My Life as an Onion

My Life as an Onion

By

Carole McDonnell

Come and hear, you who fear God, what the Lord has done for me. — Psalm 66:16

Thanks and immense gratitude to Jessica Butler Fry, writer, my primary critiquer and beta reader. Thanks to Lelia Rose Foreman for her critique. Thanks to the super-busy Marvin Katzoff for his encouragement and friendship.

In Memory of Ben Murdock

Table of Contents

Ben Moreau 

Those on the Fringes 

Bought off 

Lying to Mamounette and Papinou 

Jeff Overstreet 

Attempting to be Black Ice 

Home again 

Apparently 

Slickness and Bitchitude 

Thierry and Paulo 

Housewarming 

An Ally 

Three Important Words 

Dreaded Apologies 

Work Days 

Reconciliation Trip 

Danny 

A Choreography of Evil 

House Motto 

Bin-Jae Moreau 

Ben Moreau

The first thing Ben did after his parents introduced us was turn his back on me. Then he walked to the large bay window overlooking their snow-covered garden and just stood there. In that dimly-lit living room, he was like a silhouette in light blue. Not as colorful as the Christmas tree to his right but just as radiant. Neither of us talked. But I knew I had suddenly been thrust into a battle of wills and one of us would have to give in sooner or later.

After about two minutes of tense silence, he removed his right hand from the pocket of his linen jacket and tapped slowly, rhythmically, on the window pane as if trying to figure out how to deal with the terrible predicament that was me, Denise Higgins, hired sober companion. He muttered something under his breath in Korean and peered again through the window like a bird wistfully pondering the world beyond its gilded cage. Then, all at once, he turned to me and said in a kind-but-defeated tone, Stop trembling.

I hadn’t noticed my trembling. It’s not my fault I’m trembling, I said. You’re the one making me tremble.

‘Fault’, is it? His hazel eyes gazed into my dark brown ones, which only made me tremble even more. Are you one who looks to see who is at fault in every problematical situation?

Ever since Manuela hooked me up for the job, I’d anticipated countless questions. But that wasn’t an interview question I’d been anticipating.  Stumped, I just kinda stood there.

He removed car keys from inside his jacket pocket, then returned them again. Then said something to me in French. My French comprehension being imperfect, I muddled through. He had said something like:

It is not my attitude that makes you tremble. Although you have been thrust upon me, have I not put you at ease?

Well, no, I thought. You have not put me at ease. You were frowning and pouting in the corner when your parents interviewed me. But I didn’t say anything.

You tremble because you think I’m hot, he went on in French. And this is not acceptable. You must learn not to fear me. Trembling girls drive me nuts.

At least, that’s what I thought he said. I wasn’t too sure. I looked up stupidly at him, all the time thinking: I am not going to win this first battle in this undeclared war between us so why try? Because I’ll just piss off this guy. And my being hired depends on his goodwill. But hell, just because his folks want me to guard him, why is he against me?

He grinned at me, waited. It was so obvious that he knew I was biting my tongue, and that he had triumphed over me. I’d spent most of my twenty-two years feeling trumped by other people, or allowing them to win over me even when I was right or could easily have silenced them. Added to all this was the fact that I wanted the job, the money was good, I wasn’t sure I was hearing him right, and the guy was as hot as hell. It was a wonder I didn’t just start blubbering away in nervousness.

The job was pretty much a shoe-in because my friend Manuela was the Moreau’s maid and she’d been praising me to high heaven. But I couldn’t help wondering how much Manuela had told him about me. 

I wanted to say: So, am I going to enter into a job which requires continual kowtowing to you, Asshole?

I didn’t, though. With the pay I was supposed to get, I could pay off family debts. But I wasn’t relishing the idea of a job that made me feel inferior, triumphed over, and silenced.

So after another few seconds of my silence, Ben said, "So? A response, s’il vous plait!"

I responded, "Je pense. Je pense. I’m thinking."

Do you think I’m being rude to you? he asked, tilting his head ever so slightly.

I nodded slowly. Yes, I kinda do think that. And I don’t really. . .think. . .you’re being fair.

Something like compassion flickered across his beautiful face. His voice became gentler. Your French accent — it is not very good. My friends will tease you. Remember this. When you are with my friends, you must speak English.

I wanted to say, Of course, my accent’s not very good, Monsieur born-in-Korea/raised-in-Japan-and-France. I learned it in school and through French movies. But, know what? No matter how many ‘American Expat schools’ you’ve attended in your travels, your crazy Engrish/Konglish French pronunciation sounds funky to my Americanized Jamaican ears. You’re in the United States now. And what do I care what your Euro-trash friends think of me? 

