A Sneak Peek at Fall 2017 EXCERPT SAMPLER

FALL 2017 SAMPLER

brought to you by

Table of Contents

The Boat People: A Novel by Sharon Bala (Doubleday, January 2018)

The Story of Arthur Truluv: A Novel by Elizabeth Berg (Random House, November 2017)

Need to Know: A Novel by Karen Cleveland (Ballantine Books, January 2018)

Love and Other Consolation Prizes: A Novel by Jamie Ford (Ballantine Books, September 2017)

THE BOAT PEOPLE X

Sharon Bala

doubleday New York London Toronto Sydney Auckland

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 3 6/27/17 10:38 AM This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 by Sharon Bala

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Ltd., Toronto.

www.doubleday.com

doubleday and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

Jacket photograph TK Jacket design TK

[CIP data TK]

isbn: 9780385542296 (hardcover) isbn: 9780385542302 (eBook)

manufactured in the united states of america

First Edition

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 4 6/27/17 10:38 AM Beginning

july 2009

ahindan was flat on his back when the screaming began, one arm right-­angled over his eyes. He heard the whistle and thud of falling artillery, the cries of theM dying. Mortar shells and rockets, the whole world on fire. Then another sound. It cut through the clamor so that for a drawn-­ out second there was nothing else, only him and his son and the bomb that arched through the sky with a shrill banshee scream, spinning nose aimed straight for them. Mahindan fought to open his eyes. His limbs were pinned down and heavy. He struggled to move, to call out in terror, to clamber and run. The ground rumbled. The shell exploded, shards of hot metal spitting in its wake. The tent was rent in half. Mahindan jolted awake. Heart like a sledgehammer, he sat up frantic, blinking into the darkness. He heard someone panting and long seconds later realized it was him. The echoing whine of flying shrapnel faded and he returned to the present, to the coir mat under him, back to the hold of the ship. There were snores and snuffles, the small nocturnal noises of five hundred slumbering bodies. Beneath him, the engine’s serene rumble. He reached out, instinctive, felt his son Sellian curled up beside him, then lay down again. The back of his neck was damp. His pulse still raced. He smelled the sourness of his skin, the raw animal stink of the bodies all around. The man on the next mat slept with his mouth open. His snore was a revving motorcycle, so close Mahindan could almost feel the warm exhales. He put his hand against Sellian’s back, felt it move up and down. Gradually, his own breathing slowed to the same rhythm. He ran a hand through his son’s hair, fine and silky, the soft strands of a child,

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 1 6/27/17 10:38 AM sharon bala · 2 then stroked his arm, felt the roughness of his skin, the long, thin scratches, the scabbed-­over insect bites. Sellian was slight. Six years old and barely three feet tall. How little space the child occupied, coiled into himself, his thumb in his mouth. How precarious his existence, how miraculous his survival. Mahindan’s vision adjusted and shapes emerged out of the gloom. The thin rails on either side of the ladder. Lamps strung up along an electrical cord. Outside the porthole window, it was still pitch-black.­ Careful not to wake Sellian, he stood and gingerly made his way across the width of the ship toward the ladder, stepping between bodies huddled on thin mats and ducking under sleepers swaying overhead, cocooned in rope hammocks. It was hot and close, the atmosphere suffocating. Hema’s thick plait trailed out on the dirty floor. Mahindan stooped to pick it up and laid it gently on her back as he passed by. Her two daughters shared the mat beside her; they lay on their sides facing each other, knees and foreheads touching. A few feet on, he passed the man with the amputated leg and averted his gaze. During the day the ship was rowdy with voices, but now he heard only the slap of the electrical cord against the wall, everyone breathing in and out, recycling the same stale, diesel-scented­ air. A boy cried out in his sleep, caught in a nightmare, and when Mahindan turned toward the sound, he saw Kumuran’s wife comfort her son. With both hands grasping the banisters, Mahindan hoisted himself up the ladder. Emerging onto the deck, inhaling the fresh scent of salt and sea, he felt immediately lighter. From overhead, the mast creaked and he gazed up to see the stars, the half-appam­ moon glowing alive in the sky. At the thought of appam—doughy,­ hot off the fire—­ his stomach gave a plaintive, hollow grumble. It was dark, but he knew his way around the ship. A dozen plastic buckets were lined up along the stern. He squatted in front of one and formed his hands into a bowl. The water was tepid, murky with twigs and bits of seaweed. He splashed water on his face and the back of his neck, feeling the grit scratch his skin. The boat—­a sixty-­meter freighter, past its prime and jerry-­rigged for five hundred passengers—was­ cruising through calm waters, groaning under the weight of too much human cargo. Mahindan held on to the railing, rubbing a thumb against the blistered rust.

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 2 6/27/17 10:38 AM the boat people · 3 A few others were out, shadowy figures keeping silent vigil on both levels of the deck. They had been at sea for weeks or months, sunrises blurring into sunsets. Days spent on deck, tarps draped overhead to block out the sun and the floor burning beneath them. Stormy nights when the ship would lurch and reel, Sellian cradled in Mahindan’s lap, their stomachs tumbling with the pitch and yaw of the angry ocean. But the captain had said they were close and for days they had been expecting land, a man posted at all times in the crow’s nest. Mahindan turned his back to the railing and slid down to sit on the deck. Exhaustion whenever he thought of the future; terror when he remembered the past. He yawned and pressed a cheek to raised knees, then tucked his arms in for warmth. At least here on the boat they were safe from attack. Ruksala, Prem, Chithra’s mother and father. The roll call of the dead lulled him to sleep. X He awoke to commotion and gull shrieks. A boy ran down the length of the ship calling for his father. Appa! Appa! There were more people on the deck now, all of them speaking in loud, excited voices. The man they called Ranga stood at the railing beside him, staring out. Mahindan was dismayed to see him. Land is close, Ranga said. Mahindan scanned the straight line of the ocean, trying not to blink. Nearby, a young man stood on the rail and levered his body half out of the boat. An older woman called: Take care! After all this time, finally we have arrived, Ranga said. He grinned at Mahindan and added: Because of you only, I am here. Nothing to do with me, Mahindan said. We all took our own chance. Mahindan kept his gaze fixed on the horizon. At first he saw the head of a pin, far in the distance, but as he kept watching, the vision emerged. Purple-bro­ wn land and blue mountains like ghosts rising in the background. The newspaperman came to join them as the slope of a forest appeared. Mahindan had spoken to him a few times but could not recall his name. Someone said he had been working for a paper in Colombo before he fled. We will be intercepted, the newspaperman said. Americans or Canadians, who will catch us first?

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 3 6/27/17 10:38 AM sharon bala · 4 Catch us? Ranga repeated, his voice rising to a squeak. But now there were people streaming onto the deck, squeezing in for a view at the railing, and the newspaperman was jostled away. Mahindan edged aside too, relieved to put distance between himself and Ranga. There were voices and bodies everywhere. Women plaited their hair over one shoulder. Men pulled their arms through their T‑shirts. Most were barefoot. People pressed up around him. The boat creaked and Mahindan felt it list, as everyone crowded in. They stood shoulder to shoulder, people on both levels of the deck, hushing one another, children holding their breath. The trees, the mountains, the strip of beach they could now make out up ahead, it all seemed impossibly big, unreal after days and nights of nothing but sea and sky and the rumbling of the ship. Nightmares of rusted steel finally giving way, belching them all into the ocean. Sellian appeared, squeezing himself between legs, one fist against his eyes. Appa, you left me! How to leave? Mahindan said. Did you think I jumped in the ocean? He picked his son up in the crook of one arm and pointed. Look! We’re here. The clouds burned orange. Mahindan squinted. People shouted and pointed. Look! There was a tugboat in the water and a larger ship, its long nose turned up, speeding toward them, sleek and fast, with a tall white flagpole. The wind unfurled the flag, red and white, majestic in the flaming sky. They saw the leaf and a great resounding cheer shook the boat. The captain cut the engine and they floated placid. Overhead, there was a chopping sound. Mahindan saw a helicopter, its blades slicing the sky, a red leaf painted on its belly. There were three boats now, all of them circling the ship, a welcome party. On the deck, people waved with both hands. The red-and-­ ­white flag snapped definitive. Mahindan gripped his son. Sellian shivered in his arms, from fear, from exhilaration, he couldn’t tell. Soon Mahindan was shaking too, armpits dampening. His teeth clattered. Their new life. It was just beginning.

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 4 6/27/17 10:38 AM Inshalla, Mr. Gigovaz

igovaz’s Subaru was idling at the entrance of her low-­ rise when Priya came down from her apartment at 4 a.m. A police cruiser had pulled up alongside and both driversG had their windows lowered like characters in a cop show. Standing under the shabby green awning, Priya tugged on the building’s door to make sure it had locked before walking out toward the curb. Wind blew the rain sideways, the drops bouncing in tiny white splashes off the asphalt. The cop pulled away as she climbed into Gigovaz’s car. Nice area, he said. Priya didn’t know how to reply and said nothing as they drove east on Hastings past hobbled shopping carts and vacant storefronts, sleeping bodies huddled in doorways. She held her travel mug with one hand and fumbled the belt into the buckle with the other. Gigovaz had the radio tuned to an easy-listening­ station. Avishai Cohen, he said. The name meant nothing to Priya, but since she hadn’t wished Gigovaz good morning, she said: It’s nice. He nudged the volume up and Priya took it as a sign she was exempt from small talk. Rain thrummed a steady beat against the roof. The inside of the car smelled like stale coffee and wet dog. Big Mac wrappers were crumpled into paper cups. There was a pilled blanket stretched across the back seat, a fine layer of dust on the dashboard, and a zip-­lock of Milk-­Bones on the floor, half the biscuits crushed to crumbs. It was her first trip in Gigovaz’s car and Priya was thoroughly unsurprised. The rain let up as they drove south past Richmond. In the distance,

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 5 6/27/17 10:38 AM sharon bala · 6 there were container ships and construction cranes, golden dots of light shining through the fog. On the radio, a three-tone­ melody announced the national news. The refugees were the lead story. We took control of the vessel twelve nautical miles off Vancouver Island, a spokesman for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police said. The migrants were taken into custody and we are now conducting a deep search of the ship. The news reader cut in: The ship bore no visible flags or numbers—­a sign, officials say, that those aboard were hoping to enter Canada unnoticed. Gigovaz turned off the radio. A massive cargo ship with hundreds of people, he said. I’m sure that was their plan—to­ slip in unnoticed. At the ferry terminal, they were waved into line behind a blue Camry. A Canadian flag was taped to the antenna, waggling in the breeze. It was properly morning now, the sky a mild gray. The lot was nearly empty, only a few commuters out on this holiday Wednesday. Gigovaz rolled down the window to wipe the side mirror and Priya did the same, then dried her hand on her skirt and stifled a yawn. Today was supposed to be about sleeping in, eating pulled pork pancakes, and watching the Canada Day fireworks from the beach at Kitsilano. Today was not supposed to be about refugees and Gigovaz and an O-­dark-­hundred commute to Vancouver Island. X Gigovaz had been comatose in a staff meeting two days earlier when Priya first spotted him. The partners at Elliot, McFadden, and Lo were congratulating themselves over five columns of numbers on a PowerPoint and Priya was leaning against a wall at the back, ignoring her pinched toes and thinking about an affidavit she was trying to track down, when she noticed Gigovaz, slumped into a chair, chin on chest, a mug dangling off his fingers. In a room full of crisp pinstripes and sharp ballpoints, Gigovaz looked blurred at the edges, soft folds overflowing in every direction. McFadden said, Billable hours rose 47 percent, and the room exploded in a round of applause. Gigovaz startled awake and Priya found herself staring into a squinted pair of bleary eyes. She turned away and started clapping, but a moment later, when she snuck a peek, Gigovaz was still watching her.

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 6 6/27/17 10:38 AM the boat people · 7 Later, he caught up to her in the elevator and made her labor out the syllables of her last name. Raja, she said. Raja, he repeated. There were half a dozen people in the elevator and no one else was speaking. Say-­kar. Say-­kar. An. Rajakaran, he said. Raja-se­ -­kar‑an, she corrected. Her own name sounded foolish to her, all the individual syllables rendered embarrassing and meaningless by repetition. You’re Sri Lankan? he asked. I’m Canadian, she said, standing up a little straighter. Gigovaz turned a dimpled hand over itself in the air and said, Yes, yes. But your family is originally from Sri Lanka, right? The elevator stopped and one person got off. Yes, she said. They were ten floors away from her desk and every single button on the side panel was lit up. Tamil? he asked. Yes. She compressed her lips and clasped her hands in front of her. Gigovaz was senior counsel, but there was also a chocolate smear on his collar. It was difficult to know how to act around him. But one more ignorant question and she would get off and take the stairs. You’re a law student, in your last year? And before she could answer, he asked if she had taken Refugee Law in school. The doors opened and they stepped aside so a woman at the back could squeeze between them. I’m specializing in corporate, Priya said. You didn’t study IRPA? he asked. IRPA. She tried to recall what the acronym stood for and came up with Immigration Refugee Something Act. We did the Divorce Act. Who’s your principal? he asked. Joyce Lau, she said. Mergers and acquisitions. Joyce Lau wore her hair in a bun and drove an Audi. She was the

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 7 6/27/17 10:38 AM sharon bala · 8 youngest senior counsel in the firm’s history and Priya had beat out five people in her class for this job. Gigovaz rubbed a hand under his chin. Joyce Lau, he said. Impressive, impressive. When they reached her floor, Gigovaz got off too and veered toward Joyce’s office. Pack your things, Miss Rajakaran, he said. You’re moving to the seventh floor. X Priya stewed as they boarded the ferry, cursing her skin color and the whim that had caused her to glance Gigovaz’s way in the meeting. When she’d asked Joyce Lau why he didn’t want someone who understood immigration law, Joyce had just shrugged and said: Peter requested you. No one had signed up to intern with Gigovaz and now he’d found a sneaky way to rope Priya in. The ferry juddered to life, all its mechanical parts humming and vibrating into action, as Gigovaz clasped his hands together, arms forming a triangle above the table. He was conducting a lecture on the importance of credibility. The truth is immaterial, he said. Do the claimants appear to be telling the truth? That is what matters. He had put on his professor voice, erudite and condescending. You are not my mentor, Priya thought. Gigovaz checked his watch. They’re probably being interviewed by Immigration right now. Wait. They’re being interviewed without us? Priya asked. What about their right to counsel? They’re not being charged with anything, Gigovaz said. Technically, they have no rights. A heating vent rattled overhead. The ferry was cutting through the water, forging straight ahead into flat, gray, foggy nothing. Tourists in raincoats shivered on the deck, snapping useless photos. Ten years ago, five hundred refugees came from China, Gigovaz continued. Four boats in two months. My clients on the first ship were processed quickly and sent on their way. They were given health care, housing supports, job applications, all those practical things. And then the Refugee Board hearings happened a couple of months later. Business as usual.

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 8 6/27/17 10:38 AM the boat people · 9 Priya wondered how quickly this case could be dispatched with. A month, tops. Surely he didn’t expect her to see the whole thing through. Gigovaz was still lecturing: But as boat after boat showed up, what do you think happened? Suddenly the asylum seekers were branded criminals. And a prison in Prince George was reopened just to hold them. Now there were detention reviews, admissibility hearings. For months and months, the cases dragged on. We had to fight for every single thing. And that, by the way, was the same year we airlifted five thousand people out of Kosovo. So refugee law is capricious, Priya thought. All the more reason to bring in an expert. Of course, then he’d have no one to lecture. Here is what you have to understand, Gigovaz said, indicating the space between two hands. In immigration law, there can be a gap between policy and practice. And when it comes to refugees, this country has a split personality. Three hundred people on board a ship rocking its way around the world on a collision course with Canada. They were tracked, Gigovaz said. Intelligence and satellite and reports of sightings from international ports. For weeks everyone waited. Now they were here. What’s going to happen to them? Priya asked. I mean, will they get to stay? An overhead announcement reminded people to keep their pets in their cars. Gigovaz watched the speaker on the ceiling until the disembodied voice stopped. My very first client was Rohingya. You know who they are? When Priya shook her head, Gigovaz’s index fingers rose, the steeple of a church, and he tapped them together. They’re a minority in Myanmar—­Muslims in a country of Buddhists. Stateless and oppressed. Ibrahim Mosar. He was missing his right hand. Cigarette burns all over his chest. Priya winced and Gigovaz said: I was like every other young refugee lawyer, full of piss and vinegar, and here was my client, calm as you like. Inshalla, Mr. Gigovaz, he used to say. Whatever God wills. Que sera sera, she said. That’s one way of accepting fate, I guess. We do our level best, Gigovaz said. Our clients do their best. The rest is up to . . .

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 9 6/27/17 10:38 AM sharon bala · 10 He lifted his palms as if balancing a platter. Allah? she asked. The adjudicator, Gigovaz said. He rooted blindly under the seat with one hand. They were approaching the harbor. So what happened to Ibrahim? Priya asked. Gigovaz stood, briefcase in hand. The claim was rejected, he said. They sent him back.

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 10 6/27/17 10:38 AM Happy to Be Here

he authorities were giving out bananas and water in exchange for documents. Mahindan had everything in his suitcase, inside a sealed plastic bag—­birth certificates,T national identity cards, Sellian’s vaccination record. He was waiting in the tangle of people for his turn, holding Sellian’s hand, when a frenzied movement caught his eye, Ranga hobbling over at top speed, waving as if they were old friends. When the guard gestured for his paperwork, Ranga glanced at Mahindan for assurance before producing a battered identity card from his pocket. Mahindan turned away, irritated. When it was Mahindan’s turn, he handed over his papers with pride, knowing how carefully he had prepared for this eventuality. This one thing was properly done. They took his suitcase too, but when Sellian began crying, the guard with the blue eyes allowed him to liberate the little statue of Ganesha and then patted Sellian’s shoulder with a purple-­gloved hand. Mahindan gazed at the battered old suitcase with regret. Hard-­shelled and sturdy with brass locks and snaps, it and the meager trinkets inside—­a wedding album, Chithra’s death certificate, the keys to his house and garage—­were all that remained of his worldly possessions. But he reminded himself he had something more precious. Safety. Here, it was possible to breathe. The men and women were separated and forced into orderly queues. The adults had their wrists and ankles shackled. Mahindan understood by the way the guard fitted the two ends of the cuffs together, careful not to pinch skin, that the task was performed with regret. Only for a little while, Mahindan assured Sellian. It is for our own safety.

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 11 6/27/17 10:38 AM sharon bala · 12 There weren’t enough Tamil translators and the masks the Canadians wore made it difficult to decipher expressions. Mahindan focused on eyes and was amazed by all the colors, the shades of blue, flecks of green, the different saturation points of brown. The only white people he’d seen before were United Nations workers, though he did not like to think of them now. Mahindan had always thought of Canada as a country of whites, but now he saw dark eyes too, Chinese and Japanese and Blacks and others who might have come from India or Bangladesh. Here was a place for all people. Ranga sidled up. At last we are safe, he said, absently scratching at a long scar that ran down the length of one cheek. Mahindan frowned and edged away. Every time he and Sellian turned around on the ship, there was Ranga and his gimpy leg. Behind them in the food ration line, unrolling his mat next to theirs at night. A police officer barked into a radio. A Red Cross volunteer made emphatic gestures as he spoke. Mahindan heard the unfamiliar sounds, the harsh, guttural consonants falling flat, one after the other. In time this would be his language too. English. A new language for a new home. His grandfather had spoken English. He had gone to London for his studies and worked as a civil servant in Colombo until the Sinhala Only Act ended his career. It was his grandfather’s old suitcase that was now with the guards. Officials and volunteers in scrubs and uniforms called to each other, their voices overwhelmed, their gestures and movements harried. Seagulls circled, screeching overhead. The disorder reminded Mahindan of being processed for detention in Sri Lanka, at the end of the war, when the Sri Lankan Army rounded up the Tamil prisoners. Except here there was nothing to be scared of, and even Sellian surveyed the unfamiliar landscape and the line of buses with more curiosity than fear. Mahindan understood they would be boarding soon. He waited with the other men, trying and failing to inch away from Ranga. The queues lengthened as more people joined. Mahindan nodded to a family he knew from the detention camp, but they either did not notice him or purposely avoided his eyes. It had surprised him, when

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 12 6/27/17 10:38 AM the boat people · 13 they boarded in Sri Lanka, how few of his customers were on the ship. All those days at sea and not once had they seen another boat. Maybe it was for the best they weren’t here; it was good to make a clean break. Still, he wondered: had they been left behind? Had their ship capsized, were they drowned in the ocean? He felt his teeth rattle and focused his attention on Sellian for assurance. We are safe. It had been hours since they’d disembarked, but he could still feel the sea in the sway of his legs. When he remembered the first rough days on board, the storm-churned­ waves, the low-­grade nausea that dogged every day, he vowed to himself: never again. He would have liked to squat, to take the pressure off his aching soles, but the shackles made it awkward. Everyone was quiet and even the children, pacified by food and drink, managed to behave. The mood was hopeful. Sellian held up a juice box. Do you want some, Appa? No, Baba, Mahindan said. You finish it. Purple liquid shot through the straw. Sellian sucked in short, urgent bursts, his eyes flicking left and right. Mahindan watched him, overwhelmed with love and relief. He shuffled to the right, put his bound hands on his son’s shoulder, and bent to kiss the top of his head. Sellian snuggled against him, and Mahindan felt emotion well up, joyous tears threaten. They had lost everyone and everything, but Sellian was alive and unharmed and now they were here. Sellian was here. The bus at the front of the line opened its doors. A guard waved his arm and the women shambled forward, hands and feet fettered. Children held on to their mothers’ shirts and trousers. The men looked sharp, straightening out their line in readiness, everyone restless to move on to the next stage of freedom. The guard turned to scan the crowd and when he spotted Sellian, he beckoned. Appa, what is he saying? I don’t know, Baba. The guard held up a hand for each of them: stop for Mahindan and come for Sellian. Mahindan could not read his expression. The guard repeated the same short word over and over then strode toward them, impatient, and grasped the top of Sellian’s arm.

