Free Food for Millionaires (23 page)

Ted thought about her. Sometimes he thought he could smell her perfume in the elevator. She wore Fracas—a perfume that came in a square black bottle. When she switched to the Events Planning Department on the tenth floor, he was relieved. He never had reason to go there. When he jerked off at home or when he traveled, thinking of her red hair helped him to come. When he made love to Ella, he wished his wife’s body were more like Delia’s—the feminine hollow of Delia’s narrow waist and the full S-curve of her bottom. Making love to Delia had made him feel complete. Happy. Was that what the married bond trader had been talking about? Ted was almost tempted to ask him as much. But Delia was a slut. This was what Ted reminded himself when he felt like punching her four-digit extension on his phone keys. She was a common Staten Island slut with a pretty face and a perfect ass. A whore. He had good reason to hate her, but even now he found that he could not.

Delia had taught him that it was possible to want two women, and to perhaps love two women, at once, and this knowledge terrified him, because it upset the way he thought of things. Life was easier to operate when objects were in their place.

He could hear Ella crying in their bedroom. What did she want him to do? If she told him to leave now and never return, he’d have done it, because she deserved as much. And he thought of church and God and all the things he had learned from his simple parents, who had worked in the same fucking cannery for thirty years, about never lying or stealing or wanting something that you have no right to have, to know his place in the world and to never overreach, and how he had disagreed with so many of their tenets because he didn’t want to be them. But now he thought: They never hurt me. Except by their failure. Ted clutched his head with both hands. The older men at the cannery always said his father, Johnny Kim, was a man whose yes was yes and whose no was no. Ted had let himself get defiled.

He stretched his legs and got up from the chair. He stood by the bedroom door.

“Ella, Ella, please let me in,” he said. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I haven’t seen her in a year. I made a terrible mistake. I know I can’t take it back. Please let me in. You are my best friend. You are my only friend. I have no one in the world. Ella—”

Ella wiped her face on the pillow and got up. She moved slowly toward the door because her steps were awkward. She twisted the latch to the open position, then returned to her spot on the bed. She laid her head on the hot, wet pillow. She could not face him and turned her body away from his. Ted lay down behind her, feeling safer there, and stroked her tangled hair. Ella let him do this, not knowing what else to do. He had killed her. Her mother had died in childbirth. Ella’s life had killed her mother. And now Ted had killed her. How fair, Ella thought. How just. How symmetrical life was. How many lives did a person have to die? She felt desperate to drain her mind of anything bad, and she tried to recall happier moments. Even as short a time ago as this morning, she had felt joy even as she experienced nausea as the call car took her to the hospital for her appointment. She had talked to her daughter in her mind, saying,
I want to feel you so much, and I will take care of you forever.
Even Ella’s limbs had felt hopeful or cooperative, if that were possible. She had believed that morning that her daughter was conceived in a pure kind of love. Ella believed in an infinite love—a kind of endless emotion that made life seem eternal. Ted was her heart first. You were supposed to forgive seven times seven times seven. Didn’t she believe that?

Ella had read stories about adultery, heard tales of people who had cheated or had been cheated on, and although she had compassion for them—the cheaters and the cheated—now she saw how flawed her feelings had been, because she hadn’t known a damn thing about it. All she felt was hatred. She felt a strong wish to disappear.

“Ella. . . Ella. . . I’m sorry. I mean it. I really am,” he said. “I said I was sorry, and I am asking for your forgiveness. You have to believe how sorry I am.”

Ella breathed as quietly as she could.

“Ella.”

“Ted, I want this child. I want everything for this child. For her to never lack. Do you understand me?” Her voice was tender.

Ted wrapped his arms around his wife, pressing his forehead in the space between her stiffened shoulder blades. Ella felt unable to say another word.

3
LUGGAGE

I
THOUGHT YOU’D SEE IT MY WAY,
” Sabine said, her Cheshire cat grin spreading widely.