I didn’t, though. Somehow I managed to say, So I’ve gotten the job?

He rolled his eyes as if I’d asked a dumb unnecessary question.

I wish you would stop trembling, he said, more impatiently than before. His pronunciation was strange, marked and influenced from different cultures. Yet, even with the impatience and the funky inflections, a hint of pity had invaded his voice. Through the confusion of tones, I sensed he was feeling ashamed of the way he was treating me...even if he was still somewhat annoyed with me.

He retrieved a cigarette from his jacket, then a platinum lighter from one of the pockets of his blue jeans — blue jeans with white butterflies on them. He held the cigarette between his right thumb and right index finger; the gold ring on his index finger and the silver one on his thumb glowed and twinkled. I would soon learn that glinting was one of Ben’s specialties. He glinted, he shone, he radiated. It wasn’t just the gold and silver adorning him that glittered; it was an inner radiance. This is not because I fell in love with him. There are other shining glittering people I’ve encountered whom I’ve never fallen in love with. And I’ve fallen for people who never glinted at all.

Yet, dazed and dazzled though I was by all that internal and external radiance, I raised my hand. Uhm, I stretched out the word. 

He looked up from the lighter. What?

Smoking makes some people gag and cough. I forced myself to continue. It burns their eyes. And really, smoking in America—

"Smoking in the United States, he corrected me. The United States is not the Americas. And if smoking bothers you, specifically, then you should say it bothers you specifically. There is no need to bring in the entire United States to support your challenge."

I thought: Is this guy always in correction mode? Or is he doing this specifically to make me feel like an idiot because I’m being forced on him? Is he gonna be like this for the rest of the Winter and Spring? Or will he lighten up when he accepts me?

I responded, Okay, yes. I gag on smoke. And... yes, I consider it a filthy habit. No one really smokes here unless they’re bad kids or illegals or someone who wants to look cool and Euro-trashy.

He closed the cigarette lighter. "Heol! And she is an expert on Euro-trashy." He didn’t exactly sneer, but it was very like a sneer. It was as if we were on a runaway train of anger and one-up-man-ship and neither of us wanted to continue but neither of us wanted to lose either.

Well, no, I’m not exactly an expert on that. I said, but. . . now that you’ve moved to New York, you need to know the way Americans —United Statesians— do things, right? 

He offered me the cigarette packet. Since you’re to be my slaver, take it. We don’t want you gagging.

No, we don’t, I said. I didn’t take the cigarette packet and we stood there staring at each other.

I figured I’d better take the measure of my opponent. I studied his long black hair braided in loose cornrows that flowed unbraided over his shoulders. ‘Hot’ was the term we used back in the day. Ben was hot. Pretty rather than handsome. And slender, with soft fine features unlike Lian, my dead fiancé, who had an accessible-boy-next-door beauty. Ben was androgynous like an Asian fairy prince and he had the kind of melancholy, delicate beauty that girls tended to idealize or wanted to protect. Or that guys considered feminine. Being female, I stared at him, enraptured and on the verge of falling in love. Being his opponent, I understood I was dealing with a guy who had probably turned love-struck girls like me into putty.

Immediately, I wanted to quit the job even before I started it. For three years, I’d been walking around in a semi-alive state, grieving for Lian, hating the world and my life, and then suddenly out of the blue, in the middle of arguing with a guy who seemed bent on crushing me, a sudden infatuation had waylaid me and was trying to wrestle me into submission. I had feared and wished for a new love to come and suddenly there it was. . .and in such a situation.

All the while he was sighing, this long exaggerated exasperated sigh as if he wanted to choke me but I was too pitiful for him to choke. He kept repeating "Heol! over and over again, punctuated by the occasional This is just so frickin unbelievable!" After a while, he pointed to the manila envelope his parents had lain on the table when they’d spoken to me earlier.

That’s for me? I asked.

He raised his left eyebrow, which I translated as: Well, isn’t that obvious?

I walked toward the package and he let out this one last exasperated defeated sigh as if he had given up on the current battle. Then he started reeling off facts, as if from a mental invisible list. He told me about his family, his dead brother, his parents and their expectations that he befriend American kids and avoid his friends. Among other things. Quite a long list. Then he finished off with a French shrug, and, I suss that’s it. I almost expected a surprise quiz but instead he walked off toward the kitchen.

