White Ivy(44)

“Have you ever been to China, Ivy?” Dave asked.

“I was born there,” said Ivy. “I came to the States when I was five. But I went back once when I was fourteen.” She briefly described her one vacation in Chongqing, but when she realized she was holding court for the first time—Dave and Liana’s interest seemed genuine—she began to embellish this one summer to many summers, speaking of a childhood spent in both rural villages and glittering metropolises, of the discrepancy between the rich and the poor, the abject poverty, the ostentatious excess, families of four squeezed onto a single motorbike, fields and fields of rice paddies. She described Jojo, Aunt Hong, Sunrin and Sunrin’s ayi: where they lived, where they worked, how they viewed people from America, reducing her relatives to avatars for the poor, the rich, the Chinese. As she spoke, Gideon took her glass from her hand and signaled a waiter for another.

“What you said about the class and gender discrepancies really struck home with me,” said Liana. “My great-grandmother was sold by her parents to a peddler so they could feed her brothers. She still came from the foot-binding generation but she taught herself how to read. She raised my grandmother to be the first woman to attend a previously all-male engineering school in Beijing. If you’re interested, I have this book on how Chinese women overcame the class barriers in the pre-Mao era. I can lend it to you.”

Ivy said she would love to read it. Liana suggested that Ivy come to her next book club.

“Am I invited?” Gideon teased.

“Women only.”

“Even I can’t get in,” said Dave, his white curls bouncing around his temples as he shook his head. “They lock the doors for hours and all I hear is nonstop giggling. You must be our mole, Ivy. Give us the inside scoop.”

Liana placed her arm around Ivy’s waist. “She’d never betray her fellow women.”

Ivy felt something loyal and protective emit from the heat of Liana’s hand, something that inducted her into Liana’s inner circle, even if she barely understood how to navigate such a circle in which her Chinese-ness wasn’t something to hide under the tablecloth like an unseemly dog, but flaunted in a qipao with a slit up the thigh. Suddenly, she felt ashamed of her earlier simplification of Liana’s life, of her relatives’ lives. Maybe there were no new stories, only your story. But what did the real story even matter, when most people judged you based on the shallowest surfaces?

After they’d eaten their scallop ceviche and pistachio tapenade, Dave suggested that Liana show Ivy the roses. “Everything’s blooming wonderfully this year”—he tapped Liana’s hip—“all thanks to you, my dear.”

“It’s all thanks to Francisco,” said Liana, taking Ivy’s arm. “I just write the checks.”

They walked toward the well-manicured garden near the gazebo, not speaking much. Liana occasionally waved to a friend or pointed out vegetables to Ivy she was particularly proud of: the bright red tomatoes, splitting with juices, and the fat zucchinis as long as an arm. “We used to have so many problems with parasites and rabbits. But after we hired Francisco, almost everything we eat is homegrown.”

“What a time commitment,” said Ivy. “And you’re so busy already, with Coco and your charities.”

“Just throw money at the problem,” said Liana. She frowned and bent down to pluck a weed that had been wrapped around the stem of a red rose. When she straightened up, a black-vested staff member appeared from thin air to take the weed from Liana’s manicured fingers, handing her a wet napkin with his other hand.

“I like you, Ivy,” Liana said frankly. “I can see why you’re special to Gideon. You two make a beautiful couple. Let me know if I can be of help to you in any way…”

It was almost midnight when Ivy and Gideon left. All the lights in the mansion were still ablaze. Dave and his friends were playing bridge in the foyer; Liana sat on the terrace surrounded by wives from her book club, debating fervently about the oil crisis, as if the president himself were waiting breathlessly for their phone call, to tell him exactly what needed to be done.

Just what was this cloak called privilege and how did it protect you? Was it visible to the wearer or just to onlookers on the outside?

“We’ll get dinner with them sometime,” said Gideon in the car. His smile, thrown into relief by the headlights of a passing truck, looked particularly sweet. “Liana’s great, isn’t she? You two have a lot in common.”

“Really?” Ivy murmured.

“I saw her in court once,” said Gideon, “back when I was an undergrad… The way she took control of the jury—‘If we don’t dare, then who will dare?’—I’ll never forget that line. It made me want to change the world.” He shook his head. “She was something else.”

Ivy said, “Yeah. I love Liana and Dave. Who wouldn’t want to be like them?”

They fell quiet. The radio crooned its top ten love songs; an announcer awarded concert tickets to the fiftieth caller of the night. A slow acoustic song began playing… and you know… for you I’d bleed myself dry… and in the man’s soft timbre voice, Ivy heard her own longing.

By the time Gideon pulled up into her driveway, she’d made up her mind to quit teaching and become a lawyer.