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 13 6/27/17 10:38 AM sharon bala · 14 Appa! No! He’s my son! The metal between his feet rattled and Mahindan felt his weight tip forward. The men on either side of him yelled as Ranga reached bound hands out to catch him. By the time Mahindan was upright, the guard had Sellian draped over his shoulder and was carrying him away. Some of the women in line had turned to watch. They shouted at the guard in Tamil to stop. Sellian was mutinous, kicking and beating his fists on the man’s back. The juice box fell; purple liquid pooled in a puddle on the asphalt. A loud voice cut through the racket. Mahindan saw the nurse who had taken his blood pressure hurrying to the guard. She spoke English with the voice of a Tamil mother, full of reprimand and authority. Her chin jutted forward. Her index finger jabbed. The guard rubbed his palm along the back of his head, finally setting Sellian down. Mahindan struggled to crouch in his shackles as his son ran over. Sellian grabbed his arm with both hands and held tight, panting hard, his eyes large and teary. He pressed his face into his father’s side. Mahindan felt the tightness of Sellian’s grip, how easily it could be wrenched away. Where are we being sent? he asked the nurse in Tamil. He knew there was a very big country stretching out before him, but when he tried to imagine what it might be like, he had only a vague recollection of his grandfather’s stories of England. Sheep and tall buildings, policemen who carried batons instead of guns. The nurse did not wear a mask. At Mahindan’s question, her eyes slid sideways and the corners of her mouth turned down. But when she spoke, she raised her voice so all the men in line could hear: Normally, there are some rooms close by where you would stay. But when this many come all at once . . . there is only one place with enough beds. Mahindan felt foolish. Free men did not wear handcuffs. The nurse turned back to Mahindan and softened her voice. Where the women are going, there are facilities for children. Chithra had died in childbirth. For Sellian’s whole life, Mahindan had been both his father and his mother. Not a day had passed that they hadn’t spent together, and the thought of letting his son walk away, board a bus to an unknown place without him, made his insides twist.

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 14 6/27/17 10:38 AM the boat people · 15 Sellian began to cry. Appa! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Mahindan’s throat constricted. What choice did he have? He must be brave for his son. Baba, it is all right, he said. You want to play with other children, no? And see, all these Aunties will take care of you. It is only for a short time. The nurse took Sellian’s hand. See that small boy? Do you know him? Sellian gulped and nodded. He wiped the back of his hand across his snotty nose. Mahindan’s mettle faltered when he saw who it was—­ Kumuran’s son. He said to Sellian, You know that child. Remember? I will ask his mother to take care of you, the nurse said. I’m sorry, she said to Mahindan as his son’s arms wrapped around his neck again. This is very rare. A ship and so many people . . . everyone is doing their best. We’re just happy to be here, Mahindan said, holding his son tighter. Ganesha’s elephant trunk dug into the back of his head. The guard called something out. Come now, darling, the nurse said to Sellian. Be a good boy, Mahindan said. Show Appa how you can be brave. Sellian hiccupped, holding in his sobs, craning his head over his shoulder as he was led away. Mahindan’s chest closed up. Most of the women were in the bus now, staring out the windows. The men focused on their feet. Mahindan could feel Kumuran’s wife studying him, her hard, unforgiving stare. He struggled to keep his face calm and encouraging. When he looked at Sellian, he saw Chithra’s eyes, her front teeth jutting out. Sellian disappeared into the bus and the doors wheezed to a close. Mahindan felt anguish like a tsunami surging to the shore. The wave crested up. He squinted at the back window as the bus pulled away, but all he saw was darkness.

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 15 6/27/17 10:38 AM Go Home Terorists!

riya had been to the Canadian Forces Base at Esquimalt once before to visit the naval museum. She remembered her brother tugging her braids to annoy her but had no recollectionP of their parents being there with them. The memory was quite possibly a complete fabrication. Gigovaz’s car was waved through the security checkpoint and they headed for the Processing Facility, a gray slab set on a finger of land, hemmed in by forest and ocean. The sun had risen fully and here the sky was completely cloudless, the ground dry. There were news vans in the parking lot. Cameramen shouldered equipment while reporters flipped through their notes. A podium was set up across from the building and a young man fussed with a sign that hung across the front of the lectern. Who’s giving the news conference? Gigovaz asked. Minister Blair, the man replied. Public Safety, Gigovaz told Priya. Not Immigration. Interesting, don’t you think? Tarps lined the walkway to the entrance. A half-dozen­ people stood in a row holding homemade signs that they lifted up and down while chanting in unison. A man in a television news jacket panned his camera from right to left. Gigovaz walked past, oblivious. Priya read the signs. Send the illegals back! Go home terorists! She wanted to point out the misspelling. Inside, the processing facility was deserted. At the front desk, Gigovaz spoke to a woman in a bowler hat, her hair in a bun. She gave them lanyards and Priya put hers around her neck. It had a blue V on one side and when she flipped it over, she saw her name and face on the

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 16 6/27/17 10:38 AM the boat people · 17 other. It was her office ID photo, the one that had been taken a month earlier as she sat on a stool in the mailroom while a guy with a mullet instructed her not to blink. She looked startled and prim in the picture. Where is everyone? Priya asked. After you, Gigovaz said, making an exaggerated motion with his left hand and pulling open a heavy door with his right. Outside was a commotion of voices and movement as helicopters droned overhead and ambulances idled. They were behind the facility now, facing another large parking lot, this one covered in white tents. Beyond was the ocean and the harbor, yellow cranes and wooden docks. Priya scanned the vessels until she spotted the cargo ship. It was huge—­two hundred feet maybe—­with a long white hull and a blue cabin toward the stern. Streaks of bubbling rust cut vertical lines down its side. The sheer number of refugees was overwhelming, the queues that stretched out from every tent and table, winding and intertwining so that it was impossible to discern where one line ended and another began. Men, women, children, people of all ages, bedraggled and malnourished, shivering under blankets even though it was summer. Priya spotted a woman with an eye patch, a child hobbling along with the help of a stick, but for the most part there seemed to be little injury, which surprised her until she realized that of course these were the survivors. Arrival of the fittest. People brushed by in all directions. A uniformed officer motioned for Gigovaz and Priya to step aside as two women in hospital scrubs hurried past. Volunteers in red shirts carried boxes labelled H2O. Almost everyone wore masks over their mouths and noses. The bustle had an aura of chaos and bureaucracy. Priya deciphered the acronyms: Canadian Border Security Agency, Canadian Forces, Victoria General Hospital, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Gigovaz attacked his BlackBerry with both thumbs as he walked. Keep an eye out for Sam, he said. Person, place, or thing? she wanted to ask. They passed a tent with a red cross printed on its side. A handmade sign read Mask Required. The door flap was pinned back and Priya caught sight of brown limbs, blood pressure cuffs, and running shoes. A nurse ran out and bent over, her head down as if searching for a

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 17 6/27/17 10:38 AM sharon bala · 18 lost earring. She was covered from neck to shoes in translucent yellow plastic. A man in short-­sleeved scrubs followed. He wore a surgical cap, latex gloves, and goggles. A stethoscope was draped over his shoulders. Deep breaths, he said, putting a hand on the nurse’s back. In the cacophony of voices, Priya listened for the Tamil, trying to gather up a word here and there. But the accents were long steeped and she was used to her parents’ diluted version of the language. A man in a wheelchair clutched a plastic bag in his lap. One of his legs ended in a stump. Behind him, a woman clasped hands with a pair of girls. One had two long braids. The other had a short, straggly cut, uneven, as if she had taken a knife to it. The pungent combination of chili powder, body odour, and urine that wafted ahead of them made Priya hold her breath. The shorn girl gazed over her shoulder unblinking as they passed by, and her stare was so accusatory it sent Priya stumbling back. Remembering Gigovaz and fearing she would reel into him, she spun around, but he was gone. Spotting him at the entrance to one of the larger tents, she hurried through the crowd, relieved for an excuse to move. We can take five adults and linked minors, Gigovaz was saying to a dark-skinned­ man with a caterpillar mustache. The moustached man had a clipboard and a fat yellow folder. Sam Nadarajah, he said, introducing himself to Priya. I’m with the Tamil Alliance. Gigovaz waved a hand in Priya’s direction. This is my law student. Priya Rajasekaran, she said quickly, before Gigovaz could butcher her name. She didn’t like the way he’d said my law student. An officer came out of the tent, herding a group of Sri Lankan men. Gigovaz, Sam, and Priya quickly stepped out of their way. This can’t be only three hundred people, Gigovaz said. Sam put his clipboard between his legs and tried to open his folder. His pen fell down. He said, There are more than we expected. Priya picked up his pen and handed it to him. Romba Nandri, he said, thanking her in Tamil, and Priya heard how soft his accent was at the edges. No problem, she said in English. Right now, it seems closer to four hundred, he told Gigovaz. Maybe five. We knew the size of the boat and we thought three hundred maximum. No one was prepared for this many.

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 18 6/27/17 10:38 AM the boat people · 19 Have you chosen my clients? Gigovaz said. Has Immigration taken their statements? Medical checks, processing, statements, it is all in progress. No way to know . . . might take some time. Sam glanced at Priya, then added: There are not enough translators and it’s holding everything up. Can you, maybe— Gigovaz was already scrolling through his texts. That’s fine, he said. I’ll try to get a few things done in the meantime. Where do you need her? The main medical tent, Sam said. There is only one nurse who speaks Tamil. Priya opened her mouth. It’ll be hours before we meet our clients, Gigovaz said, still focused on his phone. You may as well be useful. Priya’s face felt hot. But I— Come, Sam said. I’ll introduce you. It’ll be a huge relief for them. Wait! Priya’s voice came out high and strangled. I can’t, she said. I don’t speak Tamil. Gigovaz looked up. What? I’m sorry. I thought you were Tamil, Gigovaz said. I know a few phrases here and there, Priya said. But I can’t translate. I can’t carry on a conversation. Both men stared at her. You never asked, she said, wincing at the whine in her voice. Gigovaz let out a breath of frustration. How are we supposed to communicate with our clients? I thought there would be an interpreter, Priya said. This is not my fault, she thought. Sam said, Okay. No problem. We have some people from the Tamil Alliance on their way. I’ll assign one of them to you. Someone called to Sam and he shook their hands quickly. I’ll text you, he told Gigovaz. Nice to meet you, Priya. I’m glad we’re working together, she said in Tamil. She felt the unfamiliar sounds mangle up in her mouth and was embarrassed. She should have just said goodbye in English. While her back was turned, Gigovaz had walked away and she had to race after him again.

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 19 6/27/17 10:38 AM A Good Place

here was a tall chain-link­ fence, barbed wire coiled on top. Two guards hauled back the doors to reveal a sprawling prison complex dominated by an eight-­ story buildingT with blue-­tinted windows. Mahindan was relieved when they drove around back and stopped at a smaller, friendlier-looking­ construction. He shuffled off the bus with the others and waited as the cuffs around their wrists and ankles were removed. The man with the keys refused to meet his eyes. The building they were led into appeared inflated, a giant bubble that had ballooned out of the ground. Inside, it was all right angles and precise geometry. He blinked several times in the blinding whiteness. Everything gleamed, even the floor. It reminded Mahindan of the space station in an old Stanley Kubrick film he had taken Chithra to see before they were married. They had watched, tense in the darkness, as the villainous computer on a spaceship came to life. At the crucial moment, when an astronaut was set adrift, a man sitting behind them thrashed his legs out, flinging Chithra forward in her seat, and she had screamed in shock. The man flailed and foamed, and they’d had to stop the film while someone shoved a set of keys into his mouth. Mahindan and Chithra had boarded the return bus home without seeing the ending. Can this really be a jail? Ranga asked, and Mahindan did not reply. He walked a little closer to the newspaperman, who was ahead of him. They were marched single file down a long hallway of doors. Through the rectangular window set in each one, Mahindan caught glimpses of bunk beds and sinks. Fluorescent lights hung suspended in elongated tubes, a series of horizontal lines passing above their heads.

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 20 6/27/17 10:38 AM the boat people · 21 He wondered what the women’s prison was like and worried about how Sellian was coping on his own. For nine months they had been inseparable, ever since the United Nations trucks rolled out and everyone had fled Kilinochchi. Now, Mahindan’s hand felt oddly empty at his side. The men were taken to the bathroom, where they washed in groups. When it was Mahindan’s turn, he stripped, unbuttoning his shirt and tugging at his waistband so that trousers and underpants both came off in a single yank. It had been months since he’d changed his clothes. Removing them felt like peeling away a filthy layer of skin. The stink wafted up, damp and fungal. Standing naked, he felt exposed but also relieved. Now, in such close proximity to a bath, he was very aware of grime in all the creases of his body—­lodged in his ears, under his fingernails, in the crack of his buttocks. When he rubbed his arms, tiny balls of grit formed on his fingertips, months of dried sweat and dust mingling up. The guard pointed to a garbage bin. Mahindan threw his clothes in, shoes and all. The sandals sank down out of sight. He hoped they would be burned. He was given a towel and a cube of soap and padded barefoot with nine others into a tiled open room. The floor was wet. There were big dials at chest height and hooks for their towels, but when Mahindan squatted, he didn’t see a bucket or a tap. The water comes from the ceiling, the newspaperman called from the other side of the room. They were all facing the wall, bare backs to each other. Mahindan saw a spout high up, far above his head. He couldn’t understand the mechanics of this Canadian bathroom. Turn the dial, the newspaperman yelled. Mahindan heard rain and swiveled to see the newspaperman standing under a waterfall, rubbing the bar of soap briskly under his arms as if he had done this many times before. Mahindan stood to the side and cautiously turned the dial. Water burst out of the tap. He put a hand under the spray and felt it was warm. Stand underneath, the newspaperman urged them. Mahindan saw the others following his advice and did the same, holding his breath as he stepped under the falling water. It pelted him

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 21 6/27/17 10:38 AM sharon bala · 22 hard. He swallowed back a yelp. All he could hear now was the loud gushing, hostile and unpleasant. He rubbed the soap into his skin, working up a lather of small bubbles, months of blood and war all sloughing off in a black river running to the drain in the center of the room. Sri Lankan horrors washing away in Canadian waters, disappearing down Canadian drains. He worked the soap into his hair, suds dripping off his beard. The guard called something out and the newspaperman’s voice came to him watery and far away. Quickly, quickly, he said. There are others waiting. Mahindan stood on one foot to clean between his toes. He rubbed the soap back and forth across his fingernails. It was difficult to maneuver all of this with his eyes closed, the water lashing him. He thought of the buckets on the boat, of the luxury of clean water that sprayed out effortless. Already he felt the superiority of this new country, with its disagreeable standing body wash. They marched, towels around waists, into the change room. Mahindan exalted in the feeling of being inside his own skin, scrubbed smooth and several shades lighter. They took turns standing beside a ruler on the wall and putting their feet into a metal contraption. A uniformed guard passed them each a package through a window: gray trousers, a green sweater, and running shoes. Mahindan marvelled at the laces, at their clean white length, the clear tubes of plastic at each end. He pulled back the tongue and slid a foot in. It felt snug and warm. He laced up the sneakers, checked the label on the back, and was surprised to find they were not made by Bata. He had never worn such shoes and wondered if Sellian was being given something similar, if he had taken this strange standing body wash too, if it had frightened him, if he had cried. He had misgivings about Kumuran’s wife, about how she would treat the boy. The memory of Sellian hiccupping back tears formed a knot in his chest. But Sellian and her son were friendly, he told himself. And anyway, it was temporary. Like sending the boy to boarding school. Boarding school, he repeated to himself. Did parents worry all day long when their children went to boarding school? No, they did not.

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 22 6/27/17 10:38 AM the boat people · 23 The guard signalled and they turned in unison, all of them seeing one another at the same time. Twelve men in identical uniforms, beards dripping, wet hair pasted to their foreheads. The room erupted in laughter. Mahindan bent double, racked with the convulsions. After everything—­the baby wailing at her dead mother’s breast, the shredded tent, the days at sea—­here they were. In a country with indoor rain and matching green sweaters. He straightened, clutching one side, and saw the guard staring at them, bewildered. They returned to the long corridor, rubber soles squeaking against linoleum, pausing at every room while the guard motioned three people inside. Some of the men still chuckled to themselves. Mahindan rubbed the fabric of his sweater. He felt his arm inside the sleeve, the soft cotton against his skin. I am not an animal, he thought. And for the first time in a long time, it felt like the truth. He was assigned to a cell with Ranga and the newspaperman. There were three narrow metal beds—­one bunk bed and a single—­with gray blankets and white pillows. The walls were concrete. They chose beds wordlessly, Mahindan climbing to the upper bunk and falling in sideways. His legs hummed with relief and exhaustion. He felt the soreness in his feet. His whole body gave way, abandoning itself completely to the bed. The door suctioned closed. The cell was open at the top like the stall in a public toilet. Mahindan gazed at the pneumatic tubes over his bed until his vision grew unfocused. He heard the muffled sounds of the line trooping on, his roommates moving in their beds, the rustle of sheets, the joints of the bunk creaking. It was the creak of the ship, the rustle of palm fronds overhead. A coconut fell to the ground, and Mahindan was asleep. X The tent shook. Mahindan trembled. He opened his eyes and a hand was on the ball of his shoulder. Some lawyers have come, Ranga said. Mahindan sat up quickly. Sellian! There would be news. He and his roommates followed the guard. They walked single file, Mahindan at the end, behind a limping Ranga.

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 23 6/27/17 10:38 AM sharon bala · 24 Mahindan tried to recall his dreams. He saw images that were more like vague feelings and was surprised to recognize some as pleasant. He recalled embroidered blue silk, deep purple threads, the feminine scent of sandalwood. There was a sign overhead, black with red lettering. Mahindan examined the exotic characters, all squared off and linear. This was Canada—­clean with straight lines. A promising country to make a new start. He was sorry to have been assigned to a room with Ranga, this barnacle who had latched on from the first and refused to be shaken off. But surely this was temporary. Only for a little while, the nurse had said. Good thing was, the newspaperman spoke English. Mahindan could pick up some words from him. Learn English, get a job, find a small place to live. Sellian was a bright boy. They would teach him English in school, and in the evenings they could practice together. Mahindan reached out instinctively, but there was no small hand to hold. They were approaching a trio—a­ big white man and two ladies with dark skin. The lawyers. Hope buoyed his spirits. They would know about Sellian. One of the ladies spoke. Her Tamil was fluent and unaccented. She was the interpreter, a member of the Tamil Alliance. There were thousands of Tamils in Canada, she told them. Hundreds of thousands. So many Tamils, they had their own organization to represent them. What luck, Mahindan thought. He would have taken a one-­way ticket to anywhere, anywhere at all, just to get out of that godforsaken country, but now, to find they had come to a place so full of their own, this was good fortune indeed. The interpreter explained that Canada had known about the ship and had been expecting them for weeks. Their arrival had been foretold. To Mahindan, it felt auspicious. A deity paving the way, all these unknown Tamils coming to their aid in a foreign land. The newspaperman introduced himself as Prasad. This was all planned? he asked. With the people in Sri Lanka who arranged our passage? No, she said. The government had seen the ship with its satellite systems.