I lingered in the Moreau living room for several seconds wondering what I’d gotten myself into. At last his folks, Edouard and Sung Yee Moreau, walked back in.

He obeys you, Sung Yee said, lifting his cigarette packet and lighter triumphantly.

But Edouard said, Don’t let Ben upset you and don’t let him manipulate you either. I heard you were a wise girl. You are, aren’t you?

Well, no, I thought, I am not wise.

* * *

As they drove me to the train station, I kept thinking of ways of getting out of the job. The gig was well-paying, already mine, and our household needed the money. But the whole thing seemed to be headed for trouble. My thoughts ran something like this: I have fallen into a crush I don’t want. I am now stuck with a cantankerous sophisticated kid who speaks his mind more easily than I speak mine. I don’t know squat about being a sober companion. I am already stressed about life and hanging around rich folks is just way out of my comfort zone and it’ll just stress me even more. The good thing is this is an entirely new infatuation. There’s still time to nip it in the bud if I want to. But do I really want to go bud-nipping? I loved Lian. I don’t want to forget Lian. Plus I don’t want to fall in love with another Korean guy. And it’s not as if this love I’m trying to fight off is gonna be returned. What is wrong with me? What is my problem anyway? Do I want to be treated like dirt again, the way Lian’s folks treated me? I can imagine Mrs. Moreau will be even nastier, being a rich socialite and all. At least Lian’s mom tolerated it all those years in high school cause she thought we’d grow out of our puppy love.

I went on like that, my mind racing until we entered the train station. And when we got there I still couldn’t bring myself to say I really didn’t want the job.

I had a bad habit then, and it’s something I still do occasionally. I would collect sad melancholy songs from different cultures I didn’t understand and I’d listen to them. Whether it was just a melancholy turn of mind or whether it was an acknowledgment that something deeper, more intrinsically untranslatable by mere human words was needed, I don’t know. But I liked listening to sad songs I didn’t understand, to sad OSTS from Korean Dramas. I’d imagine the songs were speaking the deepest hurts and secrets of my heart. So when I got on the train, I took out my player and listened. I remember listening to Dear Love by Wax and because I didn’t understand Korean at all, the melody had the effect of a prayer about desperate painful longing. The essence of han, I guess. I also listened to several arirangs. I wouldn’t be surprised if I cried listening to them, because I was very emotional in those days and prone to crying easily, although I never quite knew what I was crying about.

But perhaps I didn’t cry back then. One cries only when one expects heaven or humans to lend a comforting hand and in those days I didn’t expect either, especially on that homebound train.

In the glare of the train car light, I took out the manila envelope the Moreaus had prepared for me and opened it. Inside were photos, a corporate catalog of the Moreau Import Company, a list of company policies and accounting practices, and a letter. I unfolded the letter. It’s a letter I still have, and in spite of myself and without intending to, I’ve memorized it. It went as follows:

"Denise, we’re glad you’ve agreed to help us. We don’t know what Manuela told you but I’m assuming our short phone call on Tuesday explained the situation. As we discussed: as far as Ben —or anyone else— will know, you are Ben’s tutor and companion. But you are not merely a companion. You are a sober companion. That is the important part.

He has promised he will avoid drug-taking. He probably intends to keep the promise because he has seen the ill effects of contraband substances. Unfortunately, his promises mean nothing when his friends are around. And, equally unfortunate, he is determined to keep those friends. Although he can put aside drugs easily if he is not with his friends. We are afraid one day these vices will overtake him and he will not be able to control himself. We have warned him that if the drug-taking continues, he will be sent to a private Catholic school in rural Korea or to a Buddhist academy in France. We are hoping the threat of exile will deter him. However, we think having a good stable friend with sound morals will be a better deterrent. Manuela said you have good sense. She said you’re a good girl with a kind heart. We believe her and are trusting you to remove Ben from the presence of these friends when necessary, especially when drugs are present.

However, our son can be very strong-willed. He will suspect that we’ve hired you to keep us informed about his companions and his illegal activities. The boy is not stupid. But it is one thing to suspect, quite another to have one’s fears of betrayal proven true. Therefore, above all else, he must not suspect that you are anything more than a sober companion. We tried using professional sober companions several times. But he would not speak at all to one of them and completely stopped eating with the other. So you understand what we mean by willfulness. But if he discovers that you are reporting his behavior to us, he will resent you. This is the one thing you must be careful to keep hidden from him.  He must not consider you our spy. We’ve enclosed photos of the Debauched Ones whom he calls his friends. If Ben has any communication with them, we wish to be informed immediately. We’ve arrived to his new homeland and we do not want his European antics to follow him here. With kind regards, Edouard and Sung Yee Moreau."

