A Good Family

by A. H. Kim

  My niece Claire has been full of surprises ever since her conception. And now here she is, surprising me again as the opening act of Princeton Country Day School’s annual Indigenous People’s Day celebration.

  “Indigenous People’s Day?” I asked when Sam called me.

  “Yeah, it’s like Columbus Day, but the PC version,” Sam explained.

  “Is this assembly a big deal?”

  “Claire would really like you to come,” Sam said.

  It was an invitation I couldn’t refuse.

  The school auditorium is packed. We’re lucky to have found two seats together in the fifth row. Looking around at the well-dressed audience makes me wonder: Don’t any of these people have jobs? I had to take a whole vacation day from work to attend.

  “Why do you send Claire here, Sam? It must cost a fortune.”

  “We can afford it,” Sam says unconvincingly. “Anyway, Claire’s thriving here.”

  “Claire?” Ally interrupts. “Where’s Claire? I wanna see Claire.”

  “You really love your big sister, don’t you?” I say.

  Ally nods excitedly.

  “You know the only thing better than a big sister?” I ask.

  Ally waits, her bright eyes gleaming.

  “A little sister,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze.

  The auditorium goes dark, and the heavy velvet curtains open. Claire stands in the middle of the stage, all alone, illuminated by a spotlight. Wearing her hair in two long braids and dressed in a faux buckskin outfit, Claire makes a convincing Sacagawea. From backstage, a piano starts playing a familiar tune. It’s “Day by Day” from Godspell.

  “State by state,” Claire starts singing. “State by state. Here we go, we can’t be late.”

  Claire’s voice is clear and true. She seems completely comfortable in the limelight, with not a hint of stage fright. Soon, Claire is surrounded by a group of pint-size Indigenous people who join her in song. I edge my way to the front of the auditorium to take some photos to include in my next weekly letter to Beth. After the song ends, Claire and her classmates clasp hands and bow like regular Broadway veterans.

  Next up, it’s the first graders, who’ll be doing a rendition of Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” in honor of Crazy Horse. I look down at the program. It’s going to be a long time until the eighth graders get onstage to sing their version of “Seasons of Love” for Leonard Peltier. Thankfully, after the third graders finish singing, we get a break for intermission. Everyone shuffles out of the stuffy auditorium for some coffee, juice and cookies in the school library. A pack of parents sneaks off toward the exit. Sam looks desperate to join them.

  “Hey, Sam,” someone says, slapping my brother on the back.

  We turn and see Beth’s older brother, Martin, and his wife, Karen. Martin’s wearing a navy blazer with gold buttons and fancy silk pocket square, his silver-streaked hair slicked back like a diplomat’s. Karen’s formfitting wrap dress accentuates her freckled cleavage and tanned, toned calves. The two of them give off a glamorous, almost golden gleam, like Hollywood celebrities or European royalty. Everything about them looks expensive.

  “Hey, Martin, glad you could make it,” Sam says. He grabs Martin’s hand and bumps shoulders in the way I imagine frat brothers greet one another. “And, Karen, you look simply spectacular.” Sam gives Karen a kiss on the cheek.

  “Of course we’re here,” Martin replies. “It’s not every day that your niece invites you to be her honored guests at her first school performance.” He glances over at me with mild interest. “Oh, I see Hannah’s here, too.”

  “Hannah, it’s so good to see you,” Karen says warmly. “And, Ally, my gosh, you’ve grown so big since the summer!” Ally ignores her aunt and asks me for help poking the straw into her juice box. Karen grabs a handful of cookies from the reception table. The gold bangles on her wrist make a pretty tinkling sound as she wraps the cookies in a paper napkin and sticks them in her designer handbag.

  “Ally, I saw a really fun-looking swing set out back,” Karen says. “How ’bout the three of us go outside to play instead of going back to the show?” Ally agrees right away.