“Very gracious of you. Really.” Casey winked. She didn’t mind the comment. In many ways, she felt good that she’d finished the business school applications. No matter what happened, at least they were off her desk. So for lunch they were celebrating her completion with veal Parmesan heroes from Ray’s. Thousands upon thousands of calories, Sabine had guessed with conspiratorial glee. “What the hell, send us the pumpkin cheesecake, too,” she’d said, placing the order. Having accurately predicted Casey’s decision that morning, Sabine had thought to bring champagne from her house for their Saturday in-office lunch, but it hadn’t been chilled yet. There wasn’t enough space in Sabine’s office refrigerator for it, and she’d been too busy that morning to call the cafeteria for ice. The imposing bottle remained unopened on the conference table, like a festive decoration. They’d drink it next week, Sabine promised, not that Casey cared. Champagne gave her a headache, but like a child, she loved holding the slim flutes and staring at the bubbles floating up.

Neither spoke about the future of the store or where Casey might end up in the short run. She’d applied to only four schools: Columbia, Wharton, Harvard, and NYU. Her applications were decently prepared but not great. She wasn’t being modest. Most of her colleagues at Kearn Davis with MBAs minced no words telling her that her professional résumé was hardly a standout. Regardless, Sabine was delighted that Casey had applied at all. When a person followed her advice, she transformed into her full-blown Lady Bountiful persona.

When they were done with their sandwiches, Sabine tiptoed to her desk and opened a drawer. She took out a black leather box the size of a hamburger container, not wrapped in the store’s signature periwinkle blue paper but instead tied up grandly with a purple wire ribbon.

“For you,” Sabine said, her eyebrows raised, with an impossible-to-restrain smile. She loved to give presents.

“For me?” Casey replied. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Shall I take it back?”

“No. Of course not. Don’t you dare,” Casey said, following their script.

It was a stainless-steel Rolex watch with a sapphire metal face.

“Oh, my God.” Casey opened her mouth. “Oh, my God. Sabine! That’s crazy! Why?”

“Who needs a reason? Nice, huh?” Sabine was so thrilled, she could burst. That morning, she’d had the idea to get it for Casey in the event she sent in her applications. It was a kind of reward. Sabine adored giving unexpected treats. Her driver had raced her across town to Tourneau, because Sabine had a meeting at ten-thirty with a prickly distributor from Germany back at the store, but it had taken her only minutes to select the gift. The men’s stainless-steel bracelet with the small blue face had to be Casey’s watch. The Rolex was streamlined and tough and possessed tremendous style. It was a durable luxury good—that naturally tickled Sabine.

“Put it on, put it on!” Sabine shouted, so Casey did, unable to believe what she’d been given.

She walked around the table to get to where Sabine was seated. She opened her arms wide to embrace her. “This is—it’s incredible.”

“I know.” Sabine smiled. “It’s nice, huh?” Casey liked it. She could tell.

Casey hugged Sabine, and she hugged her back.

“Thank you. I don’t deserve it. I—I don’t know what to say.” Casey glanced at the cast-off Timex on the table. Her new watch rested perfectly on her left wrist next to her silver Wonder Woman cuff.

They stopped embracing to admire the watch.

“Do you have a headache?” Sabine asked.

“Pardon?”

Sabine draped her left forearm dramatically across her forehead. “Oh, dahling—I have a headache.”

“Oh. Oh. Yes. I have a headache.” Casey touched her forehead lightly with the inside of her forearm, flashing the new watch above her head.

She stopped this only to glance at her wrist again. “It goes with my cuffs. I love these—you know. Because you gave them to me.”

“Of course you do,” Sabine said, intentionally sounding haughty. Her tone of voice was ebullient, almost flirtatious. She lit up when she gave something away. To her, all her money made sense when it pleased the people she cared about, when she was able to support dreams. She loved this poor girl plucked out of Queens and wanted her to have everything she had herself. Sometimes abundance could repair a broken heart—Sabine believed that strongly. Even Casey’s ridiculous, flamboyant impulses—at times damaging to herself—made sense to Sabine, who despised emotional restraint. In the girl, Sabine spotted the wide flash of the creative, and she yearned to nurture that piece. A spectacular failure was better than safety. Sabine wanted individuals to honor their greatest ambitions. All superior things—all things worth knowing, possessing, creating, and admiring, she’d observed—had begun with vast, impractical wishes. She hated smallness of character. Sabine hated fear. If Casey was given a chance to know her own desires, she’d go further than she herself had. There was no proof for this, but Sabine had made every decision in her life based on hunches. And she was never wrong about people—the entirety of one’s personality was observable in the expression of the eyes. Her father, a successful fabric merchant, had taught her to look closely inside a face—that it was possible even to do this. You must spend a good length of time with an individual before you call him or her your friend, he’d instructed. To her father, a friend was the rare person—not everyone could be your friend. He scoffed at popular people: “A man the world loves cannot be a good lover.” Words never mattered, he said, seasons mattered. Notice how people behave when they’re desperate—that’s who they are, he warned. Sabine ached suddenly, missing him.