My heart tightened as I wondered what would have happened if Ben had opened the manila envelope and seen the offensive his parents had designed against him. I liked Sung Yee Moreau. There was something about the way she smiled at me, something about how weak and frail and tired she looked, as if she was tired of life but still soldiering on. I wanted to be faithful to the job. But it was one thing to be Ben’s sober companion, quite another to spy on him.

I studied the eleven photos one by one, being assailed by an onslaught of images. Not the photos on the paper but images that flitted past my inner eye, the visions I saw while looking at the pictures. There was: A bent old French woman milking a cow, an Asian prostitute dying of syphilis, a Nazi soldier helping a Jewish friend escape the Nazis, an old man raping a little boy, a rabbi in a synagogue somewhere in Germany, a python. Sounds accompanied the visions. Shrieks, weeping. Smells, also, putrid odors.

I didn’t know which ancestor belonged to whom. All I knew was that Ben, the three guys, and two girls in the photo, were descendants of these people in the dimly-seen visions.

I forced my mind to push away the images. They dispersed and I concentrated on the actual photos of the Debauched Ones.

The Debauched Ones numbered five: three boys, two girls, and Ben. They popped up in different arrangements and permutations in different cities, European and Asian. I recognized Paris, Nancy, and Marseille. I recognized the Hangeul of Korea on shopfronts and restaurants. I recognized London and Tokyo. Other cities I wasn’t so sure of. 

The boys in the picture were slender except for one Caucasian guy who had a typical western build but because I liked skinny guys I considered too muscular or overweight. He had brown hair and blue eyes. The other Caucasian boy had short dark red hair which seemed to be graying. Two other boys also appeared in the pictures: Ben, of course, and another half-Asian boy who wore a ponytail. The girls were a laughing blonde and a melancholy brunette who clung to Ben in all the photos as if he was holding up her world. I’ll like her, I told myself. But she won’t like me. 

* * *

When I got back home, the strong smell of mold hit me as I opened the door. I thought about the job again as I looked about the house. The broken bathroom pipes we couldn’t repair. The broken drywall Gene, my autistic brother, punched in whenever he got stressed.

The job was a good way to fix up the house. Crush or no crush I had to take it. Mama was upstairs sleeping, and Gene was in bed. I tip-toed to his bed and bent low to see if his stomach was moving. It was my habit then because Gene was always sick with one or more of the other ills that affected autistic kids. That’s the way things were back then.

I glanced at Mama’s clock: 9:07 pm and then at Hemo, our pet pit bull, who always lay at the foot of Mama’s bed.

Because my sister Vicky and my brother Peter weren’t home yet, I felt free to make a phone call. I went downstairs and called Manuela, my friend who had recommended me for the job. 

"Ah, amiga mia!" she said, answering the phone.

Hey there, Manuela!

"Hermana, I wanted to drive you home but Mr. Eduardo and his Christmas parties! All this cook, cook, cook. So you took the train?"

Yeah. That’s okay. Thanks for thinking of me. Ah. . .Manuela, I know Ben’s your boss and all but... you’ve gotta—

I know, Denito. I know. You want to know what Benito is like?

Yeah. I guess.

He is like . . . he is like . . .that hijito with the hair in the middle of his head. 

The boy with the curl in the middle of his forehead?

"Si, si, Hermanita. When he is bad, he is muy malo. But when he is good, he is a little angelito. But he is a nice boy, he is so lindo. And you, so atemorisada – you need to get out of your mind. And he too – he should get out of his mind too. And I thought. . .he will bring you joy, Hermana. You will be good friends, Denito."

"Okay, back up, back up. Atemorisada? What’s that mean? ‘temor’? Does it have to do with sadness? Or is it fear? What? He was too much in his mind too?"

"Si, hermana. You are so good with languages. She was cooing at me as if I was the smartest person in the world. I told myself to look up the word when I got off the phone. Yes, he is nervous like. Yes, maybe anxious."

Thanks, yeah, I guess I am nervous. But he doesn’t seem so nervous.

Well...... Manuela drew the word out without explicitly disagreeing with me. "Hermana, he tell you about Yo Han?"

