Vladimir(12)

Cynthia wants to know if we should bring our own towels?

I thought about the domestic politics that must have gone into that text exchange. I could see them sitting, wherever they were, their daughter banging a spoon on the table. I could hear Vladimir saying, “I don’t think we need to,” and Cynthia, sober Cynthia, taking the spoon out of their daughter’s hand and saying, “Just ask her, please,” and him saying something like, “Why don’t you text her,” and her responding, “Because you’re the one texting now,” and him saying something like, “You were the one who was supposed to text,” and her picking up their daughter and raising her eyebrows at him and saying, “Just ask her, please. For me,” and his threat—“All right, but I’m going to say you’re the one who asked.”

Or maybe it wasn’t like that at all. Maybe they were in complete synchronization. Maybe she had said, “Do you think we need to bring towels?” and he had said, “I’ll ask her,” and in deference to the fact that she had been the one to come up with the question in the first place he had given her the credit.

I’d responded, Nope, we’ve got plenty! Looking forward to seeing you. I spent a few seconds rearranging the punctuation, moving the exclamation point from the you to the plenty and back again.

By Friday I had finished Vladimir’s book and read every review (including the painful and abusive ones from Amazon and Goodreads) that I could locate online. Like most books that are full with tone, the last third was not as compelling as the beginning, but the final chapter, and final paragraph especially, was masterful, and shifted me, so that I sat in the library, tears in my eyes, wishing I could put my head down on the table and sob. There was a part of our campus that connected to a network of hiking trails and I stumbled toward them and walked, looking intently at the changing root structures below my feet, letting the spell of the book gradually wear off, like the buzz of an afternoon drink fades into the responsibilities of early evening.

The whole day prior to their arrival I was pulsing with anticipation. I found, but didn’t read, pieces of Cynthia Tong’s memoir, published in Prairie Schooner and The Kenyon Review. After my last class on Friday, possessed, but feeling all the while like a fool, I went to a local spa and visited a masseuse for an anti-cellulite massage and a leg spray tan. It was a long, stupid, awkward process, and I despised myself the whole time. The woman who massaged my legs wanted to impress very firmly that nothing could be done about my cellulite. I waited for thirty minutes in a dark room before I emerged and checked in with the receptionist and found I was in the wrong place for the application of the spray tan. I waited another thirty minutes, because the technician had moved on to another client before I saw her, and then was scolded for shaving rather than waxing.

I didn’t understand why I booked those appointments. I couldn’t really afford them (when the bill came to 217 dollars without tip I felt nauseated), and it was not as though I was in the habit of getting them. It wasn’t as though I thought I could become more alluring; it was more that I wanted to erect a fortress around my body—a fortress of care and grooming. A fortress of corporeal dignity. I utterly failed, however. The tan came out dark and orange, there was no discernable difference in my cellulite, and, deeply regretting the idiotic amount of money I’d spent, I resolved to wear pants and refrain from going in the water.

After my appointment I took nearly two hours shopping at several different markets in town before I had gathered all the ingredients and drinks I needed for the following day. I was in the kitchen concocting a pickling brine for the stalks of daikon and carrot when John arrived home.

“What’s all this?” He picked up the lemongrass and smelled it.

“It’s for tomorrow. I’m making bun bo xao,” I said, taking the lemongrass away from him. “It’s a kind of Vietnamese noodle salad.”

“I thought we were grilling.”

“We are—you have to grill the steak for the recipe.”

“That’s not grilling—grilling is burgers and dogs or brats.”

“It’s September, we’re all tired of that food by now. This is going to be nice and refreshing, the flavors are beautiful, you can make it kid friendly for the little one, and she can have the noodles—WILL YOU PUT DOWN MY JALEPE?O, PLEASE?”

“Jesus,” he said, and tossed the pepper so it hit me in the chest. “It’s fussy, that’s all.”

“It seems fussy now when I’ve got everything out—it won’t be fussy.”

“Are you trying to intimidate them? Or impress them?”

“I’m not trying anything—THAT’S FOR THE BABY,” I yelled as he pulled out the lemonade and started pouring. “Can you get out of here? Thank you.”

“I got rid of the compost.”

“Thank you.”

“They’re just coming over to swim, we’re not hosting their wedding.”

“I’m enjoying myself. I’m enjoying cooking. Please.”

“Can I have this beer?” He held up the beers I had bought that were from a local brewery, which had been recommended to me by an affable bearded store clerk with rainbow nail polish and a twinkling smile.

“Of course,” I said. He moved in to peck my cheek and I flinched. “Sorry,” he said. “Felt like old times.”