Native Speaker (25 page)

The last big story is a fire. It is burning even now. A two-alarm blaze at the main offices of City Councilman John Kwang, and the building next door. The cause is suspicious. Witnesses say there was a small explosion around 9
P.M.
There are no official reports as yet of injuries or fatalities. It happened too late, authorities think, for anyone to be inside. The witnesses saw two men in ski masks running from the alley. Then the windows blew out. The pictures show the street in chaos, the burning frame of a car parked out front. The back part of the building is ferociously spewing smoke and a girl on the street is crying and pointing at something and covering her mouth. I know Kwang was in Washington, D.C., this afternoon, and we now see him stepping from the shuttle gate at La Guardia, rushing out to his car, Jenkins rushing with him, and then Sherrie Chin-Watt. None of them will comment.

We stop watching and lie back and wait for the weather forecast but we don't hear it. There is a perfect calm in the bed, and then Lelia gets up and shuts off the television. When she comes back she is looking up at the plastered ceiling, her arms folded, pinning the sheet tight against her chest. I turn off my light. Then she clicks off her side. It's pitch dark. We've made love just a little before but now I notice how conscious I am of touching her. She is perfectly still. I can't even hear her breathing.

“God,” she says, the awe quieting her voice. “Good god. You could have been there.”

“Maybe,” I say.

She rolls into me, nearly on top of me. She whispers close, “He's safe.”

“Yes.”

“Who did this?” she asks.

“I don't know,” I say, the possibilities firing in my head, though most of them involve Dennis, and now even Jack, the two of them watching the blaze from the periphery.

“Do we need to go back now?”

“No,” I tell her. “We'll go in the morning.”

“I feel ill,” she says, getting up. She stumbles to the bathroom. I follow her and hold her shoulders as she gets sick into the toilet.

“I'm sorry, Henry,” she says, turning on the tap. “I'm all right now.”

I don't say any more. I can't. I walk her back through the dark room to the bed. We lie down and in a few minutes she's so quiet that for a second I think she's dead. I put my fingers near her mouth to check. She's just breathing faintly, not yet asleep.

Now I'm scarcely breathing myself. This is wont with my training in the face of sudden turns or shifts in events. But I'm square in the fear. If you're skilled you don't try to steel yourself, you actually do the opposite, you let yourself go, completely, Hoagland told me once, like you are sitting on the toilet, you loosen a certain muscle. It's a classic NKVD trick, and if you're careful and practiced it works without disaster. Old Soviets know. You are serene as Siberia.

Once, I do it perfectly. Maybe for years. A child of mine is somehow dead. He is no longer inhabiting our life. I watch my wife go out every morning to wander about the grounds of my father's house, poking in the bushes and the trees for hours at a time, as if to follow his last tracks. One morning she returns with objects in her hands, pretty rocks and twigs and big oak leaves, and she sits down silently at the small table in our garage apartment to construct a little house. She works slowly. I watch her from the corner, where I often read. Eventually, the rocks show a path, she raises walls with the twigs, and the canopy of leaves she blows gently with her breath, to make sure its utility. She peers inside, expressionless. She blows harder and then leaves it. Then she crawls back into bed.

The twig house sits there for days. Lelia cries on and off. She seems to live in the bed. I don't speak to her then. I try my best to ignore her. This, I think at the time, is best for us both. I will attempt to eat at the table, or read the newspaper there, but it's so small and rickety that any wrong movement endangers the house. Finally one day I find it outside, at the far end of my father's lawn, perfectly intact right down to the rocks. I look back to the garage, to the big house. I don't see anyone in the windows, including the small oval of the secret room, but I think she is watching me, to witness what I might do. I kneel down before it. Pick it apart, leaf by twig, stone by rock, until I have orderly piles of the material. I stand up and shout out his name. I shout it again, as loud as my meager voice can. Then I fling it all in the woods, dismantled piece by piece. I turn back, ready for her, but even with all of my hope she still isn't there.

Now I cannot see her face and she cannot see mine. Though I think even if it were light I would not effect my oft-drilled calm, which I have done for her a hundred times but will not do now. I will not rid my expression of the sudden worry and weight. I will not hush or so handle my heart. I will put my hand in her hair. Kiss her ear. Now whisper a speech with my smallest voice. She whispers back, this blessing we share. Now I think we will both dream of fire.