We didn’t really talk. He kinda just reeled out information at me, and somewhere in there he mentioned that his brother Yo Han had died.

Si. Yes. Yo Han die. Drugs, they say. So sad. But. . But . . .is okay, is okay. Benito . . ..

So . . .am I supposed to mention it? Not mention it? I mean—

"Best not say nothing, hermanita. You will take good care of him and . . .just be strong, hermanita, and it will be okay. Oh, Oh, Sorry, Denito. I have to go. Mr. Edouardo calling me."

So we hung up but, I was even more convinced the job would not be fun. So after pacing for a few minutes and finding no new English subs up online for my Korean dramas, I sent an email to Danny.

Danny was a minister’s son and I was a minister’s grandkid. I’d met him online in an internet group for minister’s kids. The group was supposed to be our safe haven from nasty secular folks on and offline. Although he was about five or six years older than I was, we became fast friends. I was into Korean guys by then (thanks to k-pop idols and Korean drama) and when I saw he was Korean-American and cute as heck and lived in New York state, about one hundred miles north of me, I envisioned him as my future hubby. He was sweet about my crush and he wasn’t turned off by my depressive funks. And he had his own issues as well. So we clicked. 

Since Lian’s death, I’d kept stuff to myself. Except for Danny. I told Danny everything. So I wrote:

Hey there, Danny! Well, I went to the interview. Finally met Ben, the guy I’m supposed to be working for. Guess what? I think I could fall in love with him. Weird, uh?? Certainly unexpected. Am still thinking of Lian though. I know he doesn’t care about what I’m doing now but still. Feels weird. I don’t know if I want to actually put my heart out there, though. It’s stressing trying to get Ben interested in me. He was acting like a real jerk. I don’t think he liked me. I kinda wish I don’t get the gig. But the money would be good. Anyway, such a scary surprise falling in love like that. Outta the blue! One day you’re walking along doing nothing, the next day you’re falling in love with some stranger you just met. Hope everything is cool with you and the farm. No rush. Get back to me when you can.

No rush. I always wrote that. But he always rushed. He knew how easily wounded I was, and that if he delayed in answering I’d go into one of my downward feeling rejected spirals as he called them. But I also felt that he liked talking to me and was genuinely interested in my flaky life.

* * *

I woke up the next morning thinking of Lian. Memories of him made me stay under the covers fearing the start of the day. I used to feel that if I stayed in bed all day, nothing bad would happen. And yet, I woke up convinced that something good had happened the day before. I had fallen in love with Ben.

I figured Vicky still hadn’t returned home because in bed her knees weren’t pressing against my back and her expensive shampoos and perfumes weren’t permeating the house. She was an intern at the Metropolitan Museum back then and often stayed overnight at her friend’s place in the city whenever the Met had a fundraiser. This is not the nicest thing to say about one’s sister but having her around always made it hard to breathe. She was cruel and touchy. Not my kind of touchy. I was sensitive but never cruel. Vicky was cru-el. I’ll admit that I assumed stuff about people but for the most part I’d let the assumptions wreck me from within. I’d walk around dying from shame and thinking all the world was mocking me. My sister was more proactive. If she thought you hated her, or that you were mocking her, or that you thought she was inferior, she’d get nasty with you. It never occurred to her that she was imagining attacks. She just went off on people. When she was in the house everyone held their breath, or left and didn’t return until she left.

I wanted to talk about Ben which would’ve been impossible with Vicky around. It was odd suddenly being in love after three years and after Lian. I didn’t know what to do with that. I had to bounce this new love off Kathy and Sasha. They would walk with me step by step to accept the situation. I waited for Danny’s reply. It was always good to have a guy’s opinion.

I covered my head with my blanket and dragged myself to the cordless phone in my brothers’ room. I dialed Kathy first and waited for her to pick up.

Thanks for calling, she said, sobbing when I said hello.

Kathy was always sobbing and she had a persistent fear of going over the edge. Which was understandable because she often did go over the edge. 

Because she was weeping, I waited to tell her about Ben. It was the usual way. We had a kind of rhythm. Whoever was more depressed would talk first while the other listened. Then when the sobbing fit stopped, the more depressed party would signal the conversational advance by politely asking the patient listener about her life.

