Free Food for Millionaires (3 page)

“She is sorry,” Leah apologized for her daughter. “I know she is. Casey is a good girl, and she doesn’t mean any of those things. She’s just so exhausted from school.” Leah turned to her. “Hurry. Go. Go to your room, now. Hurry.”

“You spoil the children. You let this happen. No wonder these girls talk to their father this way,” he said.

Tina got up from her seat. She rested her hands lightly on her sister’s thin shoulders, trying to steer her away, but Casey refused to follow. Their mother wept; she had cooked all afternoon. Nothing was eaten. Tina wished to rewind time, to come back to the table and start again.

Tina murmured, “Casey, Casey, come on. . . please.”

Casey stared at her father. “I’m not spoiled. Neither is she,” Casey said, pointing to Tina. “I’m sick of hearing how bad I am when I’m not. You won the sweepstakes with kids like us. Why aren’t we good enough? Why aren’t we ever fucking good enough? Just fuck this. Fuck you.” She said this last part quietly.

Joseph folded his arms over his stomach in shock, unable to accept what she was saying.

“And why am I not good enough right now? Without doing another damn thing?” Casey’s voice broke, and now she was sobbing herself, not because he had hit her, but because she understood that she had always felt shortchanged by her father. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t tried.

Joseph took a breath and swung his fist, hitting her face so hard that Casey fell. Her eyeglasses ricocheted off the table and skittered across the floor. Tina hurried to pick them up. A nose pad was broken, and one of the sides had nearly snapped off. Casey grabbed the table for support, and the Formica table with its cheap metal legs toppled, and she slipped, falling amid the crash of bowls and dishes. A bright red flush spread over Casey’s right eye, adding color to the handprints shadowing her left cheek.

“Get up,” he said.

With her fingers splayed across the green linoleum, Casey pulled herself off the remaining dry patch of floor. Somehow she was standing in front of him again. Blood trickled inside her cut lip, the metal taste icing her tongue.

“You going to hit me again?” she asked, her tongue sweeping across her teeth.

Joseph shook his head. “Get out. Get your things and leave my house. I don’t know you,” he said, his speech formal. His arms hung limply against his body. Fighting was useless now. He’d failed as a father, and she’d died as someone to watch over. He left the kitchen, stepping across the broken pieces of a white ceramic water pitcher. From the living room, he turned around but refused to look at Casey. “I sent you to school. I did what I could. I’m done now, and I want you gone by morning. It makes me sick to look at you.”

Leah and the girls watched as he walked into his bedroom and closed the door. Casey sat down in her father’s empty chair. She stared up at the ceiling tiles, unconsciously counting them as she used to do at meals. Tina smoothed her hair in an effort to comfort herself and tried to regulate her breath. Leah sat still, her hands clutching the skirt of her dress. He had left the room; he’d never done that before. She believed that it would have been better if Joseph had stayed in the room and slapped Casey again.

2
CREDIT

T
HE CHILDHOOD BEDROOM
Tina and Casey had shared until Casey went away to school was far smaller than any of her dorm rooms in Mathey College or Cuyler Hall. The girls’ bunk beds were pushed up against the length of the room, blocking a dirty window that could not be cleaned from inside. Above the laminated headboard of the top bunk where Casey slept hung a faded poster of Lynda Carter dressed as Wonder Woman, her arms akimbo. Within the framed space of the bottom bunk, Tina had taped up a free Yankees poster from Burger King that she’d gotten when she was in primary school. Barely eighteen inches from the bed were two mismatched plywood desks and a pair of white gooseneck lamps from Ohrbach’s. Above the desks, the girls had papered the walls with unframed certificates of excellence from their school years: Among their many awards, Casey had received recognition for photography, music, and social studies; Tina, for geometry, religion, physics, and BC calculus.

Casey didn’t notice the awards anymore, their curled edges stuck down with yellowing Scotch tape. Nor did she notice the uncomfortable scale of the room or its lack of natural light. In the first years of visits back from school, she’d compared the glorious working fireplace in her suite in Mathey, the wood-paneled classrooms, and the stained-glass windows with the Dacron blue pile carpet in her Elmhurst bedroom and the bulletproof glass in her apartment building lobby, and she decided that she could not afford to look too critically at what was home, because it hurt.

