Round Robin (25 page)

A shadow of doubt crept into her mind as they drove to her hotel, on the west side of the city. Judy gave Kirsten a hard look, but Kirsten was driving along, smiling and chatting happily, and suddenly Judy felt ashamed. She was paranoid to think Kirsten was hiding anything more than nervousness. This visit had to be as emotionally grueling for Kirsten as it was for Judy, perhaps even more so, since she had initiated the contact.

When Judy was finally alone in her hotel room, she kicked off her shoes, fell onto the bed, and closed her eyes, drained. Kirsten was as nice and as welcoming as Judy could have hoped, and yet their few hours together had wrung her dry. Tomorrow afternoon, when she would meet the rest of the family at Robert Scharpelsen's house, would be worse. She stretched out on the bed, soothed by the quiet darkness of the room, glad that she'd refused Kirsten's invitation to stay at her apartment.

Before getting ready for bed, she called Steve to tell him about her day. She spoke to Emily, too, or tried to—either her daughter had been struck by sudden shyness or she didn't quite grasp that the phone, unlike the television, allowed for two-way communication. Still, Emily's presence on the line cheered her, even if the only response was the sound of her daughter's breathing.

The next morning she woke feeling rested but jittery. Kirsten picked her up at eight-thirty, and they drove downtown for breakfast. The square around the capitol building had been closed to traffic, and the sidewalks were lined with booths and tables offering everything from fresh produce and baked goods to houseplants and cheese. Judy and Kirsten bought pastries and coffee at a stand on the corner and walked down the sloping street to a modern structure overlooking one of the lakes. They found seats on a stone bench and enjoyed the scenery as they ate and talked. Emily told her the building was the Monona Terrace, a convention center designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. Judy listened, nodding as Kirsten pointed out various sights along the lakeshore, glad for
the cardigan she had worn over her long skirt and blouse. The sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, but the breeze off the lake was cool.

When they had finished eating, they returned to the Farmers' Market and joined the orderly, steady flow of customers moving counterclockwise from stall to stall around the square. Every so often, Kirsten would stop at a stand and purchase something for the evening meal. On an impulse, Judy bought flowers to give to her father. When they had gone all the way around the square, they stowed their purchases in Kirsten's car and toured the capitol building. From the observation deck, Judy looked out over the lake and enjoyed the fresh smells of spring in the breeze, wishing that Steve and Emily had come with her. Everything was going so well that her earlier doubts seemed foolish.

Afterward, Judy and Kirsten walked down State Street window-shopping and people-watching. A little before noon they stopped at a restaurant for sandwiches, and as they ate, the conversation turned to Judy's journey from Vietnam to America. Judy told Kirsten the little she remembered; she had pieced together the rest from her mother's stories. Not wishing to offend, Judy glossed over the most difficult part of her history, in which she and her mother waited to hear from Robert Scharpelsen only to be disappointed by his cold response.

When Judy reached the part where her mother met John DiNardo, Kirsten shook her head in admiration. “Your mother sounds like an amazing person,” she said. “How did she manage to land that hospital job?”

Judy shrugged. “Her experience on the army base helped, I suppose, and they were impressed by her fluency in so many languages. They really wanted someone who spoke English and Spanish, but she convinced them that someone who could speak Vietnamese, English, and French could easily pick up Spanish if she studied on her own. She did, too.” Judy thought back to those nights when she and her mother would sit side by side at the kitchen table, Judy with a picture book, her mother with a Spanish text.

“I can understand why she would need English in the bar because of the GIs, but how did she happen to pick up French?”

“Vietnam was a French colony before—” Then Kirsten's words fully registered. “What do you mean, in the bar?”

“You know, the bar where your mother worked.”

The skin on the back of Judy's neck prickled. “What?”

“In Saigon. Where they met. Where your mom met my dad.”

“He told you they met in a bar?”

Kirsten nodded, confused.