  “What about Sam and Martin?” I ask as Karen leads us toward the exit. I glance over at the two men engaged in serious conversation. Sam doesn’t look happy. In fact, he looks almost angry.

  “Oh, let’s leave them alone,” Karen says with false cheer. “Boys will be boys, you know? Anyway, I think they have some business they need to discuss.”

  “Business? What business?”

  Karen purses her perfectly glossed lips.

  “I’m not sure I should have said anything,” she says.

  “Karen, please. We’re family.” The words feel strange coming out of my mouth. Looking at us from the outside—a statuesque, strawberry blonde beauty and a short, middle-aged Korean woman—no one would suspect we’re related.

  “Please don’t tell Sam I told you,” Karen says.

  “Of course,” I assure her.

  “You obviously don’t know, Hannah,” she says, “but Sam owes us quite a lot of money.”

  My face flushes with shame. Sam has never been good with finances, but I didn’t realize he had gotten to the point of owing money to Beth’s brother. Before I have a chance to ask Karen for details, Ally runs out the door and to the schoolyard.

  “Help me, Auntie Hannah!” Ally shouts from the swing set.

  Karen and I walk over to Ally. I lift my niece onto the swing, tell her to hold on tight and push her high. She squeals in pure joy.

  “The girls seem to be doing well,” Karen says, changing the subject.

  “Yes,” I reply, “they are. It’s strange—except for that first phone call with Beth, the girls don’t even seem to notice that their mother is missing.” There’s a catch in my voice, a surprising lump in my throat. Even worse than going to prison, it seems to me, would be to go to prison and not be missed.

  “Well, Beth was always working late or traveling,” Karen explains, “so the girls are used to being apart from her. They cry when she leaves but soon get over it. Out of sight, out of mind. That’s how children are.”

  I think about Karen’s statement and wonder: Are adults any different? Sam seems to be unaffected by Beth’s absence. The day after dropping her off at Alderson, Sam was back at the country club giving private golf lessons to his executive clients by day and sipping cocktails with them at night. Then again, what choice does he have? The Princeton Country Club is unlikely to offer leave for spousal incarceration.

  “Young children don’t have a great sense of time,” Karen says. “An hour seems like an eternity, two weeks go by like nothing. As long as you keep the rest of their routine in place—school, nanny, friends—they should be fine. At least for a while.” We both watch as Ally pumps her little legs, swinging her body higher and higher toward the cloudless blue sky.

  “Thankfully they’re both young,” Karen continues. “Ally’s only three. She won’t even remember these years when she grows up.” Karen’s casual observation causes me to wonder: Time and memory are so mysterious; what is it we choose to remember, and what is it we simply forget?

  My earliest memory is of going grocery shopping with my mom when I was just around Ally’s age. I distinctly remember blinking at the overhead fluorescent lights and being transfixed by the colorful jars of baby food as they clinked their way down the bouncy black conveyer belt. I also remember the kindly grocer with the white hair, who smiled as he gave us two bright red helium balloons knotted with red-and-white-striped cotton string. My mom tied one to the shopping cart and gave me the other to hold. When we left the supermarket, my mom untied the balloon from the shopping cart, and a gust of wind blew it out of her hand. As we watched the balloon drift out of reach and into the sky, I let go of the balloon in my own hand.

  I remember thinking the t
wo balloons belonged together.

  * * *

  It’s past six o’clock by the time I get home from Princeton. While I wait for my Lean Cuisine dinner to heat up in the microwave, I start my due diligence on Martin. Sitting at the dining table, I open my laptop and Google Martin’s name. The first hit is the website for some business called EMC Partners. Martin’s listed as one of two cofounders; the other is a light-skinned black man with a broad smile. I peruse the site, but it’s oddly devoid of substantive content. When I click the tabs labeled “Our Clients” and “Our Services,” they just say “Under Construction.”