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 24 6/27/17 10:38 AM the boat people · 25 For what do we need lawyers? Ranga asked. He sat apart from the group, angled to the door as if ready to bolt. This is the thing, the interpreter said. As far as the law is concerned, you have no status. To stay here, you must first become a refugee, and this is a little complicated. But we’re refugees, no? Ranga asked. Otherwise, what else? What did these people think? Mahindan wondered. They had got on a rickety ship and nearly killed themselves crossing the ocean for a holiday? The interpreter said it was all very complex, to do with legal definitions and bureaucracy. But not to worry, because the Tamil Alliance had hired lawyers to sort everything out. Mahindan saw Prasad nodding and this made him feel a little better. Of course there would be forms to fill. The Canadians must have their own special procedures. Good thing they had lawyers to help them navigate the formalities. The big man was in charge. Mahindan could tell by the comfortable way he sat, legs spread out. He had uncombed, wispy gray hair that stuck out in all directions and two days of stubble. The other lawyer was younger, in her late twenties, he guessed. She sat upright and at attention, as if at any moment she might be called on to perform some complicated action. When they had first sat down, she had written something at the top of her pad and then kept her pen in her hand, poised with the point leaking a stain of ink on the paper. Mahindan was disappointed not to see familiar Tamil script. He asked about Sellian, then watched the two ladies confer with each other, saw how their hand gestures matched the big man’s, heard the way their voices sounded like those of the guards, the officers who had boarded the ship. They had dark skin and hair. The interpreter had a gold stud in the side of her right nostril. The lawyer wore the pendant of a thali close against her throat. They looked Tamil but carried themselves like Canadians. This would be Sellian, Mahindan thought, a Tamil and also a Canadian. He would wear clothes like these and move through this world with ease, and Canada would be his country. The women’s prison is not far, the interpreter said. I will arrange a visit.

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 25 6/27/17 10:38 AM sharon bala · 26 He doesn’t like to be away from me, Mahindan said. He gets very scared. He thought of Kumuran’s wife, the hatred in her eyes. All those weeks on the ship, their boys sometimes playing together, and not once had they spoken. Would she avenge herself on his son, would she mistreat him? This woman who is taking care of him, Mahindan said. She is a stranger to him. He’s being watched by a Mrs. Savitri Kumuran? the interpreter said. Mahindan blinked and sat back. No, her name . . . The interpreter conferred with the lawyers while Mahindan, bewildered, tried to square what he knew with what had been said. Yes, the interpreter said. It is Mrs. Kumuran. Good news is, you both have the same lawyers. We are going to meet her next. Listen. This is not Sri Lanka. I promise you, the boy is safe. Already, he will have been given food and a wash. About your son, she said, bobbling her head from side to side, there is nothing to worry. Something about the way she said this and the certainty on her face made him believe her. This is Canada, he thought. Never mind about the woman. I can trust Canada. How long are we to stay in jail? Ranga asked, and his hand briefly rose to touch the scar on his cheek. When Mr. Gigovaz answered in English, he addressed them all equally, speaking with hands and mouth, both. The first step was to prove their identity. The government would inspect their documents. There were many forms to fill. There would be a review to decide if they could leave jail, then a hearing to determine if they could ask for refugee status. And then another hearing to see if they would be given refugee status. It was a process, and the process would take time. No one could say how long. Can my son not stay here? Mahindan asked. He’s still small . . . only six. You must be patient, Mr. Gigovaz said. Women, and children without parents, will be given priority. It all sounded convoluted and exhausting. Mahindan could not understand the difference between one hearing and the next. The whole time they were running in Sri Lanka, then later in the detention

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 26 6/27/17 10:38 AM the boat people · 27 camp, all of his efforts had been focused on staying alive and getting out. He had not given much thought to what would happen after the boat docked, had only a vague notion that they would disembark and be free to go on their way. Now, it seemed, arriving was just the beginning. His optimism dimmed at the prospect of another long journey ahead. The interpreter must have sensed the deflation in the room. Try not to worry, she said. You have come to a good place. There is room for you here.

Bala_9780385542296_1p_all_r2.indd 27 6/27/17 10:38 AM

THE STORY OF ARTHUR TRULUV

A NOVEL

•Elizabeth Berg

random house new york

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 5 5/5/17 1:47 PM The Story of Arthur Truluv is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by Elizabeth Berg

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint and division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

Random House and the House colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Berg, Elizabeth, author. Title: The Story of Arthur Truluv : a novel / Elizabeth Berg. Description: New York : Random House, [2017] Identifiers: LCCN 2016047564| ISBN 9781400069903 (hardcover : acid-­free paper) | ISBN 9780679605133 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Interpersonal relations—­Fiction. | Teenage girls—­Fiction. | Widowers—Fiction.­ | BISAC: FICTION / Contemporary Women. | FICTION / Family Life. | FICTION / Literary. Classification: LCC PS3552.E6996 S76 2017 | DDC 813/.54—­dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016047564

Printed in the United States of America on acid-­free paper

randomhousebooks.com

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

First Edition

Book design by Jo Anne Metsch

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r2.s.indd 6 5/9/17 2:56 PM n the six months since the November day that his wife, Nola, was buried, Arthur Moses has been having lunch with her every day. He rides the bus to the cemetery and when he gets there, he takes his sweet time walk- Iing over to her plot: she will be there no matter when he arrives. She will be there and be there and be there. Today he lingers near the headstone of Adelaide Marsh, two rows over from Nola, ten markers down. Adelaide was born April 3, 1897, died November 18, 1929. Arthur does the math, slowly. Thirty-­two. Then he calculates again, be- cause he thinks it would be wrong to stand near someone’s grave thinking about how old they were the day they died and be off by a year. Or more. Math has always been diffi- cult for Arthur, even on paper; he describes himself as nu- merically illiterate. Nola did the checkbook, but now he does. He tries, anyway; he gets out his giant-­size calculator and pays a great deal of attention to what he’s doing, he doesn’t even keep the radio on, but more often than not he ends up with astronomically improbable sums. Sometimes he goes to the bank and they help him, but it’s an embarrass-

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 3 5/5/17 1:47 PM 4 elizabeth berg ment and an inconvenience. “We all have our gifts,” Nola used to say, and she was right. Arthur’s gift is working the land; he was a groundskeeper for the parks before he retired many years ago. He still keeps a nice rose garden in the front of his house; the vegetable garden in the back he has let go. But yes, thirty-­two is how old Adelaide Marsh was when she died. Not as heartbreakingly young as the children bur- ied here, but certainly not yet old. In the middle, that’s what she was. In the middle of raising her family (Beloved Mother on her tombstone) and then what? Death, of course, but how? Was it childbirth? He thinks that she was doing some- thing in the service of her family, that she was healthy until the moment she died, and then succumbed to an accident or a sudden insult to the body. He also thinks she had bright red hair that she wore up, and tiny tendrils escaped to frame her face, which pleased both her and her husband. He feels he knows this. It is happening more and more often, this kind of thing. It is happening more and more that when he stands beside a grave, his hat in his hand, part of a person’s life story reaches him like the yeasty scent from the bakery he passes every day on his way to the bus stop. He stares at the slightly depressed earth over Adelaide’s grave and here comes the pretty white lace dress she loved best, the inequality in the size of her eyes so light brown they were almost yellow. Tea-­ colored. It comes that her voice was high and clear, that she was shy to sing for her husband, but did so anyway. She did it at night, after they’d gone to bed; the night before she

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 4 5/5/17 1:47 PM the story of arthur truluv 5 died, she lay in the darkness beside him and sang “Jeannine, I Dream of Lilac Time.” And now this: she had a small diamond ring that was her mother’s engagement ring, and Adelaide wore it on a thin gold chain around her neck. It was too small for her finger, and besides, she wanted to keep it close to her heart. Her knuckles were reddened from bleach, her back bothered her from bending over the washtub to scrub her children clean, but she would let no one else do it; she loved the sight of them wet, their curly hair now plastered straight against their skulls, their cheeks pinkened by the warmth of the water; she loved the way she could hold them close for a long time, like babies, when they stepped out of the water and into her arms, into the blue towel she opened to them like a great bird spreading its wings. No. The towel was not blue. What color was it? What color was it? Nothing. That’s it for today. Arthur puts his hat back on his head, tips it toward Adelaide Marsh’s headstone, and moves along. Horace Newton. Estelle McNeil. Irene Sutter. Amos Hammer. When he reaches Nola’s grave, Arthur opens his fold-up­ chair and gingerly sits down. The legs of the chair sink a little way into the earth, and he steadies himself, making sure the thing won’t move any more before he spreads his lunch out onto his lap. An egg salad sandwich he has today, real eggs and real mayonnaise, his doctor be damned. And a liberal sprinkling of salt, as long as he was at it.

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 5 5/5/17 1:47 PM 6 elizabeth berg Often his doctor can tell when he’s been cheating, but not always. Once Arthur ate a whole apple pie covered with vanilla ice cream, and at his appointment the next day, his doctor said, “I’m pleased with your progress, Arthur; what- ever you’re doing, keep it up. You’ll live to be one hundred.” Arthur is eighty-five­ years old. He guesses he does want to live to be one hundred, even without Nola. It’s not the same without her, though. Not one thing is the same. Even some- thing as simple as looking at a daffodil, as he is doing now—­ someone has planted double-flowered­ daffodils at the base of a nearby headstone. But seeing that daffodil with Nola gone is not the same, it’s like he’s seeing only part of it. The earth has begun softening because of spring. The earth is softening and the buds are all like tiny little preg- nant women. Arthur wishes Nola were like spring; he wishes she would come back again and again. They wouldn’t even have to be together; he just wants her presence on Earth. She could be a baby reborn into a family far away from here, he wouldn’t even have to see her, ever; he would just like to know that she’d been put back where she belongs. Wher- ever she is now? That’s the wrong place for Nola Corrine, the Beauty Queen. Arthur hears a crow call, and looks around to find the bird. It’s sitting on a headstone a few yards away, preening itself. “Caw!” Arthur says back, taking conversation where he finds it, but the crow flies away. Arthur straightens and regards the cloudless sky, a near-­ turquoise color today. He puts his hand to the back of his neck and squeezes it, it feels good to do that. He squeezes

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 6 5/5/17 1:47 PM the story of arthur truluv 7 his neck and looks out over the acres and acres of graves, and nobody here but him. It makes him feel rich. Arthur takes a bite of his sandwich. Then he gets off his chair and kneels before Nola’s headstone, presses his hand against it and closes his eyes. He cries a little, and then he gets back into his chair and finishes his sandwich. He is folding up his chair, getting ready to go when he sees a young woman sitting on the ground, her back against a tree. Spiky black hair, pale skin, big eyes. Jeans all ripped like the kids do, T-shirt­ that looks like it’s on a hanger, the way it hangs on her. The girl ought to have a coat, or at least a sweater, it’s not that warm. She ought to be in school. He’s seen her here before. She sits various places, never near any particular grave site. She never looks at him. She stares out ahead of herself, picking at her nails. That’s all she does. Fourteen? Fifteen? He tries waving at her today, but when she sees him she puts her hand to her mouth, as though she’s frightened. He thinks she’s ready to run, and so he turns away.

Maddy was half asleep when she saw that old man look over at her and wave. When he did, her hand flew up to her mouth and he turned away, then shuffled off with his little fold-­up chair. She hadn’t meant to do that, make him think she was afraid. Things don’t come out right. If she sees him again, she’ll ask him who’s in the grave. His wife, she imag- ines, though you can’t be sure.

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 7 5/5/17 1:47 PM 8 elizabeth berg Maddy watches as the old man gets smaller in the dis- tance. She sees him go to the bus stop outside the gate and stand still, staring straight ahead. He doesn’t crane his neck, looking to see if the bus is coming. He wouldn’t be one of those people who punch an elevator button over and over, Maddy thinks. He’d just wait. She takes out her phone and snaps a close-­up of a tuft of grass, a patch of bark. She loosens her shoelaces, steps out of her shoe, and photographs it lying on its side. She walks to a nearby grave and photographs the center of one of the lilies in the wilting bouquet placed over it, the gently arcing sta- mens, the upright pistil. She looks at her watch: 1:40. She’ll stay here until school is over, then go home. Tonight, she’ll meet Anderson, after he’s done working. Anderson is so handsome, he makes you vacant-­headed. She met him at the Walmart, where he works in the stockroom. She was leaving the store and he was coming out of the bathroom and he smiled at her and asked if she was Katy Perry. As if. She smiled back. He was on his way to get a hot dog and he asked her to join him. She was scared to, but she did. They didn’t talk much, but they agreed to meet later that night. Three months now. She knows some things about him: he was in the Army, he loves dogs, he plays guitar, a little. Once he brought her a gift: a pearl on a gold chain, which she never takes off. She slides farther down on the tree she’s leaning against and makes the space between her knees an aperture. All those graves. Click.

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 8 5/5/17 1:47 PM the story of arthur truluv 9 Most people find graveyards sad. She finds them com- forting. She wishes her mother had been buried here, and not cremated. Once she heard a guy on the radio say that the cities of the dead are busy places, and it was one of those moments when it felt like a key to a lock. They are busy places. Last time she saw Anderson, she tried to tell him that. They were at a nearly deserted McDonald’s, and she spoke quietly. She told him about the old man she saw there all the time, about how he talked to dead people. She told him what the man on the radio had said. She told him she found it peaceful being in a cemetery with the dead. Beautiful, even. What did Anderson think? “I think you’re fucking weird,” he said. It made her go cold in the back. At first she sat motion- less in the booth, watching him eat his fries. Then she said, “I know, right?” and barked out a kind of laugh. “Can I have one of your fries?” she asked, and he said, “If you want some, get some,” and shoved a couple of dollars over at her. But there was the necklace. And one time right after he met her, he sent her a little poem in the mail: Hope this lit- tle note will do / To tell you that I’m missing you. Another time he kissed her from the top of her head all the way to her toes. All in a long line, kiss, kiss, kiss. She had thought of it the next night at dinner and had had to hide a shiver. “Eat,” her father had said. That was one of their chatty din- ners, he talked to her. He said a word. Usually, they said nothing. Each had learned the peril of asking questions and

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 9 5/5/17 1:47 PM 10 elizabeth berg getting answers that were essentially rebuffs. “How was work, Dad?” “Work is work.” “How was school, Maddy?” “Meh.” “Do you like this chicken?” “It’s fine.” “Want to watch Game of Thrones tonight?” “You can.” She checks her watch again, and gets up to find another place to sit.

When Arthur gets home, he pulls the mail from the box, brings it into the kitchen to sort through it, then tosses it all in the trash: junk mail. A waste of the vision he has left, going through it. He pours himself a cup of cold coffee from the pot on the stove and sits at the kitchen table to drink it, his long legs crossed. He and Nola, they drank coffee all day long. He pauses mid-sip,­ wondering suddenly if that helped do her in; she had at one time been warned against an excess of caffeine. He finishes the coffee and rinses out his cup, turns it up- side down in the drainer. He uses the same tan-colored­ cup with the green stripe all the time: for coffee, for water, for his occasional nip of Jack Daniel’s, even for his Metamucil. Nola liked variety in all things; he doesn’t care, when it comes to dishes. Or clothes. Get the job done, that’s all. Here comes Gordon the cat, walking stiff-­legged toward him but looking about for Nola. Still. “She’s not here,” Ar- thur tells him, and pats his lap, inviting the cat to jump up. Sometimes Gordon will come, but mostly he wanders off

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 10 5/5/17 1:47 PM the story of arthur truluv 11 again. Arthur has heard that elephants grieve, seems like cats do, too. Houseplants, too, for that matter. Ironically, he has no luck with them. He looks over at the African violet on the windowsill. Past hope. Tomorrow, he’ll throw it away. He says that every day, that he’ll do it tomorrow. She had loved the ruffled petals. “Look,” she’d told him, when she brought it home, and she’d put a finger under one of the blossoms like it was a chin. After a dinner of canned stew that looks like dog food, he heads upstairs to the unevenly made bed. She’d be pleased he does that, makes the bed. Here’s the big surprise: he’s pleased, too. A man doesn’t always make room in his life for appreciating certain things that seem to be under women’s auspices, but there’s a satisfaction in some of them. The toi- let seat, though. Up. And there are other grim pleasures in doing things he didn’t used to get to do. Cigar right at the kitchen table. Slim Jims for dinner. What he wants on TV, all the time. He lies down and thinks about that young girl. He feels bad for having scared her. A wave, and she seemed horri- fied. Seems like he understands more about the dead than the living these days, but he thinks he understands a little about her. If he sees her again, he’ll shout over, “Didn’t mean to scare you!” Maybe she’ll shout back, “I wasn’t scared! I wasn’t scared, get you!” The image of her saunter- ing over to him, her thumbs in her belt loops, looking to pass the time. They could talk. He could introduce her to a few of the folks underground—­who he thinks they were—­if she wouldn’t think he was crazy. Maybe she wouldn’t think

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 11 5/5/17 1:47 PM 12 elizabeth berg he was crazy; from the looks of it, she has her own strange ways. He might ask her if it didn’t hurt, that ring in her nose, hanging out the bottom like a booger.

Arthur sleeps so long the next morning that when he wakes up, it’s time for lunch. He sits at the edge of the bed to write the alphabet in the air with his feet, as his doctor has told him to do, to help with the arthritis there. Damned if it doesn’t work, too. He heads down to the kitchen. A draft is blowing in from under the door. It’s cold and windy then. Odd for May, but who can count on the weather anymore? Never mind. He’ll feed Gordon and go. A promise is a prom- ise, even if it’s only one you made to yourself. When he looks in the drawer for the can opener, he doesn’t see it. No one to blame it on; he’s the only one here. He shifts around the contents of the drawer, then digs deeper, and from way in the back he pulls out Mr. and Mrs. Hamburger. Lord. She kept it. He stares at the molded plas- tic figurine, all perky beneath the grime: the long-­lashed, pink-­cheeked Mrs. Hamburger, wearing a red dress with yellow polka dots, Mr. Hamburger in his dark brown suit with a derby hat perched on his bun head. Great big black shoes like Mickey Mouse’s for him, chunky red high heels for her. Mrs. Hamburger used to have real hoop earrings; they’re gone now. The Hamburgers’ skinny white arms—­ they look like fat pipe cleaners—are­ linked; they look ready to walk off the stand they’re on.

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 12 5/5/17 1:47 PM the story of arthur truluv 13 Nineteen fifty-five?­ Nineteen fifty-­six? It was after the Ko- rean war, he knows. He remembers the night they got it, too hot to cook so they went out to the Tick-­Tock Diner and he’d bought her that figurine on their way out. It had taken Nola a long time to decide between Mr. and Mrs. Ham- burger and Mr. and Mrs. Hot Dog. They’d had a fight before they left for dinner, he recalls now. They never did fight much, but that one was a doozy. He doesn’t remember what it was about, but he sure re- members it. She was just screeching at him, he’d never heard that voice before, and the veins in her neck were standing out. He remembers thinking that he had never seen her look ugly, but he thought she looked ugly then. He doesn’t like that he thought that about her, but what can you do? Everybody has thoughts that shame them. You can’t control them coming in. But you don’t have to let them all out. That’s the crux of it. That’s what made for civilization, what was left of it, anyway. He puts the figurine at the center of the kitchen table and stands back to regard it, his hands on his hips. Nola and her figurines. Her little flowered plates and her stationery with birds and apple blossoms. She was a cornball, that one. But who didn’t love her?

