparent.” Van emitted a little scoffing noise, the kind their mother used to make. “It’s true,” Linny insisted, though she didn’t have the exact words to explain it to her sister. Maybe it took years of practice, years of gauging the expressions of interest that flickered over a guy’s face. “Haven’t you ever played the Asian card, just for fun?”
Van looked disgusted.
“You know how there are these white guys with Asian fetishes.” Linny blushed, thinking of Pren and Gary. She knew she should shut up but she kept going. “You can manipulate them. For fun. Use that fetishizing against them.”
“This is just—” Van uncrossed her arms, letting her hands fly out. “Absurd.”
“You have to know how to keep the power.”
“It’s always a little game for you,” Van burst out. “If it’s not Tom, it’s someone else. If it’s not someone else, it’s yet another someone else. It’s not like that for everyone.”
And that was when Linny finally began to understand: her sister thought she was losing a life, not just a husband. Linny had been so fixed on her own dislike of Miles that she hadn’t truly considered that maybe the continuity of Van’s days had depended on having him there, directing the next turn, the next event.
Linny’s mind floated back to Tom in the waiting room, and what would happen between them from here. Soon he would visit her in Chicago, hurry up the three flights of stairs to where Gary had stood not so long ago, surveying her unmade bed.
It wasn’t Tom, she realized, whom she had to tell about Gary and Pren. It was Van.
So she said it. “I just broke things off with a married guy.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Van exploded. She pushed herself away from the windowsill, from Linny’s proximity. “Are you trying to be smug? Are you trying to rub it in?”
“No! I was trying to tell you something else. To reciprocate.”
“You’re messed up.”
Linny had
never heard such trembling anger, such hurt, in her sister’s voice. She wanted to lie to her, cover up what she’d said, smooth things out. But she couldn’t. The thin veil that had bound them closer together these past few weeks was dissolving.
“It’s been over for a while,” she explained hurriedly, feeling like a little girl again, no longer the older sister. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”
But Van just got madder. “I don’t want to hear it. There you were, acting all self-righteous to Miles. How can you call him a hypocrite? How can you have all these accusations about Nancy Bao when you’re worse than she is? I don’t have to stay around for this.”
She ran to the escalator. Linny, following, wanted to respond in full—I’m not Grace, Grace is not me, I’m not Nancy Bao; the situations are different—but her voice faltered. A South Indian couple passed them on the up escalator and she didn’t want them to hear. The woman, wearing a brilliant turquoise outfit, nonetheless stared right into Linny’s eyes as if discerning the entire story.
“You can’t leave. Dad hasn’t had his audition yet,” Linny called after Van as the escalator began to flatten out to the first floor.
“I don’t care.”
“He won’t understand.”
“Why don’t you take care of things for a change?”
Van didn’t even glance over her shoulder as she spoke. She kept walking, not the slightest hesitation in her step as she reached the row of revolving doors.
Upstairs, Linny took a minute to calm herself before going back into the Oakland Room.
“Where’ve you been?” her father demanded, getting up from his chair so fast he dropped his notes. “Where’s Van?”
“She had to go.” Linny retrieved the notes for him, noticing that one page had the Randy Newman line written in large print and underlined. Was he going to incorporate that in his audition somehow?
“Go where? I got to go in that room.”
Tom, worried, said, “Is everything okay?”
Linny nodded as the headset guy popped into the waiting area and shouted her father’s number.
“I told you,” he said to Linny. Grabbing hold of the box that held the Luong Arm and Eye, he made a move toward the door, then stopped. He looked so nervous that Linny felt afraid for him. “I need to get all this in there,” he muttered.
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