  Going back to the search results, I find several Federal Election Commission reports of Martin’s donations to various congressional candidates, all of them Republican. The amounts are generous but not outrageous. There are photos of Martin with those same congressmen (they all seem to be men) at golf tournaments, gala charity fund-raisers, the occasional self-promotional book signing. The microwave beeps. I go back into the kitchen, transfer the food onto a plate and pour myself a glass of wine.

  More search results provide more details into Martin’s life. His LinkedIn profile reveals he went to Dartmouth College and St. Albans Prep in DC. His Facebook page is a veritable brag book of his photogenic family: Martin and Karen’s two blonde daughters performing in the local production of The Nutcracker; Karen’s son, Max, bodychecking a burly opponent on the lacrosse field; the entire family wearing matching red-and-green outfits and posing for their Christmas card photo. A Blockshopper listing of their Colonial house in Alexandria says it was built in 1846, remodeled in 2010 and appraised at over four million dollars last year. As I scroll through the professional photographs of their designer-decorated rooms, I imagine Martin and Karen with their three perfect children living their perfect all-American lives.

  The remaining pages of search results are useless, filled with articles about other Martin Lindstroms in other cities and countries. I close the search window and click the CorrLinks icon—the special email service I had to set up and pay a monthly fee to email Beth in prison—and start writing. I write about Claire’s star turn as Sacagawea, Ally’s adventures on the swing set, the delicious lunch Maria prepared for the family. My hands hover over the keyboard as I remember the rest of the day. The cursor blinks at me expectantly.

  Do you know why Sam would owe Martin money? I type.

  And then I delete the question. There’s no reason to give Beth more reason to worry.

  lise

  From the deposition of Lise Danielsson in United States of America et al. v. God Hälsa AB, Andreas Magnusson and Elizabeth Lindstrom

  Q: You testified earlier that Ms. Lindstrom didn’t meet you until a few days after your arrival in the US.

  A: Yeah, that’s right. Beth’s away from home a lot.

  Q: When did you first meet her husband, Mr. Min?

  A: Sam? I met him that first night.

  Q: The first night you arrived in the US?

  A: Yeah, that’s right.

  Q: Did the driver and cook...

  A: Jorge and Maria?

  Q: Yes, did the two of them stay with you that night?

  A: Oh no, Jorge and Maria have their own house.

  Q: So it was just you and Mr. Min in the Princeton house that first night?

  A: And Claire.

  Q: Yes, the two of you and the baby.

  A: Yeah, that’s right.

  Q: Did that make you nervous?

  A: Nervous? Why would it make me nervous?

  Q: You were sixteen, newly arrived from a foreign country, spending the night alone with a strange man.

  A: Well, I wouldn’t put it that way exactly.

  Q: How would you put it then?

  A: First of all, Sam isn’t a strange man. I mean, he’s really nice. And superhot. He kinda looks like that guy from The Fast and the Furious, you know?

  Q: No, I’m not familiar with that film. So did you or did you not spend that first night alone with Mr. Min?

  A: Absolutely not.

  Q: But earlier you testified...

  A: Sam and I just talked that first night. We didn’t spend the night together until at least a whole month later.

  beth

  ten

  It’s late October, and Alderson’s having a heat wave. Indian summer, we used to call it growing up. I wonder if people say that anymore or if it’s one of those newly forbidden phrases like “getting gypped” and “that’s so lame.”

  At God Hälsa, the senior director of Diversity and Inclusion always made sure to tell me whenever I said anything that could offend anyone.

  What a bitch.

  Juanita and I are at the beach. That’s what everyone calls the upper part of the Alderson compound where inmates go to sunbathe. Juanita told me the BOP has rules about the approved attire for sunbathing. Of course. The BOP has rules about frickin’ everything.

  Per the BOP, the minimum clothing required is a sleeveless T-shirt and shorts. T-shirts can be rolled up to expose the lower back and stomach area. Shorts should completely cover the ass and upper thigh. Underwear must be worn at all times and can’t be visibly exposed. Inmates have to keep a respectful distance from one another. No physical contact is allowed.