“Well. Miss Harris,” Mr. Lyons, Maddy’s English teacher, says when she walks into class. That’s all he says, but Maddy knows the rest. He knows she skipped school yesterday; he

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 13 5/5/17 1:47 PM 14 elizabeth berg knows she wasn’t ill. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms and watches as she takes her seat. Mr. Lyons’s first name is Royal. Maddy thinks that’s hys- terical. She wishes she could ask him what’s up with that. Royal. He’s got white hair and he’s a little fat. Maddy likes people who are a little fat; it seems to her that they are ap- proachable. He’s a little fat and he’s got awfully pale skin and the links of his wristwatch are twisted like bad teeth. He doesn’t care about such things. He cares about words. He taught her one of her favorite words: hiraeth, a Welsh word that means a homesickness for a home you cannot return to, or that maybe never was; it means nostalgia and yearning and grief for lost places. He used the word in a story that he read aloud to the class, and when he looked up, his eyes were full of tears. Nobody made fun of him after class, which was a miracle. Nobody said anything to her, anyway. Not that they would. She’s the girl who sits alone in the lunch- room, acting like her sandwich is fascinating. Or did. She skips lunch now. She doesn’t exactly know why kids don’t like her. She’s good-­looking enough. She has a sense of humor. She’s not dumb. She guesses it’s because they can sense how much she needs them. They are like kids in a circle holding sticks, picking on the weak thing. It is in people, to be entertained by cruelty. Maddy slides low in her desk so that Mr. Lyons won’t call on her today. It’s an unspoken agreement they have, another reason she likes him so much. She’d come to school every day if it were just Mr. Lyons. Once she stayed after class to

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 14 5/5/17 1:47 PM the story of arthur truluv 15 show him a photo she took lying under a tree and looking up. Mr. Lyons told her the photo was really good in a no-­ bullshit way. “Do you have a title for it?” he asked. Maddy shrugged and said, “ ‘Framed Sky’?” and Mr. Lyons smiled and said, “Lovely.” Praise is hard for Maddy to hear; it makes her stomach tighten and blood rush to her head, it makes her overly aware of how tall she is. She’d listened to what Mr. Lyons said with no reaction beyond a quick thanks, but later that afternoon, when she was at home and lying on her bed, she looked at the photo again through his eyes. She looked at his comments this way and then that way. What he said could not be seen as anything but good. So . . . ​so there. She put the photo in the candy box she keeps at the back of her closet. It’s a Whitman’s Sampler box; her father told her that was her mother’s favorite candy, one of the few things he’d shared about her. Maddy never knew her mother; she died in a car crash two weeks after Maddy was born. She’d been on the way to a doctor’s appointment. Maddy’s father had come home early from work to drive her, but Maddy had a cold and her mother didn’t want to take her out. So she told Maddy’s father to stay home with Maddy, she’d drive her- self. Someone who ran a red light drove into her. Maddy has a photo of her mother in the candy box. It’s one she found stuck in the crevice of a bookshelf. She asked her father if she could have it and he stared at it for a long time, then gave it to Maddy. In the photo, Maddy’s mother is leaning against a fence post somewhere out in the coun- try, her arms crossed, smiling. She has a red scarf tied in her

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 15 5/5/17 1:47 PM 16 elizabeth berg hair, and she’s wearing jeans and a man’s white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, untucked. “Where was she?” Maddy had asked her father, and her father had said, “With me.” “What were you doing?” Maddy had asked, and her father’d said, “Picnic.” Then he had walked away. Enough, he was saying. Her father will never talk much about her. Too hard. Maddy looks like her mother: she has her dark hair, her wide blue eyes, her little cleft in the chin. What she wants to know is if she is like her mother. Maddy writes poems and takes pictures. Lately, she takes pictures of little things and blows them up big so that she can really see them. In poems, she does the opposite: big things get made small so that she can see them. The interest in these things did not come from her father. Mr. Lyons is talking about Hamlet. Maddy lets her mind wander. She already knows about Hamlet. They were given a week to read it and Maddy read it that night. To be, or not to be. Right. That is the question.

Arthur shuffles over to the stove and turns the heat on high under leftover beans. Then he walks back to the table and walks back to the stove. No shuffling. See, Nola? He adds catsup to the beans, maple syrup, raw onion, Tabasco, and bacon bits from a jar, though they aren’t bacon at all. He cuts a piece of cornbread, butters it, and lays it on the plate, and, when the beans are warm enough, dumps

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 16 5/5/17 1:47 PM the story of arthur truluv 17 them over the bread. He opens a bottle of beer and sits down to eat. Gordon jumps up on the table and stares fixedly at him. “Be my guest,” Arthur says, moving the plate closer to the cat, so they can share. Gordon sits with his front paws lined up exactly even and eats daintily from one side of the plate. Then he stops abruptly, shakes his head like someone has sprinkled water on him, jumps off the table, and pads away, his tail held high in disdain. “You try cooking then,” Arthur says, “you think it’s so easy.” Funny how an animal can hurt your feelings when you’re all alone. He thinks about maybe watching television later, but he can’t much tolerate it anymore. What with the way people behave on there. He’ll probably just take a walk around the block after dinner and hope Lucille Howard is not sitting out on her porch. If she’s sitting on her porch, he’s a dead man. Lucille taught fourth grade for many years, and she seems to think the world is her classroom. She’s a bit didac- tic for Arthur’s tastes, a little condescending. Odd, then, that at the thought of seeing her, his weary old heart accelerates. He supposes it could be an erratic beat, he gets them, but he’d prefer to call it something else. So much of everything is what you call it. He wets his hair at the kitchen sink, then pulls his comb out of his pocket and holds up a pot for a mirror. The bones of his face protrude; he’s gotten so skinny he could take a bath in a gun barrel. But good enough. Good enough. The cat walks behind him as he makes his way to the door. “You coming?” he asks, holding the door open. Gor-

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 17 5/5/17 1:47 PM 18 elizabeth berg don is allowed out as long as it’s light outside. He’s proven his indifference to hunting, an anomaly Arthur appreciates. The cat doesn’t move. “Just seeing me out?” Gordon looks up at Arthur, but keeps still. “I’ll be back in half an hour,” he says. People say cats don’t care, but they do. When Arthur passes Lucille’s house, he keeps his gaze focused straight ahead. No point in inviting it. But she’s sure enough out there, and he hears her calling him. “Arthur! Want to come and sit a bit?” He hesitates, then turns and starts up her walk. Gives her a friendly smile, to boot. He wishes she wouldn’t wear a wig, or at least not one that sits so crookedly on her head. It’s a distraction. Sometimes he has to restrain himself from reaching over and giving it a little tug, then smacking her knee in a friendly way and saying, “There you go!” But why risk humiliating her? Arthur thinks that, above all, aging means the abandon- ment of criticism and the taking on of compassionate ac- ceptance. He sees that as a good trade. And anyway, Lucille makes those snickerdoodles, and she always packs some up for him to take home, and he eats them in bed, which is another thing he can do now, oh, sorrowful gifts. “Sit right there,” Lucille says, indicating the wicker chair Arthur always chooses when he visits with her. He settles down among the floral pillows: one behind him, one on either side of him, one on his lap. It’s an undig- nified and unmanly way to sit, but what can you do? Arthur will never understand what seems to be a woman’s need for

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 18 5/5/17 1:47 PM the story of arthur truluv 19 so many pillows. Nola had it, too. They had to dig their way into bed every night. “Now!” Lucille says. There is an air of satisfaction in her voice that makes him wary. “Isn’t this nice!” she says. He nods. “Yes. Thank you.” “My grandniece is pregnant, I just found out,” Lucille says. “Oh, is that so?” “Yes, and do you know, she’s forty years old!” Arthur doesn’t know what to say to this. Congratulations? Uh-­oh? “These young people, these days,” Lucille says. “They just . . . ​Well, I just don’t understand them.” In his lower gut, Arthur feels a rumbling, sudden and acute. He shifts in his chair. Lucille’s eyes dart over and she says, “Oh, I don’t mean to complain. No older generation understands the younger generation, isn’t that true? But don’t let’s complain. Let’s endeavor to be grateful and pleasant. Unlike them.” And now the pain becomes more acute. What in the hell did he eat? He rises, warily. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave,” he says. “Thanks for . . . ​Thanks for the visit.” His voice is pinched with his efforts to keep control. “But you’ve only just gotten here!” Lucille says, and—­oh, no, look, there are tears trembling in her eyes, magnified by her glasses.

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 19 5/5/17 1:47 PM 20 elizabeth berg “I forgot about something,” Arthur says. “What?” Lucille demands. “Oh . . . ​long story.” He really has to get to a bathroom. He moves cautiously toward the steps. Lucille rises up to walk beside him, her hands kneading each other, and he detects a faint scent of vanilla. “Well, I just hope I didn’t offend you. We’re neighbors, Arthur, and we’re the only old ones left on the block and I just invite you over to pass the time and I made some orange blossom but- ter cookies for you and—­” “Another time,” Arthur says, and hotfoots it over to his house. He reaches the bathroom just in time. He sits on the john and lets go and here comes Gordon to sit on the thresh- old, his tail wrapped around him. Now there’s a friend. When Arthur’s finished, he washes up and then stands there for a minute, doing a kind of internal surveillance, relishing the expansive relief that comes after recovery from illness, however short its duration. He’s okay then. So. He goes into the living room to lift the blinds and looks over at Lucille’s porch. Gone in. Well, it would be foolish to go back now. He’s sorry for hurting her feelings, but it would be foolish to go back now. The blue of the sky has faded and the thin clouds are ash-colored.­ The first stars will be out soon. It comes to him that Nola once asked, “What if the souls of the dead become stars that can always watch over everyone?” That was right before she died, and Arthur an- swered in a way he still regrets. He kissed her hand—so­ light, by then, a kind of husk of a hand—and­ said, “We don’t know anything.” He doesn’t know why he said that except

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 20 5/5/17 1:47 PM the story of arthur truluv 21 that it’s basically true. But he wishes he had answered more eloquently. He wishes he’d have said something to make her think that in the great unknown there was one constant: ev- erything would be all right. He thinks that’s basically true, too. He opens the back door and Gordon slips out. “Hey!” Arthur calls. “Get in here!” The cat’s gone. There’s a worry. A man Arthur met on his walk the other day said he had seen a coyote walking along the sidewalk, pretty as you please, and Gordon is old now. How old? Arthur slowly calculates. Fifteen! How did that happen? Fifteen! “Gordon!” he calls. A movement in the bushes and then Gordon darts out and runs to the driveway, where he lies on his back regarding Arthur. “Come here,” Arthur says, patting his leg. Nothing. “Come here!” Arthur says. And then, rolling his eyes and lowering his voice to a near whisper, “Come, kitty, kitty.” Nothing. One last thing he can try. He goes into the house and gets Gordon’s bag of treats. He carries it outside and shakes it. Gordon runs away. Arthur lets the air out of his cheeks. If he ever gets an- other pet it will be a dog. Nola picked out Gordon at the shelter when the kitten was barely six weeks old. “Look at him!” she kept saying, on the ride home. Arthur wasn’t sure what he was supposed to look at, but he knew better than to ask. Gordon—­unnamed at that point, though Nola had sug-

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 21 5/5/17 1:47 PM 22 elizabeth berg gested Precious, which of course Arthur had to put the ki- bosh on—­was just a white kitten with a brown tail. But each time Nola told him to look, he looked over and said, with a kind of false proprietary pride, “Yup!” You would have thought they were driving the baby they never could have home from the hospital. Arthur goes inside, but leaves the door propped open. He’ll get into his pajamas and brush his teeth and wash his face and his glasses, then check again. If the cat doesn’t come back then, well, he’s on his own. Bon appétit, coyote. Arthur finishes his preparations, then comes back down- stairs. No sign of Gordon. He calls him once more, then closes and locks the door and heads upstairs. He opens the book he’s reading, but he can’t concentrate. He snaps out the light, lies down, and stares out into the blackness. When he feels a thud on the bed, he jumps and cries out, much to his shame. You’d think a bat had dropped from the ceiling. But it’s only Gordon, the devil. “Where were you?” Arthur asks. Gordon comes closer, curls up next to him, and starts purring. “You think I’m going to pet you now?” Arthur asks. “After what you put me through?” But he does pet him. And then he sits up and snaps the light back on and reads a few pages from his Western before he goes to sleep, a feeling like an inflated balloon in his chest, the cat curled in his lap. Little mercies.

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 22 5/5/17 1:47 PM the story of arthur truluv 23 At midnight, Maddy calls Anderson. She keeps her voice low, so her father won’t hear. Anderson answers sleepily, and Maddy instantly regrets herself. But what can she do now except plunge in? “Hey,” she says, but her voice is too girly, so she lowers it to say, “What are you doing?” “I’m fucking sleeping,” Anderson says. “Duh.” “Well, I’m sorry to wake you but you said you were going to call tonight, so . . .” “Did I? Sorry. But I just saw you, right? And I . . . ​got busy.” Doing what? she wants to ask, but best not to push. He did apologize. She starts to ask him about his day but things have gotten to such a bad place. So she asks in what she hopes is a jaunty, playful way, “Want me to sneak out and meet you?” “I don’t know, Maddy,” he says, and the distance in his voice terrifies her. “I learned a new trick,” she says, and he laughs and says, “Oh yeah? What trick is that?” “It’s a surprise.” He’s quiet, and she says, “Meet me at the corner. We’ll go somewhere. I’ll do it to you in the car.” He sighs. “I gotta work in the morning. We need to make it fast, okay? Nothing after.” “Okay,” she says. “I’ll be out there in fifteen minutes. Come and get me.” She hangs up and contemplates what to wear. Some- thing easy to slip off. This is exciting. It is, isn’t it? She feels

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 23 5/5/17 1:47 PM 24 elizabeth berg like she’s in a television show. But now she needs to think of a trick. She takes off her pajamas and pulls on a T-shirt.­ No bra. Jeans, no underpants. Then she uses her phone to google Variations on oral sex, female to male. When it’s time, she raises her bedroom window, climbs out into the foundation shrubbery, and crouches down, lis- tening, making sure she has not awakened her father. No; she hears nothing. She walks to the corner to wait. She stands there seven minutes, she counts every second with a despairing kind of dread, but then here come his headlights and the car pulls up next to her. His arm is hanging out through the open window and the smoke from his cigarette is rising up and it’s so sexy, it’s so right, he’s so manly, noth- ing like the dumb boys in her school, whose idea of a good time is trying to slam locker doors on each other’s hands. She wets her lips, runs to the passenger side, and leaps in. He nods but says nothing, just drives off to a forest pre- serve a couple of miles away. He pulls into one of the park- ing spaces, cuts the engine, and turns to face her. “Hey,” he says, and he rubs at the corner of one eye. The gesture is endearing to her, somehow, and she leans over to kiss him. But he pulls away, saying, “I gotta get back soon, I gotta get up early. So, you know. What’s up?” “What’s up?” she says. “Yeah, what’s the trick?” “Oh,” she says. “Well, so . . . ​Want me to show you?” “Yeah.” No need for her to get undressed after all. No time.

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 24 5/5/17 1:47 PM the story of arthur truluv 25 She puts her hand to his crotch, unbuttons his jeans, and carefully pulls the zipper down. Apparently there’s this little place back there where you can rub when you do it. Appar- ently they love that. Awkwardly, she gets on her knees on the floor in front of him. He leans his head back, closes his eyes. Tosses his ciga- rette out the window. She looks at his handsome face, then begins. Afterward, she says, “So . . . ?” “Yeah, it was great. Thanks.” Thanks? “You’re welcome,” she says. She moves back to her side of the seat. “Listen, Maddy,” he says, looking down, and her insides jump at the sight of his long lashes, the planes of his cheek- bones, the way his hair falls into his face. He looks at her to say, “I gotta tell you. I think we need to cut back on seeing each other.” She freezes. Cannot speak. Does not breathe. “Okay? I mean, I’m busy at work, and I’m trying . . . ​you know, I’m trying to do some other stuff.” “What stuff? Something I can help with? I could help you.” “No, it’s nothing. . . .” He looks out the side window, then back at her. “Aw, Maddy, I can’t lie to you. You’re a good kid. You’re a pretty girl, we had some good times, right? But​ you . . . Okay, I’m just going to say it right out because I respect you, okay? Like, I’m not going to lie to you. I found someone. . . . ​She’s more my age, okay?” “Who is it?” Maddy has no idea why she has asked this

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 25 5/5/17 1:47 PM 26 elizabeth berg question. Or how. She doesn’t want to hear a single word about whoever this person might be. “She works at the store, we run into each other a lot.” We. It burns. Maddy presses her lips together tightly. Must not cry. Really must not cry. He laughs. “At first we hated each other. It’s really funny, it’s like a sitcom, right? We like really hated each other. This one time she came into—­” “It’s okay,” Maddy says. “I don’t want to hear any more.” “Aw, come here,” he says softly, and some force moves her closer to him. Where else can she go? “Hey. I got something for you.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small jewelry box. Oh, my god. This was a joke! The other girl, that was a joke! Because look, he’s going to propose! And she will say yes, she will say, Just take me to your apartment and we’ll start living together right now. She stares at the box, her heart galloping in her chest. To be out of her house, away from her father, who is like constant bad weather. To wake up excited for the day ahead! To feel seen and appreciated! Maddy feels she wears a mask behind which is a wondrous kaleidoscope. Look through here: she knows things; turn the wheel: she can do things. She can sing, she’s a good dancer, she can curl her tongue on demand, every dog and cat on the street comes up to her, she’s an amazingly fast reader. Now she can show someone everything: her heart, her humor, her loyalty! “Take it,” Anderson says, pushing the box toward her. She takes it, her hand shaking, and opens it to find a

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r2.s.indd 26 5/9/17 2:57 PM the story of arthur truluv 27 pearl solitaire necklace, identical to the one he gave her before. “A token of my appreciation,” he says, as though he were dressed in a tux and bowing before her. “Do you like it?” She reaches beneath the neckline of her T-­shirt to pull out her necklace and shows it to him. “Oh,” he says. “Shit.” She starts to get out of the car and he grabs her arm. “What are you doing?” She says nothing, tries to wrestle her arm free, and he holds on tighter. It hurts. She turns toward him and slaps his face. It startles both of them, he lets go, and she gets out of the car, leaving the door open. Let him shut it. She starts running away. “Maddy!” he says. “What in the hell are you doing? Get in the car, I’ll give you a ride home. For Christ’s sake, get in the car!” She keeps running, faster. “Maddy! It’s not safe!” She hears him slam the passenger door and the car starts coming toward her. She runs into the woods. “Maddy!” she hears. And then she hears the car driving off. She comes out of the woods and there is no sign of him. She waits for a minute to see if he will come back, but he doesn’t. Maybe fifty feet away, just at the periphery of the woods, she notices a doe watching her, and she becomes flooded with an elemental sense of shame. She stares back at the

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 27 5/5/17 1:47 PM 28 elizabeth berg animal, its wide and patient eyes, its stillness. For a long time, neither moves. Then, “Mom?” Maddy whispers. When she was little, Maddy used to watch Mister Rogers on TV. Her father would set her up on the sofa with animal crackers and juice and disappear into the bedroom or the basement, where he could be alone. Maddy would watch the little train and the puppets and the regular visitors to Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. She would listen to the soothing voice of a man she wished her father were like. One day Mister Rogers stared out from the screen as though he were talking right to her. “Look for the helpers,” he ad- vised. “If you look for the helpers, you’ll know that there’s hope.” She’d started when she heard that, then held per- fectly still. She wouldn’t have been surprised if Mister Rog- ers had reached out his hand through the screen. She has never forgotten that day, that feeling of being offered some sort of lifeline. Maddy feels her mother sometimes as a glow in her brain, as a knock at her heart, as a whisper she can’t quite hear. And then there are times when she thinks her mother takes on the form of something else, like this doe, appearing from out of the woods to stand by her, if only from a dis- tance. Maddy sees this as wordless reassurance, as fulfill- ment of the promise that Mister Rogers made, and it does offer her hope, though that hope is not nearly as bright as it used to be. That hope has gotten tired. Maddy swallows, holds up a hand. “Bye,” she says, and starts walking.

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 28 5/5/17 1:47 PM the story of arthur truluv 29 When she gets home, she climbs noiselessly through the window and, once inside, turns on her desk lamp. Her father is sitting on the edge of her bed. “Where have you been?” he asks. There is nothing left in her. She is not afraid. “I snuck out to meet a boy.” Her father nods. He stares at her standing there, her arms crossed, her heart shattered. Then, “Come here,” he says, and pats the bed beside him. Maddy moves to the place he’s indicated and sits star- ing straight ahead. Her father clears his throat. He puts his hand over Mad- dy’s, and Maddy’s stomach clenches. Her natural response to his rare attempts at affection is to stiffen or move away from him. Because these attempts are not felt as warm. Rather they are felt as foreign and intrusive, and as remind- ers of what was almost always missing and, at least at first, acutely longed for. Over the years, she has built a little fort against wanting any of that from him anymore. It is too late now. The fort is impenetrable. She is safe inside it. “Look,” her father says. “I know I’m not . . . ​I know it might not seem so, but I love you. Please don’t ever do that again. I was scared, you scared me. Will you promise me never to do that again? That’s not the way. Boys don’t re- spect girls who do that. Okay?” No shit. “Okay,” she says, and takes her hand away. “Don’t do it ever again.” He looks over at her, starts to speak again, then doesn’t. “Good night.” He rises, tiredly, it

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 29 5/5/17 1:47 PM 30 elizabeth berg seems to her, tired beyond the lateness of the hour, and, at the threshold, turns around to face her. “Do you want to talk about anything?” She shakes her head no. “I’m going grocery shopping tomorrow. Do you need anything?” “No.” “Are you sure?” “I said no!” He hesitates, then again says, “Good night.” “Good night.” They are beautiful words, she thinks. Good. Night. She gets under her covers without undressing. She will not think of him. What did she expect? She will not think of him. She will think of good. And night. In the morning, she will take the bus to school and then she will not go to school but instead will walk over to the cemetery. To be with her people.