On that particular morning, Kathy was trying to convince me that God wanted her to kill herself, that God used insanity to make people commit suicide and that it was all part of the mystery of His divine will. This was one of her more common monologues. I chimed in, interrupting her occasionally to challenge her God-wants-me-to-kill-myself theological theory and to remind her that blue cars weren’t changing into yellow cars as they did the last time she went manic. And that she hadn’t suddenly found herself in Amish country, nor was she freaking out and calling me from an upstate train station because she was hiding from some supposed mob guy with a contract on her. (She was a dark-haired petite Italian, about thirty-something. Because of where she grew up she always populated her psychoses with Italian made guys named Nicky Slick and Bobby Knickers.) But one couldn’t really reason with Kathy when she was like that. She’d go on and on about her family wanting to permanently institutionalize her and she’d cry until she had no tears left or until our unwritten agreement to listen to each other kicked in.

If the radio starts telling you to kill yourself, then I’ll worry, I reassured her. Trust me. I’ll tell you when I think you’re going manic.

After about an hour she finally said, But I shouldn’t be talking about myself. How’re you doing? How’d the interview go?

Sure you want to hear about me? I asked, hoping of course she did want to hear about me. I mean, if you need more time—

No, no, I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. I just need to get out of my own mind. That was our phrase. We were always talking about getting out of our minds.

Well, Ben and I got along! I shouted, giggling.

Nice? she asked through her sobs.

Oh my God, Kathy! he was sooo nice. It was a bold-faced lie but it seemed the best thing to say to protect myself. Kathy was always very negative when she was in a bad mood. But then I added, And sooo incredibly hot. Which I immediately regretted. Kathy was very suspicious of my crushes on hot guys.

So what’s he? Blonde and blue? she asked. Moreau’s his last name, right? He’s French? The French are dark, like us Italians.

He’s French and Korean. Didn’t I tell you?

Korean? You didn’t mention that.

I probably hadn’t. For obvious reasons. Sorry, I said. I should’ve. His name’s Ben Moreau. It’s actually Bin-jae Moreau.

Koreans are the worst. Or have you forgotten?

I haven’t forgotten, I answered. But Lian’s family was Lian’s family. This is . . .the Moreaus. And Lian was Lian but Ben is Ben.

Okay. Whatever. Dream on.

No, honest! And you can’t go saying all Koreans are the same. Anyway, he has this Asian-Southern-European thing happening. Soo cute. He has his mother’s eyes. Long thin phoenix eyes with monolids—

‘Phoenix eyes’?

Yes. Asian eyes come in all kinds of—

Oh for heaven’s sakes! Denise, do you hear yourself? Okay, okay... go on ...since you obviously want to wax poetic about your present Asian fetish.

It’s not a fetish. It’s an. . .an orientation. Anyway, he has this aquiline nose—

Aquiline nose? And Phoenix eyes? Denise! Her disappointment in me brought a heaviness under my heart. You’re in love with him, aren’t you? Already?

I just met him, Kathy. I thought he was hot but no I’m not in love with —

You always had a thing for A-B-B’s, she said, sighing. Anything But Black. But all this gushing! You shouldn’t be gushing. You just met him. I don’t like it. Is he gay or bi?

Why’d you think he’d be gay?

Because you not only avoid Black men, but you aim for guys who are genetically programmed to be unaggressive toward you.

Lian wasn’t aggressive and he wasn’t bi, I challenged her.

Well, from what I can tell you probably liked Lian because he was odd and because you thought you couldn’t do any better. He kept everything inside, right? He was sweet and shut up in himself, right? And because you don’t think much about yourself, you accepted what you could get.

Okay, whatever, Kathy.

You’ve got to be reasonable, Denise. Aim for someone. . .safer. Your track record—

Kathy, I don’t have to be reasonable. So stop making me afraid. Stop putting fear into my mind. Just when I’m starting to believe someone like Ben could love me, you—

Then suddenly a click: Kathy had hung up on me.

She did that a lot. Then, a few days later, she’d call and pretend nothing had happened. Or I’d call and pretend nothing happened. That’s the way it always went. Still, I wanted to choke her. I had wanted to share my love news, to yell about my happiness of suddenly falling in love after all those years. Unfortunately, Kathy was the wrong choice.

The only other person to share my news with was Sasha. Unfortunately, I was a bit of a loner...as far as the neighborhood was concerned. I suppose I had friends; a few folks who had kindly taken me into their circle. But after Lian came into my life, they kept their distance. But I had Manuela, Sasha, Danny, and Kathy, and I still had Bobby, the neighborhood guy who liked me.