  Looking around the beach, I’m struck by the complete lack of vanity among my fellow federal campers. Cellulite be damned, these women are putting all their assets on full display. A group of especially raucous ladies from B Unit—the Ghetto, everyone calls it—are singing “Baby Got Back” by Sir Mix-a-Lot and shaking their ample asses.

  “Aren’t you hot in that long-sleeve shirt?” Juanita asks. Even from four feet away, I can smell the cocoa butter she’s slathered on her tawny skin.

  “I’m Scandinavian,” I say. “I don’t just freckle—I metastasize.”

  I press my pointer finger against my thigh. Damn, I’m already turning pink. I reach for the Banana Boat SPF 50 and apply another coat.

  “Hey, chica, check that out,” Juanita says, pointing down the hill.

  Deb the Destroyer is walking toward the beach. I almost don’t recognize her at first. I’ve only ever seen her in her prison uniform, which is unflattering for most women but especially for plus-size women like her.

  “Deb never comes out to the beach,” Juanita says.

  “Who knew she had such nice tits?” I say.

  “Watch what you say,” Juanita whispers. “Word from the Ghetto is that Deb’s looking for a new girlfriend. You don’t want to get in her line of vision.”

  “How could I not be in her line of vision?”

  “Ay, mierda, she’s headed this way,” Juanita says.

  Deb saunters over to the spot where Juanita and I have staked a claim.

  “Okay if I sit here?” Deb asks.

  Without waiting for a response, Deb lays down a threadbare white towel and squeezes between me and Juanita. So much for our respectful distance. Deb rolls up the sleeves of her plain white T-shirt and hikes up her shorts. Deb’s body is covered in tattoos; some look professional, but most look prison.

  “Like your artwork,” I say.

  “Thanks,” Deb replies. She stretches out her arms and legs to give me a better view.

  Deb walks me through the story of her life as told in body graffiti. A Pokémon character for a twelve-year-old nephew who got shot in a drive-by walking home from school. A pink ribbon for a female cousin who died of breast cancer. Hand-stenciled initials and numbers to commemorate friends and family lost to the toxic stew of drugs, crime and poverty.

  “And this,” she says, pointing to her inner thigh, “this is for my girl.”

  There’s a crudely drawn 3-D square etched into Deb’s skin. The tattoo appears to be new; it’s still red in some spots, scabbing over in others.

  “Nice,” I lie. “What is it?”

  �
�A sugar cube,” she says. “Her name was Sugar. We were bunkies for almost five years before she got out last spring. And now she’s dead.”

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  Deb shakes her head.

  “Fucking drugs,” she says. “D’you know more people die every year from legal drugs than illegal ones? You wouldn’t know that from looking at the folks doing time, but it’s true.”

  “You don’t say,” I reply.

  Juanita gives me the side-eye. She’s the only person at Alderson I’ve talked to about what I did before prison. About what got me into prison.

  “Fuck, it’s hot out here,” Deb says. “Can one of you rub that shit on my backside?” She points to the tube of Banana Boat in my hand and lies down on her belly.

  By now, the entire beach is staring in our direction. I smile and wave to the crowd like the goddamn Queen of England. I flip open the cap on the Banana Boat, squeeze out a generous dollop on the backs of Deb’s thighs and massage it in.

  Some rules were just meant to be broken.

  Seeing Deb strut her way onto the beach reminds me of the day Sam literally splashed his way onto the Princeton social scene. It was almost twelve years ago, soon after I was made VP of Marketing. God Hälsa was hosting a lavish but tasteful summer party at the country club for our key clients, and I made sure everything was perfect.

  Cloudless skies.

  Aquamarine pool.

  Open bar.

  It was your standard guest list. White-haired men sipping G&Ts in candy-colored golf shirts and seersucker Bermuda shorts. Young female drug reps dressed to kill and showing off their wares. Trophy wives keeping their husbands close and their talons sharp.