T
he front windows are blown out. A large crowd is already formed behind the barricade. The fire marshals and bomb squad pick through the burned-out section in the back that serves as an annex for the office, where we keep voting registration and contributor records. Minor devices, one of them says. I hear Janice Pawlowsky cursing, but from where I can't see. Her wails and epithets carry out from the broken windows, down the fire stairs.

The staff is allowed to go inside in shifts to retrieve records and personal items. John Kwang hasn't arrived yet, but he's expected and the media are thick on the ground. They wait outside the yellow police tape, stopping everyone and interrogating them. All of them want to know if we personally knew the dead. I pretend I don't speak English.

But these are ours: an office janitor, an older, always cheery woman named Helda Brandeis, and the college student, Eduardo Fermin. Both were working after hours; they were found in the back war room, huddled together, trapped, overcome by fumes. They weren't burned. Nothing in that room burned. Janice didn't see them but heard they were covered in a film of ash, as if they'd slept through a gentle, black snow.

Eduardo's family has been holding a vigil in front of the office since last night, his mother and father, his grandmother, his two sisters and his baby brother. The coroner removed the bodies hours ago for autopsy, but Eduardo's family still remains, unable to leave, as if waiting for his ghost to return to the place he was last alive.

When it's my turn to go in, I gather the things in his desk next to mine and place them in a file box. I fill it with everything I can find, but I keep for myself an embossed 3×5 note card he had printed with the phrase John Kwang always said: “Honor your family.”

I leave my own things alone. There is nothing I wish to salvage. Better that it's thrown away. I come back out and place the box of Eduardo's things near them. His mother gasps something in Spanish, she's short of breath, and Eduardo's young brother immediately pulls off the cardboard lid. It smells of smoke. On top of his papers and framed photographs is Eduardo's gold-tone ballpoint pen, obviously a family gift, maybe from high school graduation, and here's the little boy taking it, writing slowly in the air. Now they gather up his things and finally go home.

Sherrie walks the site with the authorities. She has me follow them and take notes. Apparently, there are two accelerants: the first, the lethal one, is meant for fire, hurled through the windows in front and back in the alley. Probably just Molotovs. The other is a device, timed and set inside the front reception room of the office. Maybe it was wrapped as a package. Now they're piecing together how the fire spread through the offices full of paper fuel, pinning in Eduardo and the woman. The explosion is nothing to speak of, nothing special, they believe no plastique was used, no deep electronics, just a stick or two of dynamite, a model airplane battery for detonation, a few rounds of duct tape. Common materials.

“So it could be anybody who works on a construction site,” Sherrie says to the group of men. “Or has access to one.” They stare at her. She wearily asks them, “What are you going to tell the press?”

“Crude explosive,” one of them says. “I wouldn't let it get in your hair, lady. Just because it's a bomb doesn't mean we're dealing with a terrorist. It's probably just some crank who's sore at Kwang.”

Everyone mostly agrees. Nobody wants a situation. The tabloids are already screaming for one, they're suddenly calling the start of a terrorist race war, American-style. I realize that the men and Sherrie want to quell the notion. But no one is acknowledging what at least is clear, that someone took a little trouble with this one, that it's not a drive-by situation, it's not the work of vandals or addicts.

When we finish with the investigators I slip away and call Jack from a deli down the block. He isn't at home or at work. I call his house again and leave a message saying it's just me needing some wisdom. That I'll try again. Then I call the office and the phone picks up.

It's Dennis.

“Good to hear your voice, Harry,” he says. “You say hello in the nicest way.”

“Where's Jack?”

“Out to lunch.”

“Bullshit. He eats later.”

“So you caught me.”

“Where is he?”

“Gone,” he says.

“Come on,” I say.

“Okay, Harry.”

“What?”

“He's dead.”

All stop.

“I'm kidding,” Dennis says. Not even a laugh. “Jesus, I'm kidding.”

“Fuck you forever.”

“Okay,” he then says, “have it your way, sore-sport, I'm passing the phone.”