Berg_9781400069903_3p_all_r1.s.indd 30 5/5/17 1:47 PM

NEED TO KNOW

A NOVEL KAREN CLEVELAND

d Ballantine Books | New York

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 3 6/8/17 8:46 AM Need to Know is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2018 by Karen Cleveland All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. Ballantine and the House colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC. Hardback ISBN 978-­1-­5247-­9702-­7 International edition ISBN 978-1-5247-9736-2 Ebook ISBN 978-­1-­5247-­9703-­4 [or insert CIP information and delete ISBNs above] Printed in the United States of America on acid-­free paper randomhousebooks.com 987654321 First Edition Book design by Barbara M. Bachman

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 4 6/8/17 8:46 AM I STAND IN THE DOORWAY OF THE TWINS’ ROOM AND WATCH them sleep, peaceful and innocent, through crib slats that remind me of bars on a prison cell. A night-light­ bathes the room in a soft orange glow. Furniture crowds the small space, far too much of it for a room this size. Cribs, one old, one new. A changing table, stacks of diapers still in their plastic. The bookcase Matt and I assembled ourselves, ages ago. Its shelves now sag, overloaded with the books I could recite by heart to the older two, the ones I’ve been vowing to read more often to the twins, if only I could find the time. I hear Matt’s footsteps on the stairs and my hand clenches around the flash drive. Tight, like if I squeeze hard enough, it’ll disappear. Everything will go back to the way it was. The past two days will be erased, nothing more than a bad dream. But it’s still there: hard, solid, real. The hallway floor creaks where it always does. I don’t turn. He comes up behind me, close enough that I can smell his soap, his shampoo, the smell of him that’s always been oddly comforting,

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 3 6/8/17 8:46 AM 4 karen cleveland

that now inexplicably makes him more of a stranger. I can feel his hesitation. “Can we talk?” he says. The words are quiet, but the sound is enough to stir Chase. He sighs in his sleep and then settles, still curled into a ball, like he’s protecting himself. I’ve always thought he’s so much like his father, the serious eyes, taking everything in. Now I wonder if I’ll ever truly know him, if he’ll keep secrets so heavy they’ll crush anyone close to him. “What’s there to say?” Matt takes a step closer, puts a hand on my arm. I move away, enough to free myself from his touch. His hand lingers in the air, then falls to his side. “What are you going to do?” he asks. I look at the other crib, at Caleb, on his back in his footed paja- mas; cherubic blond curls, arms and legs splayed like a starfish. His hands are open, his pink lips open. He has no idea how vulnerable he is, how cruel the world can be. I always said I’d protect him. I’d give him the strength that he lacks, make sure he has every opportunity, keep his life as normal as possible. How can I do that, if I’m not around? I would do anything for my kids. Anything. I uncurl my fingers and look at the flash drive, the little rectangle, nondescript. So small, but with so much power. Power to fix, power to destroy. Rather like a lie, when you think about it. “You know I don’t have a choice,” I say, and I force myself to look at him, my husband, the man I know so well, and at the same time not at all.

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 4 6/8/17 8:46 AM TWO DAYS EARLIER CHAPTER 1

“BAD NEWS, VIV.” I hear Matt’s voice, words anyone would dread, but a tone that’s reassuring. Light, apologetic. It’s something unfortunate, sure, but it’s manageable. Anything truly bad and his voice would be heavier. He’d use a complete sentence, a complete name. I have some bad news, Vivian. I hold the phone to my ear with a raised shoulder, swivel my chair to the other side of the L-shaped­ desk, to the computer cen- tered under gray overhead bins. I guide the cursor to the owl-­ shaped icon on the screen and double-click.­ If it’s what I think it is—­what I know it is—­then I only have a bit longer at my desk. “Ella?” I say. My gaze drifts to one of the crayon drawings tacked to the high cubicle walls with pushpins, a pop of color in this sea of gray. “A hundred point eight.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. We’ve been expecting it. Half her class has been sick, falling like dominoes, so it was only a

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 5 6/8/17 8:46 AM 6 karen cleveland

matter of time. Four-year­ -­olds aren’t exactly the cleanliest bunch. But today? It had to happen today? “Anything else?” “Just the temp.” He pauses. “Sorry, Viv. She seemed fine when I dropped her off.” I swallow past the tightening in my throat and nod, even though he can’t see me. Any other day and he’d pick her up. He can work from home, at least in theory. I can’t, and I used up all my leave when the twins were born. But he’s taking Caleb into the city for the latest round of medical appointments. I’ve been feeling guilty for weeks that I’ll have to miss it. And now I’ll be missing it and still using leave I don’t have. “I’ll be there in an hour,” I say. The rules say we have an hour from the time they call. Factoring in the drive and the walk to my car—­it’s in the outer reaches of Langley’s sprawling parking lots—­ that gives me about fifteen minutes to wrap up work for the day. Fifteen minutes less leave to add to my negative balance. I glance at the clock in the corner of my screen—­seven minutes past ten—and­ then my eyes shift to the Starbucks cup beside my right elbow, steam escaping from the hole in the plastic lid. I treated myself, a splurge in celebration of the long-aw­ aited day, fuel for the tedious hours ahead. Precious minutes wasted in line that could have been spent digging through digital files. Should have stuck to the usual, the sputtering coffee maker that leaves grounds floating at the top of the mug. “That’s what I told the school,” Matt says. “School” is actually our day care center, the place where our youngest three spend their days. But we’ve been calling it school since Luke was three months old. I’d read it could help ease the transition, lessen the guilt of leaving your baby for eight, ten hours a day. It didn’t, but old hab- its die hard, I guess.

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 6 6/8/17 8:46 AM Need to Know 7

There’s another pause, and I can hear Caleb babbling in the background. I listen, and I know that Matt’s listening, too. It’s like we’re conditioned to do so at this point. But it’s just vowel sounds. Still no consonants. “I know today was supposed to be a big day . . . ,” Matt finally says, and trails off. I’m used to the trailing off, the evasive conversa- tions on my open line. I always assume someone’s listening in. The Russians. The Chinese. That’s part of the reason Matt’s the first one the school calls when there’s a problem. I’d rather him filter some of the kids’ personal details from the ears of our adversaries. Call me paranoid, or just call me a CIA counterintelligence ana- lyst. But really, that’s about all Matt knows. Not that I’ve been try- ing in vain to uncover a network of Russian sleeper agents. Or that I’ve developed a methodology for identifying people involved in the highly secretive program. Just that I’ve waited months for this day. That I’m about to find out if two years of hard work is going to pay off. And if I stand a chance at that promotion we desperately need. “Yeah, well,” I say, moving my mouse back and forth, watching Athena load, the cursor in the shape of a timer. “Caleb’s appoint- ment is what’s important today.” My eyes drift back to the cubicle wall, the bright crayon draw- ings. Ella’s, a picture of our family, stick arms and legs protruding straight from six round happy faces. Luke’s, a bit more sophisti- cated, a single person, thick jagged scribbles to color in hair and clothing and shoes. MOMMY, it says in big capital letters. From his superhero phase. It’s me, in a cape, hands on my hips, an S on my shirt. Supermommy. There’s a familiar feeling in my chest, the pressure, the over- whelming urge to cry. Deep breaths, Viv. Deep breaths.

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 7 6/8/17 8:46 AM 8 karen cleveland

“The Maldives?” Matt says, and I feel the hint of a smile creep to my lips. He always does this, finds a way to make me smile when I need it most. I glance at the photograph of the two of us on the corner of my desk, my favorite from our wedding day, almost a decade ago. Both of us so happy, so young. We always talked about going somewhere exotic for our ten-­year anniversary. It’s certainly not in the cards anymore. But it’s fun to dream. Fun and depressing at the same time. “Bora Bora,” I say. “I could live with that.” He hesitates, and in the gap I hear Caleb again. More vowel sounds. Aah-­aah-­aah. In my head, I’m calculat- ing the months Chase has already been making consonant sounds. I know I shouldn’t—­all the doctors say I shouldn’t—­but I am. “Bora Bora?” I hear from behind me, faux-incredulous.­ I put my hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and turn. It’s Omar, my FBI counterpart, an amused expression on his face. “That one might be hard to justify, even for the Agency.” He breaks into a grin. Infectious as ever, it brings one to my own face, as well. “What are you doing here?” I say, my hand still covering the mouthpiece. I can hear Caleb babbling in my ear. O’s this time. Ooh-­ooh-­ooh. “Had a meeting with Peter.” He takes a step closer, perches on the edge of my desk. I can see the outline of his holster at his hip, through his T-­shirt. “The timing may or may not have been a co- incidence.” He glances at my screen and the grin fades ever so slightly. “It was today, right? Ten a.m.?” I look at my screen, dark, the cursor still in the shape of a timer. “It was today.” The babbling in my ear has gone quiet. I roll my chair so that I’m turned, just a touch, away from Omar and remove my hand from the mouthpiece. “Honey, I have to go. Omar’s here.” “Tell him I said hi,” Matt says.

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 8 6/8/17 8:46 AM Need to Know 9

“Will do.” “Love you.” “Love you, too.” I set the phone down on its base and turn back to Omar, who’s still sitting on my desk, denim-­clad legs out- stretched, feet crossed at the ankles. “Matt says hi,” I tell him. “Aaah, so he’s the Bora Bora connection. Planning a vacation?” The grin’s back, full force. “In theory,” I say with a half-­hearted laugh. It sounds pathetic enough that I can feel color rise to my cheeks. He looks at me for a moment longer, then thankfully down at his wrist. “All right, it’s ten-ten.”­ He uncrosses his ankles, crosses them the opposite way. Then leans forward, the excitement on his face unmistakable. “What have you got for me?” Omar’s been doing this longer than I have. A decade, at least. He’s looking for the actual sleepers in the U.S., and I’m trying to uncover those running the cell. Neither of us has had any success. How he’s still so enthusiastic never fails to amaze me. “Nothing yet. I haven’t even taken a look.” I nod at the screen, the program that’s still loading, then glance at the black-and-­ ­white photograph tacked to my cubicle wall, beside the kids’ drawings. Yury Yakov. Fleshy face, hard expression. A few more clicks and I’ll be inside his computer. I’ll be able to see what he sees, navigate around the way he does, pore through his files. And hopefully prove that he’s a Russian spy. “Who are you and what have you done with my friend Vivian?” Omar asks with a smile. He’s right. If it wasn’t for the line at Starbucks, I’d have logged in to the program at ten a.m. on the dot. I’d have had a few minutes to look around, at least. I shrug and gesture at the screen. “I’m try- ing.” Then I nod toward the phone. “But in any case, it’s going to have to wait. Ella’s sick. I need to go pick her up.”

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 9 6/8/17 8:46 AM 10 karen cleveland

He exhales dramatically. “Kids. Always the worst timing.” Movement on the screen draws my attention, and I roll my chair closer. Athena’s finally loading. There are red banners on all sides, a slew of words, each signifying a different control, a different com- partment. The longer the string of text, the more classified. This one’s pretty darn long. I click past one screen, then another. Each click is an acknowl- edgment. Yes, I know I’m accessing compartmented information. Yes, I know I can’t disclose it or I’ll go to jail for a very long time. Yes, yes, yes. Just get me to the information already. “This is it,” Omar says. I remember he’s there and glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s looking away purposefully, stu- diously avoiding the screen, giving me privacy. “I feel it.” “I hope so,” I murmur. And I do. But I’m nervous. This method- ology is a gamble. A big one. I built a profile for suspected handlers: educational institution, studies and degrees, banking centers, travel within Russia and abroad. Came up with an algorithm, identified five individuals who best fit the pattern. Likely candidates. The first four turned out to be false leads, and now the pro- gram’s on the chopping block. Everything rests on Yury. Number five. The computer that was the hardest to break into, the one I had the most confidence in to begin with. “And if it’s not,” Omar says, “you did something that no one else has been able to do. You got close.” Targeting the handlers is a new approach. For years, the Bu- reau’s been trying to identify the sleepers themselves, but they’re so well assimilated it’s next to impossible. The cell is designed so that sleepers don’t have contact with anyone but their handler, and even that is minimal. And the Agency’s been focused on the ringleaders, the guys who oversee the handlers, the ones in Moscow with direct ties to the SVR, Russian intelligence.

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 10 6/8/17 8:46 AM Need to Know 11

“Close doesn’t count,” I say quietly. “You know that better than anyone.” Around the time I started on the account, Omar was a hard-­ charging new agent. He’d proposed a new initiative, inviting en- trenched sleepers to “come in from the cold” and turn themselves in, in exchange for amnesty. His reasoning? There had to be at least a few sleepers who wanted to turn their covers into reality, and we might be able to learn enough from the turned sleepers to penetrate the network as a whole. The plan was rolled out quietly, and within a week we had a walk-­in, a man named Dmitri. Said he was a midlevel handler, told us information about the program that corroborated what we knew—­handlers like himself were responsible for five sleepers each; he reported to a ringleader who was responsible for five han- dlers. A completely self-­contained cell. That got our attention, for sure. Then came the outrageous claims, the information that was inconsistent with everything we knew to be true, and then he dis- appeared. Dmitri the Dangle, we called him after that. That was the end of the program. The thought of publicly ad- mitting there were sleepers in the U.S., of admitting our inability to find them, was already barely palatable to Bureau seniors. Be- tween that and the potential for Russian manipulation—dangling­ double agents with false leads—Omar’­ s plan was roundly criti- cized, then rejected. We’ll be inundated with other Dmitris, they said. And with that, Omar’s once-promising­ career trajectory stalled. He fell into obscurity, plugging away, day after day, at a thankless, frustrating, impossible task. The screen changes, and a little icon with Yury’s name appears. I always get a thrill out of this, seeing my targets’ names here, knowing we have a window into their digital lives, the information they think is private. As if on cue, Omar stands up. He knows

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 11 6/8/17 8:46 AM 12 karen cleveland

about our efforts to target Yury. He’s one of a handful of Bureau agents read into the program—­and its biggest cheerleader, the per- son who believes in the algorithm, and in me, more than anyone else. But still, he can’t access it directly. “Call me tomorrow, okay?” he says. “You got it,” I reply. He turns, and as soon as I see his back, heading away, I focus my attention on the screen. I double-­click the icon and a red-­bordered inset appears, displaying the contents of Yury’s laptop, a mirror image that I can comb through. I only have minutes until I need to leave. But it’s long enough for a peek. The background is dark blue, dotted with bubbles of different sizes, in different shades of blue. There are icons lined up in four neat rows on one side, half of them folders. The file names are all in Cyrillic, characters that I recognize but can’t read—at­ least not well. I took a beginning Russian class years ago; then Luke arrived and I never went back. I know some basic phrases, recognize some words, but that’s about it. For the rest I rely on linguists or transla- tion software. I open a few of the folders, then the text documents inside them. Page after page of dense Cyrillic text. I feel a wave of disap- pointment, one I know is nonsensical. It’s not like a Russian guy sitting on his computer in Moscow is going to be typing in English, keeping records in English, List of Deep-­Cover Operatives in the United States. I know that what I’m looking for is encrypted. I’m just hop- ing to see some sort of clue, some sort of protected file, something with obvious encryption. High-level­ penetrations over the years have told us that the iden- tities of the sleepers are known only to the handlers, that the names are stored electronically, locally. Not in Moscow, because the SVR—­ Russia’s powerful external intelligence service—­fears moles within its own organization. Fears them so much that they’d rather risk los-

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 12 6/8/17 8:46 AM Need to Know 13

ing sleepers than keep the names in Russia. And we know that if anything should happen to a handler, the ringleader would access the electronic files and contact Moscow for a decryption key, one part of a multilayer encryption protocol. We have the code from Moscow. We’ve just never had anything to decrypt. The program’s airtight. We can’t break in. We don’t even know its true purpose, if there is one. It might just be passive collection, or it might be something more sinister. But since we know the head of the program reports to Putin himself, I tend to think it’s the latter—­and that’s what keeps me up at night. I keep scanning, my eyes drifting over each file, even though I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for. And then I see a Cyrillic word I recognize. друзья. Friends. The last icon in the last row, a manila folder. I double-­click and the folder opens into a list of five JPEG images, nothing more. My heart rate begins to accelerate. Five. There are five sleepers assigned to each handler; we know that from multiple sources. And there’s the title. Friends. I click open the first image. It’s a headshot of a nondescript middle-­aged man in round eyeglasses. A tingle of excitement runs through me. The sleepers are well assimilated. Invisible members of society, really. This could certainly be one of them. Logic tells me not to get too excited; all our intelligence says the files on the sleepers are encrypted. But my gut tells me this is some- thing big. I open the second. A woman, orange hair, bright blue eyes, wide smile. Another headshot, another potential sleeper. I stare at her. There’s a thought I’m trying to ignore, but can’t. These are just pictures. Nothing about their identities, nothing the ringleader could use to contact them. But still. Friends. Pictures. So maybe Yury’s not the elusive han- dler I was hoping to uncover, the one the Agency devoted resources

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 13 6/8/17 8:46 AM 14 karen cleveland

to finding. But could he be a recruiter? And these five people: They must be important. Targets, maybe? I double-click­ the third image and a face appears on my screen. A headshot, close-up.­ So familiar, so expected—­and yet not, be- cause it’s here, where it doesn’t belong. I blink at it, once, twice, my mind struggling to bridge what I’m seeing with what I’m seeing, what it means. Then I swear that time stops. Icy fingers close around my heart and squeeze, and all I can hear is the whoosh of blood in my ears. I’m staring into the face of my husband.

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 14 6/8/17 8:46 AM CHAPTER 2

FOOTSTEPS ARE COMING CLOSER. I HEAR THEM, EVEN THROUGH the pounding in my ears. The haze in my mind crystallizes, in an instant, into a single command. Hide it. I guide the cursor to the X in the corner of the picture and click, and Matt’s face disappears, just like that. I turn toward the sound, the open wall of my cubicle. It’s Peter, approaching. Did he see? I glance back at the screen. No pictures, just the folder, open, five lines of text. Did I close it in time? A niggling voice in my head asks me why it matters. Why I felt the need to hide it. This is Matt. My husband. Shouldn’t I be run- ning to security, asking why the Russians have a picture of him in their possession? There’s a wave of nausea starting to churn deep in my stomach. “Meeting?” Peter says. One eyebrow is raised above his thick-­ rimmed eyeglasses. He’s standing in front of me, loafers and pressed khakis, a button-­down that’s buttoned a touch too close to the top. Peter’s the senior analyst on the account, a holdover from the So- viet era, and my mentor for the past eight years. There’s no one

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 15 6/8/17 8:46 AM 16 karen cleveland

more knowledgeable about Russian counterintelligence. Quiet and reserved, it’s impossible not to respect the guy. And right now there’s nothing strange in his expression. Just the question. Am I coming to the morning meeting? I don’t think he saw. “Can’t,” I say, and my voice sounds unnaturally high-­pitched. I try to lower it, try to keep the tremor out of it. “Ella’s sick. I need to pick her up.” He nods, more of a tilt of his head than anything. His expres- sion looks even, unfazed. “Hope she feels better,” he says, and turns to walk away, over to the conference room, the glass-walled­ cube that’s better suited for a tech start-­up than CIA headquarters. I watch him long enough to see that he doesn’t look back. I swivel back to my computer, to the screen that’s now blank. My legs have gone weak, my breath coming quick. Matt’s face. On Yury’s computer. And my first instinct:Hide it. Why? I hear my other teammates ambling toward the conference room. Mine is the closest cubicle to it, the one everyone walks past to get there. It’s usually quiet down here, the farthest reaches of the sea of cubicles, unless people are heading to the conference room or to the Restricted Access room just beyond it—the­ place where analysts can lock themselves away, view the most sensitive of sensi- tive files, the ones with information so valuable, so hard to obtain, that the Russians surely would track down and kill the source if they knew we had it. I take a shaky breath, then another. I turn as their footsteps come closer. Marta’s first. Trey and Helen, side by side, a quiet con- versation. Rafael and then Bert, our branch chief, who does little more than edit papers. Peter’s the real boss and everyone knows it. We’re the sleeper team, the seven of us. An odd bunch, really, because we have so little in common with the other teams in the

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 16 6/8/17 8:46 AM Need to Know 17

Counterintelligence Center, Russia Division. They have more infor- mation than they know what to do with; we have virtually nothing. “You coming?” Marta asks, pausing at my cubicle, laying a hand on one of the high walls. The scent of peppermint and mouthwash wafts over when she speaks. There are bags under her eyes, a thick layer of concealer. One too many last night, by the look of things. Marta’s a former ops officer, likes whiskey and reliving her glory days in the field in equal measure; she once taught me how to pick a lock with a credit card and a bobby pin I found at the bottom of my work bag, one that keeps Ella’s hair in a bun for ballet class. I shake my head. “Sick kid.” “Germy beasts.” She drops her hand, continues on. I offer a smile to the others as they pass. Everything’s normal here. When they’re all in the glass cube and Bert pulls the door shut, I turn back to the screen. The files, the jumble of Cyrillic. I’m trembling. I look down at the clock in the corner of the screen. I should have left three minutes ago. The knot in my stomach is twisted tight and thick. I can’t actu- ally leave now, can I? But I have no choice. If I’m late to get Ella, it’s strike two. Three and we’re out; the school has waiting lists for every class and wouldn’t think twice. Besides, what would I do if I stayed? There’s one sure way to find out exactly why Matt’s picture is here, and it’s not by looking through more files. I swallow, feeling sick, and guide the cursor to close Athena, shut down the com- puter. Then I grab my bag and coat and head for the door.

