Free Food for Millionaires (65 page)
In the backyard, Casey lit her cigarette and inhaled. White roses climbed the green trellised wall. They had faded a bit, but the smell was glorious. Irene’s toys were strewn about, and Casey felt comfortable seated on the Chinese ceramic stool. She would leave after her cigarette. Ella couldn’t really expect her to stay. What was the point of it?
She heard the sliding glass door opening.
“Wonder Woman, where are your cuffs?”
Casey smiled at him. A patch of gray streaked Unu’s forelock. He looked good to her, less tired than before. He smiled at her, too.
“I had planned on leaving after this cigarette.”
“Am I so awful that you’d run away?”
She shook her head no. “I’m sorry that I’m here. I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to—”
“Sit, please. Ella sent me out here to convince you to stay for lunch. She misses you terribly.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Do you?”
“We’re ridiculous.”
“Yes,” he said. “How was your summer?”
“I got the offer.”
“Are you going to take it?”
“Why did you ask me that?” she asked. No one else had asked her that except for Charlie Seedham.
“Because you hate it there.”
“I don’t hate it.”
“Okay, you don’t like it.”
“I don’t like it,” she said calmly.
“In a way, it’s tragic when you can do something you don’t like,” he said.
“Will you like teaching?” She felt like arguing with him.
“I don’t know. But I will try it.”
“Fair enough.” Casey hesitated for a moment before saying, “I wanted to ask you about my things.”
“I was evicted. Your things are gone.” He had been practicing this statement in his mind for some time, not knowing exactly when he’d have to recite it. “The landlord took them and probably sold them. I’m sorry. I will pay you back.” This was one of the steps from GA—making amends or something like that.
“Everything?” Casey put her hand to her mouth.
“Everything.”
“Oh. My.”
There were no more cigarettes left in her pack. Her purse was inside the house.
“Wow,” she said.
“If you make a list of what you had and tell me how much it was—”
“No.” She closed her eyes. “I guess we’re even.”
“No. We’re not, Casey.”
She opened her eyes and blinked, hurt by what he’d said. “I am sorry about what I did. I do regret that.”
“And I’m sorry that I didn’t—”
Casey shook her head. She didn’t want any apologies.
“Hey, I have missed you.”
Casey nodded, but she couldn’t face him. She clasped her hands together. “I don’t think I’m going to take the offer.”
“Good.”
“I don’t think I’m going back to business school.” The words just came out. She could never keep anything from him, though she hadn’t known this last thing herself. Unu had seen her act a fool, yet in all the time he’d known her, he hadn’t judged. Then she’d hurt him. It had meant a lot to have his respect. His company. His friendship. “I don’t think I can, Unu.”
“Even better.” Unu reached over, his large hand enveloping hers.
She pulled her hand away gently. There was a plastic tub of street chalk on Irene’s child-size picnic table. With yellow and green chalk, Casey drew a row of tulips on the slate-paved ground. The heads of the tall flowers resembled giant soft-boiled eggs with their shell tops cut off, their edges crimped simply.
“Grown-up life is harder than I thought,” he said.
“You’re not kidding.” They both chuckled.
“Why don’t you make hats?” he said.
She almost laughed. “There’s no money in that.”
“Since when did you want money?”
She stopped herself from calling him “private-school boy.”
“Are you really not going to finish business school?” he asked.
It sounded so much worse to hear the word
finish
, as if she were leaving something undone. She put down the chalk and dusted off her hands, then sat down again.
“I just can’t see it.” She tried to imagine herself as a milliner; that was not impossible. “And the loans—”
“It would be stupid to get into more debt if you don’t need the degree.”
“My life has become stupid.”
Unu moved closer to her and kissed her.
He pulled away first.
“Casey, you lack nothing.”
“I am living in someone else’s guest room, and I can put all of my possessions in one suitcase. And so can you.”
Unu didn’t flinch. “It’s temporary. I’m not ashamed of that. I’ve helped others.”
“Yes.” She bit her lip. “You helped me.”
“Casey, I wouldn’t want you to become one of those hard people.” He placed his hands beneath her wrists and held them gently. “They’re so bare without them.”
Casey studied the underside of her pale wrists. Loose braids of thin blue veins ran up her arms.
From the kitchen, Irene tapped on the glass door, despite her mother having forbidden her to disturb Uncle Unu and Aunt Casey outside. They turned to see her and waved. Irene tapped some more, smiling.