Jack gets on. He sounds all out of breath. I ask him what's going on. He says the elevator's out. But now I want to know what he knows.

“The fire?” he asks.

“The two guys in ski masks.”

“Who can say? I will look into it, if you wish. But I think it is nothing.”

“People are dead.”

“I am sorry,” he says. “The Spanish boy, and a woman.”

“Does it matter to you?” I ask him.

“I guess not,” he answers.

“Then tell me you don't know anything,” I say. “Tell me you just saw the news. Otherwise don't say a word. Say goodbye and hang up.”

“Don't worry, Parky. It's nothing. Nothing. I would know.”

“Would you?” I say. “There's the bomb to consider.”

He's quiet. “What kind was it?”

“Something simple. Sticks of dynamite.”

“See? Proof. This is nothing. Nothing. Nobody uses dynamite.”

“I wish I could believe you.”

“Damnit, you should,” he says, almost finally. “But be crazy if you like. Crazy! This is not what we do. I know. Tell me, Parky, tell a stupid old man. What would be our interest?”

“I don't see any,” I answer. “He was just a kid. He didn't know anything.”

“Then it is just another act. You are losing it, boy. You must be forgetting this is New York City. Random murder and violence.”

“What does Dennis have to say?” I ask. “He must be listening to us. I'm talking to you, Dennis.”

“He does not have to listen,” Jack cries. “I will tell him everything anyway. You know this. I will say you are concerned. That is enough. Not crazy, like you are.”

“Thanks so much, Jack.”

“Let me say something before I go, Parky. Sometimes you should look closer to home. If something is funny then look there. This is my advice to you. And I will tell you one more thing. If you cannot trust me there is nobody.”

“God bless me then, Jack.”

“Bless you then,” he says.

I walk quickly back to the ruined building. “Hey, Henry,” Sherrie says, calling me over to her car. “I need you to write a summary of this for John. Not right now, just give it to him by tonight. We need everyone now to move the essentials over to his house in Woodside. We're going to work out of the basement. I've sent Janice over already. You know where the house is?”

I shouldn't know, but I do.

“Good,” she says. “You know, I'm sorry. I know you worked with Eduardo. I liked him a lot.”

I nod.

“Here,” she says, reaching into her bag. She hands me a thick white envelope bound with a red sash. “John wants you to give this to his family. This is important to him. He trusts you with doing this.”

“Don't worry.”

“Thanks,” she says. “John wants to bring it himself, but the papers might take it the wrong way if they found out, you know what I mean?”

“I understand,” I say.

“Good,” she says, squeezing my arm. “I appreciate this. It's good to work with other Asians, you know? You don't have to explain yourself.”

“Right.”

“Right,” she says. “Oh, and you better call home, too. I know it's Saturday, but we're probably going to work all night. Help pack up here and then ride over with Jenkins in the van. I'll see you there later.”

Sherrie smiles and handles my arm again, the ball of my shoulder. I put the money away inside my jacket. She goes back to directing the mess, managing the people traffic. They all listen to her, heed her. The whole office likes her. But I find the touching strange. From someone else, for instance Janice, the contact would simply be casual, friendly, just a kind of parlance, formless, easy talk. But from Sherrie the touch is different. It's not sexual and not sisterly. It calls on that very minor power we can have over each other, that exercise of influence and duty which we know from our families, our fathers. Our cousin blood. That age-old weakness of brethren you always root out and you always use.

* * *

The Fermins are caretakers of their tenement building. They live on the ground floor next to the elevator, and even inside their apartment you can hear the tired heave of cables running in the shaft, the up and down shouts of little kids who need to pee. Mrs. Fermin recognizes me immediately and opens the steel door. I tell her my name, who I am. She cups my hand and tries to smile. She leads me through a dim half-corridor and gestures to the sofa. She says
cerveza
and I say yes. Her husband sits on one end of the frilly sofa, half asleep from the long night, half mourning. He's too weak to acknowledge my presence. He's not crying, he's not doing anything. I sit down on the other end. They've drawn the blinds and it's almost completely dark. Mrs. Fermin comes back from the kitchen and hands me a can of Budweiser and sits in a dining chair with a can for herself. We drink in silence. The other children aren't here, even the young boy, but the grandmother is. She's chopping in the kitchen and the apartment air is oniony, sharp, and she's speaking to herself over and over in a rhythm that sounds like the Lord's prayer.