HE’S BEING TARGETED. By the time I reach my car, my fingers like icicles, my breath coming in little white bursts, I’m certain.

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 17 6/8/17 8:46 AM 18 karen cleveland

He wouldn’t be the first. The Russians have been more aggres- sive than ever this past year. It started with Marta. A woman with an Eastern European accent befriended her at the gym, had some drinks with her at O’Neill’s. After a few, the woman flatout­ asked if Marta would be interested in continuing their “friendship” with a discussion about work. Marta refused and never saw her again. Trey was next. Still in the closet at the time, he’d always come to work functions with his “roommate,” Sebastian. One day I saw him, shaken and pale, on his way up to security. I later heard through the grapevine he’d received a blackmail package in the mail—photos­ of the two of them in some compromising positions, a threat to send them to his parents if he didn’t agree to a meeting. So it’s not a stretch to think the Russians know who I am. And if they know that, then learning Matt’s identity would be a piece of cake. Figuring out where we’re vulnerable would be, too. I turn the key in the ignition and the Corolla makes its usual choking sound. “Come on,” I murmur, turning the key again, hearing the engine gasp to life. Seconds later a blast of icy air hits me from the vents. I reach down, turn the dial so that it’s on the hottest setting, rub my hands together, then throw the car into re- verse. I should let it warm up, but there isn’t time. There’s never enough time. The Corolla is Matt’s car, the one he had even before we met. To say it’s on its last legs is an understatement. We traded in my old car when I was pregnant with the twins. Got a minivan, used. Matt drives that one, the family car, because he does more of the drop-­ offs and pickups. I’m driving by rote, as if in a daze. The farther I go, the more the knot in my stomach tightens. It’s not the fact that they’re tar- geting Matt that worries me. It’s that word. Friends. Doesn’t that suggest some level of complicity?

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 18 6/8/17 8:46 AM Need to Know 19

Matt’s a software engineer. He doesn’t know how sophisticated the Russians are. How ruthless they can be. How they’d take just the smallest of openings, the tiniest sign that he might be willing to work with them, and they’d exploit it, twist it to compel him to do more. I reach the school with two minutes to spare. A blast of warm air strikes me when I step inside. The director, a woman with sharp features and a permanent scowl, glances pointedly at the clock and gives me a hard look. I’m not sure if it’s What took you so long? Or If you’re back this early, clearly she was sick when you dropped her off. I offer a half-hearted­ apologetic smile as I walk by, though on the inside I’m screaming. Whatever Ella has, she caught it from here, for God’s sake. I walk down the hall lined with kids’ artwork—­handprint polar bears and glittery snowflakes and watercolor mittens—­but my mind is elsewhere. Friends. Did Matt do something to make them think he’d be willing to work with them? All they’d need is the smallest sign. Something, anything, to exploit. I find my way into Ella’s classroom, tiny chairs and cubbies and toy bins, an explosion of primary colors. She’s in the far corner of the room, alone on a bright red kid-size­ couch, a hardcover picture book open on her lap. Segregated from the other kids, it seems. She’s in purple leggings I don’t recognize; I vaguely remember Matt mentioning he’d taken her shopping. Of course he did. She’s been outgrowing clothes left and right. I walk over with outstretched arms, an exaggerated smile. She looks up and eyes me warily. “Where’s Daddy?” Inside I cringe, but I keep the smile plastered on my face. “Daddy’­ s taking Caleb to the doctor. I’m picking you up today.” She closes the book and sets it back on the shelf. “Okay.” “Can I have a hug?” My arms are still outstretched, albeit droop-

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 19 6/8/17 8:46 AM 20 karen cleveland

ing. She looks at them for a moment, then walks into a hug. I clasp her tightly, burying my face in her soft hair. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, sweetie.” “I’m okay, Mom.” Mom? My breath catches in my throat. Just this morning I was Mommy. Please don’t let her stop calling me Mommy. I’m not ready for that. Especially not today. I face her and paste another smile on my face. “Let’s go get your brother.” Ella sits on the bench outside the infant room while I walk in- side to get Chase. The room depresses me as much today as it did seven years ago, when I first dropped off Luke. The diaper-­changing station, the row of cribs, the row of high chairs. Chase is on the floor when I walk in. One of his teachers, the young one, scoops him up before I get to him, cuddles him close, lays kisses on his cheek. “Such a sweet boy,” she says, smiling at me. I feel a pang of jealousy, watching. This is the woman who got to see his first steps, the one whose outstretched arms he toddled into for the first time, while I was at the office. She looks so natural with him, so comfortable. But then, of course she does. She’s with him all day long. “Yes, he is,” I say, and the words sound awkward. I get both kids bundled into puffy jackets, hats on their heads—­ it’s unseasonably cold today for March—and­ then into their car seats, the ones that are hard and narrow enough to fit three across the back of the Corolla. The good ones, the safe ones, are in the minivan. “How was your morning, sweetie?” I ask, glancing at Ella in the rearview mirror as I back out of the parking spot. She’s quiet for a moment. “I’m the only girl who didn’t go to yoga.”

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 20 6/8/17 8:46 AM Need to Know 21

“I’m sorry,” I say, and as soon as the words are out of my mouth I know they’re not the right ones, that I should have said some- thing else. The silence that follows feels heavy. I reach for the ste- reo dial, turn on the kids’ music. I glance in the rearview mirror again, and Ella’s looking out the window, quiet. I should ask another question, engage her in con- versation about her day, but I say nothing. I can’t get the picture out of my head. Matt’s face. It was recent, I think. Within the past year or so. How long have they been watching him, watching us? The drive from school to home is short, winding through neighborhoods that are a study in contradictions: new-construction­ McMansions interspersed with older homes like ours, a house far too small for six, old enough that my parents could have grown up in it. The D.C. suburbs are notoriously expensive, and Bethesda’s one of the worst. But the schools are some of the best in the coun- try. We pull up to our house, neat and boxlike, two-car­ garage. There’s a small front porch that the previous owners added, one that doesn’t really match the rest of the house, that we don’t use nearly as much as I thought we would. We bought the place when I was pregnant with Luke, when the schools made it seem worth the massive price tag. I look at the American flag hanging near the front door. Matt hung that flag. Replaced the last one when it faded. He wouldn’t agree to work against our country. I know he wouldn’t. But did he do something? Did he do enough to make the Russians think he might? There’s one thing I know for certain. He was targeted because of me. Because of my job. And that’s why I hid the picture, isn’t it? If he’s in trouble, it’s my fault. And I need to do what I can to get him out of it.

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 21 6/8/17 8:46 AM 22 karen cleveland

I LET ELLA WATCH cartoons on the couch, one after another. Usu- ally we cap it at a single episode, an after-dinner­ treat, but she’s sick, and I can’t get my mind to focus on anything except the pic- ture. While Chase naps and she’s zoned out in front of the TV, I clean the kitchen. Wipe down the countertops, the blue ones that we’d replace if we had the cash. Scrub stains off the stovetop, around the three burners that still work. Organize the cabinet full of plastic containers, matching lids with containers, stacking the ones that fit together. In the afternoon, I bundle up the kids and we walk to the bus stop to pick up Luke. His greeting is the same as Ella’s. Where’s Dad? Dad’s taking Caleb to the doctor. I make him a snack and help him with his homework. A math worksheet, adding two-­digit numbers. I didn’t know they were al- ready up to two digits. Matt’s the one who usually helps. Ella hears Matt’s key in the lock before I do, and she’s off the couch like a shot, bounding for the front door. “Daddy!” she shouts as he opens the door, Caleb in one arm, groceries in the other. Somehow he still manages to squat down and give her a hug, ask her how she’s feeling, even as he’s wriggling Caleb’s jacket off. Somehow the smile on his face looks genuine, is genuine. He stands up and ambles over to me, gives me a peck on the lips. “Hi, honey,” he says. He’s in jeans and the sweater I gave him last Christmas, the brown one that zips at the top, a jacket over it. He sets the bag of groceries down on the counter, adjusts Caleb on his hip. Ella’s clinging to one of his legs; he rests his free hand on her head and strokes her hair. “How’d it go?” I reach for Caleb and I’m almost surprised when

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 22 6/8/17 8:46 AM Need to Know 23

he willingly moves into my arms. I squeeze him and kiss his head, inhale the sweet smell of baby shampoo. “Great, actually,” Matt says, peeling off his jacket, laying it on the counter. He walks over to Luke and musses his hair. “Hey, kiddo.” Luke looks up, beaming. I can see the gap where he lost his first tooth, the one that went under his pillow before I got home from work. “Hey, Dad. Can we play catch?” “In a bit. I need to talk to Mom first. Did you already work on your science project?” There’s a science project? “Yeah,” Luke says, and then his eyes dart to me, like he forgot I was there. “Tell the truth,” I say, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. My eyes find Matt’s, and I see his eyebrows rise, just the smallest bit. But he doesn’t say anything. “I thought about the science project,” I hear Luke murmur. Matt walks back over, leans against the counter. “Dr. Misrati’s ­really happy with the progress. The echo and EKG looked good. She wants to see us back in three months.” I squeeze Caleb again. Finally, some good news. Matt starts un- loading the contents of the grocery bag. A gallon of milk. A pack- age of chicken breasts, a bag of frozen vegetables. Cookies from the bakery—­the kind I always ask him not to buy, because we can make the same thing for a fraction of the price. He’s humming to himself, some tune I don’t recognize. He’s happy. He hums when he’s happy. He bends down, pulls out a pot and a pan from the bottom drawer, sets them on the stove. I give Caleb another kiss as I watch him. How is he so good at all this? How can he have so many balls in the air and not drop them?

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 23 6/8/17 8:46 AM 24 karen cleveland

I turn away from him, toward Ella, who’s back on the couch. “You doing okay in there, sweetie?” “Yeah, Mom.” I can hear Matt stop, his movements frozen. “Mom?” he says softly. I turn around, see the concern etched on his face. I shrug, but I’m sure he can see the hurt in my eyes. “Guess to- day’s the day.” He sets down the box of rice he’s holding and wraps me in a hug, and all of a sudden the wall of emotion that’s been building inside me threatens to come crashing down. I hear his heartbeat, feel his warmth. What happened? I want to ask. Why didn’t you tell me? I swallow, take a breath, pull away. “Can I help with dinner?” “I got it.” He turns around, adjusts the dial on the stove, then leans over and grabs a bottle of wine from the metal rack on the counter. I watch as he uncorks it, then pulls a glass out of the cabi- net. Fills it halfway, carefully. He hands it to me. “Have a drink.” If only you knew how much I need one. I offer him a small smile and take a sip. I get the kids’ hands washed, strap the babies into their high chairs, one at either end of the table. Matt scoops stir-fry­ into bowls, sets them down in front of us at the table. He’s chatting with Luke about something, and I’m making the right expres- sions, like I’m part of the conversation, but my mind is else- where. He looks so happy today. He’s been happier than usual lately, hasn’t he? In my mind, I see the picture. The folder name. Friends. He wouldn’t have agreed to anything, would he? But this is the Rus- sians we’re talking about. All he had to do was give them the slight- est opening, the slightest indication he might consider it, and they’d pounce.

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 24 6/8/17 8:46 AM Need to Know 25

There’s a tingle of adrenaline running through me, a sensation that’s akin to disloyalty. That thought shouldn’t even be crossing my mind. But it is. And sure, we need the money. What if he thought he was doing us a favor, providing another source of in- come? I try to remember the last time we argued about money. He came home with a Powerball ticket the next day, stuck it to the fridge under the corner of the magnetic dry-erase­ board. Wrote I’m sorry on the board, a little smiley face beside it. What if they pitched him, and in his mind it was like winning the lotto? What if he doesn’t even know he was pitched? What if they tricked him, if he thinks he’s lining up some perfectly legiti- mate side job, something to help us make ends meet? God, it all comes down to money. How I hate that it all comes down to money. If I’d known, I’d have told him to be patient. It’ll get better. So we’re in the red right now. But Ella’s almost in kindergarten. The twins will be out of the infant room soon; we’ll save some money in the toddler room. We’ll be in better shape next year. Much bet- ter. This is just a rough year. We knew it would be a rough year. He’s talking with Ella now, and her sweet little voice pierces through the fog in my mind. “I’m the only girl who didn’t go to yoga,” she says, the same thing she told me in the car. Matt takes a bite of his food, chews carefully, watching her the whole time. I hold my breath, wait for his response. He finally swallows. “And how did that make you feel?” She cocks her head to the side, just the slightest bit. “Okay, I guess. I got to sit in the front for story time.” I stare at her, my fork suspended in midair. She didn’t care. She didn’t need an apology. How does Matt always find the right words, always know exactly what to say? Chase is sweeping the remnants of his dinner onto the floor

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 25 6/8/17 8:46 AM 26 karen cleveland

with chubby, food-­stained hands, and Caleb starts laughing, slam- ming his own hands down on his tray, sending stir-fry­ sauce flying. Matt and I push back our chairs at the same time, off to get the paper towels, to start wiping faces and hands covered in sauce and globs of food, a well-practiced­ routine at this point, the tandem cleanup. Luke and Ella are excused from the table and tear off to the fam- ily room. When the twins are clean, we set them down in the family room, too, and start cleaning the kitchen. I pause midway through spooning leftovers into plastic containers to refill my wineglass. Matt glances over, shoots me a quizzical look as he wipes down the kitchen table. “Rough day?” “A bit,” I answer, and I try to think of how I would have an- swered the question yesterday. How much more would I have said? It’s not like I’m telling Matt anything classified. Anecdotes about coworkers, maybe. Hinting around at things, talking around is- sues, like the big information load today. But it’s scraps. Nothing the Russians would actually care about. Nothing they should be paying for. When the kitchen’s finally looking clean, I throw my last paper towel into the trash and sink back down into my chair at the table. I look at the wall, the blank wall. How many years have we been in this place now, and it’s still not decorated. From the family room I hear the television, the show about monster trucks, the one Luke likes. The faint melody of one of the twins’ toys. Matt comes over, pulls out his chair, sits down. He’s watching me, concern on his face, waiting for me to speak. I need to say something. I need to know. The alternative is going directly to Peter, to security, telling them what I found. Allowing them to begin investigating my husband.

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 26 6/8/17 8:46 AM Need to Know 27

There must be an innocent explanation for all this. He hasn’t been approached yet. He has been, but he doesn’t realize it. He didn’t agree to anything. He certainly didn’t agree to anything. I drain the last of my wine. My hand is trembling as I set the glass back on the table. I stare at him, no idea what I’m going to say. You’d think in all these hours I would have come up with something. His expression looks totally open. He must know something big is coming. I’m sure he can read it all over my face. But he doesn’t look nervous. Doesn’t look anything. Just looks like Matt. “How long have you been working for the Russians?” I say. The words are raw, unprocessed. But they’re out now, so I watch his face closely, because his expression matters far more to me than his words. Will there be honest confusion? Indignation? Shame? There’s nothing. Absolutely no emotion crosses his face. It doesn’t change. And that sends a bolt of fear through me. He looks at me evenly. Waits a beat too long to answer, but just barely. “Twenty-­two years.”

Clev_9781524797027_2p_all_r1.indd 27 6/8/17 8:46 AM

Love and Other Consolation Prizes

A NOVEL

Jamie Ford 4

d

BALLANTINE BOOKS

NEW YORK

Ford_9780804176750_5p_all_r1.indd 5 7/13/17 9:21 AM Love and Other Consolation Prizes is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by Jamie Ford

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

Ballantine and the House colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

library of congress cataloging-in-­ ­publication data Names: Ford, Jamie, author. Title: Love and other consolation prizes: a novel / Jamie Ford. Description: New York: Ballantine Books, 2017. Identifiers: LCCN 2017029513 | ISBN 9780804176750 (hardcover: acid-­free paper) | ISBN 9780804176767 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Families—Fiction.­ | Brothels—­Fiction. | Friendship—­Fiction. | Domestic fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Literary. Classification: LCC PS3606.O737 L69 2017 | DDC 813/.6—­dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017029513

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free­ paper

randomhousebooks.com

2 4 6 8 9 7 5 3 1

First Edition

Image on title page and on page 298 courtesy of University of Washington Libraries, Special Collections, Nowell x 1275.

Book design by Victoria Wong

Ford_9780804176750_6p_all_r1.indd 6 7/14/17 11:48 AM Overture (1962) 4

rnest Young stood outside the gates on opening day of the new world’s fair, loitering in the shadow of the future. From his Elonely vantage point in the VIP parking lot, he could see hun- dreds of happy people inside, virtually every name in Seattle’s Social Blue Book, wearing their Sunday best on a cool Saturday afternoon. The gaily dressed men and women barely filled half of Memorial Stadium’s raked seating, but they sat together, a waterfall of wool suits and poly- ester neckties, cut-out­ dresses and ruffled pillbox hats, cascading down toward a bulwark of patriotic bunting. Ernest saw that the infield had been converted to a speedway for motorboats—an­ elevated moat, sur- rounding a dry spot of land where the All-City­ High School Band had assembled, along with dozens of reporters who milled about smoking cigarettes like lost sailors, marooned on an island of generators and tele- vision cameras. As the wind picked up, Ernest could smell gasoline, drying paint, and a hint of sawdust. He could almost hear carpenters tapping finishing nails as the musicians warmed up. Saying that Ernest wished he could go inside and partake of the celebration was like saying he wished he could dine alone at Canlis restaurant on Valentine’s Day, cross the Atlantic by himself aboard the Queen Mary, or fly first class on an empty Boeing 707. The scenery and the festive occasion were tempting, but the endeavor itself only high- lighted the absence of someone with whom to share those moments. For Ernest, that person was Gracie, his beloved wife of forty-­plus years. They’d known each other since childhood, long before they’d

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 3 3/16/17 3:30 PM 4 Jamie Ford

bought a house, joined a church, and raised a family. But now their memories had been scattered like bits of broken glass on wet pavement. Reflections of first kisses, anniversaries, the smiles of toddlers, had be- come images of a Christmas tree left up past Easter, a package of unlit birthday candles, recollections of doctors and cold hospital waiting rooms. The truth of the matter was that these days Gracie barely remem- bered him. Her mind had become a one-way­ mirror. Ernest could see her clearly, but to Gracie he’d been lost behind her troubled, distorted reflection. Ernest chewed his lip as he leaned against the vacant Cadillac De Ville that he’d spent the better part of the morning polishing. He felt a sigh of vertigo as he stared up at the newly built Space Needle–­–­the showpiece of the Century 21 Expo––­ ­the talk of the town, if not the country, and perhaps the entire world. He was supposed to deliver for- eign dignitaries to the opening of the Spanish Village Fiesta, but the visitors had been held up—some­ kind of dispute with the Department of Immigration and Naturalization Services. So he came anyway, to try to remember the happier times. Ernest smiled as he listened to Danny Kaye take the microphone and read a credo of some kind. The Official World’s Fair Band followed the famous actor as they took over the musical duties for the day and began to play a gliding waltz. Ernest counted the time, one-­two-­three, one-­two-­three, as he popped his knuckles and massaged the joints where arthritis reminded him of his age—­sixty-­four, sixty-­five, sixty-­ something, no one knew for sure. The birth date listed on his chauf- feur’s permit had been made up decades earlier, as had the one on his old license with the Gray Top Taxi company. He’d left China as a boy—­ during a time of war and famine, not record keeping. Ernest blinked as the waltz ended and a bank of howitzers blasted a twenty-­one-­gun salute somewhere beyond the main entrance, startling him from his nostalgic debridement. The thundering cannons signaled that President Kennedy had officially opened the world’s fair with the closing of a telegraph circuit sent all the way from his desk at the White House. Ernest had read that the signal would be bounced off a distant