Following the fight with her father, Casey went to her bedroom for the sole purpose of retrieving her Marlboros, and as soon as she got them and a book of matches, she walked out the front door.

She hiked three flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator because there was no other way to get to the tar-paved roof. From memory, she keyed in the security code—4-1-7-4, the birth date of Etelda, the building superintendent’s only daughter. For years, Casey had helped Etelda with her schoolwork, then later tutored her for the SATs. In consideration, her father, Sandro, gave Casey free rein of the roof. When Etelda got a full scholarship to attend Bates College, Sandro bought a metal café table and two matching chairs from a hardware store in Paramus with his own money and left the gift along with a glass ashtray on the roof for its sole visitor.

But now Casey didn’t pull up a café chair. She sat on the wide parapet bordering the roof, dangling her legs against the north side of the building facing the street, not caring if her white pants were dirtied by the brown brick facade. The night breezes, undetectable in her mother’s airtight kitchen, brushed against her battered face. There was little light in the sky, no sign of the moon, and as for stars, Casey had never seen any in Queens. The first time she saw a black sky pierced with what seemed like an infinite number of white holes was on a trip to Newport with her roommate, Virginia, to her grandmother’s house during a school vacation. What Casey felt initially was the pause in her own breathing. The sight literally took her breath away. Then she craned her neck to stare at the swirl of the Milky Way, and she could hardly be persuaded to go back into the great house despite the mosquitoes nibbling on her ankles. For the remainder of her visit, the senior Mrs. Craft pronounced Casey “that starry-eyed girl.” The next day, when her mosquito bites grew fat and pink on her ankles and toes—forming their own raised constellation—Casey felt no regret whatsoever. At the age of nineteen, she’d finally seen stars.

Casey yearned for the darkened steel layer of city sky, banded by pink-and-gray ribbons of twilight, to be stripped to reveal the stars. There was no way to see them. Fine, she thought, feeling deprived. From where she sat, there were countless identical apartment unit windows brightened with electric bulbs, each covered by a square glass shade screwed into the ceiling. On both sides of Van Kleeck Street, there were attached rental apartment buildings raised in the late 1960s by the same developer—all with the same floor plans, Whirlpool refrigerators, and small closets. Inside them, lightbulbs flickered invitingly. The apartments were brick beehives—defined pockets of air, sound, and light. Casey wanted to believe that in them there could be happiness and not just droning.

Casey began to play her favorite roof game. There were hardly any rules, only one objective: to choose a window, then to study the contents in view. She had the idea that your possessions told about you: A plaid, duct-taped armchair showed a man’s brokenness; a heavily gilded mirror reflected a woman’s regal soul that had not yet faded; and a paper cylinder of store-brand oatmeal left out on a kitchen counter witnessed a lack of coins in a retiree’s purse.

Across the street, at eye level, Casey made out a South Asian boy and girl watching television in a modest-size living room. They were perhaps elementary school age. Casey wanted to sit beside them, silent, invisible, and breathless, because their handsome, earnest faces possessed wonder about the images transmitted to them. The glow of Casey’s cigarette kept her company, but she would’ve preferred a lamp and a book or, in her current mood, a rerun of
Mary Tyler Moore
or
The Bob Newhart Show
. Always, Casey had been a reader and a viewer. The contempt others had for television made no sense when
Alice, The Jeffersons, All in the Family
,
The Love Boat, Fantasy Island, The Bionic Woman, The Brady Bunch
,
Little House on the Prairie,
and of course
Wonder Woman
had served as guides to the Han sisters’ understanding of America. The literary classics borrowed from the Elmhurst Public Library had taught the sisters about Americans and Europeans from long ago, but modern life had been extrapolated from the small screen. Joseph and Leah did not discourage television. With the girls’ irreproachable report cards, television was a treat even the Hans could afford.

Casey heard Tina’s wooden sandals clacking toward her.

“Don’t jump,” Tina said, her voice edged with teasing.