“I want you to know that I meant what I said about every minute counting. Your life—the way you spend it—is precious.”

“You are so kind to me. You are always so kind to me.”

Sabine was crying now. It was good to cry, she thought as tears streaked down her high cheekbones.

“And I’ve never done anything for you.”

“Nonsense,” Sabine said, then took a moment. She spoke in Korean: “But if you performed some task or favor for my benefit, and I gave you a watch, then it wouldn’t be a gift, would it?” She switched back to English: “Then it would be—an exchange.” She said this last bit methodically, her voice full of well-reasoned conviction.

Casey paused to think about that. Somehow, hearing her words in Korean had made it more significant, more intimate.

“Yes.” Casey sniffled, then laughed. “You’re right. So where did you get your MBA, smart lady?”

Sabine smiled. “It’s too late for me for school. But it isn’t for you.”

Was that true? Casey wondered. Then again, why would Sabine need an MBA?

“Are you sure?” She pointed to the watch, half expecting Sabine to change her mind.

Sabine caught the sobriety of Casey’s expression. “You’re my baby girl, Casey. I just want you to have a nice watch. Why would you deny me that pleasure? Enjoy the thing. It’s pretty. Right?”

“Yes. It’s beautiful. And it’s from you. Thank you, Sabine.” Casey nodded to herself and turned her face sharply toward the door. There was a
thump-thump
sound, a kind of shy knock. Casey wiped her face. “Sabine?” She needed to say one last thing.

“Yes, my friend?”

“I will be careful with my time.”

“Of course you will.”

The
thump-thump
sound came again.

“Come in,” Sabine said in her boss voice. She felt delighted with herself. With life overall.

It was Judith Hast, the weekend accessories manager.

“I’m sorry to bother you, ladies, during your lunch.” Judith noticed the bottle of champagne on the conference table. “Looks like there’s a little party here.” She laughed, her voice a touch chirpy and tittering.

Sabine ignored this. “How can I help you, Judith?” She gave her one of her famous CEO smiles.

“There’s someone here to see Casey.”

Casey wiped her eyes with the paper napkin. “Me?”

“An Asian lady.”

“My sister? But she’s supposed to be here after work.” Casey looked at her watch and was surprised to see that it wasn’t her Timex. Judith spotted the box on the table and the lavender ribbon. Casey was sporting a new watch.

“I met your sister once. I don’t think it’s her,” Judith said. “But maybe because she’s so pregnant, her face could’ve changed—”

“Your sister’s pregnant?” Sabine exclaimed. “But she’s in med school. When did that happen? ”

“No, no, no. It must be my friend. I better go.” Casey kissed Sabine on the cheek. “Thank you for. . . you know—”

“Yes, I know. Come by during your break. Eat cheesecake.”

Casey ran ahead of Judith to see if Ella had come. She was supposed to be on bed rest.

It was her. Ella had on a well-worn men’s coat that hung oddly across her large belly, a crimson-and-white college scarf wound around her neck, and green duck boots from Bean. She didn’t look right, and it wasn’t because of her makeshift ninth-month getup. Her skin was splotchy, grayish blue patches darkened her pretty eyes, and her usual ruler-straight posture was broken. Her bulging ankles spilled out of the tops of her boots. Ella was examining the fox-fur hat from Tibet as if it were alive—the one with the yellow satin silk crown. Her studious expression was of a disturbed person. Bodily present, but not quite there.