“He said my mother was a bar girl?” Kirsten nodded again, color creeping into her cheeks. “My mother worked in the hospital on the army base with your father.” Each word came out as sharp, as clear, and as cold as a splinter of ice. “She was a translator for the doctors and nurses and anyone else who needed her. My mother has never set foot in a bar except as a paying customer, and only rarely has she done that.”

“But he said—” Kirsten fumbled for the words. “He told me—”

“And even if she had been a bar girl, what difference does that make? Bar girl or translator, he loved her enough to live with her.”

“What are you saying? What do you mean, live with her?”

Judy stared at her, hard, the blood pounding in her head. Then she understood. “He told you she was just a one-night stand at a bar, didn't he?” This time Kirsten couldn't even nod, but Judy saw in her face that it was the truth. “He lied to you, just as he lied to my mother. They lived together for more than two years. He promised to marry her and bring her to the States. Then one day he didn't come home from work. She asked at the hospital, and you know what they told her? He had shipped out that morning. He had known about it for months, and yet he never saw fit to mention it. But she trusted him. She thought that if she could just get to America, he would take care of her—of us, because I was born a month after he left. She thought if he saw his child, if he saw me, he would marry her.”

“But he couldn't,” Kirsten choked out. “You don't understand. He couldn't marry her.”

“Why? Because she was a bar girl?” Judy snapped. “No, you're the one who doesn't understand. He used my mother and abandoned us. Then he scurried off here and found himself a new wife, a white wife, someone
he wouldn't be ashamed of at cocktail parties and neighborhood barbecues. That's the man your father is.”

“No. No, you—you don't understand.”

“I understand perfectly.” Suddenly, Judy couldn't bear the sight of Kirsten, stricken and confused, struggling to speak, to make sense of the new information. She wanted to storm away from the table, to her hotel, to the next plane home. It would have been so easy, but something kept her in her seat, watching, listening, waiting to see what Kirsten would do next.

Suddenly, in a flash of insight, Judy realized that she was enjoying this. Seeing Robert cut down in Kirsten's eyes filled her with grim satisfaction. Let no one—least of all the daughter he had loved instead of herself—think of Robert as a good man, as a loving father. Let Kirsten know him for what he truly was.

Kirsten sat in silence, staring at the table, her face flushed, her eyes shining with tears.

Suddenly Judy was flooded by shame. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean it.”

“No. You meant every word.” Kirsten took a deep breath. “But you don't know the whole story.”

“You're right. I don't.” She thought of what Andrew had said, and reminded herself that Robert had been a young man when he knew her mother, a young man far from home in tumultuous times. Judy didn't know his side of the story, and though she doubted he could say anything to win her sympathies, she had no right to take out her anger on Kirsten. “I'm sorry.”

“It's all right,” Kirsten said, still not looking at her. She took another deep, shaky breath and fell silent.

They sat at the table without speaking until the server began clearing away their dishes. Then they paid the bill and left.

Judy wished she had not confronted Kirsten. She had ruined everything, just when they were getting along so well. Three times she tried to strike up a conversation as they walked back to the car, but Kirsten seemed unable to respond.

As they pulled out of the parking garage, Kirsten finally spoke. “Should I take you back to the hotel?”

Judy shot her a look. “I thought we were going to your apartment.”

“I thought... I thought maybe you wouldn't want to anymore.”

Kirsten looked very young as she stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the busy street crowded with cars and bikes and darting pedestrians. Judy reminded herself that she was the elder sister. She had started the argument; it was up to her to put Kirsten at ease.

“I don't want to go back to the hotel,” she said. “I didn't come all this way to leave without meeting the rest of the family. We have to expect these kind of bumps along the way. We can't just give up the first time we run into difficulties.”

Kirsten said nothing for a long moment. “You're right.” She glanced away from the road to give Judy a pleading look. “I want you to know that I never intended to hurt you. If I could do it over...” She shook her head and drove on.

They went to her apartment, a small, one-bedroom flat on the third floor of a seventy-year-old building across the street from one of the lakes. Long ago, the building had been a pump station; though it had been remodeled for housing, the large steel pumps remained in the lobby. Kirsten came out of her silence to tell Judy this history, and by the time they reached her place, much of her earlier animation had returned.