I started punching Sasha’s number but stopped, staring at the phone. Calling Sasha meant having to listen to her latest romance horror story —an ongoing saga about her crackhead boyfriend who had stolen her SSI money and who had slept with the neighbor who stole Sasha’s cat. None of which sounded vaguely true, because Sasha was way delusional and always in and out of the county’s mental institution. But whereas Kathy tainted my little joys with her negativity Sasha simply abused them with a neurotic indifference. She just didn’t have it in her to care about other people’s issues and was always fading out of conversations when she was not the center of attention. I put the phone away.

* * *

All day I waited for Ben to call. He didn’t. A couple hours before going to bed, I checked my email. Danny’d written and said he’d be praying for me. I went to bed and dreamed.

In the dream, I was in a garden and in the distance —outside the gate— a girl waved to me. I squinted, focused to see who it was. Not recognizing her, I walked in another direction toward someone else, a boy with a cowboy hat and red hair. But the girl waved again and I stopped to wait for her. As she approached, I realize it was not a girl at all but Ben.

He smiled as he closed the garden gate behind him. Didn’t recognize me?

Oh! I squealed in delight. Ben! No, No, I didn’t recognize you. I thought you were a girl. You really must cut your hair.

Yeah, he said, too many ‘dude looks like a lady’ comments.

He kissed me on the cheek as I stood near a thorny bush. Then we began to work in the garden, weeding, removing, transplanting. At one point, he turned to me and said, No matter how long it takes, you must wait for me. Don’t give up on me. Stay with me and keep me safe. And I will keep you and Gene safe.

When I woke, I thought about synapses firing away and wondered: Have I created this dream to fool myself? But, then again, what if my synapses had nothing to do with this dream? What if this dream is heaven-sent to encourage me? Confusion. Par for the course for me then as now. I was always wondering whether things were real, imagined, spiritual, emotional, or nonsensical. I was always pondering so many things.

* * *

A day later, I was still waiting for Ben to call. When Ashley invited me to her house for a Christmas party, I figured I’d go as a way of getting my mind off Ben, even though Ashley was the last person I wanted to see. Actually, I didn’t want to see anyone in Ashley’s family. They were nice enough. The matriarch — Ashley’s and Bobby’s Mom— was white. Her seven kids — from five different dads with three different nationalities— were the kindest folks you’d ever want to meet. . .once they accepted you. Thing was, they liked me a bit too much. They wanted me to marry Bobby.

So I attended the party. Even though Ashley was Bobby’s sister and had never really given up hope of me becoming her sister-in-law in real or common-law marriage. 

At one point in the party — a party where everyone kept assuming Bobby and I had gotten together at last— Ashley took me aside, gently burping her baby over her shoulder. Go get yourself a beer, Bobby, she ordered. I wanna talk to Denise alone.

After Bobby left, she turned to me.  You gonna keep thinking about Lian? Lian’s dead. I forgave you for hurting my brother.  She nodded in the direction of the party-goers in the living room. Look, it’s not gonna hurt you to go out with Bobby. It’ll help you heal up. And you know, we always think of you as family

True, I said. You guys were always there for me.

And you’ve always wanted a large family that loved you, right? She checked off all the good reasons for me to hook up with Bobby. And we all know Gene and love him. And we have a disabled brother too.  You gave up all of us for Lian, and for a family that didn’t accept you. Can’t you just try to like Bobby? Sleep with him a couple times. Believe me. Sometimes sex does the trick. You think of someone as a good friend and suddenly you sleep with each other and then wow...it’s like magic. I know it.

Ash, I said, I’m not gonna fall for Bobby. I’m not.

Bobby isn’t good enough for you? The way she said it — it reminded me of all the fights she’d gotten into when we were in high school. She had saved me several times from being beaten up by school bullies. No one wanted to get on her bad side. I had only been accepted by her because Bobby liked me. Bobby always had a thing for protecting strays. Moping around in high school I was pretty much bully-bait. So Ashley and Bobby kept my high school life relatively safe. No one wanted to come up against the wrath of a short half-Irish half-Black girl or her half-Irish half-German younger brother. 

I glanced around at the barbecued burgers and chicken, the sausages, the potatoes – mashed, roasted, and fried; I glanced around at the games, the smiling faces, the TV-watchers. I could only think that Ashley would kill me if she knew I’d done it again, gone and fallen for some guy who wasn’t a neighborhood guy. I gotta go, I said. You know, Mama. She’ll wonder where I am.

Say it straight. She’ll think you’re screwing around with Bobby and she thinks you’re better than us.

Mama likes Bobby, I said. She doesn’t think like that.