Nevertheless, Casey was happy to see her—it actually surprised her how much. Lately, maybe because it was near Christmas, Casey had been feeling rootless, lacking any sense of a past or family, except for her talks with Sabine and letters from Virginia in Italy. She received an occasional long-distance call from Tina, who’d promised to come by tonight. She hadn’t been back home for the holidays since graduation. That was over two and a half years ago. There was no mention of Casey going to Elmhurst for Christmas or New Year’s Day, either, from her family or from her. Casey felt uninvited, while her parents felt rejected.

“Hey, you’re supposed to be in bed,” Casey said cheerfully, trying not to look worried. She reached out to hug her. “How’s the little mother? It’s really great to see you—”

The rims of Ella’s eyes reddened.

“Oh my. Hey, are you all right?”

Ella nodded meaningfully.

“What happened?. . . Hey? Ella? What’s going on?”

Ella swallowed, trying not to burst into tears at Casey’s job. “I’m sorry,” she sputtered.

Judith couldn’t look away. Casey glanced at her manager, and not missing this, Ella turned to Judith. “Thank you,” she said, swallowing again, “uhm. . . for finding Casey. For me.. . .” Ella panted. Her ears were ringing incessantly. Tracking her heartbeat, the ringing sounded as though someone were shooting a gun inside her head again and again and again.
Bang,
pause,
bang,
pause,
bang.

“Really, Judith. Thank you. So much,” Casey said. It scared her to see Ella like this. She’d speak to her quickly, then put her in a taxi. Dr. Shim had told Casey that preeclampsia was a serious danger for the mother.

“Judith, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to take my break now,” Casey said.

Judith squinted. “What time is it?”

Casey glanced at the Rolex. Like Sabine, Judith was a stickler about lunch and break periods. To make a point, Judith routinely docked people if they were only five minutes late.

“I realize I just had my lunch break, but this is important. Just fifteen minutes, okay? I’ll make it up tomorrow. Sorry.” Without waiting for Judith’s reply, Casey dashed out from behind the counter, hooked Ella’s arm securely with her own, and directed her to the back of the store to the employee elevator.

The glass-enclosed terrace of the employee cafeteria was freezing cold, but Ella didn’t seem to mind. She was now heaving.

“Hey, none of that.” Casey grew more worried. “What’s going on?”

“Ted slept with Delia and gave me herpes.” As soon as Ella said this out loud to another person, her breathing felt calmer.

“What?” Casey couldn’t believe it. She could, but she couldn’t. “Damn him.”

“Isn’t she your friend?” Ella stopped crying. Her eyes looked weird.

“Who? Delia?”

“Yes.” Ella nodded, her concentration more intense. The gunshots in her head grew louder, but she felt sharp.

“Whoa,” Casey said, needing to stall. She couldn’t talk about Delia to Ella. Delia would make any wife insane. With her right hand, she covered her eyes. “Right. Ted fucked Delia.” She patted her pockets. Her cigarettes were downstairs. “What the fuck is his problem?”

Casey walked out to buy lunch with Delia nearly once a week, even after Delia changed floors. Not once had Delia mentioned an interest in Ted Kim or any other man. Delia didn’t talk that much about men. It was almost too simple a topic for her. The only steady lay she’d admit to on occasion was Santo, whom she called the hot guy in the mailroom. But even Santo was sort of a done deal. He was Roman Catholic, and he and his high-school-girlfriend-turned-wife had four children together.

Casey liked Delia. Delia was cool. She was fun to talk to. They didn’t hang out much outside of work, but Delia was someone you wanted on your side at the office. Despite her willingness to have sex with married men, Delia saw no contradiction or hypocrisy in the fact that she expected absolute loyalty from her friends, and she returned the favor. Her commitment to discretion had a lot to do with never humiliating the wives. She said, “Never make anyone’s wife look bad. Really a stupid move.” Casey had no intention of hooking up with a married guy, but if she did, she’d remember Delia’s exegesis on keeping a married man for the long haul: “The mistress can never truly replace a wife. The husband never stops needing the first wife’s approval. The mistress can marry the husband, but the first wife is always somewhere in his head. Like his mother. And if there’s kids, oh please, what a royal pain in the ass. The first wife might as well be in your bed, and she’s definitely in your face. Stupid move. I don’t advise it. Just fuck him. Knock yourself out.”