“Ha,” Casey replied. “If only it were so easy.” She glanced down at the concrete pavement ten stories below. Opposite the red fire hydrant, neighborhood kids crowded the stoop of the building catty-corner from hers and ate Sicilian pizza straight out of the box. Casey envied their appetite, feeling none herself.

Tina dried her wet hands on her blue jeans. She’d been on her knees mopping the kitchen floor with a fat sponge. Downstairs, their mother was still washing dishes. It had been Leah’s idea for the younger one to go find her sister.

“So what are you going to do?” Tina asked.

Casey shrugged, saying nothing. Her feeble smoke ring lost its form.

“I expected a blowup some time around August. Not in the first week of our arrival at chez Han,” Tina said.

“You’re awfully funny tonight.” Casey dragged on her second cigarette.

“Can you stay at Jay’s?”

Casey nodded. “Looks that way. Virginia is in Newport for a month, then off to Italy. It must be nice to have pots of money. And time to piss it away.”

“Italy sounds nice,” Tina said. Neither of them had been to Europe.

“And I just got that credit card last week, and if I could score a ticket, Virginia would let me crash with her, but once I’m there, I don’t know how to get work, and. . .” Her first credit card had a five-thousand-dollar credit limit. How much could a plane ticket cost? The notion of living in Italy sounded impressive and exciting, but it was ludicrous for her to think of such a thing.

Tina followed her sister’s gaze and tried to guess which window Casey was studying. Tina had no attachment to this game; to her, the round shape of someone’s dining table, the short denim skirt a woman chose to wear at home, did not seem telling. But then again, Tina was constantly being surprised by her peers at MIT—the marked difference between their appearances and tastes—whereas Casey was rarely stumped by people. Tina’s boyfriend, Chul, was more like Casey in that way; he seemed to have a natural curiosity about other people’s choices. Then Tina remembered she was supposed to phone Chul, but it was probably too late to phone his parents’ house in Maryland where he was staying for the summer.

“Do you want to go to Italy?” Tina asked.

“Not this way,” Casey answered.

“So, to Jay’s, then?”

“Yes.”

Tina didn’t know what to say about the hitting. After one of these fights, Casey hated their family. And how could Tina blame her for that? No one knew how to stop their father when he was angry. “I have two hundred you can have. And twenty in quarters.”

“I still owe you,” Casey reminded her.

Four years ago, Tina had given Casey her savings to pay for an abortion. Before Casey had met Jay, she’d gotten pregnant from a one-night stand, a guy whose name and number she’d thrown away. Since then, however, when she’d had the money to pay her sister back, a sweater, a hat, or a pair of boots seemed more pressing. Casey wished now that her credit rating were better.

“I don’t care about that money. If you hadn’t had that”—Tina clenched her jaw—“procedure—your life would’ve been ruined.”

Casey stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette—smoking was akin to burning dollar bills, but she enjoyed the wastefulness of it. Right away, she lit another.

Tina started, “I’ve seen pictures of lungs—”

“Not tonight, please. Spare me.”

“You could have spared us tonight, too,” Tina mumbled. Then, hearing the sharp truth of what she’d just said, she hoped Casey wouldn’t pick up on it.

“He was being an asshole, Tina.”

“Yes, I know that.” Tina looked hard at her sister. “So what? None of this is new to you.”

“And I suppose you would’ve handled it differently. No, brilliantly, with your excellent bedside manner, Dr. Han.” Casey had called her this since they were kids.

“I didn’t say he wasn’t being an asshole.” Tina resented Casey’s persistent wish to choose sides.

“You also didn’t say I was being an asshole, although that’s what you’re thinking. Fuck you.”

“Why? Why do I bother with you?”

“Why do you?” Casey replied, furrowing her eyebrows. “Don’t do me any favors.”

Tina’s voice grew quiet. When it came to family matters, she’d always felt as though she were the older one. “C’mon, Casey. It’s me.”

Casey exhaled, feeling stupid and alone. With her pointer finger, she tapped her right temple. “Hey, I just made up a rule. Wanna hear it?”

“Yes.” Tina offered up her baby-sister smile; it said,
Tell me something I need to learn. Let me adore you again.