I walked to the door, but Bobby followed me. Let me walk you home, he said.

It’s not like I’ll be attacked or anything, I said. I just live down the road.

He smiled, looking handsome as usual under his wavy mop of light-brown hair. I want to walk you home. Don’t worry. No pressure.

Okay. Walk me home. Why not?

So we walked the mile back to my house, the snow falling all around us under the peach-colored street lights and Bobby commenting on how romantic the night was. And it probably would’ve been romantic to any other girl in the hood. Bobby wasn’t bad looking. He had the greatest smile, the kindest heart, a great body, a handsome face. But I just didn’t feel the spark. He had liked me since he’d seen me crying one day in the school yard. His pity combined with my gratitude had created a close friendship, but that friendship had shattered when I fell in love with Lian. 

When we stood outside my yard, Bobby said to me, I still love you, you know. I just want you to know that. I’ll always be here waiting for you.

Thanks, I answered, but as I stood on my porch watching him leave, I realized that was the wrong answer. My answer had conceded the possibility that I might one day fall in love with him. I hadn’t actually come out and said, I’ve just now fallen in love with someone new, so chances are pretty nil for me and you ever becoming a couple. I was always playing it safe, not wanting to stress myself by telling anyone the truth.

* * *

Ben and I spent the next three weeks playing phone-tag. Me because I was too afraid I’d shrivel up at the sound of his voice, especially if he told me he had reconsidered hiring me. And Ben because he was so against the gig. (He told me all this later so I was apparently closer to the truth than I thought.) Plus, it was the holiday season and the Moreaus seemed to have one business party after another.

In those days, it was my habit to daydream. Especially when I was stressed or depressed. I had many little personal worlds that I inhabited, imaginary cultures and families where I was loved and rich and happy. In those worlds, I never feared the dropping of the next shoe, kindness and respect ruled, and everyone was healthy and happy. So although the three weeks of waiting passed, I hardly noticed them because all those created worlds with created lovers and gentle strangers provided me comfort.

I shielded myself as best as I could from pain by convincing myself that nothing good in the real world waited for me. But on a Wednesday, one day after Christmas, and three weeks after I’d first met him, Ben picked me up at the deli near my house —my house being too embarrassing for me to let him in. He seemed like a prince in a palanquin as he drove up in his Lexus. He had removed the cornrows, and his hair fell in a natural bang over his forehead and over almond-shaped hazel eyes. 

I stepped into the car, noticing that as he drove, he fiddled, tapped the steering wheel, sighed, kept his eyes on the road. Then suddenly, he pulled the car over onto a shoulder.

The clothes, he said, staring ahead.  C’est necessaire.

Necessary? To what? Change my outfit? Is that why we’re going shopping? I look tacky and you want to dress me?

I, personally, do not mind having friends who wear clothes from the 100-yen store, he answered. But I do not want my hired companion mocked. My friends would not mock your low status clothing, but these neighbors. . .they would.

I tried not to fume, but fuming leaked out anyway. Low status clothing? I asked.

He looked confused. Did I say something wrong?

‘Low status clothing.’ You said ‘low status clothing.’

Was that wrong?

It was.

He still looked confused. I meant poor clothes. Certainly my friends will find other things to mock about you, but no they do not mock poverty of clothing.

I grimaced. Thank God for small favors.

So that was that. We drove down-county to the ritzier towns, places I never ventured. . . much less shopped. The high-priced boutiques, the gourmet shoppes, restaurants, and delis. They gleamed and shone — the streets shone, the pedestrians themselves shone, seeming healthy and vital compared to the poor I daily hung with. The sorrow of the poor is their poverty.

Compared to those towns, Porterville —with its broken-down storefronts— was nothing. City Hall was trying to renovate it. A few years before that, they had decided Porterville would be a town for artists. That didn’t work. Then they invited big corporations and state government offices to move there. That hadn’t worked either. Nothing worked; the town remained poor. Not that we couldn’t go out at nights. The drunks, prostitutes and crack addicts weren’t going to harm you. They were good people, just down on their luck. Life, hopelessness, and drugs had gotten to them. That’s why rich towns seem brighter than poorer ones. Hopefulness glows and despair dims. Wealth has a brightness to it.

I lightened up, being surrounded by lightness. We shopped, got snacks from chic cafes (choosing them by using our tried and true rock/paper/scissors method.) Luxuriating in our togetherness, I wondered what people thought when they saw us. I hoped they thought he was