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 4 3/16/17 3:30 PM Love and Other Consolation Prizes 5

sun, Cassiopeia, ten thousand light-years­ away. He looked up at the blanket of mush that passed for a northwestern sky, and made a wish on an unseen star as people cheered and the orchestra began playing the first brassy strains of “Bow Down to Washington” while balloons were released, rising like champagne bubbles. Some of the nearby drivers honked their horns as the Space Needle’s carillon bells began ringing, heralding the space age, a clarion call that was drowned out by the deaf- ening, crackling roar of a squadron of fighter jets that boomed over- head. Ernest felt the vibration in his bones. When Mayor Clinton and the City Council had broken ground on the fairgrounds three years ago––­­when a gathering of reporters had watched those men ceremoniously till the nearby soil with gold-plated­ shovels––­ ­that’s also when Gracie began to cry in her sleep. She’d wake and forget where she was. She’d grow fearful and panic. Dr. Luke had told Ernest and their daughters, with tears in his eyes, “It’s a rare type of viral meningitis.” Dr. Luke always had a certain sense of decorum, and Ernest knew he was lying for the sake of the girls. Especially since he’d treated Gracie when she was young. “These things sometimes stay hidden and then come back, decades later,” the doctor had said as the two of them stood on Ernest’s front step. “It’s uncommon, but it happens. I’ve seen it before in other pa- tients. It’s not contagious now. It’s just—”­ “A ghost of red-light­ districts past,” Ernest had interrupted. “A rip- ple from the water trade.” He shook Dr. Luke’s hand and thanked him profusely for the late-night­ house call and the doctor’s ample discretion regarding Gracie’s past. Ernest remembered how shortly after his wife’s diagnosis her condi- tion had worsened. How she’d pulled out her hair and torn at her cloth- ing. How Gracie had been hospitalized and nearly institutionalized a month later, when she’d lost her wits so completely that Ernest had had to fight the specialists who recommended she be given electroshock therapy, or worse—a­ medieval frontal-­lobe castration at Western State Hospital, the asylum famous for its “ice pick” lobotomies. Ernest hung on as Dr. Luke quietly administered larger doses of penicillin until the madness subsided and Gracie returned to a new ver-

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 5 3/16/17 3:30 PM 6 Jamie Ford

sion of normal. But the damage had been done. Part of his wife—­her memory—­was a blackboard that had been scrubbed clean. She still fell asleep while listening to old records by Josephine Baker and Edith Piaf. She still smiled at the sound of rain on the roof, and enjoyed the fra- grance of fresh roses from the Cherry Land flower shop. But on most days, Ernest’s presence was like fingernails on that blackboard as Gracie recoiled in fits of either hysteria or anger. I didn’t know the month of the world’s fair groundbreaking would be our last good month together, Ernest thought as he watched scores of wide-­eyed fairgoers––­­couples, families, busloads of students—­ pouring through the nearby turnstiles, all smiles and awe, tickets in hand. He heard the stadium crowd cheer as a pyramid of water-­skiers whipped around the Aquadrome. To make matters worse, when Gracie had been in the hospital, agents from the Washington State Highway Department had showed up on Ernest’s doorstep. “Hello, Mr. Young,” they’d said. “We have some difficult news to share. May we come in?” The officials were kind and respectful—apologetic­ even. As they informed him that his three-bedroo­ m craftsman home overlooking Chinatown, along with his garden and a row of freshly trimmed lilacs in full bloom–­–­the only home he’d ever owned and the place where his daughters took their first steps—all­ of it was in the twenty-­mile urban construction zone of the Everett-Seattle-­ ­Tacoma Freeway. The new in- terstate highway was a ligature of concrete designed to bind Washing- ton with Oregon and California. In less than a week, he and his neighbors had been awarded fair-­market value for their properties, along with ninety days to move out, and the right-­of-­way auctions began. The government had wanted the land, Ernest remembered, and our homes were a nuisance. So he’d moved his ailing wife in with his older daughter, Juju, and watched from the sidewalk as entire city blocks were sold. Homes were scooped off their foundations and strapped to flatbed trucks to be moved or demolished. But not before vandals and thieves stripped out the oak paneling that Ernest had installed years ago, along with the light fixtures, the crystalline doorknobs, and even the old hot-­

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 6 3/16/17 3:30 PM Love and Other Consolation Prizes 7

water heater that leaked in wintertime. The only thing left standing was a blur of cherry trees that lined the avenue. Ernest recalled watching as a crew arrived with a fleet of roaring diesel trucks and a steam shovel. Blossoms swirled on the breeze as he’d turned and walked away. As a young man, Ernest had carved his initials onto one of those trees along with Gracie’s–­–­and those of another girl too. He hadn’t seen her in forever. As an aerialist rode a motorcycle on a taut cable stretched from the stadium to the Space Needle, Ernest listened to the whooshing and mechanical thrumming of carnival rides. He caught the aroma of freshly spun cotton candy, still warm, and remembered the sticky-­sweet magic of candied apples. He felt a pressing wave of déjà vu. The present is merely the past reassembled, Ernest mused as he pictured the two girls and how he’d once strolled with them, arm in arm, on the finely manicured grounds of Seattle’s first world’s fair, the great Alaska-­Yukon-­PacificExposition, back in 1909. When the city first dressed up and turned its best side to the cameras of the world. He remembered a perfect day, when he fell in love with both girls. But as Ernest walked to the gate and leaned on the cold metal bars, he also smelled smoke. He heard fussy children crying. And his ears were still ringing with the echoes of the celebratory cannons that had scared the birds away. He drew a deep breath. Memories are narcotic, he thought. Like the array of pill bottles that sit cluttered on my nightstand. Each dose, care- fully administered, use as directed. Too much and they become danger- ous. Too much and they’ll stop your heart.

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 7 3/16/17 3:30 PM Raining Stars (1902) 4

ung Kun-ai­ watched his little mei mei struggle to breathe. His newborn sister was only two days old—­a half-­breed like him, Ywithout a father. She mostly slept, but when she did wake, she coughed until she cried. Then cried until she was desperately gasping for air. Her raspy wailing made her seem all the more out of place, un- welcome; not unloved, just tragically unfit for this world. Yung understood that feeling as his sister stirred and keened again, scaring away a pair of ring-necked­ crows from a barren lychee tree. The birds cawed, circling. Yung’s mother should have been observing her zuoyuezi, the traditional time of rest and recovery after childbirth. In- stead, she’d staggered into the village cemetery, dug a hole in the earth with her bare hands, and placed his sister’s naked, trembling body in- side. As Yung stood nearby, he imagined that the ground must have been warm, comforting, since it hadn’t rained in months, the clay soil surrounding his unnamed sibling like a blanket. Then he watched his mother pour a bucket of cold ash from the previous night’s fire over his sister’s body and she stopped crying. Through a cloud of black soot he saw tiny legs jerk, fragile arms go still. Yung didn’t look away as his lowly parent smothered his baby sister, or while his mother wearily pushed the dirt back into the hole, burying his mei mei by scoops and handfuls. His mother tenderly patted the soil and replaced the sod be- fore pressing her forehead into the grass and dirt, whispering a prayer, begging forgiveness. Yung swallowed the lump in his throat and became a statue. At five

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 8 3/16/17 3:30 PM Love and Other Consolation Prizes 9

years old, he could do nothing else. The bastard son of a white mission- ary and a Chinese girl, he was an outcast in both of their worlds. He and his mother were desperately poor, and a drought had only made their bad situation worse. For months they’d been eating soups made from mossy rocks and scraps of boiled shoe leather his mother had scavenged from the dying. When she turned and saw what Yung had witnessed she didn’t seem shocked, or apologetic. She didn’t bother to wipe away the ashen tears that framed the pockmarked hollows of her cheeks, or the dust and grime that had settled into her scalp where her hair had thinned and fallen out. She merely placed a filigreed hairpin in his hand and folded his tiny fingers around the tarnished copper and jade phoenix that represented the last of their worldly possessions. She knelt and hugged him, squeezed him, ran her dirty fingers through his hair. He felt her bony limbs, the sweet smell of her cool skin as she kissed his face. “Only two kinds of people in China,” she said. “The too rich and the too poor.” He’d remembered combing the harvested fields for single grains of rice, gathering enough to make a tiny handful that they would share while the well-­fed children flew kites overhead. His empty stomach reminded him of who he was. “Stay here and wait for your uncle,” she said. “He’s going to take care of you now. He’s going to take you to America. He’s going to show you a new world. This is my gift to you.” Yung’s mother addressed him in Cantonese and then in the little bit of English they both understood. She told him he had his father’s eyes. And she spoke about a time when they would be together again. But when she tried to smile her lips trembled. “Mm-­goi mow hamm,” Yung said as she turned away. “Don’t cry, Mama.” Yung wasn’t sure if the man he was supposed to wait for was truly his uncle, but he doubted it. The best he could hope was that the man might be one of the rich merchants who specialized in the poison trade or the pig trade, because dealing with men who smuggled opium or people would be preferable to members of the Society of Righteous and

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 9 3/16/17 3:30 PM 10 Jamie Ford

Harmonious Fists, the Chinese boxers who had been slaughtering mis- sionaries, foreigners, and their offspring. Equally dangerous were the colonial soldiers sent to put down the rebellion. The villagers, including Yung’s father, had been caught in the siege, the melee, and now the maelstrom. That’s when his mother must have known that the end of their world was near–­–­when they saw the starving fishermen hauling in their nets, filled with the bodies of the dead. As Yung watched his mother disappear, leaving him alone in the cemetery, he wanted to yell, “Ah-­ma! Don’t leave me!” He wanted to run to her, to cling to her legs, to cry at her feet, begging. But he re- sisted, even as he whimpered, yearning. He did what he was told as he ached with sadness and loneliness. He had always obeyed her—­trusted her. But it seemed as if she had died months earlier, and all that re- mained was a ghost, a skeleton––­ ­a hopeless broken spirit with no place left to wander and no one to haunt. What little hope she had, she’d bequeathed to him. So he waited, grieving, as the sun set upon the place where his mei mei had been interred. He remembered his Chinese grandmother and how she’d once talked about the Lolos, the tribal people of Southern China who believed that there was a star in the sky for every person on Earth. When that person died, their star would fall. His ears popped and he heard the familiar booming of mortars and the rattle of gunfire. He watched as the horizon lit up with flares and the flash of cannons. Then the sky was dark again and everywhere he looked, it was raining stars.

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 10 3/16/17 3:30 PM Unbound (1902) 4

he man who was not his uncle came for Yung in the morning. A white merchant with a ruddy beard, he removed his elegant suit Tjacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves to reveal an array of old tat- toos. He squeezed Yung’s arm, pulled his hair, looked in his ears. He then smiled and nodded as his translator, a remarkably fat Chinese man, clapped his hands and shouted, “Hay sun la!” waking other chil- dren—a­ host of girls and a handful of boys, who had gathered in and around the cemetery during the night. All of them seemed older than Yung, grade school age at least, or well into their teens. Some had rolls of bedding and carried their belongings in bamboo baskets attached to long sticks, topped with netting, while a few of the older girls wore modest, hand-sewn­ dresses and tied their hair with red strings. But just as many were like him, in rags, barefoot. And all of them stared at Yung when they realized he was a mixed-blood­ child. He recognized the look, not one of curiosity or contempt, but an expression that said, I may have nothing, I may be homeless and starving, but at least I’m not him. Yung ignored their attention and tried not to think about his mother as they followed the men away from pillars of black smoke and the sounds of gunfire that were rising in the distance. They walked for hours, Yung taking two steps with his little legs for every one of theirs, as he struggled to keep up. A tributary of sadness flowing into a greater stream of refugees that became a flood of humanity, traveling away from the sound of thunder in a cloudless sky. They boarded a boat, which took them to a city on the Pearl River. When they arrived, in the shadow

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 11 3/16/17 3:30 PM 12 Jamie Ford

of a great ship, the salty air made Yung’s mouth water, though the only signs of food were the bones of fish that had been recently caught, cooked, and eaten, on the banks of the murky water. Yung’s eyes grew wide as he gazed up at the massive freighter, with four masts and an enormous funneled stack. Everyone spoke of the Chang Yi, but he didn’t know if that was the ship’s name, or if they were referring to the man who was not his uncle. Swirling black smoke from the stack muddied the sky, turning the sun a ruddy orange, and Yung wondered how such a stout ship could move. Then he felt his legs tremble from the vibrations of a great steam engine. His body was haggard, weary and numb from the march, but he was grateful to be upright as he watched a group of Chinese stevedores pulling an oxcart bearing a dozen elegantly dressed girls with bound feet. Yung heard a shrill whistle as they were unloaded, limping, while a white marine officer parted the crowd and began yelling in broken Chinese, “Line up and be silent!” The officer pointed and snapped his fingers as Yung queued up and they were poked and prodded, noses counted. The officer culled those with rickets or those with stooped backs. That group was herded away from the ship, back toward the heart of the city. Yung watched as the boys and girls obviously stricken with lice and mites were doused in foul-smelling­ waters, given a change of cloth- ing, and then taken to another vessel. Yung overheard the sailors chattering back and forth in Chinese, Portuguese, and English, which he understood just enough to gather that they were blackbirders. His mother had once talked about these men––­­sailors who sold poor Chinese to plantations in Hawaii, outlaws who smuggled workers into the western world, and brokers who delivered brides to lonely men in the gold mountains of Gum Shan–­–­the rich and mysterious frontiers of North America. Despite those warnings, Yung’s heart quickened as he began to smell real food––­ ­roast chicken, garlic, and other savory spices, emanat- ing from the ship, wafting on the breeze. The officer yelled boarding instructions, and Yung was ushered on-

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 12 3/16/17 3:30 PM Love and Other Consolation Prizes 13

board with his tiny knapsack of clothing. He could see another gang- plank leading up to the front of the ship, where the man who was not his uncle had donned a coat and top hat and was hosting elegantly dressed men and women, Asian and Anglo, on a forward deck. There were men in military uniforms and a host of Chinese officials. Yung stared, his mouth watering as he watched them eat, and drink wine from long-­stemmed glasses. He and the other children and teens were herded below, through narrow hallways, past crew cabins, and beyond rows of bunks crowded with shirtless Chinese sailors who sported brands on their chests and scars on their backs. Yung followed as they were taken down into what felt like the bottom of the ship, to a cargo hold that smelled of coal dust and stale urine. And there was a constant mechanical thrum coming through the walls that he could feel as well as hear. As his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit space, Yung could see that the cargo hold had been converted into a living quarters, divided into racks of bunks and rows of low-walled­ pens, with woolen blankets and straw mattresses. He was assigned to a pen with five other boys, who looked at him warily. A group of peasant girls, some with bound feet, perhaps eight or nine years of age, were put in pens directly across from them, while the teenagers in silk cheongsams and lacy European dresses, with high necks and tight collars, were put in a locked wooden paddock ­toward the rear of the room. The iron bars suggested the place had pre- viously been used for storing precious cargo. Yung watched the sailors regard the comely girls the way his mother and he used to hungrily stare at street vendors cooking fresh siu mei. That’s when Yung realized the well-­dressed girls had been locked away for their own protection. “You will sleep here, you will live here, and you will spend the entire month at sea belowdecks,” barked a Caucasian man in a dark blue uni- form. He spoke English, which Yung assumed only a handful of chil- dren understood. The man removed his cap and rubbed his chin, feeling the blond scruff of a close-­cropped beard. He introduced himself as the ship’s chief medical officer. “You will stay here, otherwise you risk catch- ing and spreading a coughing disease.” The doctor pointed to his chest. “I will conduct daily health inspections. If one of you gets sick, or is

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 13 3/16/17 3:30 PM 14 Jamie Ford

stricken with a rash that bleeds, you will not be allowed to threaten the rest of the passengers—you­ will be thrown overboard. No exceptions. There is no mercy at sea. Is this understood?” Yung nodded, wide-ey­ ed as a Chinese crewman translated the doc- tor’s words. The boys in his pen, the ones who had been lounging on the floor, immediately sat upright. Yung looked around, wondering who might be sick. He didn’t dare sneeze for fear of being dragged back on deck and cast over the side. There were hushed whispers followed by a nervous pause. Then a horrible wailing began as the young doctor drew a long, hooked knife from a satchel and went about the room, cutting the soiled cotton bandages that bound the feet of many of the girls, both the rich and the poor. Yung could hear their crying as the girls’ painful feet were touched, moved, the popping of bone and cartilage as they tried to flex and put pressure on their lotus-­shaped stumps. For the younger ones he could tell that this was a euphoric feeling of freedom and relief, but for the older girls, their feet long since broken again and again, this brought more pain than comfort. “You will feel better in a few weeks,” the doctor said as he threw the dirty bandages into a wooden bucket. The cotton smelled like blood and herbs and rot. As girls sobbed, the elegant teens in the paddock sniped at them, “Stop mewling. You’re embarrassing yourselves. Show respect.” Even as a little boy, Yung recognized their Yue dialect and under- stood they must be merchants’ daughters, of a higher quality than the rest of the children. A few of the poor girls spat back at the teenagers until the sailors began hitting them with rattan sticks. The older girls looked on, smiling proudly. Better to be a caged peacock, they must have thought, than to live free as a pigeon. Yung sat down and noticed that the group of peasant girls across from him had kept to themselves. A few of them wiggled their toes for the first time in months and nursed the pale skin on their feet, but none of them cried. The boys in his pen mocked them and sneered as they shouted, “lou geoi,” laughing until a crewman snapped at them.

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 14 3/16/17 3:30 PM Love and Other Consolation Prizes 15

Yung didn’t know what lou geoi meant, but he knew the words were an insult of some kind. His mother used to fight back tears whenever Chinese men or European sailors whistled and called her that on the rutted streets of their village. Yung noted how the girls all styled their hair in long braids and they wore dirty clothing made from hemp and ramie. They looked like the lowest of the low—­poor girls whose parents had bound their daughters’ feet in an effort to dress them up. Only one of the girls’ hair was un- braided, and she also stood out because of her faded blue robe and wide belt. Yung was beginning to ache for his mother when sailors brought rags and buckets of fresh water to each pen. He waited until the older boys were done cleaning up and then took his turn. As Yung washed his face and teeth, he gazed into the half-­empty bucket of dirty water. His reflection rocked back and forth, swaying as the ship began to move. He glanced around and noticed that one of the older boys had snatched the bucket from the nearby girls, who had just stared back in contempt. Yung thought about the sister he’d had for a brief moment, and then he carried his bucket to the peasant girls’ side and offered it to them. They all looked at him strangely, suspiciously as he urged one of them to sit at the edge of the mattress. He knelt, placing one, then both of the girl’s feet in the cool water. Yung had once watched his mother treat a cousin this way. He rubbed the arch of her foot; then pushed her toes back, stretching them gently with his small hands. As he washed the girl’s feet with the damp cloth, she winced for a moment, inhaled deeply, then relaxed. He wrung out the towel and handed the cloth to another girl, before returning to his pen. There he found an unoccupied corner of the mattress as the boys looked at him with scorn.

That night, Yung woke as the steam engine rumbled loudly along with his empty stomach. He sat up and realized that the other boys were snoring and that the oldest, a stout bully name Jun, had taken many of the blankets, including Yung’s, for himself. The cargo hold was cold now, and he clutched his knapsack on his small corner of the shared mattress. And as the ship rocked and swayed on the open sea, he real-

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 15 3/16/17 3:30 PM 16 Jamie Ford

ized that with each minute, each hour, he was being carried farther from his village, away from his mother, forever. He wiped his eyes, and in the glow of a single, wall-­mounted lamp, Yung could see that some of the girls across from him were awake, staring back. They whispered among themselves and then lifted a corner of the blanket they were sharing. “Little brother.” One of the girls motioned. “Come over here.” Yung glanced at his sleeping bunkmates. Then he stepped lightly, nervously, with bare feet on the cool wooden floor. He hesitated, wor- ried that this might be some kind of cruel joke. Then one of the girls reached up, tugged his sleeve, and pulled him beneath the covers. They made room as he nestled among them. He felt cold feet next to his, hands and arms, as they patted his chest and shoulders. “It’s okay.” A girl spoke in a small voice. “You’re one of us.” Yung looked at the girls. “What do you mean?” The girl in the blue robe sat up partway and peeked over at him as if the answer were obvious. She spoke Chinese with a thick accent. “Nobody wants us either.” Yung swallowed the bitter medicine of truth. He nodded, closed his eyes, and felt the tickling of their hair on his cheeks, on his neck, as they all settled in beneath the covers. Despite the sharing of the wash bucket, their clothing smelled old and musty, like his—reeking­ of weeks of smoke and dust. Yung didn’t mind. Nor did he care what the other boys would think in the morning. He was used to people staring at him on the street—the­ villagers who’d spat at him or laughed. But for now he felt safely surrounded, comforted, as he drew a deep breath and melted into the girls’ kindness.