“One fight per night.” Casey beamed, raising her eyebrows dramatically. “I already had my one fight. So I can’t fight with you. Maybe tomorrow I can squeeze you in.”

“By all means, sign me up,” Tina said, smiling.

They grew quiet. Tina swallowed, then with her right hand reached toward Casey’s face, partly hidden in the evening shadow. “Let me see you.”

“Don’t.” Casey flinched, blowing smoke in Tina’s direction.

“You should take the money.”

“Since I’m causing the problems, it’s right that I should go.” Casey said it methodically, as if she were reciting a geometry proof. Then she muttered, “I can never catch a break here.”

“You’ll kill each other if you stay,” Tina said. “Take the money I can give you.”

Casey nodded, trying to contain her disgust. “I’ll pay you back. All of it.”

“I don’t care about the money, Casey.” When they were younger, Tina felt pleasure if Casey merely looked at her.

“I’m leaving after they go to bed.” Casey’s face was impassive. “They can’t know where I am. All right? Please do me that favor.”

Tina wouldn’t argue. By noting Casey’s mistakes, Tina had avoided making the same ones. If she felt a duty to do better in life, it was because she’d screened the previews. She felt—what was it? A primitive loyalty? Certainly not gratitude. Responsibility? Regardless, it wasn’t what she wanted to feel.

The dark street below was empty. A pair of rats dashed out of the black garbage bags near the curb.

The evening shouldn’t have turned out this way. On the train ride down from school, Tina had been going through her list of questions for Casey—worries saved up from the semester. They rarely spoke during the school year. Long-distance calls were expensive and their schedules so full and out of sync. And Casey made things difficult. Her life appeared frenetic and purposeless. She was so hard to make out.

The evening grew darker, and with no moon or streetlights, Tina could barely detect the silhouette of her sister’s face—the shallow-set eyes, their father’s mouth, the high cheekbones, the nose that was slightly rounded at the tip. Her sister’s skin color was fairer than her own, and her straight black hair turned chestnut brown in the summer. Tina’s black hair had a bluish cast, and in the winter, it was raven. When they were out, no one ever suspected that she and Casey were sisters. But Tina wanted to protest that they were sisters; they were not best friends, but they’d always be each other’s own.

Tina took a breath. There was always so little time.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Hmm?” Casey was almost surprised to hear a voice, having already wished Tina gone.

“What’s. . . it like?”

“What?” Casey was confused.

“Sex. What’s it like?”

“Are you going to have sex?” Casey widened her eyes, offering shock, then amusement. “Is there a boy in my sister’s life?”

“Shut up.”

“Well!” Casey pretended to be offended.

“There’s a boy,” Tina admitted—her eyes more full of worry than of pride.

“Name?” Casey asked.

“Chul.”

“Korean?” Casey opened her mouth.

“Yes.”

“Whoa.”

“I know,” Tina said. It was law: If either of them brought home a white boy, that daughter would be disowned. They were to marry Korean. But the likelihood always seemed zero, since no Korean boys ever asked them out.

“Tell.” Casey leaned in.

It was easier to discuss him in the dark. Chul was a year ahead of her at MIT, also pre-med, tall, and a volleyball player. Harvey, the president of the Campus Christian Crusade, had brought him to an ice-cream social in December and had introduced him to Tina. He was serious looking and more manly than the other boys who milled about her at school. He had beautiful Korean eyes, an open brow, and a masculine nose. When spring term began and he asked her to go to a movie with him, she couldn’t believe it, but he came for her as promised with twelve apricot-colored roses wrapped in white paper. After three dates, they made out in his blue Honda Accord. When she told him she was a virgin, he pulled back. “It’s sweet,” he said. He’d had only one experience himself—awkward intercourse after a prom night. They agreed to pray about it. In no time, he said he loved her. “It’s up to you, Tina.” Five months of unclasped brassieres, erections that had initially frightened her, and being touched until she could hardly bear it—she was now worried that her beliefs no longer charmed him. She wanted to make love, but she was afraid of it and him and God, and everything looked gray. Was fellatio sinful, too? Her moral lines kept shifting. They’d done everything up to the last thing. “I. . . don’t believe in premarital sex, you know. The Bible. . .”