Unu picked up a piece of purple chalk. Hunching over, he drew long stalks of grass framing her flowers.
She fell softly on her knees and began to color in the petals, and Unu joined her on the ground and began to draw a tree.
I want to thank my superb agent Bill Clegg, who is both wise and kind. I feel fortunate to have his keen insights and steady counsel. I am grateful to Suzanne Gluck for her faith and passion, and to Matt Hudson, Matt Lewis, Alicia Gordon, Cathryn Summerhayes, Caroline Michel, Shana Kelly, Tracy Fisher, and Raffaella De Angelis for their tireless efforts on my behalf. I owe an enormous debt to my incomparable editor Amy Einhorn, whose intelligence and care shine throughout this book. I am grateful to Jamie Raab and to the marvelous Emily Griffin, who patiently answers all of my many questions. I would like to acknowledge the inspired work of Tanisha Christie and Anne Twomey. Much thanks to Chris Barba, Emi Battaglia, Judy DeBerry, Kim Dower, Linda Duggins, Randy Hickernell, Mindy Im, John Leary, Kelly Leonard, Jill Lichtenstadter, Tom McIntyre, Tareth Mitch, Martha Otis, Bruce Paonessa, Miriam Parker, Les Pockell, Jennifer Romanello, Judy Rosenblatt, Roger Saginario, Renee Supriano, William Tierney, Karen Torres, and Sona Vogel.
A number of kindhearted and patient individuals agreed to be interviewed for a work of fiction—no small act of trust—and gave of their time to explain many difficult things to me. Thanks to Linda Ashton, Ana Bolivar, James Calver, Ben Cosgrove, Lacy Crawford, Christopher Duffy, Alexa du Pont, Stuart Ellman, Chris Gaito, Shinhee Han, Alex Hungate, Brian Kelly, Lisa Kevorkian, Alex Kinmont, Hali Lee, Jin Lee, Dr. John Mastrobattista, Christopher Mansfield, Anthony Perna, Dr. Mary Rivera-Casamento, Catherine Salisbury, and Ginee Seo.
I am deeply grateful for the friendship of Lynn Ahrens, Jonathan Angles, Harold Augenbraum, Shawn Behlen, Susan Berger Ellman, Ayesha Bulchandani-Mathrani, Kitty Burke, Lauren Cerand, Alison and Peter Davies, Steven Fetherhuff, Sam George, Susan Guerrero, Sarah Glazer and Fred Khedouri, Wendi Kaufman, Henry Kellerman, Robin Kelly, Wendy Lamb, Diane Middlebrook, Nancy Miller, Tony and Sue O’Connor, David and Michael Ouimette, Kyongsoo Paik, Jennifer Peck, Lois Perelson-Gross, Peter Petre, Sharon Pomerantz, Iris San Guiliano, Angella Son, Sally Steenland, Lauren Kunkler Tang, Jeannette Watson Sanger, Kamy Wicoff, and Donna and Neil Wilcox.
I’d like to thank Speer Morgan and Evelyn Somers of
The Missouri Review
, Carol Edgarian and Tom Jenks of
Narrative Magazine
, Quang Bao of the Asian American Writers Workshop, and the New York Foundation for the Arts for their invaluable support.
I am indebted to Elizabeth Cuthrell for her intelligence, encouragement, and goodness. Robin Marantz Henig has taught me much about literary excellence and artistic community through her work and life. Elizabeth and Robin gave me a book when I didn’t have one. Bob Ouimette has offered solace in the writing of this work and continually teaches me about the meaning of friendship. Thanks to Rosey Grandison, whose love and labor permitted me to write. It was Dionne Bennett who saw this book first and whose love and insights have been indispensable to me since we were girls. Dionne, you made me believe that it was possible. Thanks to my family for their love, sacrifice, and faithfulness.
And finally, my darling Christopher and Sam: You are my sunshine.
M
IN
J
IN
L
EE
went to Yale, where she was awarded both the Wright Prize for Nonfiction and the Veech Prize for Fiction. She has received the New York Foundation for the Arts Fellowship for Fiction, the Peden Prize from the
Missouri Review
for Best Story, and the Narrative Prize for New and Emerging Writer. Her work has also been featured on NPR’s Selected Shorts and anthologized in
To Be Real
(Doubleday, 1995) and
Breeder
(Seal Press, 2001). She lives in New York with her husband and son.