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 16 3/16/17 3:30 PM The Water Trade (1902) 4

f Yung had worried about being harassed by his former bunkmates and Jun in the morning, he had little to fear. Seasickness kept every- Ione in bed, eyes closed, groaning—ev­ eryone but Yung, that is. The doctor told him his sea legs were a natural advantage of being the littlest, the smallest. Yung nodded and watched as the older boys and the young women turned pale and retched up the broth they’d been given. Vomit now speckled their clothing, their shoes, their shimmering gowns. Yung busied himself by emptying the reeking pails of night soil, washing dinner tins, and ministering to the girls in his pen, helping them take sips of the ginger tea they’d been given to ease their nausea. His new bunkmates were always grateful, whispering, “Thank you, Lit- tle Brother,” which had become his de facto name. They’d introduced themselves one by one as Gwai Ying, Quan Gow Sheung, Wong So, Leung Gin, Fong Muey, Mui-­Ji, Hoi, and . . . something else, but he couldn’t possibly keep track of who was who. They’d explained that the curious girl in the blue robe was Japanese and had been sent to China by her family, sold to an inn where she’d been working as a maid until the owner died and her contract was bought out. The strange girl smiled and spoke Chinese, but when she said her name, Yung couldn’t under- stand the words. He addressed all of them as Big Sister. On the fourth day, when most were beginning to recover––­ ­to sit up and walk about, to play cards or games with string––­ ­they were given solid food—the­ first real mealYung had tasted in more than a week.

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 17 3/16/17 3:30 PM 18 Jamie Ford

The simple offering of sticky rice balls and dried fish made everyone moan with delight. Yung wanted to savor the salty rice, but like every- one else, he ate furiously, almost violently, chewing, swallowing, and gulping as though the food might be snatched from his hands at any moment. Yung was licking his fingers after dinner when the doctor appeared with a crewman and made his normal round of inspections. Everyone stood as tall as they could, arms at their sides; no one dared to cough or sniffle or even breathe in a manner that might be confused with illness. They waited as the doctor slowly walked by, leather heels squealing on the floor, nostrils flaring. Occasionally he would stop to look into a mouth, or a shirt would be removed so he could examine the skin on a child’s back. Yung chewed his lip as the man, whose breath he could smell, stopped in front of him. Then he lit a cigarette and pushed Yung aside as he directed his attention to the girls, especially the one in the blue robe. He ran his fingers along her neck, removed her wooden hairpins, and toyed with the tresses that hung about her shoulders. He shook his head and then turned back to Yung, who stood out among the girls. The doctor patted him on the shoulder and moved on. Yung listened as the doctor chatted amiably with the other boys, telling them to stay out of trouble. He slapped Jun on the cheek and jerked his ear, playful, but hard enough to make his point. Then the doctor stopped at the pad- dock of older girls. They all smiled and kowtowed. He snapped his fingers and said, “That one.” He pointed to a girl in a lavender dress as a sailor stepped forward with a key and opened the groaning iron door. The merchant’s daughters seemed shocked, confused, and then compliant as they stepped away from the tall, slender girl. “But . . . Sir Doctor, I’m not ill—­not even seasick anymore,” the girl in lavender protested, pleading in her native tongue. “I feel fine, look at me, my skin is perfect, and my hair is shiny and clean.” She tilted her chin as she shook her head and her tasseled earrings swayed back and forth. “I haven’t coughed once.”

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 18 3/16/17 3:30 PM Love and Other Consolation Prizes 19

The crewman translated as the doctor dropped his cigarette on the deck and snuffed it out with the tip of his shoe. “I know. That’s why you’re coming with us.” He smiled politely as his words were translated into Cantonese. “We will take care of you upstairs. We wouldn’t want you wasting away down here.” The color drained from the girl’s face. She smoothed out the lace on her dress and nodded, seemingly resigned. Yung heard the doctor ask the girl, as he led her away, if she liked the taste of baiju, rice wine. And then they were gone, leaving nothing but the pregnant silence. “They’re not going to throw her overboard, are they?” Yung asked the girl in the blue robe. She didn’t answer or seem to understand the question. But the boys snickered.

That night, after Yung and the girls finished dinner, they piled onto their mattress and played a whisper game. One would whisper something to the person next to her and then that phrase would be passed down the line and back again. It never came back unchanged, and that was the fun. Yung had seen the game played before in his vil- lage, but he’d never been included. He waited, and the girl next to him finally turned and whispered, “I’m a hairy dog that bites,” in Cantonese. He clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. He collected himself and then passed the message along to the Japanese girl in the blue robe. She looked con- fused, furrowed her brow, and did her best to whisper something on to the girl next to her. The messages went back and forth, from “My diaper is full” and “Whipped with a cane” to “You’re my pretty servant” and “Jun is your ugly lady-­boss.” That one made Yung laugh out loud. When it was Yung’s turn to make up a phrase, he thought of the silliest thing possi- ble. He said to the girl in blue, “I’m going to marry you.” The Japanese girl crinkled her nose, then her eyes grew wide and she laughed. But the phrase was taken more seriously as the words moved further down the line. The girls murmured it solemnly, sighed wearily, shook

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 19 3/16/17 3:30 PM 20 Jamie Ford

their heads, and eventually returned the message as though relaying a bit of bad news. To Yung it felt as though all the joy, all the laughter, had been snuffed out like a candle. Yung didn’t understand the sadness he had caused, even as the Japa- nese girl turned back and relayed the message that had only slightly changed. She looked embarrassed as she confessed, “I am sorry. No one will ever marry us.”

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 20 3/16/17 3:30 PM Juju Reporting (1962) 4

rnest touched the tarnished band of gold on his ring finger and felt the groove worn into his skin from years of wearing it. He Epondered the seaborne episode of his childhood, sipping a cup of oolong tea that had grown cold. Ernest sighed as he gazed out the third-floor­ window of his tiny one-room apartment at the Publix Hotel. One aspect of Gracie’s de- mentia was that she didn’t tolerate men very well—she­ had even punched a male orderly at the hospital. Even Ernest was not exempt. As a result, Ernest and Gracie had lived apart for almost three years now. Not the retirement he’d imagined. He visited as often as possible on sunny days—­that’s what Juju called Gracie’s happier, lucid moments—­ and he wrote to her on cloudy days, when she didn’t feel like company. He missed her terribly, even when he was by her side—­he ached for who she used to be. He longed for who he used to be as well. Ernest finished his tea. He could hear passenger trains coming and going, as well as the wind through cracks in the panes of glass that had been covered with masking tape to hold the pieces together and ward off the chill. King Street Station was one block away, and he imagined nattily dressed people streaming from the velvet-curtained­ Pullman cars, to be embraced by loved ones––­ ­the warmth, the smell of familiar cologne or perfume, the rush and excitement that came with a long-­ awaited reunion. But he also recalled the haunting emptiness of waving goodbye. The sunrise colored by thick, ashy smoke from torched fields and burning buildings. And the depth of sadness plumbed by the re-

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 21 3/16/17 3:30 PM 22 Jamie Ford

membrance of falling asleep among dozens of seasick children in the belly of a ship that smelled like fear and despair. Ernest could almost feel the rain and the mist in the evening sky, as much as the melancholy. He stretched his back as he noticed an illumi- nated spire in the distance that could only be the top of the Space Nee- dle. He thought about his long-lost­ mother as he regarded the hairpin she’d given him so many decades before. That tarnished bit of copper—­ ­the jade phoenix he now knew as Fenghuang––­ ­made him feel guilty for not missing her more, as though sixty years later he had somehow failed her as a son. At least he’d survived. And the sad truth was, he just couldn’t remember what she looked like. He didn’t possess a single photograph. He could always remember how she smelled, though—­ sweet, like fresh watermelon, mangoes, and bayberries. While reading a science book years later, he learned that’s what a body smells like when it’s starving. Over the years Ernest had always thought more about the many girls on that ship and what might have happened to them—­especially whenever he saw an elderly woman in a market in Chinatown, the story of her life written in the lines on her face. He imagined that if they’d been fortunate, the ones who could walk probably ended up as servants in fancy, ivy-­covered manors in Broad- moor or Laurelhurst. Or perhaps they’d found work in a laundry or a sewing factory. The choice few might have been able to earn or marry their way out of their contracts, to eventually have a home on Beacon Hill, and children who would have attended school at Franklin or Gar- field High. They would have enjoyed all the trappings of a relatively normal life. The merchants’ daughters, in all likelihood, had ended up as picture brides, married to strangers they’d never seen except in black-­and-white photographs. Unlike the least fortunate of all–­–­the sorrowful girls who had been so kind to him. Like him, they’d been sold by their parents because their families couldn’t feed them or didn’t want them, or they were mere runaways tricked into thinking they’d get rich in America by working

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 22 3/16/17 3:30 PM Love and Other Consolation Prizes 23

as maids. Many of those girls who came to Seattle ended up at the Aloha, the Tokyo, or the Diamond House, or perhaps the old Eastern Hotel–­–­low-­rent brothels. The girls were indentured servants with un- fair contracts, who might run away to the police only to be returned, like stray animals, to their owners. All of these women, Ernest thought––­­the poor, the merchants’ daughters, and the handful of working girls who survived—they­ ’d all be grandmothers by now. With secrets kept, stories hidden, and respectful children who would never dare to ask about their youth. Ernest’s reverie was interrupted by footsteps in the hallway. He listened as the radiator pinged and hot water pipes rattled within the walls. As he waited, he drew a deep breath, and then relaxed when he heard the tromping of work boots in the groaning, creaking ma- hogany stairwell of the old Chinatown hotel. Perhaps it was his old friend, Pascual Santos, a longtime resident of the Publix who’d helped Ernest move in when he lost his home. Maybe he’s hoping I’ll join him for a night out on the town, Ernest thought. He knew he should answer the door, but he didn’t feel much like socializing. In fact, he’d considered moving someplace nicer, but whenever he was woken by chatter in the hallway—­greetings in Chinese, Japanese, and Tagalog, some polite, some stern, a few happy, rambling voices that slurred from too much drugstore screw-top­ wine—­Ernest realized that he felt strangely comfortable here. At this pay-by-­ ­the-­week purgatory, the rooms were tiny, the floors were warped, the bathrooms shared, and the old floral wallpaper was perpetually peeling, but the bar for achieve- ment was remarkably nonexistent, and he was fine with that. Because the Publix was an old workingmen’s home, a tobacco-­stained hideaway where lost individuals found solace. Where the elderly tended to their gardens on the roof, and the children of the few families who lived here played basketball in the basement. And for Ernest the hotel was also mere miles from all the people he’d grown up with and cared about. Ernest was about to make a fresh pot of tea when he heard footsteps again, this time the unmistakable rap-tap­ of a woman’s heels on the wooden floor outside his door, and a knock.

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 23 3/16/17 3:30 PM 24 Jamie Ford

“Dad, it’s me. Open up.” The voice in the hallway belonged to his daughter Juju. Ernest had been so busy driving people to and from the fair that he’d ignored the small stack of pink While You Were Out mes- sages that had piled up in his mailbox downstairs, courtesy of the hotel’s front desk manager. Now he guessed they were from her. Juju switched to an innocent singsong. “Da-­aaaad, I know you’re in there.” His daughters always worried about him, especially in the years since Gracie had fallen ill. Even Hanny, who lived in Las Vegas, which seemed like a world away, called at least once a week, long-­distance charges and all. Ernest rubbed his eyes as he looked in the chipped mir- ror on the wall. He finger-combed­ his thinning, salt-and-­ ­pepper hair and straightened his well-­worn sweater, which had only one button left. He cleared his throat and donned a smile as he opened the door. “Juju!” he said, wide-ey­ ed. “Come in and get warm. I’m so sorry I haven’t returned your calls. I’ve been so busy these days—­running people around town. Your mom okay? Have you eaten?” As he gave her a hug and she kissed his cheek, he realized that he hadn’t shaved. His daughter loosened her raincoat and stepped inside, groaning as she looked around. She pointed to a patch of old paint blistering on the ceiling and a leaky pipe that dripped into a mop bucket on the floor. “Dad, if they’re not going to fix this place up you should at least let me do it for you. Seriously, how can you live like this? Oh, and I’m pushing forty, so feel free to call me Judy anytime.” “Hanny doesn’t seem to mind—”­ Juju interrupted. “Hannah also wears a three-­foot headpiece with ostrich plumes that glitter and struts around in a sequined G-string­ for money. Her name doesn’t go on a byline like mine does.” Ernest smiled and tried not to roll his eyes. He couldn’t help but be proud of his daughter, a reporter for the Seattle Post-­Intelligencer. She’d started off at the Northwest Times, then landed a job at the big daily, covering the Ladies Garden Club and meetings of the Women’s Auxil- iary of the King County Library. But somehow Juju (Ernest couldn’t bring himself to call her Judy) had fought her way up to a regular beat

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 24 3/16/17 3:30 PM Love and Other Consolation Prizes 25

covering Chinatown, the Central District, and Rainier Beach. Sure, she’d probably landed the assignment because she was ambiguously Asian—­and more to the point, because no one else wanted to cover the colored neighborhoods. But her region was also riddled with racial ten- sion, and dubious development deals on every corner and vacant lot—­ fertile journalistic soil for someone with a sharp, eager plow, and a shoulder for hard work. Ernest was proud of Hanny too, but it would be an understatement to say that her vocation as a Stardust showgirl (and occasional magi- cian’s assistant) had always struck too close to home. He didn’t care for her profession the way Howard Hughes didn’t care for reporters, or the way Elvis didn’t care for the army. Ernest told himself that he was happy that Hanny was happy. And honestly, he was impressed that his younger daughter had gotten the job given that she was half-­Chinese and didn’t look like Jayne Mansfield or the cookie-­cutter showgirls he’d seen on postcards. But Hanny was extraordinarily tall (she called it poised) and royally confident (she called it refined) and he guessed that had carried the day. Occasionally, Ernest worried about her working at places like the Sands, which had made Nat King Cole eat alone in his suite rather than be seen downstairs in the restaurant. But the times were slowly chang- ing. And Hanny seemed immune to controversy. She was Miranda in Shakespeare’s The Tempest, practically gushing, “Oh, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there in Las Vegas! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, that has such people as Frank Sinatra in’t!” Ernest was less impressed, though he had to admit that he loved to hear about Hanny’s run-ins­ with Billy Daniels and Peter Lawford, even if he had to turn a deaf ear to stories about the drunken marriage pro- posals she seemed to receive on a nightly basis. Ernest offered Juju an orange Nesbitt’s soda and sat down in his favorite reading chair. He watched as she drank half the bottle in one long swig. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and took a seat on his lumpy vinyl chesterfield. “So what brings you here?” he asked.

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 25 3/16/17 3:30 PM 26 Jamie Ford

“Well,” said Juju, “I think I found a way to finally get my byline on the front page of the paper. It has to do with you and Mom—but­ mainly you—” “Is she okay?” Ernest asked. “Has she had a relapse? Let me get my shoes on—” “No, Dad––­ ­she’s fine. She’s, you know, pretty much how she is. She still thinks I’m her nurse half the time, a maid the other half. She’s happy, pleasant, in and out of her own world, no nightmares lately,” Juju said with a resigned shrug. “Better than ever.” “Then what’s the problem?” Ernest asked as he sat back in his chair. Juju looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, it’s not a problem. It’s just that I convinced my editor to let me write a then-­and-­now piece about the grand opening of the new world’s fair, seen through the eyes of some old-timers­ who happened to attend the original Alaska-­Pacific-­ Yukon Expo, fifty-something­ years ago. Granted, that story angle isn’t particularly unique, but along the way I dug up some details that could make my story stand out above the rest. And since I’m on deadline, I was thinking that I’d fact-­check with you about some of the details. Because I remember you talking about how you went to that first expo as a little kid.” Ernest nodded politely. “Oh, I don’t remember all that much, really.” “Well, do you remember anything like this, by chance?” Juju reached into her handbag and retrieved a small stack of newspaper clippings. She handed one to her father, who donned a set of reading glasses. The article was from The Kennewick Courier circa 1909 and read:

Seattle—­A boy, the charge of the Washington Children’s Home Society, was one of the prizes offered at the exposition. His name is Ernest and maybe he will have a surname if the winner, holding the proper ticket, comes to claim him.

Ernest opened his mouth to speak. Closed it. And then opened it again. “That’s interesting . . . I mean . . . they gave away a lot of peculiar things at the fair . . .” “Dad.” Juju pointed to the name in the article. “It says Ernest. Was

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 26 3/16/17 3:30 PM Love and Other Consolation Prizes 27

this you? I mean––­ ­you once told me how you ended up at the Washing- ton Children’s Home after you came here from China. And you said you were given a job as a houseboy after the world’s fair. You told me that’s where you met Mom.” Ernest tried to laugh. “Why would you think that? Ernest is a pretty common name—Ernest­ Hemingway, Ernest Shackleton, Ernest Borg- nine, Ernest—­” “Oh my God, it is you.” “Look . . .” “Dad, I’m an investigative reporter. This is what I do for a living. I can see the truth written on your face. I can tell just by the tone of your voice.” Ernest furrowed his brow and drew a deep breath, exhaling slowly. It was one thing to lose himself in memories, but the last thing he wanted to do was share the whole sordid story with his daughter. Let alone one hundred thousand readers of the Seattle Post-­Intelligencer. He coughed and tried changing the subject. “Has your mother’s memory improved any more these days?” “I guess, because she’s the one who told me.” Ernest blinked. “Told you what?” “Dad, she’s the one who told me that a boy had been raffled off as a prize at the AYP—she­ said you were that boy.” Juju stared back. “She was listening to the radio and heard a commercial for the new world’s fair. Then she started talking to herself. I thought she was spouting nonsense until I looked it up.” Ernest felt the warmth in his chest grow cold. “What . . . are you talking about?” “Mom,” Juju said as she put a hand on his arm. “She’s begun saying things. Most of the time she still doesn’t make a lot of sense, but every once in a while––­ ­I think she’s starting to remember.”

After his daughter left, Ernest turned on the small Philco swivel-­ screen he’d gotten on clearance from Hikida Furniture and Appliance, because of a broken dial. It worked fine, though he had to change the channel with a pair of needle-nose­ pliers. He tried to relax, listening to

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 27 3/16/17 3:30 PM 28 Jamie Ford

the hum of the television as the color picture tube warmed up and the distorted image on-­screen slowly came into focus. As far as Juju’s questions, Ernest had stalled. He’d bought a little time by saying he was tired and promising to come over tomorrow af- ternoon to talk. He’d wanted to drop everything and see Gracie tonight, but he knew she’d be going to bed soon and that evenings were when she was most fragile. Let her rest. Ernest thought about the people he knew—­the ones he’d grown up with as well as his neighbors here at the Publix. He suspected that ev- eryone his age, of his vintage, had a backstory, a secret that they’d never shared. For one it might be a forsaken husband back in Japan. For an- other it could be a son or daughter from a previous marriage in China. For others perhaps the secret shame was a father they didn’t talk to anymore, or a baby they’d given to a neighbor, never to be seen again. Or perhaps a vocational secret—­back-­room gambling, bringing rum down from Canada during Prohibition, or the personal, private horrors that lay hidden behind the bars, ribbons, and medals of a military rec­ ord. We all have things we don’t talk about, Ernest thought. Even though, more often than not, those are the things that make us who we are. Ernest remembered the AYP and wondered how much he could share without giving up Gracie’s part of the story. Moreover, he worried about how long it would be before Gracie inadvertently gave herself up. What would Hanny and Juju think if they learned that their mother was once someone else—­something else? To him, Gracie would always be more than a survivor of circumstance. She was a person of strength, a woman of fierce independence. But if her past ever got out, her gos- sipy friends at church, their old neighbors–­–­no one would look at her the same. Ernest rubbed his temples and watched Ed Sullivan as the show broadcast live from the refurbished Seattle Opera House, which sat adjacent to the new expo’s pillarless Coliseum. He offered a warbling introduction to Harry Belafonte and Miriam Makeba, who danced and

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 28 3/16/17 3:30 PM Love and Other Consolation Prizes 29

sang “Love Tastes Like Strawberries.” That performance was followed by the Amazing Unus, a local equilibrist who could balance anything on one finger—an­ umbrella, a sword, a padded barstool, even a six-foot­ scale model of the Space Needle. Ernest glanced at the clock on the wall, next to a calendar from the Tsue Chong Noodle Company featuring a beautiful Chinese girl in a traditional dress, but with heavy makeup and ruby lips. The calendar was three years old. He whispered, “Gracie, where did the time go?”

Ford_9780804176750_2p_all_r2.indd 29 3/16/17 3:30 PM

For more great resources, visit us online.

YourCloudLibrary.com

Check out our blog and social media pages for the latest publicity news, book trailers, excerpts, author interviews, catalogs, and more.

PenguinRandomHouseLibrary.com Join Our Network: PRHLibrary

To request full eGalleys of these titles and more, please log in to Edelweiss or NetGalley.

Content in this sampler is excerpted by permission of Penguin Random House. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt booklet may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.