Fat was not what concerned Grace, not the way it did other girls. She simply cut out things that she considered extra. No chili-pepper paste, because it contained sugar, which ruled out practically all Korean food except white rice and a few odd dishes. No oil of any kind, which Mom used generously in cooking. No soy sauce, because its black color looked artificial. It did not matter whether the dish contained meat or fish or vegetables as long as it was steamed, poached, or broiled, seasoned only with salt. Grace would blame it on an allergic reaction as she sat picking at a bowl of white rice and not much else. Dad called Grace crazy. Did she realize what he had to do to get that food on the table? Once, he tried to force-feed her a plate of fried dumplings. He sat before her and ordered her to eat. When Grace would not budge, he forced her mouth open and stuffed the dumplings in one by one. Mom sat at the end of the table and did not say a word; Suzy began to cry. Neither intervened, partly because they were afraid to disobey him, and partly because they were both secretly relieved. Grace’s food problem had become increasingly noticeable. It seemed to harbor a certain brooding anger, which then manifested into an overwhelming tension around the dinner table. Her silent rebellion broke the code of whatever had held the family together. By rejecting the food they all shared, Grace was declaring herself separate, apart. It was impossible to ignore the weight, the terrible mood of discord that would be cast over the family each time Grace pushed the food away with her chopsticks. As they watched, Grace vomited every mushy bit of meat and dough onto the floor. Finally, Dad slapped her once and stormed out. After that, he never commented on Grace’s eating habit. They all learned just to ignore it. That might have been the beginning of their silent dinners.
With each year, Grace became more and more withdrawn from the rest of the family. There was a certain anger Suzy sensed, but nothing palpable enough to put a finger on. The only thing she knew was that if Grace had had a choice she would not have wanted to be her sister, or, more clearly, her parents’ daughter, and it was this realization that always came between the sisters. The coldness, or the unassailable distance between them, was in fact a clear desire for separation.
But why, even now, even years later, Suzy cannot say.
“Sorry, I got carried away. Maybe you’re right. I could turn forty and still be obsessing over dead writers.” Jen is getting up. It is now past five o’clock. The fax from Harrison might be waiting for her. The day is far from over.
“Thanksgiving. I guess it’s Thanksgiving soon.” Suzy suddenly recalls the holiday with Damian. He did not believe in it, she knew. He hated holidays. But he seemed to derive a certain oblique pleasure from celebrating this particular American tradition with her, as though he were maneuvering a young woman onto a sordid path. He claimed it an éducation sentimentale in the American way. He would fuss over each stage of preparation. The ten-pound turkey that was too big for the two of them, the bread stuffing baked with yellow raisins and macadamia nuts, the cranberry sauce simmered for exactly half an hour, the pumpkin pie he had preordered from Balducci’s because he did not bake. He loved watching her eat. He himself hardly touched the food. “Dreadful memories,” he said. “You cannot imagine the atrocity of the Midwestern Thanksgiving. Everyone gorges on the feast, because there’s nothing else to do. No one has anything to say, because overeating does that to a mind. Remember, it’s the core of the American culture, the barest of food, the big slab of what barely qualifies as a bird.” No one was more cynical about America than Damian, which must have been why he became fascinated with Asian art. But did it mean that he loved Asia? He cannot love an Asian woman, Professor Tamiko had warned her. Yet it took the death of her parents for Suzy to leave him.
“But you don’t celebrate Thanksgiving…”
Jen is careful. In college, Suzy used to stay behind while everyone went home for Thanksgiving. Jen would come back after a week, grumbling about having gained five pounds. But things are different now. It is no longer a choice. There is no celebration, no family. Holidays always make people feel sorry for Suzy. Even Jen, who should know better.
“No, of course not. I just remembered, that’s all.”
“Come to Connecticut. I’m going to Colorado first with Stephen, which makes Mom and Dad furious. But with his insane schedule at the hospital, this is probably the only time I’ll get to meet all his family. So I promised Mom that I’ll fly back early and spend at least three days at home. So come. We can lie around the house and eat leftovers and play Monopoly. They always ask about you.”
Colorado with a boyfriend. Connecticut to see Mom and Dad. Suzy cannot help feeling a little envy. She has never had that. Not even when she had parents. Damian was not exactly a boyfriend, the same way Michael isn’t. Damian would never have brought her to his childhood home. Suzy was what he chose in order to run from all that, as she did him. The two of them together could never have built a family. How could they, when neither believed in it? But why? Where did her parents go wrong?
“Thank you. I’ll think about it.”
They both know that Suzy won’t come. But it is nice to dream about it anyway. Sitting around the parents’ house eating leftovers. Doing nothing for three days except playing Monopoly with Mom and Dad. But in such a dream, the house is in Montauk, and everything appears the same—the pastel house, Mom’s brand-new Jeep, Dad’s fishing rods, the bag of Korean goodies Suzy has brought from the city—except for someone else, someone standing in the rain against the lighthouse, in so much November rain that for a second it looks as though the person is quietly weeping.
14.
THE 41ST PRECINCT is located on the better part of Gun Hill Road. The sidewalk is freshly swept. No one honks as though his mother’s honor depends on it. No one fires a shot just for the hell of it. Even the boom-box blasters stay clear. Any half-brained crook knows better than to defile its sanctimonious ground. This is where the mayor’s fury takes out its revenge. This is where his soldiers plot out their games. This is where the NYPD rules.
Two officers are leaning against the patrol car smoking cigarettes when Suzy approaches the two-story concrete building. Across the trunk of the white car are the big blue letters of allegiance: Courtesy. Professionalism. Respect. One of the officers skims her over with a whistle, nudging the other with his elbow. They both appear to be about Suzy’s age, maybe even younger, the local boys who grew up watching way too many episodes of S.W.A.T., whose sweethearts must be waiting at home with a couple of toddlers.
“May we help you?” asks Whistle Boy. He is the joker, the one who is not ashamed to ogle any passerby in a skirt.
“Not really.” She is not up to this hide-and-seek right now. She is about to enter the station. Hardly any help necessary.
“C’mon. We can’t let a lady walk in by herself!” Whistle Boy won’t let go. He must be bored. This must be his off-time from ticketing double-parkers. Beneath the uniform and the badge, he is still a mere boy. The sweet dimples. The awkward crew cut. Suzy can’t help smiling a little.
“See, I made you laugh. You must let us escort you inside. Let me tell you, it’s a jungle in there! Ain’t I right, Bill?” He turns to his partner, who laughs along. Bill is the shy one, even handsome. A black man with a clean-shaven head. A set of twinkling brown eyes.