The whole room is set up with pictures of Eduardo. Seeing his parents, I realize he was a very handsome young man. Sometimes you have to meet the parents to figure out what someone really looks like. In their many pictures Eduardo is a baby, he's a black bear for Halloween, he's a bristling Golden Glover, he's in a suit that's too big. He sports a downy prideful adolescent moustache. He stands arm in arm with John Kwang. And what I see is that most of the pictures are already hung, part of a permanent collection, that this room has always been a kind of family chapel to their son.

Mrs. Fermin smiles at me and says very softly, very gently, “What d'you wan, Mr. Park?”

I say I've come on behalf of John Kwang, that I've brought something for her family from him. I tell her that he doesn't want his gift to be publicly recognized, that she should accept it and use it for her family, but then Mrs. Fermin waves her hands and shakes her head saying, “Slow, slow.” She tries to say something to me, but she's being too careful and nothing can come out. She speaks quickly to her husband in Spanish but he just responds, “Ay, Carmelina,” and buries his head in the crook of his arm.

I stop talking and take out the envelope. I give it to her, for some reason, in the formal Korean way, with my eyes down and my free hand guiding my extended wrist. Maybe I think Kwang would do it like this, want it done like this.

She steadies her can of beer on the carpet and places the envelope in her wide lap. I get up to go but she wants me to stay. The grandmother comes out to look at the package. Mrs. Fermin slowly unties the red ribbon, lifting the folds of the heavy paper until they petal out to show the bright color of the neatly stacked money. Mrs. Fermin can't touch the money. She lifts up the bundle by the paper and carries it to me. She can't speak, she doesn't know what to do. I count it for her. There are a hundred $100 notes in the stack, and the bills are brand new, they rustle on touch and stick to one another.

The grandmother rushes up and snatches the money away from me and disappears to the back end of the apartment. We can hear her madly opening closet doors, drawers, boxes. She's hiding all the money. Mrs. Fermin starts weeping in her chair. Her husband still hasn't moved.

“You know, he helpin Eduardo always,” she now says, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, rocking. “Mr. John Kwang. He helpin Eduardo go law school. Before Mr. Kwang, Eduardo doin too many jobs, this and that, this and that. Now, me Eduardo, he gon make everyone happy. Jus like Mr. Kwang. Eduardo gon make everyone happy and rich. He's a beautiful boy.”

She brings me an album of pictures. We look at pictures together, and she keeps talking about him. I know what she means, despite her tenses. She's not acting out, acting crazy. I know this Mrs. Fermin. Half the people in Queens talk like her. Half the people I knew when I was a child. And I think she's saying it perfectly, just like she should. When you're too careful you can't say anything. You can't imagine the play of the words in your head. You can't hear them, and they all sound like they belong to somebody else.

Mrs. Fermin gestures for me to follow her to the back of the apartment, to his bedroom. We pass a closed door, behind which the grandmother waits for me to leave. Eduardo shared a small one-window room with his little brother, Stevie. They each have a twin bed with matching bedspreads that Stevie picked out, full of space shuttles and star stations. There are two of the same chipboard desk, the size too small for Eduardo and maybe too big for Stevie; Eduardo's boxing trophies, a line of aluminum baseball bats, posters of Latin pop groups and singers. Mrs. Fermin shows me a picture frame inset with Eduardo's ninth-grade report card. Straight A's.

“After some more times, we don' do agayn,” she says. “No more frames.”

She shows me pictures of his girlfriend, Arabel, who likes the color pink and carnations and who said she was going to be his wife. She shows me his ribbons and medals from Lucky Meier's Gym of Champions, and she shows me three shoe boxes stuffed with commendations, certificates of merit, honorable mentions, a plaque from the Latino League of New York's Father-Son Day, for what I can't tell, she shows me a dozen other mementos of her three men, whom she has all known as boys and will forever love that way, their first charm and vulnerability, and she shows me a yellow silken bird of the islands, the one that augurs mercy and good tidings, which now falls off its perch on the post of Stevie's tidy bed.