The Leavers(27)

Deming went downstairs and lifted the lid of the record player. On the turntable was another card that said What word comes after ‘surprise,’ alphabetically? He took the dictionary down from the bookshelf, flipped through pages until the next card fell out.

After being led to the linen closet, the china cabinet, and the dishwasher, he followed a clue that said Put your socks away to the hamper, and opened it to find a box wrapped in silver paper, topped with a plastic bow. It was a big box, but not big enough for a guitar.

He brought it to his bedroom. “Open it!” Peter cried.

It was a new laptop, white and glimmering. “All yours.” Kay kissed him on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Daniel.”

Deming pierced the plastic wrapping with his fingernail. The plastic clung to the cardboard, then slowly unfurled. He opened the box, lifted the lid of the computer, and plugged it in, wishing that Michael could be there so they could watch videos together, wanting to show it all to Michael: the laptop, the records, the tapes, the Discman, the town full of white people. Where was Michael, why wasn’t he here? It was Roland he invited to his birthday dinner with Peter and Kay, at Casa Margarita in the strip mall on the highway, where they ate fajitas and drank virgin margaritas with paper umbrellas tucked in the slush. The waiters led the room in singing and Deming blew out the candles on his ice cream cake. When Roland saw the laptop, he whispered, with a reverence that made Deming proud: “Your parents are cool.”

As long as he didn’t think about his mother, Deming was not that unhappy in Ridgeborough. Yet there was always this nagging, icy swipe of fear, a reminder that he needed to stay alert. At times the fear was so far in retreat he forgot its existence; at other times it was so strong he could barely stop himself from shrieking. These people were strangers. He couldn’t trust them. Like when a Chinese maid had appeared on a TV show, a woman in a tight dress with garish eye makeup speaking a botched version of Mandarin, and Kay had stopped talking, the silence in the room was so loud it formed a dark red curtain, and Kay had flushed and quickly changed the channel, blabbing about winter and skiing as the TV played a commercial with a blonde lady putting a plate of fish sticks in a microwave. If Leon or Mama or Vivian had been there they would have all laughed at the Chinese maid together, made a joke about what province she was from, how could they get a job like that. Or the time Kay asked him to run into Food Lion and pick up a gallon of milk while she waited in the car, and Deming swore he’d heard someone make a noise like they did in kung-fu movies: hi-ya! When he told Kay about the sound, she had said, “Maybe you misheard? Maybe they were singing a song, or telling a friend about a movie?” Or eating shitty Chinese takeout at Roland’s house, gloppy chicken in nuclear red sauce, and Roland had poked at the meat lumps and asked what it was and his mother joked that it was cat or dog, was that a tail they saw there, and Deming felt chilled, implicated. Be careful. They’re not on your side. It’s important to be strong.

“Next year, can I get a guitar?” They were driving home after dinner at Casa Margarita, after dropping Roland off. If he had a guitar, he and Roland could have a real band.

“Let’s not carried away,” Peter said. “Music is fine to listen to as a hobby, but you need to focus on school.”

“But what if my grades get better?”

“You need to be more responsible, Daniel. Don’t ask for more when you can’t even be thankful for what you already have.”

“I am thankful.”

Kay turned around. “Enjoy your laptop first. Live in the moment.”

THEY WERE TALKING IN bed again. “He’s getting C’s and D’s,” Peter said. “We should look into a tutor. A student from Carlough.”

“That’s a good idea,” Kay said.

“He needs to work harder.”

“Oh, God, sometimes I look at him and think, what are we doing with this twelve-year-old Chinese boy? In Ridgeborough? Jim and Elaine, at least they’re in New York City. How could we have considered bringing a child from China here? The other day, Daniel told me he’d heard something, I don’t know, racist at the Food Lion. I was horrified. And now, whenever we go out, I’m suspicious. Are people looking at us because I have blonde hair and he has black hair? Or is it more nefarious? It’s making me paranoid.”

“We’re learning, we’re learning.”

“I mean, should we cook Chinese food? Or start Mandarin lessons again? I don’t want to be this, you know, this white lady—”

“You’re not doing anything wrong. It’s not easy, caring for a foster child. This has been a big change for us, a big adjustment.”

“Tell me about it. Some days I want to do one of those marathon writing days like I used to, but then there’s this boy here who needs us, and I need to make him meals and buy him clothes and make sure I’m loving and caring and patient so I don’t mess him up more than he already is. I’m afraid I’m too old to learn how to be the kind of mother who gives everything up to mom. Even foster mom. I’m using mom as a verb here, in case you can’t tell.”

“Well, if you’re too old, then I’m too old, too,” Peter said. “You know, at a meeting the other day, Will Panov said Daniel was lucky to have us and we were brave to take in an older boy. I told him, we’re the ones who are lucky that he’s staying with us.”