The Leavers(83)

Zhao scoffed. “Public, private, what’s the difference. The bottom line is, they don’t belong here.”

Yong shifted in his chair. “But you hire them,” I said. “To do your renovations, paint your apartment, work in your factory. You’re contradicting yourself.”

When I saw Yong’s smile fade, I kept talking, trying to drown out Zhao and Lujin, until Ning came back and changed the subject. I hadn’t given you up to agree with such hateful things. I was a good person. I am a good person.

“THAT’S WHY YOU CAN’T see anything. It’s because of those damn sunglasses.”

Getting into our apartment, Yong banged his knee against the door. Sometimes his dark lenses made him look sleek, even a little dangerous, but at other times, like tonight, they seemed desperate.

“I’m glad it’s over,” he said. “The speech, the dinner, the whole thing.”

He looked tired. I decided to be kind. “People loved your speech.”

“See, I told you it was what they wanted to hear.”

Tomorrow was Saturday, and Yong didn’t have to go to work until after lunch. We could sleep in, have sex. I washed my face and brushed my teeth, checked to make sure the door was locked and the lights were off in the living room. We’d skip watching TV tonight.

I thought Yong had fallen asleep, but as I got into bed, he spoke up. “So, who’s Deming?”

I shut the light off so he wouldn’t see the alarm on my face. “Who?”

“Your phone rang when you were in the bathroom. It said Deming.”

My phone was lying face up on the night table. The screen displayed a missed call from you, a new voice mail message. I would listen to it later, when Yong was asleep.

I spoke at the ceiling. “Deming is one of Boss Cheng’s Xiamen clients. He’s traveling abroad right now, calling at odd hours. He must have forgot the time difference.”

“Okay,” Yong said. He didn’t sound convinced.

I pulled the sheets over my shoulders. “Good night.”

A minute later, Yong spoke again. His voice sounded far away, even if he was next to me. “When I came home earlier tonight, you were out on the balcony, on the phone. As soon as you saw me you ended the call. You were acting strange.”

I was glad he couldn’t see my flushed cheeks or hear my rapidly beating heart. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“No.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong. You have nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried. But you seemed upset with Zhao.”

“I can’t stand it when he talks about migrant workers that way. Why don’t you ever say anything? Yongtex has your name. You got the award tonight. Tell him to shut up, once and for all.”

“I just don’t let it bother me.”

“Could we go to Hong Kong instead of talking about it?”

“After the holiday season. There’s a lot going on at work.”

“That’s more than six months away.”

“Not so long, right?”

“I’m tired of these parties. Don’t you get tired of it, too?”

“I don’t mind.”

Yong didn’t fight me. He wasn’t angry. Again, I felt let down.

I imagined leaving him, or being left. Losing this companionship, the comfort of being with someone you knew so well. I thought of the nights I had lain awake at Ardsleyville and in the workers’ dormitory, even in the bunk on Rutgers Street, and how long they’d been, how endless the days. All I’d wanted then was to not feel alone. Last year, when Yong had been away for three weeks on business, I’d been glad to have the apartment to myself, didn’t pick up my clothes or clean the dishes or take out the trash. But when I came home from work the apartment felt empty, and when I finally slept I would dream about you, a ten-year-old reciting New York City subway lines, then wake up unsure of where I was, expecting to see you across the room.

Yong touched my arm. “I did good tonight, didn’t I?”

“You did great.”

I knew that I should wait, hold off on telling Yong the truth and on calling you until I was stronger. I didn’t want to upset you more. Yi Ba believed that to give in to your cravings was a sign of weakness. Be strong, I told myself, though I wasn’t sure what that meant anymore. Think it over before you say anything.

But I couldn’t stop myself. “I have a son and I lost him.”

The words hung in the air for an awful, extended moment. “A son?”

I couldn’t answer.

“What do you mean, lost?”

“I had him when I was nineteen. Got pregnant by my neighbor in the village. I left him in America, because I couldn’t take him back to China with me, and then he was adopted by an American family. He recently got in touch with me. That’s who Deming is. That’s his name. Deming Guo.” I wanted to say it again, so I did. “Deming Guo.”

Your name echoed in the bedroom. Yong took his hand off my arm.

“He lives in New York, now, and he just found me. We spoke on the phone twice.”

Yong shook his head, as if he was trying to clear water out of his ears.

I looked at my husband and tried to will him to look back at me. Years ago, as a student in my class, his English had been clumsy, halting. In Chinese he could talk and talk, but in English he was nearly mute, and I had felt like I was somehow responsible.