Kirsten offered Judy a seat in the living room, a cozy place with a comfortable sofa, brick walls, and a sloped ceiling. They spent the afternoon talking over cups of tea. Judy finally began to hear more about life in the Scharpelsen family—their house on Lake Mendota, the misadventures of the three kids, Kirsten's mother's slow and painful death from cancer. As the hours passed, Judy finally began to feel as if she was getting to know these strangers. Sometimes, Kirsten broke off in the middle of a story as if to collect her thoughts; other times, she seemed vague or unwilling to reveal too much. Judy couldn't blame her. No wonder Kirsten was careful now, even tentative; neither one of them wanted to say anything that would spark more anger.

As evening approached, they went to the kitchen and prepared a large
tossed salad using the produce they had purchased at the Farmers' Market. Then it was time to go to their father's house.

Judy's throat felt as if it were constrained by a fist, clenching ever tighter as they drove west, then north through a thickly wooded neighborhood of large homes on small lots. Through the trees, Judy could see the sun glinting off water, and she realized they were driving along the lakeshore.

They pulled into the driveway of a large, modern house on the lake. “This is it,” Kirsten said, turning off the engine.

Judy fumbled with the seat belt and got out of the car. She followed Kirsten through the garage to a door leading into the house. Kirsten opened it and led her into the kitchen.

Classical music was playing on the stereo, and cooking smells floated on the air—bread, barbecue sauce, roasted corn. Judy stood frozen in the doorway, the bouquet of flowers in her hands, until Kirsten motioned for her to come forward.

A woman on the other side of the kitchen counter had her back to them as she took glasses down from a cupboard. She had blond hair like Kirsten's, only it was curly with a touch of gray.

Kirsten set the salad bowl on the counter. “Sharon?” she said. “There's someone I'd like you to meet.”

Sharon turned—and as her eyes locked on Judy's, her expression went from pleasant to shocked in the instant it took for Judy to realize that this woman was not only older than Kirsten, but also surely older than herself. That was impossible, unless—

“My God,” Sharon said. “I can't believe you did this.”

“I had every right,” Kirsten said. “She's our sister.”

“How could you, after everything I said? Don't you care about Dad at all?”

“I care about Dad with all my heart. Don't you get it? That's why I had to do it.”

Judy looked from one sister to the other, stunned. “You didn't know I was coming,” she said to Sharon.

Sharon pressed her lips into a hard line and shook her head.

Judy turned and headed for the door.

“No, wait.” Kirsten grabbed her arm. “Don't leave.”

“I can't stay, not under these circumstances.” Now she understood Kirsten's evasiveness.

“Please, Judy. I know now it was wrong, but at the time it seemed like the only way. Please don't go.”

“Yes, now that you're here, why not stay?” Sharon yanked open a drawer and scooped up handfuls of silverware. “Why not ruin everything? Why not upset our father?”

“Stop it,” Kirsten said.

“How dare you tell me to do anything after this stunt?” Sharon slammed the knives and forks onto the counter, then fixed her gaze on Judy. “How dare you show up now? Don't you realize how hard this will be for him?”

“I came because I was invited.”

Sharon barked out a laugh and resumed her work, yanking open cupboards and slamming them shut. Just then, two boys bounded into the kitchen. When they saw Judy, they stopped short and eyed her with interest.

“Hi,” said the eldest, a boy of around twelve. “Who are you?”

“She's your Aunt Judy,” Kirsten said before Judy could reply.

The children's eyes widened. “Really?” the younger one asked.

Kirsten nodded, but Sharon rushed forward and thrust the silverware into the children's hands. “No, not really,” she said. “Go set the table.”

The elder boy shot Judy a look. “But Mom—”

“Now.” Sharon clasped each boy by the shoulder and steered them out of the room.

When she was gone, Judy turned to Kirsten. “I'm not staying. I can't.”